An Eye for Danger by Christine M. Fairchild Page A

underwear had gone the way of the shredded sweater: into the garbage.
    I lifted my eyes to the ceiling. "You alright, Bashful, your pride intact?"
    "Lady, I am in all ways intact. Trust me."
    Rolling my eyes, I got back to work, circling his ribcage as fast as my hands could manage, moving up and down by inches, my slightest touch making his muscles twinge. There was more material than I'd assumed, and he had less tolerance than I'd predicted.
    "Tough guy like you can take a little pain. You'll get a good story for the guys, slam back a few beers, laugh about it later."
    "Hurry," he whispered. His brows furrowed as he clutched my sleeve. He was sinking off the edge of the bed, so I gripped his leg with my thighs to keep him from sliding into third base.
    I hesitated, conscious of the pain I was about to inflict and wishing for the stiff peacoat or the scratchy sweater or the sweaty T-shirt—anything easier to detest than his banked muscles and rosemary aroma and glossy smooth cheeks. "Almost there."
    Sam nodded, lids heavy, so I made the final pass and pulled to tie it off. His face blanched.
    "Done," I said.
     A slow hand reached for the headboard. "Can't breathe," Sam whispered.
    "Just lie down. You'll get used to it."
    He pulled himself to a stand, holding to the headboard for dear life, then flung off the robe and made a staggering dash for the bathroom. Stunned, I watched from behind as he reached for the soapy shears, which slipped and clanked onto the floor. I grabbed the robe and followed.
    "Cut it off." His face wrenched in the mirror as he gripped the basin with both hands like he'd rip it from the wall if I didn't hurry up.
    Sure, I love wasting my time—
    "Now!" He wheezed for air.
    I snatched up the shears, pulled the bandage enough to create an opening, and began slicing. His hand slapped at the wall as the material gave, his back expanded like wings when he drew in more air, sending shallow waves down his lateral muscles.
    I stood back to give him space, my eyes mapping the black, yellow, and blue swirls curling over his left hip. More old bruises. Below his ribs, the thug's boot had freshly imprinted in red and black, inviting doubt as to the health of Sam's left kidney. Otherwise, his wide, leathery back testified to strenuous lifting and good genes, while his sculpted alabaster ass provided stark contrast to my photographer eyes, like a David posing for the artist.
    My gaze shot north, catching his reflection watching me. We were both huffing, but I wasn't sure which concerned me more: the potential color of blood in his urine, or the flush of blood at my cheeks. "You need a doctor, Sam. You're a mess."
    He shook his head, leaned into the mirror. "Enough doctoring," he said between breaths. "You done good today. Kept your head. Helped the good guys. Consider yourself off duty."
    I crossed my arms against his condescension. "This doesn't make us friends."
    He met my stare in the mirror, placarded a phony smile over his lips. "Lady, I ain't had a friend in two years. Wouldn't know how to spell the word."
    Then the corners of his mouth turned down, as did his gaze. The same look in the park. A hard-as-steel cop, an undercover rat accustomed to abuse and isolation—he'd as soon confess to killing that man than admit loneliness. How similar were our worlds, I realized. Our occupations required invisibility, our safety demanded concealment. Distance felt natural. Because getting too close to people got them killed.
    I curled the robe over his shoulders. "Come with me. Rest now."
    ***
    "Quick in, quick out. They'll never see me." Sam's voice was as thick with sleep as his lopsided stride.
    I was marching him backwards through the kitchen faster than his feet could manage. "With those ribs, you won't make it down three flights of stairs, let alone ten city blocks."
    Leftover lasagna and a sixteen-hour nap that rolled into the next day didn't count much toward a physical recovery, and his stumbling through the