Just A Little Bit Married?

“I didn’t mean it that way, but I haven’t given up.” His smile this time held conscious charm—which made it all the more irritating when the fluttering started again inside her. “Tell you what. Rule number one—I might try to change your mind, but I’ll let you know up front that’s what I’m doing. Now, why don’t I go change before I get any more dough on your floor?”

“The bathroom is right across from the kitchen.” Sara felt unsteady and vaguely nauseous. She clasped her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking. Adrenaline was great stuff if you had to fight or flee, she reflected, but it played havoc with your system if you didn’t get it all burned up.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”

Sara didn’t watch him leave the room. She forced herself to stand and go back to her dough.

She wasn’t disappointed, she told herself as she kneaded, working off the lingering effects of the adrenaline, that Raz thought he could talk her into doing things his way. People often thought that because she was shy, she was a pushover. And she was, about some things.

Not about her profession.

She was needed at Memorial. With all the increased security at the hospital since the shooting, she should be just fine while she was there. It was later, when she was home again, that worried her.

Home ... with her new bodyguard.

Three

Raz buckled his shoulder holster in place over a clean T-shirt. Damned if he’d put a jacket on just so she wouldn’t have to look at his gun. He wasn’t in the mood for tact. He’d seen the shocked look she’d given his weapon.

How had she thought he was going to protect her? Insults at fifty yards? Bad breath?

The rich smell of yeast filled the kitchen when he walked in. His subject stood at the table, wrist-deep in dough. She didn’t look up.

At least this time she didn’t turn deathly pale.

Raz was still shaken by what had happened earlier. His fault. Completely, stupidly his fault. He hadn’t stopped to think, a sin for which there was no excuse. He couldn’t even allow himself the luxury of confession. Admitting to her how thoroughly he’d messed up would only make her lose what little confidence she had in him, and that was more dangerous than his own doubts.

She glanced over at him. “Surely,” she said, “you don’t need to wear that—that holster of yours inside.”

“The word is gun,” he said, “and it won’t do me much good if it’s in one room and I’m in another.” He knew what bothered her. Guns belonged to another world, a big, messy world that shouldn’t be allowed to intrude on her here.

A world Raz knew only too well. “Baking bread?” he asked.

“No,” she said shortly, turning back to her dough. “I’m kneading it. The baking comes later.”

He grinned, more pleased by the touch of sarcasm than not. She looked very tidy and domestic standing there with her sleeves neatly rolled up, not one hair on her head out of place. Except...his grin widened. “You’ve got dough on the tip of your nose.”

She lifted a hand automatically to wipe her nose, saw the dough covering it, and grimaced. “I suppose you want to have that talk you keep referring to,” she said stiffly. “There’s coffee, if you like. Or some fruit juice in the refrigerator.”

“Juice sounds good.” But instead of going to the refrigerator he stopped next to her. She glanced at him, wary. He reached out and skimmed a finger down her nose. Kind of a cute little nose, short and pointy. Her skin felt soft and fine pored, slightly cool, and made him think of thick cream.

She stared at him, suspicious and stirred. Such big eyes she had, the color of sky hazed by high-flying cirrus clouds. He liked looking into them almost as much as he liked touching her.

Too much.

He quickly rubbed the bit of dough off the tip of her nose and stepped back. Absurdly, his heart was pounding. He was sure—almost sure—his sudden turmoil didn’t show. “There,” he said, and wiped his hand on the towel that sat on the table before continuing to the refrigerator. “First a question. How bad is your hip?”

She blinked at him, startled. “Why do you ask?”

“If I tell you to run, can you?”

“Oh.” She lifted half the dough, turned it, punched it down. “It depends. My hip wouldn’t keep me from running, actually, though I’d probably be a bit awkward and slow. But the sciatic nerve damage that occurred when the joint was displaced affected my calf muscles. The degree of disability varies, depending on how tired the muscles are. Sometimes I hardly notice a problem. Sometimes ... the muscles just don’t cooperate.”

“Does that mean I shouldn’t count on you being able to run?”

