Big Guns Out of Uniform (20 page)

Jesus!
Nick bent down and picked up Click, who was rubbing his way around his ankles. He had to stop thinking of
ifs
and
maybes.
That way lay madness. It always did when you tried to figure women out. And it didn't matter anyhow, because Delia had been way too determined to get rid of him.

Nick pressed his cheek against Click's and considered it. Yep, she'd been calm, cool, and pretty damned collected. A woman on a mission.
Dump Nick Woodruff.
The words were probably penciled in her Day-Timer, right between
take out the trash
and
pick up the dry cleaning.
It felt like a blow coming out of nowhere. But it wasn't. A blind man could have seen it.

An idiot. He was a goddamned idiot. Still carrying the cat, Nick went back into his office, jerked open the drawer he'd just closed, dropped the plane ticket into the trash, then picked up the phone and dialed his dad.

D
elia's ten days in the city of romance were anything but romantic. Paris in December was bleak, and her heart felt much the same. She spent her evenings alone in her room instead of networking, in the halfhearted hope that Nick would call. Which was ridiculous, since he had absolutely no way of finding her. Still, she was plagued by a gnawing sense of having made a dreadful misjudgment. Of having moved too quickly. Given up too soon. Something.

She was a psychology professor, for God's sake! But where Nick was concerned, she was acting like…well, like a woman. A once-bitten, twice-shy kind of woman. Making assumptions. Thinking the worst. Giving up without talking. Jeez, she was turning into the kind of female that drove family therapists insane. There was probably even a diagnostic code for her sort of neurotic behavior.

But Nick hadn't put up much of a fight, had he? Only his pride had seemed wounded. She hoped he at least missed the sex. Delia missed it; missed a lot more than just that. Nick wouldn't have much trouble finding another woman to warm his bed, and she knew it.

So one day, out of sheer boredom and sexual frustration, Delia did something she'd never done before. She played hooky. She skipped her afternoon meetings, and went strolling through the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, with the vague notion of buying herself some sexy lingerie.
Just in case.
And, she boldly decided, some dark chocolates. Maybe a big old pink vibrator, too, while she was at it. Yeah,
just in case…

Delia found everything she wanted in one decadent little shop and returned to her hotel with two red shopping bags and a four-hundred-dollar Visa bill she couldn't afford. She only hoped they didn't search her luggage at the airport. For the rest of the conference, she tried to stay focused on her career, dragging on one of her business suits every morning and trotting downstairs to sip dark, bitter coffee and do the old grip-and-grin routine with her colleagues.

At least her lecture went well. So well that on the final day of the conference, Delia was asked to collaborate on a new research project at the University of Copenhagen. An invitation to attend the European Congress of Psychology in Vienna followed, a serious honor for both herself and the school.

So Delia should have headed for the airport that Friday feeling quite pleased with herself, but she didn't. The flight was long, the landing rough, and Delia's mood was not improved when her plane was grounded at Dulles. Her need to get home was reaching a feverish pitch. But snow and ice was pummeling its way toward the East Coast, taking a toll on the airports. Pittsburgh and Chicago had already closed. Up and down Concourse C, flight delays were flashing as frantic gate agents announced re-routings and cancellations. Hard-bitten business travelers already lined the corridors, bellowing into their cell phones like lunatics. The college kids had given up hope and lay scattered about the terminal using backpacks for pillows. Yep, it was going to be a long night.

Feeling tired and grubby, Delia scrubbed herself from head to toe in the Red Carpet Club and put on fresh clothes. Then she bought a frozen yogurt, propped her feet up on her briefcase, and started checking her office voice mail. Three hours, two yogurts, and a dead cell phone later, United performed a miracle. The club attendant announced her plane was boarding.

The flight was mercifully uneventful, and after circling Raleigh for thirty minutes while a runway was plowed, they touched down in a ferocious shudder, the last flight in before RDU shut completely down. Unfortunately, when they inched up to the gate, the plane hit a patch of ice and slid into the jetway, jamming up its hydraulics. Delia wanted to rip out her hair by the roots.

