“Hmm. Soon.” She threw a glance over her shoulder and he noticed how her black hair shined under the fluorescents suspended overhead. As smart and dedicated as anyone in the department, Alvarez had proved herself time and time again on the field of duty, yet he knew little more about her than what was listed on her résumé.
He’d been sure to keep it that way. She had a haunted, secretive demeanor about her, and he’d been tempted to dig a little deeper into what made her tick, then had thought better of it. She’d been interested in him; he wasn’t so unaware not to recognize chemistry and attraction when it snuck up on him, and he’d considered returning the favor but had stopped himself. Business and pleasure didn’t mix, and he wasn’t ready to start a serious relationship again, even though his most recent divorce had been years earlier. But the sting of Cara’s betrayal had cut deep and now, with Alvarez, the opportunity had passed. His second marriage had barely lasted a year, again because Cara had never really been out of the picture, and though Alvarez may have thought she was falling in love with him, it was probably just a bit of hero worship on her part, unfounded, of course. He’d certainly felt her heightened interest, but before he’d reciprocated, she’d become involved with someone else, which was, he knew, best for all.
Still . . .
“Merry Christmas,” he said and sketched a wave.
“You too.” Her smile, so rare as to be almost nonexistent, touched a private spot in his heart. With a nod, he turned away. His dog at his heels, he flipped up his collar, yanked on his gloves, and walked the length of a long hall decorated with twinkling lights and silvery snowflakes, compliments of an overzealous secretary who took the holidays seriously.
Grayson barely noticed. His thoughts were still muddled and dark, all knotted up with images of Alvarez huddled over her desk. Silently, he wondered if he’d made a big mistake; the kind that could alter a man’s life. She’d almost died recently and he was just grateful that she was alive.
His steps slowed and he looked back down the hall. Maybe this was the moment to take that extra step and learn what she was about, see if there really was something smoldering there . . . maybe . . .
He caught himself and resumed walking, his footsteps sharper. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, giving himself a quick mental shake as he shouldered open the exterior door and stepped into the cold Montana night.
Aside for a few hours with his ex-sister-in-law and his nieces, he’d spend Christmas alone, he thought with a grimace.
It wasn’t the first time.
And probably wouldn’t be the last.
Chapter 2
“I said, ‘I want for us to be together. Forever.’ ”
Standing in front of the woodstove in his old cabin, Nate Santana reached into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small, velvet box.
“Oh, Jesus.” Regan Pescoli stared at the tiny box as if it were pure poison. She even took a step backward, but it didn’t stop him from dropping down onto one knee, opening the box, and holding it in his palm, the diamond ring within winking against white satin. Tears filled her eyes, burning, and reminding her of the sappy fool she was just under the surface of her crusty exterior. “You don’t . . . I mean, I can’t . . . Oh, Jesus.”
“Regan Pescoli, will you marry me?”
He looked up at her and her heart melted. Snow drifted against the windows, a storm brewing outside, but in this hundred-year-old cabin, it was just the two of them and Santana’s husky, who was sleeping on a rug in the corner of the room. “I guess I should have done this before I told you that I wanted you to marry me.”
“You mean, asked me first?”
“Yeah.”
“That would have been nice.” She tried to sound tough, to not allow him to see just how he’d touched her.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I know, I know . . .” She bit her tongue. The simple answer would be: “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” before throwing her arms around him and crying happily as he placed the ring on her finger, then carried her into his tiny bedroom where they would make love all night long.
She blinked back that particular fantasy. Her life wasn’t simple. And this wasn’t a fairy tale. She was a woman, no, make that a detective, with two nearly grown children and two marriages in her wake. Her first husband, Joe Strand, also a cop, had died in the line of duty. They’d been college sweethearts and she’d gotten pregnant, hence the hasty, often-rocky marriage and her son Jeremy, as bullheaded and handsome as his father. Then there had been marriage number two to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli, a truck driver who was as charming as he was good-looking and with whom both kids were spending Christmas Eve this year. That marriage hadn’t lasted long either, but the result was worth it: her daughter, pretty, smart, back-talking Bianca who, at sixteen, still believed the world revolved around her.
Two strikes.
Could she take another?
“For the love of God, Santana,” she said, clasping his hand and hauling him to his feet. “I’m not ready for this. You know that. What the hell are you doing?”
“Proposing,” he said dryly.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, but . . .”
“But what?” he asked, and his eyes were sparkling a bit. Was it the reflection of the Christmas lights, a single strand he’d hung over the front room window, or her imagination that he might actually be amused at her confounded response?
“We’ve been over this before. I thought you understood. It’s not that I don’t love you—you know that I do—but me and marriage . . . it’s just never worked out.”