“Because it’s good for me.”
“But it’s not necessary physical therapy.”
“Not anymore,” she said.
“You’re pretty much recovered from your injuries,” he said. “Tell me, Dr. Blair Weston, why haven’t you gone back to work as a medical examiner?”
She held up her wrist, displaying the pale scars from two operations. “My hand is still too shaky.”
“For working on dead people?”
“For your information, there’s a certain degree of precision required in an autopsy.”
“Let me see that wrist.”
He caught hold of her forearm and pushed up the sleeve of her robe. With his thumb, he traced the line of scars along the tender flesh at the inside of her forearm. Though his hands were warmer than hers, his light caress sent shivers through her body.
She lifted her gaze to meet his and found herself fully engaged in a study of his intense, compelling eyes. A darker rim circled multifacets of blue, nearly as splintered and complicated as the man himself. As she stared at him, the tiled pool room and the rippling expanse of turquoise water faded into a soft, pleasant blur.
“I think there’s another reason you haven’t gone back to work,” he said gently. “I don’t know the label. Trauma. Fear. Sorrow. All of the above.”
“Maybe.” Blair had tried psychological therapy and quit when she didn’t make measureable headway.
“Were you ever able to recall what happened in the accident?”
She shook her head. She remembered driving with Jake. The windows on the car were down, and there was a breeze. Riding in a car with Jake behind the steering wheel was always a harrowing experience. Too fast. He always drove too fast. “I don’t remember the crash. My mind is a blank until I woke up in the hospital. I assume I was in shock.”
“Me, too,” he said. “After Danielle was killed, I went into emotional shock. The way I coped was writing about it. So there’s the answer to your question. I keep writing, keep digging into serial killings because I need to make sense of it. For my sister. And for myself.”
He might have undertaken an impossible task. “Do serial killings ever make sense?”
“Not in a rational way.”
She couldn’t quite believe that they were standing here, holding hands and talking about heinous crimes. “I should get going. Adam needs my decision in less than two hours.”
“I’d like to see you again,” David said. “Can I take you to lunch sometime?”
“How about now? Come upstairs with me, and I’ll make you a terrific tuna salad sandwich.”
“You’re on.”
Side by side, they left the swimming pool, crossed the lobby and boarded the elevator. Though Blair suspected that David was coming upstairs to convince her to investigate the Fisherman, his attention pleased her. He’d asked her to lunch. He wanted to spend time with her.
At her condo on the fifth floor, she unlocked the door. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just run into the bedroom and get changed.”
“Do you have to change?” David followed her into the living room. “I like the blue bathing suit. It shows off your curves.”
Her curves? Apparently, David had noticed more about her than her damaged leg. “Were you ogling me?”
“I’m a reporter. A trained observer.”
“And what have you observed?”
“Curves. Nice curves.”
His blue-eyed gaze rested warmly upon her. His masculine appreciation was unmistakable.
Blair didn’t know what to think of this attention from David Crawford, whom she’d always placed in the category of friend rather than boyfriend. Of course, she’d considered the possibility of dating him. With his black hair and blue eyes, he was handsome. And he was funny. And kind. Could there be something more between them than friendship?
“Come on, Blair.” His eyebrows lifted, teasing. “Let me see that bathing suit again.”
“If you want curves, take a drive down the Pikes Peak.”
“Are you scared to give me another glimpse?”
He was definitely flirting with her. It had been ages since she’d played this kind of game with a man. “Scared of you? No way.”
“Then do it.”
“Open my robe?”
“Or forever be branded a coward,” he said.
“I’m no chicken.” She untied the terry cloth sash. She literally put her best leg forward as she slowly parted the material and offered him a view.
“Very nice.” The corner of his mouth curved in a half-grin, and he reached toward her. His hands slipped inside her robe and rested on either side of her rib cage. “You’re perfectly proportioned.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Lady, you’re close.”
She ought to object to his overture. Blair wasn’t the kind of woman who tumbled easily. She had more self-control in her little finger than most people had in their whole body. But, instead of pulling away, she leaned toward him.
She wanted to be held—wanted her electric-blue swimsuit to leave a damp impression on his rumpled shirt and khaki trousers. And she offered no objection when his lips touched hers. The pressure of his mouth was firm but tentative. This wasn’t a passionate kiss but more of an exploration, a testing of boundaries.
Then his hands encircled her torso, and he pulled her closer, crushing her against him.
His kiss became more demanding. His tongue forced her lips to part.
A sudden, pleasant heat shimmered through her body like a mirage. Her boundaries crumbled as she swooned against him. It had been so long. She’d missed this tenderness, this passion, this intimacy. She wanted to let go of all inhibitions and tear away their clothes.
But that would be crazy. Foolish. She would never risk her heart again. Awkwardly she separated from him, taking a clumsy step backward, ending their delicious embrace. “How did that happen?”
“I could show you again,” he offered.
“I think not.” When she turned away from him, a secret smile of pure delight played across her lips. “Now, I’m going to change clothes.”
“I like black lingerie,” David said.
“Dream on.”
“I will.”
As he watched her leave the room, David exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He felt like a very lucky man. Three times lucky.
Once lucky because when he contacted CCC, the first name Adam mentioned was his old friend, Blair.
Twice lucky because Blair was glad to see him.
Lucky times three, because she kissed him back. He’d felt her body yearning toward him, and he could tell that she was as hot as he was. Maybe even hotter.
He strolled across the carpet and sank into a recliner chair. Why hadn’t he kissed her sooner? Years sooner?
Leaning back in the chair, he checked out her condo. The recliner where he sat was the only comfortable piece of furniture. The rest of the room was exercise equipment: a treadmill, a stationary bicycle and a mat for floor exercises. There was a small table with two chairs in the dining area—not a space that was large enough for entertaining.