Nikki took what she insisted was a well-deserved bubble bath in the guest tub while Rook did the dishes. He waited for her in the living room, surfing ESPN, missing football season, glad MLB was days away from Pitchers and Catchers. At eleven, he switched off the TV. “You didn’t have to do that for me,” she said.
Nikki was in a robe, her hair wet, and looking comfortably dazed by the hot bath. She folded into him on the couch, smelling faintly of lavender.
“I think we already know the lead story,” he said.
“Yup. Precinct Captain dies in apparent suicide.” She turned to him, just inches away. The relaxation left her face. “They’d be wrong. He never would have done it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Same reason I knew he didn’t kill Graf.”
“Which is?”
“He was Captain Montrose.”
The instant she said it, the doors to all the compartments Heat had so carefully closed off flew open. The seals broke, and a day of emotion—from the flight for her life in Central Park to the trauma of Captain Montrose’s death—rushed out to seize her. Rook watched the wave take her. She quaked and her eyes dripped tears. Then she cried out, throwing her head back in a release that startled even her. He opened his arms, and Nikki grabbed him desperately, clinging to him, shaking, sobbing and sobbing, as she had not in ten years.
NINE
When Heat came out from her shower the next morning and found Rook on his computer at her dining room table, she came up behind his chair and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “There’s something not fair about a world where you get paid all that money for a job you do in your underwear.” At her touch Nikki felt the tension melt from his muscles. He dropped his hands off the keyboard, bringing them around behind her, gently gripping the back of her thighs. Then he rocked his head backward, resting it between her breasts, and peered up at her.
“I could lose the underwear if it would make you happy,” he said.
“That would make me very happy, but I just got a text that I’ve got a drug dealer coming in to be interviewed.” She bent to kiss his forehead. “Plus I have my oral boards today. Last hurdle before the lieutenant promotion.”
“I could help you with that. The orals.” She just stared at him, and he turned to her with a face of innocence. “What?”
“Tell me, Rook, is there a single word in the dictionary a guy can’t turn into something salacious?”
“Quatrain. Big points at Scrabble. Zip when it comes to double entendre, and I have tried. Oh, how I’ve tried.” Then he said, “With all that’s happened, couldn’t you get a postponement?”
“I could.” It was all on her face. Nikki was not going to let down. “But I won’t.” She gestured to his MacBook. “I thought you finished your arms smugglers piece. Is that your next bodice ripper, Miss St. Clair?”
“Nothing so lofty.”
“What is it?”
“Rather not say just yet.” He closed the lid and stood to face her. “Bad luck.” Then Rook drew her to him and they kissed. He was tender and gentle, comforting. “You doing OK this morning?”
“No, but I’ll get through.”
“There’s French Roast on.” Rook made a move toward the kitchen, but she clung to him and held him in place.
“Thank you for last night. You were . . . a friend.”
“Anytime, anywhere, Nikki Heat.” And they kissed again.