An hour later the passengers finally disembarked, made their way through baggage claim, then strolled out into a winter wonderland. Delia dragged her suitcases through the chemical slush and wished she'd had sense enough to change out of her pumps. They were Nick's favorites, she knew, because he always stared at her feet when she wore them.

In the parking garage she hefted her bags into the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine. The Volvo purred out of the garage like a tamed tiger. Delia thought of Nick, and wished she could kiss him. Traffic on westbound I-40 was nonexistent save for SUVs and snowplows. Unlike her native Pennsylvania, the Carolinas could be paralyzed by three inches of snow. Along the highway, silvery trees bowed low, beautiful but treacherous. The power lines, too, were sagging, and the precipitation was now peppering off her windshield, pure ice. The snow deepened and the sky darkened the closer she got to Durham. It was then that Delia began to notice the downed power lines.

By the time she reached Hidden Lakes, the Volvo was fishtailing. She spun her way through the security gate and skated sideways, trying to make it up her driveway. Deftly she cut into the skid, tapped the gas, and slid home, the front bumper just six inches from the garage door. Cold, starving, and glad to be alive, Delia dragged her bags into the kitchen, which felt like the inside of a meat locker. It made her remember her Parisian hotel's cramped rooms and bitter coffee with newfound affection.

After fumbling through her junk drawer, she found a stub of a candle, then felt her way toward the pitch-black dining room. There were some matches in the buffet, she hoped. But when she turned into the living room, a bright light flicked around the opposite corner, catching her squarely in the eyes. Blinded, Delia screamed, and her candle went clattering across the marble floor.

“Hey, it's just me,” said a rough, deep voice. “It's okay.”

“Nick?”
The word was edged with hysteria.

The bobbing light, accompanied by heavy footsteps, came toward her, and a strong arm slid around her waist. “Christ, Delia, I've been worried half to death,” Nick whispered, his warmth and scent surrounding her. “I was just checking upstairs before heading to the airport.”

“Jeez, you s-scared me!” Delia's teeth were chattering with fright and cold. “How d-did you get in?”

Nick put the flashlight down on the buffet and pulled her close. “Resources,” he said. “I kept imagining you'd wrecked your car or fallen down the stairs. United said your plane landed two hours ago.”

“Yes, but we skidded into a jetway.” A sense of warmth and relief was flooding through her. “How did you know my airline?”

“Resources,” he repeated.

“Oh, right,” said Delia. “Thank you, Sergeant Woodruff. What time is it, anyway? Why is it so cold?”

“Midnight,” he said, then his tone shifted to his gruff policeman's voice. “Look, Delia, you can't stay here.”

“I can't?”

In response Nick scooped her up in his arms, then somehow grabbed his flashlight. “It's twenty degrees outside,” he said, sweeping her neatly through the kitchen door. “And ten in here. God only knows how long the power will be off. You're going to my house.”

Delia squirmed. “Hey, put me down!”

“Why?” he asked, fumbling at the doorknob. “I have food, fire, and hot water.”

“No, put me down.” Delia began to push at his chest. “And don't let your knuckles drag on the way out.”

“Nope. You're going next door, darlin'. And we are going to have ourselves a little talk.”

“Oh, God.” She wasn't sure she was ready for this. “Can I at least take my bag?”

Nick flicked the flashlight at her big rolling suitcase. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“The small one,” she whined.
“Please?”

Somehow he snagged it off the kitchen counter.

“Okay,” she said. “Now I'll go quietly, Officer.”

“Yeah, I'll bet,” said Nick. “Hold the flashlight.”

“Just let me walk.”

Nick shouldered his way through the kitchen door. “No way,” he said as the wind slapped them both in the face. “Not in those shoes.”

Delia didn't have much fight left in her. Nick's body was warm, his shoulders broad and protective. And she was so tired. So tired of being without him. He wore heavy boots that crunched deep into the snow as he made his way across her yard and into his. Delia pulled her coat tighter. Other than the yellow beam of his flashlight, they were surrounded by a darkness so silent and so deep it was eerie. No lights. No sound.
Anywhere.
Just the crunching rhythm of Nick's footsteps, and the certainty of his stride.

