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  Looking away, she nodded.

  He pulled her back to face him. “Trust me on this one.”

  A slow shake of her head was his answer. “I don’t do trust.”

  “This isn’t a matter of the heart, this is a matter of life and death.”

  “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”

  Now it was his turn to look away. “That’s a long story.”

  “Right,” she said. “And I’m so busy here that I can’t possibly spare the time to hear it. Come on, Cooper. Tell me.”

  He sighed and sank to the couch next to her. “I was in vice. Saw a lot.”

  Her eyes softened as she turned to face him, sitting on a bent leg, her long, wavy hair around her shoulders. “You burned out?”

  “Pretty much. But I still remember how to protect someone.” He twirled a long strand of her hair around his finger. “I would tell you if I couldn’t.”

  “So you really always tell the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes searched his for a long time. Then she stood up and put her hands out at her sides. “All right, then, tell me this truth. Does this skirt make my butt look big?”

  He laughed.

  She didn’t.

  Ah, he thought. A test. He stood, too, pondering her seriously. Then he lifted a finger, twirled it, gesturing her to turn around.

  After a pause, she did.

  He took a good, long look at her mouthwatering ass, so tightly encased in that black skirt he had no idea how she’d even gotten it on. “Hmmm.”

  She twisted around and tried to see her own behind. “Does it?”

  “Can’t tell. I’ll have to feel out the situation.” Sliding a hand down her back, he cupped her bottom.

  A sound escaped her, one that he was sure did not relate to distress. Her breathing quickened, and so did his, and from behind her, he rubbed his jaw along hers as he let his second hand join the fray.

  “Cooper,” she gasped.

  He pressed against her through the skirt, feeling the heat of her as he set his forehead to her temple. “Christ, Breanne.” Sliding his other hand to her belly, he held her in place while he dipped his fingers in as far as the skirt’s material gave him.

  A little whimper escaped her, and she arched her back, giving him better access.

  “Nope. Not fat,” he managed. “Not even close.”

  Her eyes were closed. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Okay.”

  He turned her to face him. “Okay—you trust me?”

  Her breathing wasn’t quite even, but she seemed to blink the sexual haze away faster than he could. “Maybe partially.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well . . . we are virtual strangers.”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “We’re not supposed to mean anything to each other. We’re passing through each other’s lives for one brief moment in time, that’s all,” she said, trying to convince herself.

  “Which is why we practically implode on the spot whenever we touch,” he answered, sounding ticked, and . . . hurt? “Christ, if we ever get to the big bang, it’ll kill us.”

  “I gave up men,” she whispered.

  “You ever think that you chose the wrong men on purpose?”

  She laughed over the vague unease his words brought forth. “Why would I do that? You think I want to be dumped all the time?”

  “Probably easier than to be the one doing the dumping.”

  She stared up at him. “Let me get this straight. You think I choose men that dump me, on purpose? Because it’s the easy way out?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know what? I don’t care what you think.” He wasn’t right, he couldn’t be right. “And I’m sticking to my plan.”

  “The no-more-men plan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Being careful is good, Breanne. But holding back entirely because you’re scared?” He shook his head. “That’d be a damn waste.”

  “I told you, we’re strangers.”

  “See, that’s the thing.” Again he stepped close, his broad shoulders blocking out everything but him, the azure color of his shirt emphasizing the clarity of his eyes, intent and frustrated as they were. “We’re not strangers. Not anymore.” His eyes captured and held hers, forcing her to face that truth, at least. “You have a passion for life. It’s an attractive trait, and a sexy one. Don’t waste it just because you’re running scared.”

  “I make bad choices,” she whispered, knowing it sounded like an old refrain. “You’re not going to be the next one.”

  “But what if this is right?”

  “How do I know that?”

  “I think you’d just know,” he said, and ran a finger over her jaw. “You’d feel it.”

  She gave a desperate shake of her head.

  Disappointment flickered across his face, but he didn’t press her. He wouldn’t, she realized, and that was . . . oddly freeing and exhilarating all in itself. In her life she’d been pushed in one direction or another by a sibling, a parent, a boyfriend. Making her own decisions had been the best gift she’d ever given to herself.

  Now she just had to stay on track and make the right ones. A powerful thing, really. “If I could just get out of here.”

  They both looked out the window, to the heavily falling snow.

  “I guess wanting and getting are two different things,” she said.

  “I’d agree with you there.” He was no longer looking outside, but at her profile.

  She turned to him and felt her heart squeeze at the look on his face. “This is crazy,” she whispered. “There’s a dead guy downstairs. Dead.”

  “Yeah,” he said on a sigh that spoke volumes about his experiences. To her this was a new nightmare, but he’d seen it all before, and had even walked away from it. She couldn’t begin to understand how it must feel for him to go on vacation to clear his head and still face death. “Well, at least one thing’s clear,” she said very softly. “I have an alibi for last night and this morning.” Her gaze dropped involuntarily to his mouth, her body even now remembering how good it tasted. “I was kissing the hell out of the detective working the case.”

  Sixteen

  There are only two kinds of men: dead . . . and deadly.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  By afternoon, Breanne needed a distraction. She figured food would do it. Moving toward the kitchen, she stopped short in the hallway and stared at a new painting. Or at least she thought it was new because this she would have remembered.

  It was an antique, two-person saw blade, at least six feet long, maybe more, painted with the most beautiful landscape of a raging river surrounded by a thick forest, with a storm brewing on the left. Gorgeous.

  But where had it come from?

  She was distracted from that by the sound of Shelly talking in the kitchen. The cook had made herself scarce all day, and Breanne had been worried about her. Relieved now, she knocked on the closed door.

  “Just a sec!” Shelly called out. Then, a minute later, she opened the door, looking rosy and rushed, but neat as ever. “Hey!”

  “Want some company?”

  “Uh . . .” Shelly took a quick glance over her shoulder, then flashed Breanne a smile. “Sure. Come on in.”

  Breanne looked around. “Who were you talking to?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard you talking.”

  “Oh.” Shelly laughed breathlessly as she moved behind the island countertop. “Myself. I talk to myself. A lot. Have a seat. Are you hungry? I have hot water—I boiled it in the fireplace. Start with some tea while I fix something for you.”

  Breanne sat at a bar stool on the other side of the island counter, feeling the cool wood beneath her thighs thanks to the short, short skirt. She began flipping through a basket of teas to choose from.

  Shelly unloaded an armful of things from the refrigerator, then began chopping carrots at the speed of light, defying