In Close Quarters

But he did. It accentuated her eyes, made them appear larger, bluer.

Her maddening dimples deepened. “Too bad. I do.” With that, she twirled smoothly about, her white skirt revealing a most enticing length of calf as she slipped away. When she rounded the breakfast counter, he assumed she was simply putting her usual distance between them—until she reached the stove. The shrill whistle and steam shooting from the copper teapot finally pierced his stupor. As she flicked off the burner, he turned back to the apartment, this time really looking.

He had known this woman had money. After all, she drove a Jaguar. And there was the Cartier on her wrist. But not even that—nor even the chunk of gray marble some might call a sculpture in the lobby—could have prepared him for this.

And the fact that it was so very…white.

Everywhere.

From the gauze draped across the tops of the towering windows down to the carpet, the entire room was white. The leather couch was white, the pair of overstuffed chairs flanking it were white, the lamps were white. Even the wall unit, the dining-room table and the chairs beyond were some sort of colorless wood washed with…well, white.

Suddenly he was twenty-four again, reaching for the brass knocker on those enormous double doors. They yawned open. And then she was standing there, looking down her perfect nose at him. He could not help it—he glanced down at his jacket, then his T-shirt, jeans and boots, half-afraid his mere presence had rubbed off, leaving a great dark stain in the middle of this virgin room. Thankfully, he had not.

Yet.

He turned back to the kitchen, to Karin, and was once again confronted with white. This time, though, it was her.

She arched her brows. “Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

He blinked.

She sighed. “What you’re doing here? I’ve figured out by now they weren’t involved in the accident.”

The accident? What— Ah, the freeway.

No wonder she had been frightened. He shook his head. “No, they were not. It came through on the scanner when it happened. I dropped Reese and Jade off an hour and a half ago by way of another route. From the way you threw yourself into my arms, I thought you had heard something about the plane.”

She flushed.

Not much.

Just the tips of her ears.

Most odd. He had always thought her so cool, so collected, so in control. But with her curls off her ears, he now knew she was not. Fascinating. He wondered if she knew. He caught the panic flitting through those deep-blue eyes as he stared, and knew.

She did.

She turned away quickly and headed back to the kitchen. This time he labeled her action for what it was.

Retreat.

He masked his smile as she turned back, the high counter once again firmly between them.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He shook his head. “I did not.”

“Well? Are you going to? Or did you just drop by for dinner, unannounced?”

“Would you dine with me if I had?”

“No.”

He glanced down at the counter, at the empty yogurt container with the spoon still inside, at the orange rind piled beside the remote control, and tsked. “You could use a good meal, no?”

She did not answer. Nor did she need to, for her narrow gaze spoke for her. She finally severed that frosty glare and scooped up the rind and carton before she turned her back on him to head for the trash compactor. He waited until she had opened the steel drawer and dumped them inside.

“You called Reese today.”

The drawer slammed shut.

She continued to stand with her back to him for a moment, then slowly turned around. “Yes, I did. I called Reese.”

He shrugged. “You got me.”

“I don’t want you.”

If she thought it took one of her neurosurgical colleagues to figure this out, she was mistaken. “This I know. But me you have. Why did you call?”

“You know, I don’t believe it’s any of your business.”

If it involved what he thought it did, it was very much his business. It was also his case. But there was no way he could tell her this. At least, not until he was certain.

He sighed. “Cari?o—”

She held up a hand. “You can stop right there, Agent Vаsquez. First of all, I told you months ago, my name is Karin, just Karin. Not carino—or however you keep pronouncing it. Second of all, my phone call had nothing to do with you or your agency. I just told you—I called to talk to Reese, not you. As you damn well know, Reese is married to my best friend. I needed to discuss something with him. Something personal. If your boss is so straitlaced you guys can’t even receive a brief personal call on the job, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to Reese when they return.”

“Are you finished?”

Pink washed the tops of her ears. “Yes.”

“Good. Now, I am aware of the fact that you called to speak to Reese and not to me.” Painfully aware. “But you also left a message. A message that said…” He made a show of searching the pockets of his leather jacket for the yellow slip Joaqu?n had handed him before he had torn out of the office. “Here it is.” He did not need to read the words, but did so, anyway. “Dr. Karin Scott called. It’s business.”

“I know—personal business.” She raked her fingers through her curls. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

“Until you tell the truth.”

She stiffened. “Just where the hell do you get off showing up at my apartment, giving me the third degree about a personal call and accusing me—”

The rest of her words were severed as he rounded the counter and reached out to touch the tip of her ear. It was tinged with pink for the third time that night.

She swallowed.

Evidently he had made his point.

Several moments passed before she honored it. “Okay, I’ve been busted. What are you going to do about it? Cuff me and drag me down to the nearest station?”

Oh, he would like to.