She held still under his touch, the heat of his fingers steaming her skin from a simple brush of his knuckles across her cheek. Better to let him think the water was from her impromptu swim than mention she was n**ed in the tub sixty seconds ago. "Why did they call you?"
His hand fell away. "Your mother phoned my secretary at the squadron to track me down. She wanted me to check on you since her doctor has her on bed rest."
"Figures." Where was Chris when she needed him? "You'd think I was still in college."
"I think you're lucky to have a family who cares. Was she a little intrusive? Maybe. But I don't see her here hovering."
"You're right. I am lucky, and I don't mean to sound like a brat."
She might not want a relationship with him anymore, but her ego still nudged her to be careful. They were inching toward dangerous—tempting—territory every time they spoke.
He strode past. She grabbed the door frame to support her suddenly shaky knees.
She watched him saunter into her apartment, a place he'd never stepped inside before. Seven months ago she'd been finishing up at UNC. Their one night together had been at his place, a beach community bungalow he'd bought from another military family when they'd moved.
She wondered what he thought of her bargain-basement Pier 1 knockoffs and the scattered plants she'd grafted from her mother's garden in an attempt to fill corners she couldn't afford to decorate.
Why was she thinking about appearances now when she'd never cared about material things before? If Carson Hunt— obviously from wealth—was only impressed by a price tag, then she was well rid of him.
He stopped short in front of her class's latest history project. "What the hell is this?"
She laughed and damn it felt good, almost as good as the rush because he'd noticed her most prized possession in the whole place. Her students had crafted the towering project which made it worth gold to her. Nikki walked deeper into the apartment, surreptitiously hiding the used handkerchief under a throw pillow until she could wash it.
Nikki tugged a tissue from the end table on her way to the six-foot-high papier-mâché creation she'd brought home from school strapped into the back of her Ford Ranger. "It's a sarcophagus."
"Ohhh-kay." Hands hooked in the pockets of his leather flight jacket, he studied the psychedelic coffin propped against the island counter separating the small kitchen from the rest of the dining area. "While I don't claim to be an interior design expert, why do you have one in your dining room?"
She ambled closer, determined not to bemoan the fact she was wearing nothing but ratty gym shorts and a threadbare T-shirt over her damp body. "My students are studying Egyptian history. The kids have been crafting papier-mâché items to go in the tomb, and we tried to build this in class, too, but Trey Baker spilled his lunch inside the sarcophagus and tapioca pudding totally stinks when it rots, so I had to cut that part out. Although what kid actually eats tapioca? Most children I know like chocolate pudding with candy sprinkles or gummies, or maybe a cookie crumbled on top."
"I liked tapioca when I was a kid."
"Geez, were your parents health food nuts or what?"
"Or what."
Welcoming the chuckle, she leaned an elbow against the counter bar and smoothed down a straggly corner of newspaper sticking from the still-damp section. "Anyhow, I'm patching over where I cut out the damaged part."
She'd taken a break from repairing the project to eat supper out on her balcony. Memories of Carson's apology had drawn her to the railing and before she'd known it, she was tumbling heart over butt toward the pool. "It should be dry enough to paint by tomorrow."
"Shouldn't you be resting?"
Reasonable notion except every time she closed her eyes she saw Gary Owens's vacant dead stare. "If I rest, I'll think. I'd rather work. Although building a coffin really isn't helping take my mind off this whole mess."
"Rather macabre."
"Macabre." She snatched up a piece of paper from under the phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing down the word." And trying to think about anything but the dead man and unanswered questions. She finished scrawling on the notepaper and tore the top sheet off from the soccer-patterned pad—a Christmas gift from one of her pupils. "I've got this student who's a word wizard. Feeding his brain is a full-time job. You use these words that are not the kind guys would usually choose."
"I can't decide if you're insulting or complimenting me."
"Neither. You just don't speak as informally as most guys I know."
"I'm older than most guys you know. Hell, I even eat tapioca, remember? If I said dude a couple of times, you wouldn't notice the other words."
"Still hung up on being a cradle robber, are you?"