Hard Evidence. Susan Peterson

screen set up to partition off the bedroom area. “I’ve been sleeping on the couch lately, anyway.”

      A glimmer of self-amusement touched one corner of those exquisite lips and my heart tumbled just a little. I pushed the feeling deeper and concentrated on what he was saying.

      “I’m on call. I could get beeped at any time. It’s just easier this way.” He ran a restless hand through his thick black hair. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately and will just end up keeping you awake. I’ve got a touch of insomnia.” He gazed at me, his eyes telling me he knew I’d understand.

      I nodded noncommitedly, not wanting to let on that I knew exactly what he meant. But there was no denying that I knew. Hard, fast memories flooded my brain with the force of a dam breaking. Memories of sleeping next to Jack, my butt pressed tight against his hard belly, his strong arm wrapped securely around my chest, resting directly below my breasts.

      He’d always been a light sleeper, a person who prowled the apartment at all hours of the night. When we’d slept together, I used to hear him get up and leave the bed, and sometimes I’d go in search of him, finding him slouched in a chair or standing in front of one of the huge windows overlooking the dark street below. The soft light filtering in from the street lamps would caress the hard, muscular lines of his body, and the beauty of him would always take my breath away, leaving me with a painful ache of need deep inside me.

      Just the thought of those times made the ache creep into my belly, catching me off guard. I blinked, trying to regain my equilibrium, but the memories continued to wash over me.

      Jack would always chalk his restlessness up to work, thoughts about a case pressing in on him. I used to lean up against him and gently massage his shoulders, molding my body to his and soaking in his warmth and strength.

      It never seemed to do much in the way of getting him to relax, but it always seemed to have a nice effect on our love life. At times, his insomnia had meant marathon sessions of wild and wickedly delicious tumbles in the twisted sheets.

      Startled, I shook myself. Memories like that were going to have to be off-limits if I planned on staying even one night under the same roof as Jack. They were too dangerous. I needed to stay focused on the here and now—no more trips down memory lane.

      “I’m not taking the bed, Jack.” I moved over to the couch and swung my duffel bag and Sweetie Pie’s crate up onto the cushion. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

      “Same old Killian, huh? Incapable of ever doing what someone asks of her?”

      I stiffened. Bullheadedness had always been my badge of honor. But it was the one thing that kept me whole and sane in a crazy world that changed at a moment’s notice. Leftover stuff from my early life.

      “Apparently not,” I said, leaning down to open my backpack and rummage through the contents. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I just knew I couldn’t look at him right then.

      “There’s no privacy out here in the living room. At least the bedroom is partitioned off.”

      He paused for a moment and then added quietly, “I’m asking for my benefit, Killian, not yours. It would just be better if you had some privacy.”

      The soft tones, rich and husky, filtered across the space between us and lifted the hair on the nape of my neck as if I’d been touched on the tenderest part of my skin by the calloused tips of his long fingers.

      I lifted my head and met his gaze across the length of the room. Those dark blue eyes burned with an intensity capable of opening a hole right through the middle of my chest and stabbing the center of my heart.

      I struggled to breathe as he waited.

      Finally, I shrugged and swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in the back of my throat. “Fine. You win. I’ll take the bed.”

      He smiled that slow, easy smile of his and the intensity of his gaze softened a bit, as if he knew even before I spoke that he’d won. I tightened my fists and pulled my duffel bag closed with a fierce tug.

      Damn it, he’d done it to me again, manipulated the hell out of me and he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

      I, on the other hand, had a fat bead of sweat rolling merrily down the valley between my breasts, making its way toward my belly button.

      I ignored it. No way was I touching any part of my anatomy with Jack O’Brien’s smoldering eyes sparking like heat lightning across the length of the loft.

      I knew without him saying anything that he was more than a little aware of my current predicament. Damn his psychic hide. I had thought the little thread of connection between us had died a long time ago. Apparently I was wrong.

      I reached down and opened Sweetie Pie’s crate. He slinked out gingerly. I’m sure he wasn’t used to the degree of cleanliness that permeated Jack’s apartment. Charlie appeared to be a bit less of a fastidious housekeeper in his older years.

      “He’s going to need a litter box.”

      “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

      I yanked my bag off the couch and slung it over my shoulder, wincing slightly.

      “Shoulder still hurting?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Doesn’t appear that you’re fine. You took a pretty bad fall. Better let me take a look at it. If you need to have it X-rayed, we’re going to have to head back over to the hospital.”

      “What, you’re a doctor now?”

      “No, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a paramedic.”

      “I’m fine. A hot shower will take care of it. You don’t mind if I use your shower, right?”

      “Help yourself. Towels are in the cabinet behind the door. Shampoo and soap are on the shelf in the stall. I’ll check the shoulder after you shower.”

      The slight smugness touching one corner of those perfect lips made me clench my back teeth. He turned away, his attention on the expensive-looking stereo equipment lining one side of the wall.

      As I entered the bathroom and slammed the door shut with a quick kick of one foot, the smooth, soothing tones of Norah Jones slipped from the speakers and filled the loft.

      I groaned aloud and leaned my head against the door of the bathroom, closing my eyes in frustration. Oh, God, was he doing this on purpose? Was he looking to ignite me into a single roaring flame of sexual desire?

      I bent over the tub and turned on the cold tap. Forget the hot shower. I was going to need to freeze out the scorching heat coursing through my bloodstream if I intended to go back into the same room as Jack O’Brien and converse like a rational, coherent human being.