Delia really did feel as if she were being carried off by some caveman—and it didn't bother her all that much. “I'm not getting any say in this, am I?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

“Nope.”

In his embrace she shrugged. “So I'm more or less at your mercy?”

Nick's gait faltered ever so slightly, and his breath hitched. “Yeah.”

Delia thought on that for a second. “I, um, I thought we split up, Nick.”

“You said.”

Delia tried to look up at him, but could make out nothing but the hard angle of his jaw. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not now.”

“I think I see,” said Delia quietly. “Is this going to be strictly a monosyllabic conversation?”

“There you go again,” he said. “Thinking. And using big words.”

Nick went effortlessly up his steps, which had already been shoveled, and shouldered his way through the door. Delia felt instantly awash in memories. The soft candlelight, the warm earth tones, and the comforting smells of Nick's house: wood polish, dried rosemary, and his own spicy soap, all these things flooded her senses.

The place was toasty, too. In the living room a huge fire burned in the fieldstone hearth, its flames licking up behind the wide brass fender. In front of it a half-dozen quilts had been spread on the floor, and topped with a pile of pillows. To retain the heat, Nick had nailed up blankets to seal off his office and the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Delia hadn't missed the two Coleman coolers on the back porch, either. She'd have been willing to bet a month's salary they were stocked with steaks and other delicacies. In fact, she had every idea she and Nick could safely camp here for a month or better. The man was like some overgrown Boy Scout. He was
prepared.

Mr. Boy Scout put her down next to the fire, tossed her bag on the sofa, and shucked his coat. Then he began to unfasten hers. Delia started to kick off her shoes, but something stopped her. Nick's gaze flicked up from her buttons. “Delia,” he said, his voice suddenly raw. “I—”

“Yes?”

The coat slid off. Nick dropped his eyes, staring down at her breasts. Beneath her blouse and jacket, Delia could feel her nipples hard and peaked against the silk. His throat worked up and down. She touched him lightly on the face. “What, Nick?”

He tossed the coat on the sofa and set his hands at her waist. “I want you,” he whispered, bowing his head until their foreheads touched. It was a tender gesture, one she'd come to love. “I still want you. Under me. On top of me.
With
me, Delia. Just for tonight, if nothing else. Please?”

Outside, the snow was still falling, soft and steady, all around them. Delia realized she was trapped here, alone with Nick. Leaving was impossible. But the impossibility had little to do with the weather, and everything to do with the hungry look in his eyes. With the swell of warmth in her heart. And the truth was, almost two weeks without him had driven her insane.

“Please?” he said again.

Delia leaned into him and set her hands against the hard wall of his chest. “Well, I am totally at your mercy,” she whispered, her tone suggestive and throaty. “Aren't I?”

Nick didn't miss her suggestive tone.
At his mercy.
God, what he wouldn't give for that. But Delia had him by the balls—and worse, by his heartstrings. Surely she knew it? He watched her lick her bottom lip uncertainly, and crushed the sudden urge to jerk her body against his.

Delia's eyes had grown soft and warm. “Nick,” she said, her voice husky. “The other day, you said…I mean, I thought we were—” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, God, Nick.”

Nick just shook his head. “Don't talk, Delia,” he whispered. “For once, just don't talk or think. Just
feel.
I need to make love to you, baby. God, it feels like it's been years. Like I can't breathe.”

“All right.”

Her words were soft. Submissive. That was her mood, too, he thought. Something inside him thrilled to that knowledge. She still wanted him.
Needed
him, at least in this one way. And somehow he'd build on that. He wouldn't screw up twice. Nick's hands went to her jacket, shaking a little as he unbuttoned it. He pushed it off and draped it over the sofa.

Delia wore a gray silk blouse with a camisole underneath. They still stood by the hearth, the glow outlining her slender waist, casting her face in shadow. Slowly he undressed her, easing the delicate garments from her body, his rough hands catching in the fabric. The camisole was just a breeze of black silk with thin, fragile straps. Underneath it, Delia's breasts swelled inside a matching demi-bra, a scrap of sexy nothing, its lace cups cut just across the tips of her hard, pink nipples. She moved to unhook it, and he caught her wrist.