“If I’ve been using my cane, assume I can’t run. If I haven’t been using it, I could probably run for a couple blocks.”

“Good enough.” He pulled out the clear pitcher that held an orangey-red juice. “Next question.” He smiled. “Where are the glasses?”

“In the cabinet behind me.”

He closed the refrigerator. “Now tell me something else. Why are you so blasted certain you don’t need to go to a safe house?”

She didn’t look up. Her long, narrow hands looked surprisingly strong as they worked the dough rhythmically: lift, turn, press. “You answer a question for me first,” she said at last. “How do you think Javiero found out where Carl lived?”

“There’s no way to say for sure.”

“Give me your best guess.”

He stopped barely a foot away from her to open the cabinet and take out a glass. Beneath the ripe scent of the yeast he caught the freshness of flowers. He thought of the scented body lotion he’d seen in her bathroom and wondered where on her body he might find that very feminine scent. “The most likely way would be if he knew who Carl was from the first shooting, watched for him at the hospital, and followed him home.”

“That would indicate he doesn’t want to risk the increased security at the hospital, wouldn’t it? And that he doesn’t have access to any special information about the witnesses’ identities or addresses. And you,” she said—lift, turn, press—“are supposed to see to it he doesn’t follow me home.”

Damn. She was bright enough to be dangerous. “True,” he agreed, pouring some juice. Her head was bent over her work, leaving the back of her neck bare except for a feathery fringe. What would she say if he asked if he could put his face up against the delicate skin there so he could smell her better?

He shook his head, aggravated with himself. “But that’s just the most likely explanation, not the only one. And he could change his mind about hospital security. Men like Javiero aren’t gifted with patience.”

“He hasn’t had time to grow frustrated yet, and your brother’s task force could pick him up any day.” The dough grew supple and shiny as she continued to work it. “And Javiero is an inner-city gang member, not some criminal genius. How would he know how to find me? I’m pretty sure he didn’t notice me that night.”

“The night he brought his Uzi to the emergency room, you mean.”

She nodded.

Raz leaned against the counter and considered the woman standing in front of him, kneading her bread dough. The juice was some exotic, tropical blend, not what he’d expected of her. But Sara Grace kept surprising him, didn’t she?

She was frightened. He was sure of that. She’d been terrified earlier, and she was still afraid. But she was more stubborn than she was scared.

She irritated the hell out of him.

One way or another he had to take control back. Of himself and of her, too, since she refused to do what she should to keep herself safe. She had to be kept safe. He couldn’t allow anything else.

The most powerful stimuli for humans were the same as those for other animals: hunger, fear and sex. He couldn’t starve the blasted woman into submission, and fear had oddly little effect. So... “You know,” he said, and smiled, “living together like this will be easier if we get to know each other a bit better.”

“I ... suppose so.” Lift, turn, press.

He set down his juice and moved closer. Too close, by a couple inches, for courtesy. “I do have one other question.” He could smell the flowers on her skin much better from here. He bent his head slightly.

Her voice was a touch breathless. “Oh?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He watched the nervous color seep into her cheeks and eased even closer, wanting her to have his scent in her nostrils, too. Wanting her to react “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

Her head stayed bent. The tip of her tongue darted out, touched her lips, then hid inside her mouth again. “I...I thought I might rent one of those beds. You know. The kind that folds up.”

“Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.” And I know what you want, even if you aren’t sure. Not sex, not yet, anyway. She wanted touching. Raz reached up ever so casually to toy with that fringe of hair at her nape.

She jolted.

“Where should we put it?” His fingers skimmed her skin.

“Wh-what?” Lift, turn, press. The dough was glossy and smooth now.

“My bed.” He pulled softly on one strand of hair. Sweet Sara. She obviously knew she should say something, do something, but he kept his touch so light, so—nearly—innocent. She didn’t know how to tell him to stop.

Not when she liked it so much.

“In the living room, I guess,” she managed.

“Do you think it will fit?” He smiled, enjoying his double meaning.

“I don’t...” Her voice trailed off. Goose bumps appeared on her skin. She folded the dough over one more time, but this time she didn’t squish it down. “I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose it will...fit.”

