Page 18 of Bare
Rosemary quoting Ghandi in Phillipe’s favorite bar was a message from the universe.
Aleksei was a practical person. Years of military training and FBI work demanded it, but his mom was Romani. His father’s Nordic genes dominated his appearance, but his mother always insisted that magic lived in his blood. Right now, that magic was telling him that when the universe spoke, a practical man listened.
Phillipe had been on a mission to make it through the one hundred volumes of theCollected Works of Mahatma Gandhiand was always dropping some random fact or quote from whatever current volume he was reading. Aleksei wasn’t so naïve to think that one quote meant he could trust her—but he would take it as a message that he was on the right track. That this might be the road to bringing Phillipe’s killer to justice. That Rosemary might be his path to atonement.
She leaned against the table, hand gripping the cue that now stood vertical to the floor, eyes daring him to agree to her proposition. Her jeans were snug but not overly tight. Her emerald-green blouse was plain but pretty, and her flat shoes were cute and sensible. There were gorgeous, glossy women here tonight showing more skin than his sister showed at the beach, but they didn’t interest him. Rosemary’s blend of easy prettiness and her feisty challenge absorbed every bit of his attention.
His gaze settled on her pert pink lips, hunger rising within him. He didn’t know if it was the Guinness, being back in McGillin’s, the message from the universe, or just Rosemary herself, but he’d never found a woman more compelling. The need to know how those soft, perfect lips would feel crushed beneath his own raged through him.
Just one kiss. He hadn’t had any intimate contact in more than two years. He could let himself have just one kiss.
He set the beer on the table’s edge and closed the distance between them in two long strides. He slid his hands up the warm, silky skin of her neck into her soft hair. He lowered his head toward those luscious pink lips, eager for the feel of her tongue in his mouth.
And she kneed him in the nuts.
Chapter Six
What the hell had she been thinking? She hadn’t thought. Her body had just reacted. One second, she was falling into the sexy heat of Aleksei’s dusk-colored eyes, reveling in the fact that in a crowded, noisy bar, the intensity of his gaze made her feel like they were the only two people in the room. Warm, calloused fingers stroked her neck, and her thighs had weakened in anticipation. Then those tantalizing fingers slid up into her wig, and fear had overwhelmed her.
Fear that his fingers would recognize the slightly raised border at the edge of the wig. Fear that he’d grip too tightly, and her wig would shift. Fear that the unspeakable would happen—that he’d accidentally pull the wig right off her head. Her stomach lurched at the thought, but she wasn’t sure which would have been more catastrophic: the fact that a bar full of people would have seen her ghost-white scalp or that she would have been left standing bare in front of Aleksei.
He had convinced her to flee the theater instead of sitting there watching a terrible play that would have made her miserable. He’d laughed with her, held the umbrella while they walked in the rain, took her to a place that was special to him, bought her a beer, and was getting ready to kiss her. And what had she done? She’d lashed out like a caged animal. He’d been sweet, funny, and charming, and she’d kneed him in the goddamn balls.
No wonder he had nothing to say to her.
They stopped in front of the fifth house in the block-long row of attached, red brick homes. A few concrete steps led up to an arched doorway framing a Columbia-blue door. They’d walked the fifteen or so blocks in silence. Right after they left the bar, she tried to apologize for the third time, but Aleksei had interrupted her, saying he needed a few minutes. The few minutes had turned into twenty.
Tense silence added to the weight of the misty air. She liked Aleksei. She barely knew him, but she felt drawn to him. Was it like a bee to honey? Or like a moth to a flame? She’d never know if they didn’t get past tonight. She’d spent way too much time caged by illness. She was stronger than fear. Strong enough to live a life instead of just surviving it. Strong enough to admit to him why she’d reacted the way she did.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
She met his gaze, expecting anger, but his eyes held something else. Sorrow? Regret? Embarrassment? She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, which confused her. Her cancer had made her an expert at reading masked emotions.
It had started with her family. They always put on a cheerful face and seemed joyfully agreeable to whatever she wanted. It took a while for her to realize they were acting—acting because they thought she was dying.
With time, she’d learned to see past the feigned cheer. To notice tense shoulders, a smile that was a touch too wide, a laugh that was a few seconds too long, and the vast range of emotions that could be conveyed with only the eyes. After that, she’d been able to read the doctors and nurses, giving her a few precious seconds to compose herself before a seemingly expressionless face gave devastating news.
Aleksei’s gray eyes deepened, and his pupils grew.
Shame. He was feeling shame.
Just like she was.
But that made no sense. She was the one who’d acted like a cornered cat. All he had done was try to kiss her.
“Let me go first.” His voice was deep and slightly rough, again with that hint of an Eastern European accent. If they made it to a third date, she was going to ask him about his heritage.
A car swooshed by, splashing water on their feet, but neither of them glanced toward the street. Their eyes were locked. He held the umbrella over their heads, but it was too small to cover them both fully, causing raindrops to pelt her back. He lifted his free hand as if to touch her arm and then changed his mind and slid his palm across his close-cropped, blond hair.
“I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you without your permission. I’m sorry.” His lips quirked. “Of course, I would have preferred a good old-fashioned slap in the face, but since you didn’t want me to kiss you, you had every right to react how you wanted.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Even if I’m still feeling the effects.”
Confusion washed over her. He hadn’t seemed sorry. He’d seemed royally pissed.
“But you were so angry. You told me you didn’t want to talk to me.”
He barked out a wry laugh. “No. I told you Icouldn’ttalk to you. I could barely stand or breathe, let alone talk. And yes, Iwas angry. But not at you. Just angry in general because I was in pain.”
“You mean the kind of mad you feel when you stub your toe on the dresser on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night?”
