Page 67 of Missing Justice
“Deal. But I’m limiting the time. Forty minutes.”
“Forty!”
“Yes. And that’s generous. I mean, how long does it take to eat soup?”
They reached his car and he opened the door for her.
She looked up at him and the already blackening bruise on her forehead brought him back to some guy kicking the shit out of her and his blood fired hot. Damn. He’d never considered himself a hero and had no illusions about the filth he’d seen in this world. The kooks. The crazy methheads and murderers. He’d seen enough of it to know he couldn’t save the world.
And he sure as shit couldn’t save Taylor. She could take care of herself.
Most of the time.
Tonight though, given the break-in at her place, he should have been with her. Still with his gaze glued to her, he reached up, ran his thumb down her cheek and dipped his head, kissing her gently, already feeling his body stir when she responded. Unlike most of their kisses, this one didn’t pack that urgent punch. The get-your-clothes-off-NOW anticipation that typically sparked their sexual marathons.
He liked it. The slow, easy pace. The lack of rushing. They’d have to explore that. Not tonight, but sometime soon. He pulled back, let his hand wander over her chest, across her breast and torso until landing at her hip where he patted her ass.
“Watch your head when you get in.”
At that, she smiled, a lusty mix of grateful and seductive.
“You’re slowly killing me, you know.”
“Ditto that. It’s shaping up to be a wild ride.”
* * *
Matt checked his watch. “Thirty-nine minutes.” He swirled one finger. “Wrap this shit up.”
Across from him at his kitchen table, Taylor shoved her half-eaten soup aside and spread three file folders in front of her. One contained her list of birthing center employees, the other of people who owned silver pickups and the final her most recent notes on the case.
“Oh, come on!” she said. “We’re not even halfway through the list. You can’t be serious with that forty minute time limit.”
“Honey, I’m as serious as a heart attack.” He grinned. “Or aparking garageattack.”
Because, yeah, he was the guy sitting across from her watching the bump on her forehead grow and that bruise expand. She was definitely going to have a black eye. She needed rest and pouring over case files wouldn’t do it. Still, he understood her drive, her need to find Baby Jarvis.
If she was scared from the attack, from her home being violated and her person being assaulted, she wasn’t showing it.
Except by throwing herself even more into her work.
Damn, the woman tripped him up. He sat back, let his shoulders press against the ladder-back chair and folded his arms across his chest. With Taylor, he needed to present a calm, yet definitive demeanor. Otherwise, she’d own him.
And that wasn’t happening.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You go to bed and I’ll work on the files. That’s my final offer.”
“Puh-lease. That’s youronlyoffer. What kind of negotiation is this?”
“It’s not. That’s my point.” Shoving his chair back, he stood. Was it lame that he was assuming a power position by standing over her? Absolutely. Taylor was stubborn—bullheaded even—and he’d use any tactic necessary to make sure she got some rest. “Leave the folders. I’ll deal with them.”
Working on a theory of momentum, he cornered the table, eased her chair back, clasped her elbow and guided her to her feet. For once, she didn’t argue, but that may have been a fatigue-induced lucky break.
“Five more minutes,” she countered.
“My house. My rules. You’re going to bed.”
Determined not to think about her in his bed without him, he led her down the hallway, flipped on the bedroom light, grabbed her one of his T-shirts to sleep in, and pointed to the bathroom. “Go change. I’ll get the bed ready.”
