Night Shift by Nora Roberts

something to her hair. It was still tumbled, but more artfully, and certainly more alluringly. And her face, he noted as he finally stood. She’d fiddled with that, as well—enough to highlight her cheekbones, accent her eyes, slicken her lips.
    “Stupid,” she muttered as she struggled with an earring. “I can never figure out why hanging things from your ears is supposed to be attractive.” On a sigh, she stared down at the dangling columns and the little gold back in her palm. “Either these are defective or I am. Are you any good at this?”
    She walked over to him, her hand held out. Her scent was wheeling in his head. “At what?”
    “Putting these in. I don’t wear them for weeks at a time, so I’ve never really gotten the hang of it.Give me a hand, will you?”
    He was concentrating on breathing, nice, slow, even breaths. “You want me to put that on for you?”
    She rolled her eyes impatiently. “You catch on fast, Slick.” She thrust the earring into his hand, then tucked the hair behind her right ear. “You just slide the post through, then fasten the little doodad on the back. That’s the part I have trouble with.”
    He muttered something, then bent to the task. There was a pressure in his chest, and it was building. He knew he would never get that scent out of his system. Swearing softly, he struggled to pinch the tiny fastening with his fingertips.
    “This is a stupid system.”
    “Yeah.” She could barely speak. She’d known the minute he touched her that she’d made an enormous mistake. Bursts of sensations, flashes of images, were rushing into her. All she could do was stand still and pray he’d hurry up and finish.
    The back of his thumb brushed up and down over her jaw. His fingertips grazed the sensitive area behind her ear. His breath fluttered warm against her skin until she had to bite back a moan.
    She lifted an unsteady hand. “Listen, why don’t we just forget it?”
    “I’ve got it.” Letting out a long breath, he stepped back an inch. He was a wreck. But some of the tension eased when he looked at her and saw that she was far from unaffected. He managed to smile then and flicked a finger over the swaying gold columns. “We’ll have to try that again … when we’ve got more time.”
    Since no response she could think of seemed safe, she gave none. Instead, she retrieved his coat and her own from the closet. She set his aside and waited while he slipped into his shoulder holster. Watching him give his weapon a quick, routine check brought back memories she wanted to avoid, so she looked away. Pulling open the door, she stepped into the sunlight and left him to follow when he was ready.
    He made no comment when he joined her.
    “Do you mind if I tune the station in?” she asked as they settled into his car.
    “It’s on memory. Number three.”
    Pleased, she turned it on. The morning team was chattering away, punctuating their jokes with sound effects. They plugged an upcoming concert, promised to give another pair of tickets away during the next hour, then invited the listening audience to the mall to see Cilla O’Roarke live and in person.
    “She’ll be giving away albums, T-shirts and concert tickets,” Frantic Fred announced.
    “Come on, Fred,” his partner broke in. “You know those guys out there don’t care about a couple of T-shirts. They want to”—he made loud, panting noises—“see Cilla.” There was a chorus of wolf whistles, growls and groans.
    “Cute,” Boyd muttered, but Cilla only chuckled.
    “They’re supposed to be obnoxious,” she pointed out. “People like absurdity in the morning when they’re dragging themselves out of bed or fighting traffic. Last quarter’s Arbitron ratings showed them taking over twenty-four percent of the target audience.”
    “I guess you get a kick out of hearing some guy pant over you.”
    “Hey, I live for it.” Too amused to be offended, she settled back. He certainly had a nice car for a cop.