Night of the Cougar. Caridad Piñeiro

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СКАЧАТЬ His eyes, a green flecked with bits of golden brown, dulled to the color of a sunburned lawn. He jerked a finger in the direction of the tape recorder she had laid on the table.

      “Off the record?” His deep voice had a bit of a quaver from the emotion he was containing. Anger in part, she recognized.

      Jamie reached over and shut off the recorder. “Off the record,” she confirmed.

      After a slow assessment, as if to convince himself that she could be trusted, he nodded and began. “If you did your homework—you know I was shot and my partner killed during a routine investigation.”

      “I know.”

      He sighed deeply, broadening that amazing chest with the depth of the breath before he looked away, toward the mountain. “We always spent the summers here. My grandparents owned the cheese shop in town. It seemed natural to come here to heal, and not just physically.”

      The emotion in his voice made Jamie reach out and lay her hands on his. They were trembling, but not just with remembered pain. She sensed his anger and tried to quiet him with a gentling touch.

      “Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

      He wagged his head and the longish strands of his strawberry-blond hair shifted with the motion. “He had kids and a wife. I should have been the first one through the door instead of him, but we always took turns.”

      She tried to soothe him with another sweep of her hands along his, which were now wrapped so firmly around the mug that she worried the thick ceramic might shatter. “It wasn’t meant to be your time.”

      He whipped his head around then, nailing her with the intensity of his gaze. “Funny thing, time. Do you know how much time the shooter got?”

      She racked her brain, trying to remember if any of the newspaper accounts she’d read had mentioned the sentence, but failed to recall. At the shake of her head, he plowed on, possibly even angrier.

      “He didn’t. The Feds wanted him to flip on someone. Gave him immunity and a new life in the Witness Protection Program.”

      Which explained the birth of Galen’s detective hero Jack Fitzgerald. In Jack’s world, justice was always served, in one way or another, and the assorted criminals always got their asses kicked for good measure.

      “I’m sorry for your friend and for what happened, but not for where it led you. I suspect you like this life a lot better.”

      Better? Galen considered her statement as he released his death grip on the mug. She slipped her hands into his. They were smooth and slightly cool against his rough palms. Surprisingly, even just that simple touch produced a tangle of emotions within him. Comfort was something he hadn’t experienced in some time, maybe because he hadn’t allowed himself that sentiment. Desire again wove through him and brought a tightening to his groin.

      It had been a long time. Too long. After coming up here to heal, he’d shut himself off emotionally, and even physically at first. What few relationships he’d had in the five years since retiring from the NYPD had been mostly situations of friends with benefits and, even then, it had been some time since his last benefit.

      As Jamie moved her hand along his, it stirred his imagination. Brought images of those capable hands caressing him, of every curve and valley of her long, lean body plastered against his.

      “It’s getting late,” he said, twining his fingers with hers. “Had you planned on staying in the inn tonight?”

      She peered out the window at the growing darkness of the winter afternoon and then toward the desk in the lobby. “I guess I should. It’s too late to drive back to New York tonight.”

      “I’ve got spare rooms in my lodge. You’re welcome to spend the night.”

      A wicked gleam entered those crystal blue eyes, making them sparkle like sun-kissed frost. “I think we both know that if I go with you, I won’t be staying in a spare room.”

      He grinned, liking her directness. He had never cared for women who played games, and he wanted to be just as straightforward.

      “I don’t normally do this kind of thing, and I suspect you don’t either.”

      She nodded and tenderly squeezed his fingers. “I don’t, but instead of worrying about what happens next—”

      “Let’s savor the now.”

      * * *

      The “now” was to happen in an imposing multilevel lodge that seemed as if it had been built into the side of the mountain. It had taken nearly half an hour to reach it from town. They’d driven a paved logging road that arrived at a large stone and iron gate declaring the boundaries of Galen’s property.

      “This is beautiful,” Jamie said as he led her through the solid hand-carved wooden doors and into a large room that was clearly a renovation of something quite old. The open living space was filled with comfortable couches and chairs situated around a massive stone fireplace.

      “Definitely beautiful,” he murmured, and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Let me get the fire going.”

      She wanted to tell him the fire was already going, just from that one guileless touch, but she held back.

      He pushed off ahead of her, powerful strides carrying him to the fireplace where he tossed in kindling and wood. By the time she walked over, the tinder had caught and the first fiery crackle shot into the room’s slight chill.

      He had ripped off his shearling jacket and tossed it on a chair. While he tinkered with the fire, she walked over and grabbed the jacket, intending to place it on the pegs in a hallway where another coat hung. The jacket held his warmth and his smell. Something piney, reminding her of the forest around them, and totally masculine.

      Like the kindling, desire burst into life within her.

      She hung his coat and placed hers beside it, rubbing her arms with her hands to ward off the chill, although the fire had really caught and was beginning to throw off some heat.

      Galen was on one knee before the fire, tending it. She walked to where he knelt and raked her fingers through the tousled strands of his hair.

      “The fire feels good already.”

      He grunted a response and rose, once again stirring her with his sheer size. She dropped her hand to his nape, and he shivered.

      “Your hand is cold.”

      He reached up and grasped it gently, then joined it with her other hand between his palms. “Let me warm you up.” He rubbed her hands briskly, but that was far from how she had envisioned him chasing away the chill.

      Still, she liked that he wasn’t rushing to jump her bones. It spoke volumes about the kind of man he was.

      That only made her want to jump his bones, right then and there.

      Easing her hands from his, she said, “I have a better idea for how you can warm me up.”

      Before he could protest, she quickly slipped her hands beneath his black knit sweater. “Way cold,” СКАЧАТЬ