Free At Risk by REBECCA YORK

they were all grown up, and he was in her bed, his thoughts probably running along the same lines as hers.
    She saw his hand move, felt it gently cup her breast, then stroke back and forth across the hardened tip. His touch made her blood heat.
    “Lord, that’s so good, chérie,” he murmured.
    “Yes.” He’d never called her that until yesterday—when it had sounded like an insult. Now it was an endearment.
    One of her arms was trapped between them. With her free hand she stroked along the curve of his hip and down his leg, wishing she felt naked skin instead of twill fabric.
    He gathered her closer, his arms circling her body, his hands working their way down to her bottom. Rolling over, she pressed him to his back and heard him groan.
    From pain, she realized, because she’d jammed his head against the pillow—which wasn’t exactly a hard surface.
    Her immediate thought was that someone should slap her upside the head. He’d been hurt last night outside her apartment, and here she was acting like he was perfectly all right.
    She sprang away from him, then pushed herself off the bed.
    “I’m sorry,” she managed.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s obvious your head hurts from getting hit last night.”
    “You were always logical.”
    She wanted to protest that she wouldn’t have gotten tangled up with him in the first place if she’d been logical, but she bit back the comment as unhelpful.
    He sat up carefully, his movements slow and deliberate.
    “You and I need to talk,” she murmured.
    “About what?”
    “About us.”
    “There is no us,” he said in a voice that told her the conversation had ended.
    She wasn’t going to let that slide by. “Then what were you doing a few minutes ago—amusing yourself with me?”
    “No.”
    “Then what?”
    “This isn’t the time for a personal discussion.”
    “When is?”
    “I wish I knew.”
    Was that progress or not?
    He’d stayed here last night to protect her—after getting hurt. And she wasn’t in such good shape herself. She didn’t even know how she was supposed to behave with him. With her lips pressed together she turned her back on him and pulled clean underwear from her dresser, then found a tee shirt and jeans. Wadding the clothing into a ball, she headed for the bathroom, where she showered and dressed in record time.
    When she came back, she thought Rafe had left, and she felt a terrible sense of loss. But what had she been thinking? That everything would magically be fine between them now that he was back in town?
    She was adjusting to his absence when he walked back in the front door.
    “Where were you?” she heard herself say.
    “Getting the bag I keep in the car and checking outside.”
    “Did you find anything?”
    “Just some of my blood.”
    That got her attention. She was feeling wounded because he’d rejected her. But really she should be thinking that getting coldcocked might have put him in a bad mood. He was obviously still in pain—and working hard not to show it. And the incident hadn’t done his macho image any good.
    “I’ll be in better shape after I shower and change,” he said.
    Was that a roundabout way of apologizing?
    Before she could decide, she was left standing in the living room staring after him.
    While Rafe was in the bathroom, she made a pot of chicory-laced coffee, then called her staff and told them the restaurant would be closed for a few days and she’d let them know when she could reopen again. In some cases she left messages on answering machines.
    Thankful that she kept her restaurant materials well organized, she opened the computer file with the menu and recipes from the night before and e-mailed them to Detective Cumberland.
    By the time Rafe emerged from the bathroom, she was standing in front of the television set, watching the news. Which showed a picture of Chez Eugenia on the screen. The voice-over gave a breathless account of the voodoo ceremony and Martin Villars’ death. Just when