Floored (18 page)

She shook her head. “I think you’re right.”

He laughed around a forkful. “I know I’m right.”

He was conceited and mouthy and a shit-stirrer, and he bloody well knew he was attractive. But did he know he was making it hard to sit still, hard to eat his tasty meal and not want to make up some excuse to touch him? She hoped not. She could not let him see how he made her feel. She tried to concentrate on the food and not the man fooling with her.

He moved the flowers to the side of the table. “Having seen you really smile, now I want to see you lose it.”

His mash was delectable; his conversation unsettling. “What do you mean lose it?”

“Blow your cool. Lose your temper. Go nuts.”

She grunted and kept her eyes down. “You’ll be waiting.”

“Yeah? I can be very patient when I have to.”

“Why would you want to see me lose my temper?” It was an odd thing for him to say, for anyone to say.

“Because you’re like a sleeping volcano. All cool and calm on the surface, but underneath there’s this hot, red swirl of emotion you keep tapped down. I want to watch you explode. I reckon it’ll be quite a show.”

He very nearly watched her garrotte herself with a string bean as it caught across her throat. She gulped the wine to wash it down. “You make this stuff up don’t you? You like to amuse yourself speculating wildly about other people.”

“Not so wildly.”

Wild was the way her blood raced around her body. Wild was the way her knee bounced beneath the table and her pulse pounded in her throat. If she gripped her fork any tighter she’d bend the tines against the plate. “There’s a freak show carnival out there missing its fortune teller. Don’t let me stop you catching up with them.”

He laughed and he poured more wine for them both. “Not a bad idea, given my current lack of occupation. I could rake in some dough on the side.”

“You could take some poor punters for a ride, that’s for sure.”

“Now, now. I’m not like that. I’m a nice boy.”

She snorted and he laughed. “You wound me, Cait.”

“I couldn’t wound you with a staple gun.”

He put his knife down and his hand across his chest. “Ah, but you do wound me. I’m a big softy at heart.”

“Did you go to NIDA as well as the police academy, or are you a natural born actor?”

He laughed. “It’s all natural, baby.”

All lethal more like it. From his easy grace to his cheeky grin. He made you think of sin but he cooked like a saint.

“What happens to you now, Sean?”

“You don’t mean plating vanilla slice with raspberry sauce and the washing-up, do you?”

She shook her head. “Are you in trouble with your bosses?”

“Buried.”

“That’s bad.”

“In therapy and paperwork. My most not favourite things. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me?” He sat back and folded his arms. “I think I like that.”

“Of course I’m not worried about you. You’re big enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself.”

He pouted. “Ugly.”

She grunted and stood, reaching across the table for his empty plate. “You love being the centre of attention don’t you?”

“I like getting your attention.”

Her hand froze. “You can’t say that.”

He gave her a ‘wanna bet’ look, and stood too, picking up the empty wine bottle and their bread plates. He took them across to the kitchen.

She followed, skirting the bench to reach the sink, putting her back to him. “I’ll wash-up.”

“Leave it a bit.” He was close behind her. “I’ll make coffee and dessert.”

She dropped a fork on the floor. He went to her feet to pick it up. If she lowered her hand she could touch his cropped hair.

He stood. Very close. If she shifted her weight she could lean against him. She dropped a knife and groaned.

“Am I making you nervous, Cait?”

“Of course not.”
Get a grip
. She’d ignore him and rinse the plates. She turned on the tap—too hard, the water coming out too fast and spraying up and over her chest and face.

She felt his laugher, warm against the back of her neck. She felt his hands on her arms, turning her to him. He had a clean tea towel and pressed it to her cheek. She snatched it from his hand and pressed back into the edge of the sink to get away from him.

“I am making you nervous. Why is that?”

Because he was a freaking physical god and he was standing too close. Because what she wanted was to have him touch her so he could make her forget everything. What she needed was to keep away from him. “Because you’re a big bastard and you’re crowding me.”

He stepped back immediately. “Well get out of my kitchen, woman, and I’ll deliver your dessert instead.”

“‘Woman!’”

