Lisa Marie Rice M

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bean. He d always been a good street fighter and the navy had taken that and
refined it. Had taught him how to be a killing machine. He d taken to military
training like a duck to water and he was equally good with a rock, his fists, a
knife or a gun. As a cop, he d learned other tricks. He d breezed through the
Police Academy, excelling at everything except Law Enforcement Theory. Oh,
yeah. There were all sorts of ways he could hurt her and she wouldn t stand a
chance.
They d fucked, sure, but that didn t stop a man from attacking a woman. On
the contrary, sex just heated things up, if that s the direction they were headed
in. For all
Claire knew, the first time they disagreed he could turn on her, beat her up. Kill
her, even.
Bud had killed before in the line of duty, of course. Two enemy soldiers
while he was in the navy, during the first Gulf War. And, as a cop, he d taken
down a scum-sucking motherfucker who d kidnapped a sick little girl from the
hospital. The Parks heiress. Bud had gotten a bullet through the chest and a
commendation for that one.
None of that meant anything as far as Claire was concerned. She had
absolutely nothing to fear from him. He d tear out his own throat before hurting
Claire or any woman, but how could she know that?
Now was the time. The time to tell her he was a cop. That he had a vested
interest in the story of Allegra s beating and the murder of her father. He wasn t
mad at her; he was mad at the system. She could trust him, absolutely. He
couldn t raise a hand to her or to any other woman, unless it was in the line of
duty, and to protect someone weaker.
He opened his mouth to tell her all of that, tell her who he was, and was
surprised at what came out. Why are you holding those books?
Claire relaxed, moving her shoulders gently in time with the music floating
into the room, a Celtic dance tune. These? The smile was back as she held the
books up.
Why the hell hadn t he told her? It was right there, a big gaping hole in the
conversation, waiting for him to fill it. They were spending an intense weekend
together, had already had screaming hot sex and he was looking forward to
more of the same before tomorrow morning, when he d go back to the cop shop
and she d go back to& wherever it was she worked. It was a perfect time to
share confidences. Talk about each other s lives.
He knew why he wasn t talking. This was a weekend stolen out of time. He
didn t want anything disturbing it. Didn t want the petty details of life to
interfere.
Yeah, those.
Claire hefted the two books, big ones, a hardback and a paperback, with dull
dust jackets. They looked a thousand years old. Well, I thought since you were
doing something manly and competent in here, I could do something womanly
in return. And no& she evaded him deftly, slapping at the hands reaching for
her. I didn t mean that. I m going to read you some poetry while you work.
Poetry? She was going to read him poetry? Dear sweet God.
Bud plastered a smile on his face. Oh. Um, poetry. That s& ah& nice,
honey.
Claire threw her head back and laughed. Oh, Bud. You should see the
expression on your face. She hitched herself up on the top of the washing
machine, then sat cross-legged, and smiled secretively. She looked like a
wickedly beautiful elf as she opened the first book. Very thick book, Bud noted
uneasily. Very thick, dark, dull, dusty tome. You ll like this. She turned pages
furiously, looking for something, small frown between dark eyebrows. Go
ahead and continue, she said without looking up. Consider me background
noise, like Allegra.
The brackets needed tightening so, with a sigh, Bud picked up a Philips
screwdriver from his toolbox. Good thing he always traveled with a spare tool
box in the trunk of his car. Suzanne might have fitted Claire out with everything
she needed, but tools sure didn t figure into it. Claire had a cute little brass
hammer that might be useful for tapping knees to figure out if someone was
dead or not, but not much good for anything else. A little graduated set of
screwdrivers with pretty colored handles that would snap at the first heavy-duty
use. And that was it.
Don Juan , Claire announced. She had a slender finger pointing at the
page but she was watching him. Byron.
Great. Bud tried to drum up some enthusiasm in his voice. Grecian urns.
No, Claire said serenely. That s Keats. Byron is sex and sin, you ll like
him. Now hush and listen. Poetry is good for you. I ll skip the prologue where
Byron insults the most important and stuffy poets of his time and go right to
where as a sixteen-year-old, Don Juan seduces his father s best friend s wife.
Claire started reading and despite his prejudice against Literature with a
capital L, Bud listened. She interrupted every once in a while to explain a few
references. She read well, with passion and drama, and Bud was interested
despite himself. Oh yeah, that Don Juan was a real& Don Juan. A mean and
smart motherfucker with an eye for the ladies. Bud lost track of the number of
women the man bedded.
Claire s voice rose and fell with the emotions of the poem. That light soft
voice, clear as a bell, seemed to fill the room. She was a wonderful reader and
soon Bud was into the rhythm of the thing. She read through several cantos while [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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