a cure for them. Where are your folks?” He rinsed the plates in silence, sure she wouldn’t answer him.
“Dead,” she said finally. “They died when I was just a kid. I went to a foster family the week after they died, and when my foster mother broke my arm I ran away.”
“Jesus.” He crossed the room, wanting to take her into his arms, not sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s no big deal,” she said quickly. “It’s not like I remember my parents. You don’t miss what you never had.”
“Wrong, gorgeous. That’s the stuff you miss most of all.” And carefully, so carefully, he put his arms around her and drew her close.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at his mouth.
“Want to bet?”
Her mouth was a dream, the nicest dream he’d ever had, all sweet lips and lush softness. She pressed against him and he felt her breasts flatten slightly against his chest, felt her arms come around him, felt her mouth bloom beneath his. She sighed into his mouth and he shuddered, balling his hands into fists so he wouldn’t tear off her clothes and take her on the kitchen tile, which hadn’t been mopped since he was a med student. He heard her make a sound, some sound, a cross between a growl and a whimper, and heard himself groan in response. Then she came to herself—or perhaps came away from herself, back to the cool exterior she liked to show the world—and stiffened, took her arms away and pushed him back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not very, but not interested in gaining a black eye either, “but you’re so beautiful and—and good, I can’t resist you.”
She looked startled, then sad. “I’m not good. I’m bad. You should keep it in mind, Jared.” She touched her mouth, then looked at him with something like wonder.
“Anybody who has Carlotti for an enemy—who would protect a stranger from her enemy—isn’t bad.”
“I’ve done … terrible things. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he urged softly. He took a step toward her and she skittered back, nearly tripping over the stool to keep away from him. He was struck once again by the combination of power and vulnerability. She could snap his spine like a bread-stick, he was sure. And yet, she was afraid of his touch. “Or not,” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve done terrible things, too. In med school one time, I brought my cadaver to breakfast at the local Denny’s. Man,” he said nostalgically, “the food inspector sure got pissed. On the bright side, my cadaver was a cheap date.”
She giggled, then choked off the sound and looked at him severely. “No more of that,” she said. “I’m here to keep you safe for a few days, not to play wifey.”
“Don’t play wifey,” he said promptly, “marry me.”
“Ha, ha.”
He decided not to mention the fact that he wasn’t kidding. “So now what happens?” he asked.
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