“That’s good, then,” he said softly. “In the living room will be fine.” Yes, in the living room would be good. He had a quick flash of Sara lying, stark naked, on that cramped little love seat with the pink and blue flowers. She was lifting her arms, welcoming him. Her legs were already parted.

Somehow he didn’t groan.

The look she slid him was wary, but her cheeks were pleasured pink from his attention. “I’m not—I need to—excuse me.”

“You’re excused,” he said amiably, not moving. The fingers of his other hand, the one not touching her, curled into his palm. He wondered if her nipples were hard beneath that blasted shirt.

He was certainly hard, dammit.

“The dough,” she said desperately. “It’s ready to go in the bowl. Please move.”

He stepped back, smiling and aching. “Sure.”

She picked up the huge, yellow pottery bowl that sat next to her work space. She had to walk past him to carry it to the sink. He didn’t move back quite far enough. She managed—barely—to get by without brushing against him.

Her cheeks were an even brighter pink as she ran water in the bowl.

He smiled at her back. “Why are you doing that?”

Her voice was almost inaudible over the running water. “I’m warming it up. The dough is supposed to stay quite warm from now on.”

“So it will rise?” he asked innocently. “Heat makes it rise?”

She nodded and shut the water off.

When she moved past him again carrying the warmed bowl, her arm brushed against his. The innocent touch sent a current sweeping through him, a sizzling sexual charge all out of proportion to the action. He gritted his teeth against the absurd pull her slight body had on his. This had better be working on her as well as it is on me. “You know, it occurs to me this must be a bit awkward for you, having me suddenly living with you. I’m practically a stranger.”

She darted him one quick, uneasy look and said nothing, lifting the heavy mass of dough in both hands.

“I know a few things about you, from having seen your house. You like to make bread, you listen to Christmas music too loud and you watch TV in bed.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

“Hey, I’m good at detecting. No television in the living room means that either you don’t watch it, or that it’s in your bedroom. I took a guess.”

She laid the dough carefully in the howl, seamed side down. A platter went upside down on top of the bowl. “Good guess.”

“Why don’t we eat out tonight? We can talk awhile, get to know each other. Maybe take in a movie.” A movie was a great idea, in fact As long as they weren’t followed, they’d be much safer there than here.

She froze, her hands on each side of the yellow bowl. “I have to work.”

“You know I don’t think that’s a good idea. That bowl looks heavy. Let me.”

She shook her head. “I can get it. I always do.”

As soon as she picked the bowl up he reached out. He ran his fingertips along the backs of her hands before gripping the bowl, his eyes fixed on hers the whole time. But she didn’t let go.

Such a soft, drowning blue he looked into—such a mixture of confusion and desire. “You know,” he said, not moving, “I really wish you’d consider taking a few days off from work.”

Those eyes closed briefly. “Don’t,” she said, her voice strained. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he challenged her softly.

Her eyes opened. The hurt in them condemned him as thoroughly as only real innocence could have done. “Rule number one, remember? You said you’d let me know when you were trying to change my mind.”

Slowly he released his hold and stepped back. “There’s something you may as well know about me, Sara Grace. I’m a very good liar.”

She turned her back on him and walked over to the stove.

He let her settle her burden in the oven herself. The heavy silence between them was as painful, in its way, as the continued throbbing in his loins. And just as useless.

Poor mouse. She didn’t know how little she really had to fear from him.

She closed the oven door and straightened. “I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.

He sent both eyebrows up. “I don’t like being asked to risk my life by someone who’s unwilling to trust me professionally.”

She bit her lip. “I’m not—”

“Yes,” he said, coming toward her. “You are. Remember Carl’s neighbor? How many bullets did he take for being nearby when Javiero caught up with him?”

She flinched. “All right. All right. I guess I am, but that doesn’t make it right for you to—to try to change my mind the way you did.” Her chin came up. “I could fire you.”

