Florida Knight (21 page)

“Kate?” Michael’s gaze held hers. One finger reached out, brushed a wayward blond wisp back behind her ear. “How do you feel? You going to be okay?”

She’d be fine if she didn’t die of a terminal attack of lust. “It’s going to take a while,” Cat replied lightly. “But I’ve been hurt before, so I know I’ll survive.”

Michael peered at her from under lowered lids. “Are you still with me, Kate? Are you game to keep going?”

Was that what was worrying him?
Miserable man!
Kate planted her feet wide, crossed her arms, stared him straight in the eye. “Sure,” she said. And let him make what he would of that. If he made too much, she’d flatten him.

Well, maybe next week when she felt better.

When he put his hands on both shoulders, Kate struggled to conceal the jolt of pure sexual tension that charged through her. Damn the man! It wasn’t fair he could do this to her.

“Take it easy now,” Michael urged. “Nothing more strenuous than your computer and your sewing machine, okay?”

Kate nodded. Words refused to go past the lump in her throat.

Then his lips were resting against her forehead, brushing down over her nose, finding her lips. She hadn’t lifted a finger to push him away, hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. Kate flinched at the memory. She’d stood there like some hypnotized victim and let him do it. Truthfully—she had to face it—he’d been oh-so-cautious, offering nothing more than a lingering touch, then pulling back, leaving her tempted, wanting more.

Wanting to fight him tooth and nail to keep from wanting, needing . . .

Sitting in a stupid lavender chair, thinking too much.

Today was Wednesday, and she hadn’t heard a word from him since that moment. Not even a measly phone call to ask how she was doing. Was he too busy shopping for a two-room tent? The blasted man didn’t even know the date of the next LALOC Event or about the Renaissance Fair in
Largo
this coming weekend.

She could call him, of course, but he’d said he had night duty this week and she didn’t want to wake him. Besides, it was
his
investigation. If he wasn’t interested enough to call . . .

Kate suddenly grinned. Was it possible the great Lieutenant Michael Turco was as afraid of her as she was of him?

Galvanized into action at last, Kate dragged herself out of the chair, whipped up a tuna salad sandwich on five-grain bread. To keep the smile on her face and the new spring in her step, she had to ignore the interrogation she’d been subjected to by Barbara Falk. Kate had left the office on Monday fully convinced her boss was more interested in matchmaking than she was in the outcome of Michael’s investigation.
Blast!
If only she could have her old life back . . .

What a liar she was.

Deciding to save the pearls for evening when there might be something decent on television to keep her company while she sewed each fake gem onto royal blue velvet by hand, Kate set to work on another shirt for Raven. Somehow, as she labored over the cutting board laid over her kitchen table, she realized it didn’t feel the same as cutting out costumes for other people. She felt . . . oh, damn it, she felt
domestic
.  Yet she absolutely, positively, wasn’t the domestic type. She was a LALOC knight. A warrior.

A warrior who was thoroughly enjoying shaping a shirt to Michael’s exact fit. Enjoying the feel of the soft texture of the fabric that had caught her eye, demanding to be sewn into something for Raven. No ruffles this time. The ruffles had been a mistake . . . well, more of a taunt. Tossing LALOC in the FHP officer’s eyes. This time the shirt would be all Raven. A shirt for her LALOC lover . . .

Heaven help her, she’d gone off the deep end. Better to let him stay in his own world. Think gray uniforms and big black hats. Black and tans, flashing blue lights. Speeding tickets. Black leather holsters with guns the size of small cannons.

Kate kept cutting.

Shortly after five o’clock Mona burst through the door. She leaned against the doorframe of Kate’s tiny sewing room, tears streaking down her face. “He’s done it again,” she sobbed. “Oh, Kate, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Kate’s foot came off the sewing machine pedal. Leaving her work in place, she hugged her friend, steered her into the living room. After Kate ministered to Mona with a tissue and a glass of juice, she sat beside her on the couch. “Okay, tell me,” she said.

