dictionary.”
“No, there are many definitions, and they are determined by each person’s life view.”
“Right.”
“Could you sound a little more sarcastic?”
“Hey, I’m not into that New Age kind of stuff.”
“Like logic, you mean?”
“Logic has nothing to do with New Age beliefs.”
“You being an expert and all on New Age beliefs.”
“We’ve gotten off the subject here. Back to that lottery ticket—”
“No, I want to hear more about your barbaric views on this subject.”
“On lottery tickets?”
“On”—she used hand quotes—“New Age stuff.”
“Look, I’m just a guy from Nebraska trying to do my job—”
“That “Aw shucks, ma’am” routine is not going to work with me, so don’t even try it.”
“It’s not a routine.”
“Puh-lease. I’ve seen you in kick-butt mode. I’ve kissed you. You’re not just a guy from Nebraska.”
“I’m not?”
“No. And you already know that damn well, so you sure don’t need my telling you.”
Nathan wasn’t sure what he knew “damn well” anymore. Not when he was around Skye. And he hated that. Hated being at a disadvantage. Hated being anything but rock solid.
He could feel small fissures forming in the shell he’d carefully constructed these past years. Not acceptable.
“Do you need me to be kick-ass before you’ll answer my question?” Nathan demanded.
“Which question was that?” Skye countered. “What, exactly, is Milton accusing me of?”
“Why don’t you just tell me your side of the story?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
She gave him a look.
Nathan sighed. “Why are you so determined to make things difficult?”
“Me? It’s you who is making life difficult. I’ll bet you never meditate, right?”
“Right.”
“I can tell.”
“I’m glad.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’ll live longer if you meditate. It’s a great stress reliever.”
“Maybe I don’t want to live longer.”
“Ah.”>
Now her expression turned speculative, as if he were a puzzle she was intent on figuring out. Well, good luck with that. Because there was no way in hell he was going to let her get to know him well enough to do that. He couldn’t figure himself out, so there was no way a flaky belly dancer who could kiss like an angel—a Victoria’s Secret angel—could decipher him.
She was smart enough not to ask him why he didn’t want to live longer. Not that he would have told her.
She was wearing black shorts that showed off her great legs and a cropped tie-dyed T-shirt that showed off her midriff and naval ring.
“You need a drink,” she suddenly announced, then yanked him inside.
He felt as if he’d stepped inside a circus trailer. Color was splashed everywhere—the walls, the rugs, the mounds of pillows scattered all over. Reds, oranges, yellows.
Not that the place was cluttered. On the contrary. Not much furniture, but what was there was memorable.
He recognized the round red couch and worn orange recliner as rejects from the Sisters of the Poor Charity Thrift Shop. And he was pretty sure that his buddy Cole had sold that ugly brass floor lamp at his last garage sale for a buck.
“Here.” She handed him a mug filled with liquid.
He sniffed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Arsenic tea.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s organic green tea.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
“You only drink that thick, dark sludge at the police station that you call coffee, huh?”
“Black, no sugar, no milk.”
“Right. Because you’re a guy from Nebraska. A hunky side of beef from the cornfields.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hunky?”
“Who wears tighty-whities. Am I right?”
Nathan mentally counted to ten. He could practically feel the steam pouring out of his ears. Normally, he was a very controlled guy, but she had an uncanny way of getting to him.
“Come on. You can tell me,” she coaxed.
“No.” His jaw was clenched so tightly he could barely speak.
“No, there are many definitions, and they are determined by each person’s life view.”
“Right.”
“Could you sound a little more sarcastic?”
“Hey, I’m not into that New Age kind of stuff.”
“Like logic, you mean?”
“Logic has nothing to do with New Age beliefs.”
“You being an expert and all on New Age beliefs.”
“We’ve gotten off the subject here. Back to that lottery ticket—”
“No, I want to hear more about your barbaric views on this subject.”
“On lottery tickets?”
“On”—she used hand quotes—“New Age stuff.”
“Look, I’m just a guy from Nebraska trying to do my job—”
“That “Aw shucks, ma’am” routine is not going to work with me, so don’t even try it.”
“It’s not a routine.”
“Puh-lease. I’ve seen you in kick-butt mode. I’ve kissed you. You’re not just a guy from Nebraska.”
“I’m not?”
“No. And you already know that damn well, so you sure don’t need my telling you.”
Nathan wasn’t sure what he knew “damn well” anymore. Not when he was around Skye. And he hated that. Hated being at a disadvantage. Hated being anything but rock solid.
He could feel small fissures forming in the shell he’d carefully constructed these past years. Not acceptable.
“Do you need me to be kick-ass before you’ll answer my question?” Nathan demanded.
“Which question was that?” Skye countered. “What, exactly, is Milton accusing me of?”
“Why don’t you just tell me your side of the story?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
She gave him a look.
Nathan sighed. “Why are you so determined to make things difficult?”
“Me? It’s you who is making life difficult. I’ll bet you never meditate, right?”
“Right.”
“I can tell.”
“I’m glad.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’ll live longer if you meditate. It’s a great stress reliever.”
“Maybe I don’t want to live longer.”
“Ah.”>
Now her expression turned speculative, as if he were a puzzle she was intent on figuring out. Well, good luck with that. Because there was no way in hell he was going to let her get to know him well enough to do that. He couldn’t figure himself out, so there was no way a flaky belly dancer who could kiss like an angel—a Victoria’s Secret angel—could decipher him.
She was smart enough not to ask him why he didn’t want to live longer. Not that he would have told her.
She was wearing black shorts that showed off her great legs and a cropped tie-dyed T-shirt that showed off her midriff and naval ring.
“You need a drink,” she suddenly announced, then yanked him inside.
He felt as if he’d stepped inside a circus trailer. Color was splashed everywhere—the walls, the rugs, the mounds of pillows scattered all over. Reds, oranges, yellows.
Not that the place was cluttered. On the contrary. Not much furniture, but what was there was memorable.
He recognized the round red couch and worn orange recliner as rejects from the Sisters of the Poor Charity Thrift Shop. And he was pretty sure that his buddy Cole had sold that ugly brass floor lamp at his last garage sale for a buck.
“Here.” She handed him a mug filled with liquid.
He sniffed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Arsenic tea.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s organic green tea.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
“You only drink that thick, dark sludge at the police station that you call coffee, huh?”
“Black, no sugar, no milk.”
“Right. Because you’re a guy from Nebraska. A hunky side of beef from the cornfields.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hunky?”
“Who wears tighty-whities. Am I right?”
Nathan mentally counted to ten. He could practically feel the steam pouring out of his ears. Normally, he was a very controlled guy, but she had an uncanny way of getting to him.
“Come on. You can tell me,” she coaxed.
“No.” His jaw was clenched so tightly he could barely speak.
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