Night Shift by Nora Roberts Page A

was compassion. She hadn’t known a kiss from a man could hold it. More than gentle, more than tender, it soothed frayed nerves, calmed icy fears, cooled hot despair. Her clenched hands relaxed, muscle by muscle. There was no demand here as his lips roamed over her face. Just understanding.
    It became so simple to do as he’d asked. She thought only of him.
    Hesitant, she brought a hand to his face, letting her fingers skim along his beard-roughened cheek. Her stomach unknotted. The throbbing in her head quieted. She said his name on a sigh and melted against him.
    He had to be careful. Very careful. Her complete and total surrender had his own needs drumming. He ignored them. For now she needed comfort, not passion. It couldn’t matter that his senses were reeling from her, the soft give of her body, the rich taste of her mouth. It couldn’t matter that the air had thickened so that each breath he took was crowded with the scent of her.
    He knew he had only to lay her back on the bed among the tangled sheets. And cover her. She wouldn’t resist. Perhaps she would even welcome the heat and the distraction. The temporary respite. Heintended to be much more to her.
    Battling his own demons, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then rested his cheek on her hair.
    “Better?”
    On one ragged breath, she nodded. She wasn’t sure she could speak. How could she tell him that she wanted only to stay like this, her arms around him, his heart beating against hers? He’d think she was a fool.
    “I, uh … didn’t know you could be such a nice guy, Fletcher.”
    He wanted to sigh, but he found himself grinning. “I have my moments.”
    “Yeah. Well, that was certainly above and beyond.”
    Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t really trying to needle him. He pulled back, put a hand under her chin and held it steady. “I’m not on duty. When I kiss you, it’s got nothing to do with my job. Got it?”
    She’d meant to thank him, not annoy him. There was a warning in his eyes that had her frowning. “Sure.”
    “Sure,” he repeated, then rose to jam his hands in his pockets in disgust.
    For the first time she noted that he wore only his jeans, unsnapped and riding low. The sudden clutching in her stomach had nothing to do with fear and left her momentarily speechless.
    She wanted him. Not just to hold, not just for a few heated kisses. And certainly not just for comfort. She wanted him in bed, the way she couldn’t remember ever wanting a man before. She could look at him—the long, lean, golden line of torso, the narrow hips, the dance of muscle in his arms as he balled his hands—and she could imagine what it would be like to touch and be touched, to roll over the bed in one tangled heap of passion. To ride and be ridden.
    “What the hell’s wrong with you now?”
    “What?”
    Eyes narrowed, he rocked back on his heels as she blinked at him. “Taking a side trip, O’Roarke?”
    “I, ah …” Her mouth was dry, and there was a hard knot of pressure in her gut. What would he say if she told him where her mind had just taken her, taken them? She let her eyes close. “Oh, boy,” she whispered. “I think I need some coffee.” And a quick dip in a cold lake.
    “Your sister was fixing some.” He frowned as he studied her. He thought of Deborah for a moment, of how she had nearly fallen on top of him wearing hardly more than a swatch of white lace. He’d appreciated the long, lissome limbs. What man wouldn’t? But looking at her hadn’t rocked his system.
    And here was Cilla—sitting there with her eyes shadowed, wearing a Broncos football jersey that was two sizes too big. The bright orange cotton was hardly seductive lingerie. If he stood there one more moment, he would be on his knees begging for mercy.
    “How about breakfast?” His voice was abrupt, not even marginally friendly. It helped to bring her thoughts to order.
    “I never eat it.”
    “Today you do. Ten minutes.”
    “Look, Slick—”
    “Do