“You know Bubba’s got this new job?” Mona sniffed, Kate nodded. “Well, one kid has been giving him a real hard time. You know those kids are all about ten or fifteen years younger than Bubba. Well, last night . . .” Mona broke off, blew her nose, reached for another tissue, which she crushed in her hand as if holding on to a lifeline. “Last night the kid was so obnoxious Bubba picked him up and put him up on top of the shelves. You know, right up there next to the extra coolers and picnic umbrellas.”

Kate was trying very hard not to laugh. Bubba needed his job. “But the kid wa
sn’t hurt,” Kate said, “right?”

“Bubba said he was yelling and screaming and cursing to beat the band but, no, he wasn’t hurt.”

“Thank God for that. What did the store do?”

“Bubba says the other guys were kind of shame-faced about it. They told the night manager the truth, so Bubba’s only been suspended for three days. They’re giving him another chance.”

“And the one who caused the trouble?”

“Same thing.”

“All I can say is they’re both lucky good workers are hard to find.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mona sighed. “But I had such hopes for this job . . . and now I wonder if there’s anything, anywhere that’s really going to work.”

For a moment Kate scrunched her eyes shut, tried to imagine living in Mona’s world. She couldn’t do it. Mona and Bubba were a living example that no matter how bad a person’s problems, there was always someone else who had it much worse. Mona Ellis could give lessons in coping with adversity. Kate took both her friend’s hands in hers. “Look, Mona, we’re going to get through this. You’re not alone, I promise. We could use a hefty dose of magic here, but all we’ve got is ourselves. We’ll manage. Now look at me. That’s right, look up. Wipe your eyes, blow your nose, and know we’re gonna do this. We just haven’t looked in the right places, haven’t found the right help. There has to be someone who can come up with a good idea. We’ll work on it together, okay?”

After a swift hug, Kate got up and fetched the tissue box, leaving it beside Mona on the couch. “How about a little gin in your juice?” she called from the kitchen.

Mona managed a watery chuckle. “Sounds good,” she said.

After supper that night Kate turned on the bath water, poured in a sinful amount of a bubble bath whose label claimed it also relieved tension. Undressing without bending over was still a problem but, finally, she sank into the clouds of white bubbles, immersing herself in the warm soothing fragrance which she could only hope lived up to its advertising. She lay back, closed her eyes, and tried to assure herself all was right with the world. At the moment, at least, things were surely looking up. Nothing beat a luxurious soak in the tub for lifting a person’s view on the world. Well . . . maybe a non-celibate female might have different priorities, Kate admitted, then shoved the wayward thought to the back of her mind.

The bathroom’s humid air smelled of strawberries, vanilla, maybe a hint of aloe. She was lost in a sea of white bubbles that hadn’t even started to pop yet. It was heavenly, the bath oil’s label correct. Her cares were dissolving, drifting away on the fragrant air. A few more minutes and . . .

Thunder rattled outside her door. Fists, not Mother Nature. Couldn’t be Bubba or Mona, they’d just walk right in. Kate seldom locked her door before bedtime. Now, when it was too late, it occurred to her that locking it while taking a bath would probably be a good idea.

The entry door was only a couple of feet across the narrow hallway from the bathroom. Kate took a deep breath, waited for a lull in the pounding, and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“Michael.”

Dear God! She couldn’t very well tell him to get lost. They were partners, weren’t they? “Come in!” Kate called.

Steps sounded in the hallway, going toward the living area. “Kate? Kate? Where are you?” The steps started back down the hall.

“In the tub.”

The steps halted. He was right outside the door. “The bath tub?” His voice had dropped an octave.

“No, I got all of me into the sink.” Sarcasm—h
er sole line of defense.

“Door locked?”

Michael’s voice was louder as well as deeper. He must have his mouth to the crack. Dear Lord, Kate could only hope it wasn’t an eye! Mobiles couldn’t boast of being built like
fortresses
.

