Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

He had the nerve to smile, that same slow, crooked slash of white that she’d found so impossibly sexy. “It’s about fear,” he countered, clasping her hands and pulling her to her feet. “Your fear.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know I’m right.”

She felt suddenly close to tears. Stupid tears. Woman tears. “I just don’t want you to end up hating me.”

He half-laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

“Yes.”

“Then you really don’t know me, now, darlin’, do you?” Before she could answer, he drew her close and kissed her forehead, a soft brush of his lips against her skin. His breath was warm, his arms strong, and she felt the urge to melt into them. “It’s Christmas. Let’s not argue.”

“Is that possible?”

“Probably not.” When she tilted her face upward to stare into his eyes, she saw a spark of mirth, and deeper in those dark depths, something more, something that he quickly hid. She realized she should resist, that they needed to work this marriage thing out, but she was tired of arguing and besides, it would serve no purpose. And he was right: It was Christmas.

His lips found hers and as he kissed her, he swept her into his arms. “Wait . . .” she said, but Nate paid no heed as he carried her into the bedroom and dropped her unceremoniously onto his bed. “You’re presuming a lot, mister,” she pointed out, fighting her own smile.

“You bet I am.” He was already falling onto the old mattress with her and starting to unzip the front opening of her sweater.

“You know you’re a bastard, Santana.”

“Yep, and you love me for it.”

“Probably.”

“No probably about it, Detective.” He yanked both of his shirts over his head and tossed them into the corner. “And I think I’m going to prove it to you.”

She laughed. “That’s way too corny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nuzzling her neck, he rolled atop her and, nose-to-nose, said, “I’ve got to find a way to convince you to marry me.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“What do you think?”

His hands, large and warm, pushed aside her sweater. “Good,” he murmured across the top of her breasts, “Because, darlin’, I’m definitely up for one.?

??

“You’re bad,” she said, holding her breath as her blood began to heat.

“The worst.” He kissed one of her nipples and looked up at her, his eyes glistening in the half-light.

Regan sighed, slowly sinking into sweet capitulation, at least in this.

“Hey, Alvarez! Give it a rest.” Pete Watershed’s voice nearly echoed through the quiet offices of the sheriff’s department. He’d been striding past her open doorway, the scent of tobacco smoke clinging to him, but he’d stopped and backtracked to her when he’d noticed her still at her desk, her computer monitor glowing with images of the victims of the latest serial killer to make Grizzly Falls his personal killing grounds as recently as two weeks before. He’d been dubbed the Ice Mummy Killer by the press and the name had stuck.

“Got any idea what time it is?” Watershed asked. A lanky road deputy with a perpetual scowl and propensity for crude jokes, he, too, had volunteered to work the night shift. She didn’t much like him, but he was a decent enough cop, and willing to give up his Christmas Eve so another deputy with a family could spend the night at home.

“A vague idea.”

“Yeah? So what’re you tryin’ to do, make the rest of us look bad?” He chuckled and his laughter turned into a cough, the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.

“Yeah, that’s it: My ultimate plan,” she said, and he laughed even more. “Fortunately with you, I don’t have to try very hard.” She half-smiled.