“Sorry, Caitlyn. That was Fetch.” Sean slapped the side of his head. “He’s still in there.” He busied himself with the coffeepot.

She retreated to the table. It must be difficult for him, this need to shed a personality. It was difficult enough to guard one. She knew all about that. She’d made changes to the way she behaved, but they were superficial compared to what Sean had done. And she slipped all the time, letting old Caitlyn, the one who’d thought she had control, knew where she was going and what she wanted, through in little pieces. To be Fetch, Sean had to bury his own personality and a slip-up would’ve been dangerous to his health.

She could see there wasn’t anything of the hesitant, bumbling, stuttering Fetch in him now. He was more like the Fetch who was highly organised and effortlessly calm when they were in danger. Unlike that hard-edged character who’d convinced her to run with him, or the one who’d burned his clothes, the real Sean was warm and genuine.

“It must be tricky?”

“Raspberry sauce is easy. It’ll take the edge off the sweet of the vanilla.”

“I mean having to live as someone else.”

He brought two plates across to the table. “It’s interesting.” Avoidance both with his response and in the way his body stiffened.

“Did you always want to work undercover?”

“Caitlyn.”

She took a mouthful of vanilla; luscious. “Sean.” She took another forkful and swirled it in the sauce. “Why can’t you talk to me about it?”

He sighed. He planted his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “What do you want to know?”

He gave her such an intense look she blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m prying.”

“No worse than I’ve done to you. It’s difficult. Takes a toll. Some assignments are shorter, less intense. Some people inhabit the character totally and never break. I can’t do it like that. You only saw the real Fetch briefly when I was on the phone. Mostly what you saw was a hybrid of him and Sean. A space where I’m neither of them, and both of them at the same time. Does that make any sense to you?” He sighed. “It’s making me tired thinking about it.”

It did make sense. She hadn’t changed her name but she’d changed her appearance her habits and her lifestyle and her other self, her real self, the one that wanted the watermelon dress and the attention of the man opposite her was hovering in the wings, waiting for it to be safe to come out. Worried that it might never be.

She nodded. “So the hard part is feeling comfortable in the one skin again and not second-guessing yourself.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “How would you know that?”

“Just a guess. I can be good at guessing too.”

“What else are you good at?”

Her own conversational gambit turned back on her. “At saying thank you for a wonderful meal. It truly was wonderful. At offering to change your dressing, doing the washing-up, and going to bed early.”

“You are no fun, Cait.”

The sooner he understood that the better.

“It was my pleasure to cook for you. If we can, I’ll do it again. I’m going to leave the dressing off for tonight. Give the wound some air. I’ll take you up on your offer to dress it in the morning. And the washing-up—come on, we can do that together.” He stood and held a hand out to her. She put her plate in it and he laughed. “A guy can try.”

“A guy can pick an easier battle—one that needs fighting.”

“Are you saying you’re not worth fighting for?”

“I’m saying there’s no way to win with me.”

He took both their plates and went to the kitchen. No smart reply. She was almost disappointed. She followed with their wine glasses. He had the water on, filling the sink. She found the tea towel and came to stand beside him.

Hands in the hot water and suds he said, “You’re holding out on me.”

“Holding out what?”

He grinned and she knew she’d made a tactical error. “Ah so much, Caitlyn Mary Ann Murphy. Where do I start? With why you’re trying to hide how gorgeous you are, or what you’re running from?

She went to protest and he put a wet, sudsy finger up to her face, a breath away from her lips. “Maybe I’ll start with why your bloke doesn’t get a second chance, or what makes you want to drive a hire car when you have so many other qualifications and skills? How’s that for a start?”

“Have you finished?”

“Barely even warmed up.”

“You’re such an old gossip.”

He abandoned the plates in the sink and turned to face her. “That’s your big come-back?”

“I don’t have to argue with you.”

“I didn’t think this was an argument. But if you’re leaning that way and I push hard enough will I see sparks?”

“You’re a spoilt kid who’s used to getting everything he wants.”

He nodded, a serious expression on his face. “Not a bad assessment.”

“Could we just do the washing-up?”

“Annoying you is so much more fun.”