“No answer, Kate? Does that mean no lock?”

“I’m accustomed to privacy in my own home.” Kate Knight at her most prim and proper.

“A-ah!” Pause. “Are you using bubble bath?” Michael inquired, his voice shimmering with insinuation.

“Yes.”

“Can I see?”

“Michael!”

“If you’re wearing a bubble blanket, I’ve already seen more of you than that.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Wanna bet?”

Kate took a shuddering breath, fought to control her pulse which was racing out of control. The bubbles were beginning to pop. She caught glimpses of opaque water here and there. Pink flesh. Panic rose like steam from the water, threatening to engulf her.

“Hey, Kate . . . how’re the bubbles?”

“Disappearing.” She shouldn’t have said that!

“Come on, Kate, let me in.”

Kate squeezed her eyes shut, felt a tear squeeze out, trail down her cheek. If only she could do just that. Be like other women, accept what was being offered. It wasn’t as if they weren’t old enough to know their own minds, to come together without hurting others . . . or themselves. But she couldn’t, she just couldn’t.

“Michael . . . go fix yourself a drink. I’ll be out in a minute. Okay?” Her voice was almost steady, not as breathy or wobbly as the one she heard in her head.

“Sure, Kate. I’ll be waiting.” Michael’s voice, too, was back to normal.

The moment was gone. Disaster averted. Later, she would go over it word for word, examining every nuance, every unspoken emotion, imaginary or implied. She’d had an opportunity to be a woman again. And she’d blown it.

Chapter 13

Michael filled a glass with ice, poured scotch with a heavy hand. Leaning his forehead against the refrigerator, he placed the cold glass hard against his temple. He’d thought the weekend was bad. This was worse. At his age blood wasn’t supposed to rage with such fever. It was damned embarrassing. He had to cool it before Kate came out. Otherwise, she’d take one look and chase him off with a broom.

The thought of spoiling what was happening between them was almost as terrifying as his lust. Michael’s colder, analytical self was shamed. He was supposed to be finding the person who hurt Mark, and here he was with his head and body awhirl with emotions so strong he didn’t care to identify them.

The bathroom door opened. Michael shot across the room to the sofa, burying himself in one corner, praying that the sewing basket sitting on the coffee table would be adequate camouflage. There was nothing he could do about the red flush he could feel staining his neck.

Kate didn’t appear. Michael took a deep breath. She’d gone to her bedroom, was getting dressed. Damn! He’d pictured her all soft and pink, glowing warm, shining damp in nothing but a shortie robe. But mostly he’d picture her soft. Kate Knight without the edge. A Kate who might be willing to turn a solo into a duet.

What the hell was he doing? He was thirty-six years old and mooning over a woman like a wet-behind-the-ears teenager. Kate Knight was a solo act. She didn’t want him or anyone else. So what? He was a big tough cop. He could take it.

A soft rustling in the hallway. Michael looked up. He’d expected Kate to don her twenty-first century armor. Slacks or jeans, an oversize T-shirt. What he didn’t expect was a caftan, a swirling confection in blues and greens which made her look like the gulf bathed in
Florida
sunlight. Azure depths beckoned, enticed, projected a siren song demanding that he jump straight in, lose himself . . .

“Oh, good,” the Lorelei said, “you found the scotch.”

“Uh, yeah . . . thanks.” Michael swallowed hard. Didn’t the crazy girl realize what mixed signals she was sending?

“I thought you were working nights,” Kate said over her shoulder as she set about making a drink for herself.

“Graveyard. I don’t go on ’
til midnight.” Kate lowered herself, carefully, into the lavender chair. “You’re still hurting.” It wasn’t a question.

“A bit,” she admitted with a shrug. “Another week and I’ll be fine. Funny,” she added, “we’re never as tough as we think we are.”

Michael almost groaned out loud. He slid a section of the morning paper over his lap.

“Michael? . . .”

“Kate? . . .” Their words tripped together.