legs entwining with mine.
I was ready. He was ready. Then I made the mistake of talking. Pulling from his lips, I said, “I guess your answer is yes.”
It was a joke. He smiled. But the ironic gleam in his eyes turned cloudy. He didn’t move, but I could almost see his emotional retreat, like one of those fancy camera moves in old-time horror flicks, when the dolly holding the camera retreats fast while the lens zooms in.
His interest slackened in the most obvious place. I gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. No, I wanted to say, don’t stop now. But I wouldn’t beg.
He drew up and sank on his knees, straddling me. He put his hands on his bare hips and tugged his lips into a rueful smile. “Now that you mention it, Baker, the answer is no. I don’t want to make love.”
I was speechless. “I don’t…understand.”
He rose from his knees to a stand in one graceful swoop, then started pulling on his jeans. “I told myself that when the time came I would say no. But I let my desire get the better of me.”
I sat up, crossing my arms over my bare breasts. “Why? Am I so appalling to you?”
“Obviously not,” he said wryly as he zipped his pants. He raked both hands through his hair, looking older than he had a few minutes ago. “Get dressed. I’ll make some coffee.”
Reluctantly, I dressed, my humiliation slowly turning to anger. By the time I found his galley kitchen, which was ultrahigh-tech and gleaming with silver, I was ready for a fight.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I declared. He tried to hand me a cup of java. I crossed my arms, so he placed it on a small round table.
“Cream and sugar?” he asked calmly as he returned to pour a second cup.
“You can’t make love to a woman like you did with me, Marco, and then just expect her to forget about you! What am I saying?” I laughed bitterly. “You probably do it all the time.”
He balanced a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar in one hand, and a second cup of coffee in the other, placing them nonchalantly on the table like a restaurateur making the final touches before opening the doors. Then he turned to me with a look of bored patience.
“You’re still angry?”
“I’m pissed as hell.”
He pulled me close with a grip on my upper arms, cocooning me in a bearish embrace that was now distinctly brotherly in tone. With a firm grip that was neither rough nor gentle, he lifted my chin and kissed me as if he was teaching me a lesson. I stiffened, but soon my lips succumbed to his sensuous rotation. I resisted as long as I could, but the truth was his kisses were better than drugs.
When he was done, he pulled back and gazed at me assessingly. I dropped my head on his chest, undone again. He scooped up my head with hands on my cheeks and looked at me intensely.
“Do you think I kiss just any woman like that?”
I groaned pathetically. “Yes.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
My swollen lips tugged wryly. “Gee, thanks. You do wonders for my esteem.”
“I care for you, Angel. Too much. I haven’t allowed myself to do that in a long time.”
That implied yet more personal history that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know about. “You’ve been hurt?”
I saw it for an instant in his eyes—pain so deep it gave me a chill. He poured cream and sugar in his coffee, then sat in a little round chair too small for him, crossing his legs casually. “Anyone over the age of thirty has been hurt.”
“I’m twenty-eight. Age doesn’t have much to do with it.”
“The older you get, the tougher you are. The harder it is to hurt. But when someone does manage to do it…”
He trailed off and frowned seriously as he took a sip of the steaming coffee.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Marco.”
He looked me up and down as if he was logically considering whether that was true. “You’re a beautiful woman, Angel Baker. Fit and energetic, brave and yet grounded. Your heart is…very tender. I know you’ve been hurt, and I know you would never intentionally harm me. But I can’t watch you die. I’ve done that too many times already.”
“Watch me die?” I said with a disbelieving laugh, taking the seat opposite him. I grabbed the cup I’d earlier rejected. “You don’t have much faith in my abilities if you think I’m going to die.”
“You’re a retributionist, kiddo. Do you know what the mortality statistics are for your profession?”
“I’m careful,” I said soberly. “And I’m good.”
“Have you thought about your responsibility to Lin? What if something happens to you? Where will she be then?”
I shut my eyes and laughed ruefully. “You really go for the jugular, you know that?” I took a fortifying breath, folded my hands and pinned him with my robins-egg blue eyes. “I’m not going to abandon my foster child—not to death, not to the state foster care system. Not to anyone.”
“Then you’d better quit while you can. While you’re still alive.”
“Is this about your police committee that’s trying to get the state legislature to outlaw my profession?”
He shook his head. “No. This is personal.”
“I’m not going to do it, Marco.”
“Do it for Lin.”
I shook my head. “I rescued Lin. Remember? I couldn’t have done that without my training as a retributionist.”
“Then do it for me.”
My heart did a funny little somersault. Was he asking me for a commitment? I heard a muted police siren wail down the street in the thick silence that followed. My heart pounded. I wanted to commit, but at what price? I felt like I was trapped in a burning building with no easy exit.
“You’re asking me to give up my career to love you? That’s not fair, Marco.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not. But death isn’t fair, either. Do you really know what death is?”
I blinked, stunned by the question. I’d spent my life defying death, even ignoring its existence. I had a feeling he knew much more about it than I, but that didn’t mean he could make such an important decision for me.
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
“Well, I’m not,” he shot back, anger giving his low voice a bass tremor. His fist came down hard on the table. “If you want to make love to me, you have to hang it up, Angel.”
“Fuck you!” I yelled and slammed my palms down so hard coffee jumped out of both