“For you.” She put her hand out and wriggled her fingers, trying to inspire him to do something other than look at her.

“Answer me one question.”

She sighed. “What?” Whatever he asked she’d dodge.

“
Ironman
or
The Hunger Games
?”

He had a great big grin on his face. He knew very well she’d expected something personal. He had it coming. She flicked at him with the tea towel. He backed off a few steps.

“Hey.” He laughed.

She flicked again, coming dangerously close to hitting him on the arm. He danced sideways and made a grab at the drawer where the kitchen linen was stored. He armed himself.

Caitlyn lowered her weapon. Let him think she’d given in.

“You think I’m going to fall for that? You should see your eyes. You want to get me something bad.”

She did. She so did; for all his smart-mouthed teasing and impossible to ignore ways. “No. I give up. There’s no way I can best you. You’ll be too quick.” She aimed at forlorn and defeated. He put his tea towel down and made for the sink. She struck, flicking the towel at him; it made a dry crack sound and caught him on the shoulder. He grabbed for it and hauled it to him and before she could think about letting it go she was trapped against his chest, both hands held by her sides.

He was laughing and his chest expanded into hers. He was curved around her. They were nose to nose, hip to hip. “Do you like being right, Cait?” His voice was a hot breeze across her mouth and throat. If he kissed her it’d be painful, like ripping hair out at the root. It’d be freeing like flying.

“Yes.” The word forced out of her, a request not an affirmation.

He released her as suddenly as he’d snatched her up. “I bought popcorn.”

She leaned back against the bench, using it to hold herself upright. He had his hands in the sink again, his back to her. It was all a game to him, all part of his act and she needed to remember that. He put cutlery on the draining board. She was horrified to see her hand tremble when she reached to pick the silverware up. No, she wasn’t scared of Sean—she was terrified of what he made her feel: light-headed, weak-kneed, vain and self-conscious. She’d wanted him to kiss her and the slash of disappointment when he mentioned popcorn instead was like toothache, like a joint dislocated, leaving her unbalanced and stumbling.

He put the last pan on the draining board. “I’ve lost you haven’t I?” He leaned on the sink watching the suds swirl down the drain.

She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the popcorn. She picked the pan up and wiped the inside surface. “Yeah I’m stuffed. I couldn’t fit another thing in.”

He looked around and she did her best impersonation of defiance, meeting him eye to eye. He didn’t need to know she had a knee jammed against the cupboard to steady herself. All he needed to know was that two could play his game. “I’m going to have an early night.”

He straightened up. “I can’t tempt you to watch a movie with me.”

“I am beyond temptation.” Her tone was pleasingly flippant. She ignored him and wiped the draining board down with a sponge. She expected some smart quip and mentally braced for it.

From over by the TV he said, “Goodnight, Driver. Sleep well,” and the distance in that one little name, in the use of her occupation, should’ve been satisfying, should’ve been sanctuary. But unlike anything he’d yet served up, it gave her heartburn.

19: Popcorn

What he was doing was wrong. Had to be. That’s why he was feeling so churned up, so oddly flat. Sean sat in the flickering light of the TV thumbing the worn, rubbery arrow on the remote, shifting from channel to channel. He couldn’t settle on anything. Wasn’t that some kind of a metaphor? He so should not have grabbed her. But the minute she’d snapped the tea towel at him, he knew it was on. He knew it. She wanted whatever was building between them too. Didn’t she? The way she looked at him. That coolness outside; that flame burning in her eyes.

Yeah, right. That’s why she was in bed, probably wearing something she thought disguised her loveliness, and he was out here on his own with a bowl of popcorn he no longer felt like eating. He ate it anyway. It was bound to make him thirsty, but it was something to do.

His radar was way off. Needed a good service. He’d been out of things so long now maybe any woman who looked at him and didn’t see a walk-on-the-wild-side, bad-boy sideshow alley experience would turn him on. Because women who looked at him and saw Fetch certainly didn’t. That had to be it. Cait wasn’t some good time girl, an easy lay. She’d been genuinely horrified about sharing a two bedroom apartment, genuinely uneasy about him cooking for her.