“You could.” He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to continue to meet his eyes—which she did, though he could see it cost her. “But I don’t think you will. You’re too smart. Smart enough to be scared. Smart enough to know you can’t hire the kind of devoted attention I’m going to give you while I’m your bodyguard. I’ll tell you something else about me—”

“In addition to the fact that you’re a liar?” she asked, two patches of color flaring on her cheeks.

“Yeah. In addition to that. Remember this—I’d do anything for my family. Which means I’ll do anything I have to in order to keep you alive.” He shook his head. “You don’t want to fire me, Sara.”

Now her eyes dropped. A long, silent moment later she spoke. “I’m going to take a nap. We’ll talk about it when I wake up.”

“That’s fine,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t fire him, knowing he’d both won and lost. And he hated himself for his methods, but whether on her behalf, or his own, he wasn’t sure. “You go right ahead. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

He knew, of course, that was what she was afraid of.

What if he was right?

Sara lay on her bed, a pale green afghan snuggled up under her chin, and wished she could sleep instead of chasing her thoughts like a weary cat trying to catch a whole family of mice.

What if she were endangering others by insisting on going in to work? She honestly didn’t think so, but he certainly seemed to think there was a danger. Sara lay quietly and tried to focus on what had to be the most important issue, but those little mice scurried all over the place.

Very few people ever commented directly on her limp. Her new bodyguard had referred to it as casually as he might have mentioned her height or hair color. His attitude had disconcerted her as much as it pleased her. Of course, he’d needed the information professionally. In case she needed to run for her life.

He knew his business, knew what to plan for. What if he was right about her going in to work? Was she exaggerating her own importance in the ER? Dr. Retger, her boss, had encouraged her to come in to work as usual, but Dr. Retger’s specialty was trauma, not security. Maybe, she thought, rolling over restlessly onto her side, she should talk with Dr. Retger again.

But she’d go crazy, staying out of work for days and days—spending all day, all night, every day and night with him.

What would she have done if he’d gone on touching her? What if he’d actually wanted to touch her, the way those melted-chocolate eyes of his had claimed?

She wiggled over onto her stomach. How ridiculous. He’d been using his charm and her foolishness to get what he wanted from her, and what he wanted wasn’t sex. The back of her throat still burned with humiliation, yet she didn’t wholly blame him. He had family involved, after all. His brother’s wife had been threatened. She thought it must be rather wonderful to have family who meant that much to you.

And what would it be like to mean that much to someone?

That thought brought her up sharply, as if she teetered on the edge of some chasm. A wind, dark and cold, swirled up from the empty depths, and the threat of it nearly unbalanced her. With the determination that had gotten her through months of therapy and later carried her through medical school, Sara jerked her mind back from that unnamed edge. She rolled onto her side. This time she tucked a small throw pillow between her knees. The pillow kept her hips aligned comfortably, so that her bad hip wouldn’t stiffen up too much while she slept.

She closed her eyes. Later. She’d think about all this later. Right now she had to sleep or she wouldn’t be alert tonight, when her patients needed her.

Ten minutes later she slept.

Memorial Hospital was a new building in an older part of the city. Some of the homes in the area were shaded by hundred-year-old elms. The nearest residents belonged to professional clubs, historical associations and the Junior League. They parked Volvos and Mercedes in their curving driveways, along with the occasional sports car.

Not so very far away, however, lay a section of Houston that was neither new nor old. Simply tired. Poverty wore down a neighborhood fast. For three blocks on either side of that stretch of Burroughs Avenue, people were careful about what colors they wore, who they spoke to. The gangs had moved in two years ago.

Sara lived in the pleasant section, not far from the hospital where she worked. Normally she drove her four-year-old Ford Taurus to work. That night she rode in Raz’s black-as-night muscle car. He made conversation while she sat, stiff and mostly silent and all too aware of him.

Even after she arrived at work she was aware of him nearby, watching. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like the way her eyes kept straying toward him, or the fact that she felt safer with him there. Oh, she really didn’t like that. Her independence was too dearly won for her to appreciate his presence or the way it made her feel.

