Their Baby Girl...?: The Baby Mission / Her Baby Secret. Marie Ferrarella
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a symbolic throwing up of his hands. He had to be getting home. There were a few things he wanted to check into before he went to bed. “You win. I give up.”
C.J. picked up the two books he’d brought and held them out to him, but he shook his head.
“You keep these and see if a name does ‘feel right’ to you.” He moved his hands around like a wizard conjuring up a spell.
C.J. put the books back down. “You’ll be the first to know,” she promised. She walked him to the door and opened it, then lingered a moment in the doorway. “Thanks for the pizza and the books.”
He pointed toward them behind her, a headmaster giving a pupil an assignment. “You’ve a week, Jones.”
She sighed. That did limit her time, she thought. “I know, I know.”
“Hey,” he leaned his arm on the doorjamb just above her head, “different strokes for different folks. It’s what makes the world go around.” He moved back a hair that was in her face. Her pupils looked as if they widened just a touch. He felt that same funny stirring in his gut. Again he locked it away. “You’re entitled to be a little strange once in a while.”
Warrick wasn’t sure just what made him do what he did next. He supposed it was a natural by-product of a good evening spent in the company of a good friend, although he’d never brushed a kiss on the cheek of any of the guys he’d interacted with on the basketball court, no matter how good a game had been played.
Whatever the reason behind it, the bottom line was that he leaned over and touched his lips to her cheek, as he’d done in the hospital.
This time it didn’t stun her. It didn’t even register because just then a cat unleashed a wild screech that sounded as if it was being vivisected somewhere in the vicinity. The unearthly noise startled her, and she jerked, turning her head, just as before.
But this time when their lips met, neither one of them sprang back. Instead they drew together. And allowed the unintentional meeting of two pairs of lips to instantly flower into something a great deal more lethal, a great deal hotter than simply skin against skin.
And a great deal more pleasurable.
He didn’t remember doing it. Didn’t remember taking hold of C.J.’s shoulders and drawing her up a little higher, a little closer, helping her along as she rose on her toes. Didn’t remember deepening the kiss, even though he did.
What he did remember was thinking that now he finally knew what it felt like to be kicked by a mule. Because something sure had found him where he lived and given him a swift, sound kick right to his gut.
Damn, for someone with just a tart tongue, she tasted sweet.
This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening, she thought. But she was so glad it was.
For one long, everlasting moment, C.J. felt as if her connections to the real world had all been short-circuited and severed. There was no sky above, no ground below, no walls around to contain her. She was free-falling into an abyss, a wild swirling surging in her chest.
Warrick?
This was Warrick?
How the hell could this be Warrick? She’d worked alongside him for more than six years. Possibly, once or twice in an off moment, she’d fantasized what it might be like to be with him in some capacity other than his partner, but nothing that had momentarily traveled through her brain had been remotely close to this.
This was something she didn’t know how to begin to describe.
Was that her pulse vibrating so fast? Could he tell? What the hell was happening to her? She was melting all over him.
Limp, she felt limp.
No! No way this was happening to her, not here, not now. Not again.
The next moment, contact was broken. Whether she pushed him back or he’d done it of his own accord, she didn’t know. But the sky, the ground and the walls all made a return appearance.
It took all she had to remain standing where she was and not grasp the doorjamb for support.
Very slowly Warrick let out his breath. What he really wanted to do was gulp air in to replenish the lack of it in his lungs and maybe, just maybe, squelch this erratic hammering of his heart.
He looked at her, striving for the nonchalance that was one of the cornerstones of their partnership, hoping his voice didn’t give him away. “You’ve got to learn to stop turning your head at the wrong moment.”
She looked at him in surprise. Wrong moment? Did it feel like a wrong moment to him? It felt like a right one to her.
Careful, C.J. you’re vulnerable. This is what got you in trouble before. Think, don’t feel.
She clenched her hands at her sides, pressing her nails into the palms of her hand.
“Maybe if you stop going at my cheek like some hungry chicken pecking at scattered corn, there wouldn’t be any wrong moments.” One hand squarely against his chest, she pushed him over the threshold as she grabbed the door with her other one. “Thanks for the books, see you tomorrow. Bye.”
Warrick found himself looking at the closed door before he could utter a single word in response or defense. Just as well.
He drew in the air he so badly needed, then turned away and walked to his car on legs that were a little less solid than they had been when he’d made the walk to her front door.
C.J. stood leaning against the door, her mind numb. Which was fine. It went along with the rest of her body. Numb mind, numb body—it was a set.
Like someone waking up from a dream, not quite sure what was real and what wasn’t, she walked very slowly to the sofa.
And then collapsed as if every single bone in her body had just been pulled out.
“You’re here already.”
The sound of Warrick’s voice behind her had C.J. straightening slightly. She turned away from one of several bulletin boards covered with various pieces of the investigation, determined not to let him suspect that he was partially to blame for her getting only three hours sleep last night.
“Where else would I be?” Was it just her, or did her voice sound a little too high? Where was this nervousness, this uncertainty coming from? This was just Warrick, for heaven’s sake. A Warrick who had completely blown her out of the water last night. She cleared her throat. “We’ve got a serial killer on the prowl and we’re partners on the task force, remember?”
Feeling suddenly awkward, C.J. offered the box of doughnuts she’d stopped to pick up by pushing them toward him on the new appropriated conference table. “Care for a sugar high?”
Warrick made his selection without really looking, then took his prize to the coffeemaker. He’d already had a strong cup of coffee but he felt as if he needed another one. Even stronger this time.
Damn if he could explain why the sight of her alone in the room they had commandeered for their task force made him feel as if he needed to fortify himself somehow.
But it did.
She watched him pick up the mug that had once been white and start pouring. “You know, you really should wash that out once in a while. Bacteria breeds in cleaner places than that. Your mug must seem like Disneyland to them.”
“Adds to the taste of the coffee,” he muttered. Warrick took his coffee without compromise: black and hot.
She picked up her own half-empty coffee mug, now cooled to the point that it practically looked solid, and stared into it, thinking. The fluorescent lights overhead danced along the surface, adding to the trance.
She blew out a long breath. They could skirt around this, pretend it wasn’t there and it would continue to gain depth and breadth, like some white elephant in the living room no one wanted