Afraid to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

She picked at her sandwich and sipped the chardonnay, didn’t argue when O’Keefe refilled it. Earlier, she’d been ravenous, but now, she wasn’t hungry and the melted cheese on whole wheat had lost its appeal.

Not so for O’Keefe, he’d polished off his ham on rye and was eyeing her leftovers. “Be my guest,” she offered, shoving her plate across the glass top of the table.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Just leave room for the pie, it’s really to die for.” As he bit into her sandwich, she said, “So have you talked to the Helena PD?”

Nodding, he said, “Of course, they’ve got their own people trying to track Gabe down.” She nodded; she’d heard as much from Trey Williams. “But, unless they’re lying, they don’t have any more than I do; his trail’s gone cold.”

She knew this as well and suspected the reason that the cops in Helena and the state had worked with O’Keefe at all was because he was dogged, determined and savvy from his own years on the force. Besides, their departments, like the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department, were stretched thin, more crime than cops.

“I was hoping he might show up here again,” he said, then washed his last bite down by almost finishing his beer.

“So that’s why you’ve been hanging out.”

“One reason.” His gaze found hers and she saw something in his eyes she’d rather ignore, something that reminded her of a time when the sun shined and she had hope of love.

How stupid she’d been then. Still a little idealistic and naive. Ever hopeful. Even after what she’d endured. She cleared her throat, pushed aside the memories of palm trees, and warm winds and O’Keefe’s touch. She noticed his split lip and that one of the deeper scratches beneath his eye had decided to bleed again, tiny drops of blood forming along the line of his cheekbone. “You know ... you might need stitches.”

“That bad?”

“You’ve looked better,” she said, and felt one of her eyebrows arch, as if she were baiting him, or worse yet, flirting.

“Thanks.” Despite his scrapes and bruising, she thought him too good-looking for his own good. Or maybe hers. He grinned, that crooked, irreverent slash of white she’d found so beguiling years before. “What do they say, ‘it’s not the years, but the miles’?”

“Is that what ‘they’ say?”

“Something like that.” He laughed, then winced a little before draining his beer.

“Well, I’m saying you should have had a doctor look at your injuries.”

“Now you’re the expert.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He grinned again, testing her, then shrugged.

“Oh, for the love of God, I’d forgotten just how mule-headed you could be. Look, I’ve got some antiseptic cream and a butterfly Band-Aid ... upstairs.” Before he could protest, she kicked back her chair and headed upstairs to the bathroom off her bedroom where she kept all of her first-aid supplies. In the drawer, she located a box of Band-Aids that she’d had for years and a small tube of Neosporin. She grabbed them, shut the drawer, then looked in the mirror, where she saw her reflection, her eyes shining a little, her cheeks pinker than usual. From the wine? Or some emotional reaction she just couldn’t control? That’s ridiculous. You’re in charge of yourself. You know that. You’ve proved it time and time again ... Uh-oh.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs seconds before he appeared behind her, his image filling the mirror.

“Oh, good,” she said, nervous as a schoolgirl and trying to control her suddenly wildly beating heart. “Take a seat”—she pointed to the toilet—“and Nurse Alvarez will fix you right up.”

Hesitating a second, catching her gaze in the reflection, he grinned. “So are we going to play doctor and nurse?”

Swallowing back a smile, she said, “How about ER? Just be thankful you don’t have serious head trauma, because I don’t think the staff could take care of it. Okay?”

He’d settled onto the commode and looked up at her expectantly.

“Let’s see ...” She scrounged in the drawer again and came up with a package of antiseptic wipes, then washed his face with warm water and a soft cloth. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, not because it was necessary for her ministrations, but so that she could look directly at him without him staring at her as she gently cleaned his face. She noticed the way a few wrinkles fanned from his eyes and the bits of gray showing in the hair at his temples. He smelled all male, but she disguised that all too enticing odor with the smell of the antiseptic as she gently cleaned his wounds, running the cloth over his skin, then allowing it to dry and finally applying a touch of Neosporin to the area.

Working this closely to him, leaning down to tend to him, was a little unsettling, but she ignored the fact that he was so damned near. “This shouldn’t hurt,” she said. “The cream claims it’s got a pain reliever in it.”

“And here I was believing the ‘no pain, no gain’ theory.” His eyes opened and she found herself nose-to-nose with him, her hand on his cheek, her body leaning forward so that, should he look down, he could see the tops of her breasts and bra past the neckline of her sweater. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered and the phrase was like a caress, warm and welcome.

“Well, you’re ... you’re not,” she forced out. “Ugly bruises and cuts and—”

“And sexy as hell.”