"What do you want?" she asked next to his ear.
You, he thought, but he figured she wouldn't be really happy to hear his answer right now. They needed to clear the air between them before he told her how he felt about her. "I stopped seeing Ann over a week ago."
"What happened, did she dump you?"
She was hurt. He would make it up to her. He folded her against his chest. Her breasts brushed his lapels, and he slid his palm to her bare back. A familiar ache settled in the pit of his belly and spread to his groin. "No, Ann was never really my girlfriend."
"Not again? Were you just pretending with her, too?"
She was angry. He deserved it. "No. She was never my confidential informant like you were. I've known her since we were kids." He slipped his hand up her smooth skin and turned his nose into her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent. The smell reminded him of the day he'd seen her floating in that little pool. "I used to date her sister."
"Was her sister a real or pretend girlfriend?"
Joe sighed and opened his eyes. "You're determined to be mad at me no matter what I say."
"I'm not mad."
"You're mad."
She pulled back and looked at him, and he'd been right. Her eyes were all hot, no longer cold and indifferent. Which he figured was one of those good/bad things, depending on how he looked at it.
"Tell me why you're so angry," he urged, fully expecting to hear how much he'd hurt her that night on the porch, and after she'd poured it all out, he would make everything okay.
"You brought me a muffin from your girlfriend's deli the morning we made love!"
That wasn't quite what he'd expected to hear. In fact, it wasn't anything like what he'd expected. "What?"
She looked somewhere over his left shoulder as if the sight of him hurt too much. "You brought me-"
"I heard you," he interrupted and quickly glanced around to see if any of the other couples had heard her also. She hadn't exactly been quiet. He didn't know what buying a muffin had to do with the morning they'd made love. He'd also brought her a turkey sandwich from Ann's deli. Big deal, but he didn't mention the sandwich because he recognized this was one of those conversations he would never understand and would never win. Instead he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Come home with me. We can talk there. I've missed you."
"I can feel how much you miss me against my thigh," she said, but still wouldn't look at him.
If she thought his obvious arousal would embarrass him, she would have to think again. "I'm not ashamed of wanting you. And yes, I've missed touching you, and holding you, and I want that again. But that isn't all I've missed about you since you left town." He placed his palms on the sides of her face, bringing her gaze back to his. "I've missed the way you glance around when you think your karma is going to zap you. I miss watching you walk and the way you push your hair behind your ears. I miss the sound of your voice, and that you try to be a vegetarian and can't. I miss that you believe you're a pacifist even as you shock me on the arm. I've missed everything about you, Gabrielle."
She blinked twice, and he thought she might be softening. "When I was out of town, did you know where I was?"
"Yes."
She pulled herself from his embrace. "Then how bad did you really miss me?"
He didn't have an easy answer for her.
"Stay out of my life," she said, then walked from the dance floor.
He didn't follow. Watching her walk away from him this time was the purest hell he'd ever suffered, but he'd been a detective for eight years. He'd learned when to back away from the chase until things cooled down.
But he would only wait so long. He'd wasted enough time denying himself the woman he wanted and needed in his life. Dinner every night by six and matching socks wasn't going to make him happy. Gabrielle made him happy. He understood now what she'd told him that night on her porch. She was his soul. He was her soul. He loved her, and she loved him. Something like that didn't disappear, especially in one month.
Joe wasn't a patient man, but what he lacked in patience, he made up for in tenacity. While he gave her time, he'd romance her. True, he didn't have very much experience in that department, but women loved that sort of thing. He was sure he could do it.
He was sure he could romance the hell out of Gabrielle Breedlove.
Chapter Eighteen
At nine o'clock the next morning, the first dozen roses arrived. They were gorgeous and pure white, and they were from Joe. He'd scrawled his name across the card, but that was it. Just his name. Gabrielle didn't have a clue what that meant, but she wasn't about to read anything into it. She'd done that once. She'd read too much into the way he'd kissed her and made love to her, and she'd paid.
The second dozen were red. The third dozen, pink. Their fragrance filled her house. She still absolutely refused to look for meaning, but when she realized she was waiting for his call, just as she had the day of Kevin's arrest, she pulled on a T-shirt and running shorts and took off for her jog.
No more waiting. She needed to clear her head. She needed to figure out what to do because she didn't think she could take another repeat of the night before. Seeing him hurt too much. She'd thought she was strong enough to face the other half of her soul, but she wasn't She couldn't look into the eyes of the man she loved and know he didn't love her. Especially now, when she knew that on the morning he'd made love to her, he'd visited his girlfriend first. Hearing about the woman who owned the deli had been one more stab to her already wounded heart. A deli owner would love to cook. She probably wouldn't mind cleaning the house and doing Joe's laundry, either. The things he'd mentioned were important to him that day in the storage room when he'd pushed her against the wall and kissed her until she could hardly breathe.
Gabrielle jogged past St. John's, a few blocks from her house. The doors were thrown open, and music from the pipe organ floated through the wooden entrance to the old cathedral. Gabrielle wondered if Joe was Catholic or Protestant or atheist. Then she remembered he'd said he'd attended a parochial school, and she figured he was Catholic. Not that it mattered now.
She jogged past Boise High and ran four laps around the school's track before she once again turned toward home. Back to her house filled with the flowers Joe had sent her. Back to the confusion she'd felt since the day she'd met him. She felt it now more than ever. Fresh air hadn't helped at all to clear her head, and there was only one thing she knew for sure. If Joe did call, she'd tell him he had to stop. No more calls or flowers. She didn't want to see him.
She figured the chances of them accidentally running into each other were slim. He was a property crimes detective, and she didn't foresee a burglary in her future. She planned to open a shop selling her oils, and she didn't envision Joe as a potential aromatherapy customer. There was no reason why they would ever see each other again.
Except that he was waiting for her on her front porch, sitting with his feet planted on the step beneath him, forearms resting across his thighs. His sunglasses swung from one hand suspended between his knees. He looked up at her approach and slowly rose. No matter what she told herself, her treacherous heart swelled at the sight of him. Then, as if he thought she meant to say something he didn't want to hear, he held up his hand to stop her. But really, she didn't know what to say, since she hadn't formed a coherent thought yet.
"Before you order me off of your porch," he began, "I have something to tell you."
He'd dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a cotton shirt that buttoned up the front. He'd rolled the long sleeves up his forearms. He looked so good she wanted to reach out and touch him, but of course she didn't. "I heard what you had to say last night," she said.