Free Memories of Us by Linda Winfree Page A

corners of her luscious mouth. She stretched, camisole pulled taut over her breasts. He tightened his hands into fists, palms itching to fit to those curves.
    Her eyes opened again and recognition trickled into her gaze. The line of her body stiffened, her features tensing as she came fully awake.
    “What time is it?” Sleep husked her voice. Rumpled hair fell about her as she leaned forward to pick up her desk clock.
    “A little after seven.”
    She moaned, the little sound sending a tingle of awareness through him. Great. Now he was associating everything she did with sex.
    She rubbed a hand over her face. “I have to go home and change.”
    “Have you been here all night?”
    Irritation darkened her eyes. “Obviously.”
    “Why?”
    “Blood-test results came in. Cook was right; John Doe wasn’t the baby’s father. And that child came from somewhere. I just need to figure out where.”
    So that’s what the deep conversation with Cook had been last night in the bar. He’d watched her laugh with the other man, hating the primal jealousy stinging him. He’d walked away from her after that mind-altering kiss. For all he knew, she might consider turning to Cook. That was all he needed—those pictures in his head again, of her long legs wrapped around the investigator, his hands and mouth on her skin.
    Shrugging off the frustration, he nodded. “I appreciate the work you’re putting into this.”
    Her eyes cooled further, her mouth tightening. She pushed up from the chair. “I really don’t want your appreciation, McMillian.”
    Irritation stung him, bristling through him. Why did women have to turn everything personal? “Is this about what happened between us last night?”
    Eyes narrowed to slits of glittering blue ice, she looked at him. “Nothing happened between us. That was a momentary lapse of sanity on my part—which you can bet your ass will never happen again—and male curiosity on your part. It was meaningless and has nothing to do with this case. And just for the record, I’m not putting these hours in for you. I’m doing it for that baby’s mother.”
    “She has a father somewhere too.” He folded his arms over his chest. His male pride smarted at her easy dismissal of the kiss that had led to his repeated dreams of her the night before. “And you call that nothing?”
    She gathered the papers on her desk and stacked them with a smart snap against the desk before laying them aside. A cynical smile twisted her mouth. “What would you call it?”
    The hottest kiss he’d had in recent memory. “Interesting.”
    “Right.” Her laugh bordered on a disgusted snort. “That was interest that had you running for the door.”
    He scowled at the picture she painted. “It wasn’t like that.”
    She pinned him with a cool look. “Why are we even having this conversation? You said it was a bad idea and you were right. Exactly what do you want, McMillian?”
    That brought him up short. He opened his mouth, closed it. What did he want? He wanted her to acknowledge the intensity of that kiss, to admit it was more than nothing. He wanted to know how she’d known what was in his head. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her again, to see if it would be just as strong the second time around. A twinge of arousal flared.
    “That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped out from behind the desk. “You don’t have a clue. I’m going home to shower and change. I’ll be back for the staff meeting.”
    “Wait.” He reached for her arm, sensation prickling up the nerves in his arm from the contact. Her sleep-warmed scent wrapped tendrils around him. She glanced at his hand on her bare skin then up at him, her expression mutinous. He sighed, resisting the urge to shift his fingertips over her softness. “You’re right. I don’t know what I want from you.”
    A cold smile played around her lips. “Sure you do. You’re a guy. You just haven’t