Halfway into her shift, Sara stood at the nurses’ station, writing out a prescription for the toddler in 3-B. Raz stood at the end of the hall, talking to one of the security guards. At least he’d hidden his gun and shoulder holster beneath a jacket tonight. Not that he would win any fashion awards. He wore a beige sports jacket with a green T-shirt, dirty running shoes and those sexy, faded-to-white jeans.

“Too dreamy for words,” a young, nasal voice was saying. “What do you suppose he’s doing here, anyway? The way he keeps staring gives me goose bumps.”

Sara’s eyes flickered up. She saw him standing there. Watching. It didn’t matter what he wore, did it? People noticed him. Women, especially, looked at him, not his clothes. They thought about what lay under those clothes, and whether they could get him to turn that smile on them.

Sara knew that, because she kept having the same thoughts.

“Hadn’t you heard? He’s Dr. Grace’s bodyguard.” That came from Lynn Daniels, a cheerful dumpling of a woman. She was an excellent triage nurse, and the only person on this shift who was shorter than Sara. “Quite a hunk, isn’t he?”

“Dr. Grace?” Jenny Burgoyen’s round face turned toward Sara. Her eyes were big with astonishment beneath eyebrows plucked to thinly penciled lines. “He’s yours?”

Was it so amazing that a gorgeous man would associate with her, even for pay? Sara handed the prescription to the charge nurse. “Not exactly,” she said shortly. “I’m only renting, not buying. Foster, please see that 3-B’s mother gets this prescription.”

Jenny giggled, Foster took the prescription, and Lynn handed Sara the next patient’s chart. “Is the boss back yet?” Sara asked. She hadn’t forgotten her decision to talk to her supervisor again about whether she was more of a hazard than a healer while Javiero was on the loose.

“Not yet. I told her you wanted a word. Oh, the blood gases are back on 2-A.”

Sara nodded. Before she realized it, her gaze had slid down the hall again.

He was there. Watching. Making her feel safe...making her heart give a stupid, excited little jump.

It took more of an effort than it should have to slide into the professional persona she’d built so carefully over the years—cool, calm Dr. Grace, the woman with nerves of steel. The woman who hardly noticed that her new bodyguard was standing in front of the same wall the security guard had smeared with his blood two weeks ago.

Raz watched Sara turn away and head for an examining room at the other end of the hall. He felt cramped, restless and altogether too close to the edge.

A cigarette would have helped. That’s what he’d done before when the present made him twitchy—reached for a cigarette. But the things he’d done in the past to cope hadn’t worked out very well, had they? Reason enough to quit, he’d decided two months and three days ago.

He’d been in a hospital then, too. Funny how life worked out.

His reaction to being in a hospital again came as an unpleasant surprise. He hadn’t known he’d developed a phobia about hospitals until he’d followed the pretty mouse into this one. How should he have? After all, he didn’t dream about the ambulance ride he’d taken two months and two days ago, or the emergency room where he’d ended up. And this wasn’t even the same ER.

But it smelled the same. They all smelled the same, like blood and misery and disinfectant. The examining tables looked the same, too. He remembered. God help him, he remembered all too clearly lying on one of those damned tables, bleeding and begging someone to tell him about Marguerite.

And now here he was at another hospital, trying to keep another woman from being gunned down. Raz leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his attention split between the ER entrance and the woman walking down the hall toward him. Life was sure funny, all right, he thought as Sara Grace started to pass him by without a glance. One big, damned, ugly joke. “Where are you going?”

She paused, her lips tight while her eyes avoided his. Those pretty lips of hers had been tightening up all afternoon, ever since he didn’t kiss them. “What does it matter?”

“Think about it. My job—guarding you? It’s a little easier if I know where you are.”

“Fine, then,” she snapped. “I’m on my way to the ladies’ room. After that, I’ll be in Examining Room 4-B, then back at the nurses’ station, probably. Then I may get to go to the break room for a cup of coffee, unless my boss gets back or we get some new patients.”

He chuckled. “You’re a lot different once you sling that stethoscope around your neck, aren’t you? Ornery. I like it.”

“Did I ask what you like?” she muttered, but a hint of color touched her cheeks, and her eyes skittered away from his. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”