Double Play by Kelley Armstrong Page B

even more mud-caked than my jeans.
    “Uhhh . . . ” I said.
    “We are,” Jack said, and the guy jumped about a foot.
    Jack didn’t do anything except say those two words and turn a completely expressionless stare on the guy. But there’s an edge Jack can flip, like a switch, and I have no idea even what it entails—stance, expression, eye contact or just a combination of all of the above. But the guy took one look at Jack and decided standing at the back of the elevator seemed a whole lot more comfortable. The far back, in the corner, putting the maximum distance between me and him.
    I quirked a half-smile at Jack. He gave just the faintest roll of his eyes. The elevator stopped. He waited for me to get out first and then walked beside me down the hall. We reached the room. He put in the card, still taking his time.
    He opened the door. Held it for me. Followed me in and fastened the locks. Keycard placed on the entry table. Then he glanced at me. It was a careful glance, a cautious check, because, you know, despite my signals, I might really have just wanted to come up here and talk and eat candy.
    I shrugged off my jacket and laid it aside. My shoes followed. He just stood there watching, the kernel of doubt and, yes, disappointment shadowing his eyes, blinked back quickly because he was going to be a gentleman about this. I’d had a hellish day—chased, shot, hit my head . . .
    Even when I walked over, coming within an inch of him and looking up, he held himself very still. I put my arms around his neck and said, “Missed you,” and then I smiled and that was what he’d been waiting for—that smile.
    His arms went around me, pulling me to him so fast I gasped, that gasp cut short as his mouth met mine in a kiss that knocked every other thought from my brain, knocked every worry from my brain. There was always that moment, when he came home, when he didn’t immediately drag me off to bed, when he acted like it was the last thing on his mind, that moment when I wondered if the separation had given him time to reconsider, time to think this wasn’t what he really wanted. I knew better. I knew him, and I knew this was just him, that perfect control waiting, teasing even, drawing out that reunion. Still, I worry every damn time that this time might be different. And then he kisses me.
    He kissed me and it really was no exaggeration to say I forgot everything else, from the events of the day to the pain my arm. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what was going on at that moment, just that kiss, that deep and hungry kiss and the next thing I knew, I was falling back onto the bed, without even realizing we’d moved from the front door. I was on the bed, and his shirt was off and then mine was, and I did notice that, kinda hard not to, with his hands on me, his touch making me gasp again.
    Then jeans off and me pushed back on the bed, up to the pillows, and he was over me, still kissing me, hands everywhere they needed to be, and I wrapped my fingers in his hair and pulled back enough to say, “I really, really missed you,” and he said, “Yes,” and I could laugh at that. I would, later. Shake my head and laugh. But I knew what he meant, and I knew that was all he could give, maybe all he could ever give, and I was fine with it. Even if he could never tell me how he felt, he showed me, and that was what counted, and when he said, “Yes,” he kissed me again and pushed into me and showed me, as best he could.
    We lay in bed afterward. Jack was on his back, his arm around me, eyes closed. Not asleep. For Jack there are about ten levels of relaxation. This was the stage right before sleep, though, when he was chill enough to close his eyes, his muscles not quite slack. Chill enough, too, that I could prop up and watch him and not make him feel as if an enemy loomed. I could even brush sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and he didn’t tense, his eyes didn’t open.
    I looked at him. The angular face that wasn’t quite