Enigma by Moira Rogers Page A

first. Then sleep.”
    She grumbled but leaned her head on his shoulder. “The pizza does smell good. Did you get black olives?”
    “Of course I did.” At least he’d known that much about her. “I got your back, Lenoir.”
    She hesitated, then lifted her head and smiled. “Partners. Maybe we can’t be friends or fuck buddies or whatever, but we can be partners.”
    It felt hollow. Like it wasn’t enough, and he couldn’t tell if he was aching at the knowledge that sex was off the table, or hurting that friendship was. But partners, that was different. Maybe he couldn’t navigate a conversation with her, but he’d walk into a trap and trust her to keep him alive.
    She’d take bullets for him.
    “Partners,” he said, low enough to hope that she wouldn’t notice how rough his voice was. “We’re damn good partners already.”
    “Yeah, we are. And it’s nothing to sneeze at.”
    Partners. Maybe, someday, it’d be enough.

Chapter Seven
    Anna woke with a tingling ache in her shoulder and a pounding pressure right behind her eyes. She’d lain awake too long, far after the mild narcotic effects of her pain medication had worn off, and she was paying for it with a lingering hangover.
    She rotated her arm as she sat up in bed, and only a mild twinge greeted the movement. She sighed in relief, stretched and ran her fingertips over the healing scar on the side of her neck.
    Patrick was sprawled across the other bed on his stomach, the sheet tangled around his legs and his boxers slung low on his hips. The scars from the night of Ben’s death cut a mangled path through the intricate inkwork on his shoulders and back, bisecting half a dozen shapes and intruding into even more.
    She moved toward him as if compelled, and she supposed that was as good a word as any. She had to look, had to examine the legacy of the burns he’d suffered.
    Her fingertips touched one raised ridge of silvered flesh, and he shifted with a grumbling noise but didn’t jerk to his feet. They’d been on the road together long enough for her to know he was a light sleeper, so he must have been exhausted.
    She backed off and went searching through one of her bags for a pair of jeans. The sooner she had a cup of coffee, the better.
    “Anna?” His voice came out rasping. “You okay?”
    “Got a headache because of the pain meds,” she murmured. “Nothing some caffeine won’t fix.”
    Jesus, it hurt to look at him.
    Getting shot had been nothing compared to facing the realization that whatever little dance they’d been doing for the last year was absurd, futile, because he was right. They’d hurtled past any hope of a casual relationship, and the hurt feelings and rejection that hovered between them precluded the possibility of friendship too.
    The only thing left was love, an impossibility under the best of circumstances. She didn’t know how to do it, pure and simple. So that left them back at square one, fighting to ignore an ill-advised attraction.
    Eventually, it had to work.
    Patrick rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve got Advil in my bag, if you want some.”
    “I have some aspirin.”
    “All right.” A few more moments staring up, and Patrick rolled upright with a wince and dragged his bag across the floor. “We probably need to get on out of here. The doc paid for one night, but I’d just as soon take off before they get a look at us.”
    Anna didn’t even know where they were. Instead of asking, she picked up the preprinted restaurant delivery card hanging from the doorknob. “We made it all the way to Carlsbad, huh?”
    He grunted as he pulled on a shirt. “I drove fast. Your car may be ridiculous, but it can move.”
    “It’s only ridiculous because you’re seven feet tall. It’s perfect for me.”
    The bottle of Advil rattled as he shook out three capsules. “I’m six foot nothing in my socks, honey. Must be my looming personality.”
    “Must be.” Banter was simple. She could go back and