They all retreated to their respective cars. Jaine started the Viper's engine and sat for a moment listening to the rumbling purr of a powerful, well-tuned machine. She turned the fan on "high" and adjusted the air vents so the cold air blew on her face.
She didn't want to go home and see the news, in case the List was featured again. Deciding to buy groceries instead of waiting until tomorrow, she turned north on Van Dyke, zooming past the GM plant on the left and resisting the urge to turn right, which would have taken her to the Warren Police Department. She didn't want to see if a red pickup truck or a battered brown Pontiac was in the parking lot. All she wanted to do was stock up on food and get home to BooBoo; she had been gone so long he had probably started on another cushion.
Jaine wasn't one who lingered over grocery shopping. She hated doing it, so she attacked a grocery store as if it were a racecourse. Piloting a buggy at high speed, she zipped through the produce department, tossing cabbage and lettuce and an assortment of fruit into the basket, then raced up and down the other aisles. She didn't cook much, because it was too much trouble for just one person, but occasionally she would prepare a roast or something similar, then eat sandwiches made from it for a week. BooBoo's cat food was a necessity, though An arm wrapped around her waist and a deep voice said, "Miss me?"
She managed to strangle her shriek so it emerged as not much more than a squeak, but she jumped at least a foot straight up and almost crashed into a stack of Sheba cat food.
Whirling around, she quickly positioned the buggy between them and gave him a look of wide-eyed alarm. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I don't know you. You have me mixed up with someone else."
Sam scowled. Other shoppers were watching them with acute interest; at least one lady looked as if she intended to call the cops if he made one wrong move. "Very funny," he growled, and deliberately removed his jacket, revealing the holster on his belt and the big black pistol that resided in it. Since his badge was also clipped to his belt, the wide-eyed tension on aisle seven melted away as murmurings of "He's a cop" reached them. "Go away," Jaine said. "I'm busy."
"So I see. What is this, the Produce Five Hundred? I've been chasing you up and down the aisles for the last five minutes."
"No you haven't," she returned, checking her watch. "I haven't been here five minutes."
"Okay, three. I saw this red streak heading up Van Dyke and turned around to follow it, figuring it was you."
"Is your car equipped with radar?"
"I'm in my truck, not a city car."
"Then you can't prove how fast I was going." "Damn it, I wasn't going to give you a ticket," he said, annoyed. "Though if you don't slow down, I'm going to call a patrolman to do the honors."
"So you came in here just to harass me?"
"No," he said with exaggerated patience, "I came in here because I've been gone and I wanted to check in." "Gone?" she repeated, opening her eyes as wide as they would go. "I had no idea."
He ground his teeth together. She knew because she could see his jaw working. "All right, I should have called." The words sounded as if they had been ripped, painfully, from his gut.
"Really? Why is that?"
"Because we're..."
"Neighbors?" she supplied, when he couldn't seem to find the word he wanted. She was beginning to enjoy herself, at least as much as was possible when she was bleary- eyed from lack of sleep.
"Because we have this thing going." He scowled down at her, looking not at all happy about their "thing." "Thing? I don't do things."
"You'll do mine," he said under his breath, but she heard him anyway and had just opened her mouth to blast him when a kid, maybe eight years old, ran up and poked her in the ribs with a plastic laser weapon, making electric zinging noises as he repeatedly pulled the trigger. "You're dead," he said victoriously.
His mother came hurrying up, looking harassed and helpless. "Damian, stop that!" She gave him a smile that was little more than a grimace. "Don't bother the nice people."
"Shut up," he said rudely. "Can't you see they're Terrons from Vaniot?"
"I'm sorry," the mother said, trying to drag her offspring away. "Damian, come on or you'll have to have a time-out when we get home."
Jaine barely refrained from rolling her eyes. The kid poked her in the ribs again. "Ouch!"
He made those zinging noises again, taking great pleasure in her discomfort.
She plastered a big smile on her face and leaned down closer to precious Damian, then cooed in her most alienlike voice, "Oh, look, a little earthling." She straightened and gave Sam a commanding look. "Kill it." Damian's mouth fell open. His eyes went as round as quarters as he took in the big pistol on Sam's belt. From his open mouth began to issue a series of shrill noises that sounded like a fire alarm.
Sam cursed under his breath, grabbed Jaine by the arm, and began tugging her at a half-trot toward the front of the store. She managed to snag her purse from the buggy as she went past. "Hey, my groceries!" she protested. "You can spend another three minutes in here tomorrow and get them," he said with pent-up violence. "Right now I'm trying to keep you from getting arrested."
"For what?" she asked indignantly as he dragged her out of the automatic doors. People were turning to look at them, but most were following the sounds of Damian's shrieks to aisle seven.
"How about threatening to kill that brat and causing a riot?"
"I didn't threaten to loll him! I just ordered you to." She had trouble keeping up with him; her long skirt wasn't made for running.
He whirled her around the side of the building, out of sight, and plastered her against the wall. "I can't believe I missed this," he said in a goaded tone.
She glared up at him and didn't say anything. "I was in Lansing," he snarled, bending down so close his nose nearly touched hers. "Interviewing for a state job."
"You don't owe me any explanations."
He straightened and looked skyward, as if seeking help from the Almighty. She decided to give an inch. "All right, so a phone call wouldn't have been too pushy." He said something under his breath. She had a good idea what it was, but unfortunately, he wasn't paying out money for every cuss word. If he had been, she would have hit the jackpot. She grabbed his ears, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Just like that he had her pinned to the wall, his arms so tight around her she could barely breathe, but breathing wasn't number one on her list of priorities right then. Feeling him against her, tasting him that was important. His pistol was on his belt, so she knew that wasn't what was prodding her in the stomach. She wiggled against it just to make certain. Nope, definitely not a pistol.
He was breathing hard when he lifted his head. "You pick the damnedest places," he said, looking around. "I pick? I was in there minding my own business, doing a little grocery shopping, when I was attacked by not one but two maniacs "
"Don't you like kids?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Don't you like kids? You wanted me to kill that one."
"I like most kids," she said impatiently, "but I didn't like that one. He poked me in the ribs."
"I'm poking you in the stomach."
She gave him a sweet smile, one that made him shudder. "Yeah, but you aren't using a plastic laser gun."
"Let's get out of here," he said, looking desperate, and hustled her to her car.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
"Do you want coffee?" Jaine asked as she unlocked the kitchen door and led him inside. "Or iced tea?" she added, thinking a tall, cool glass would be just the ticket right now, with the scorching heat outside.
"Tea," he said, ruining her image of cops living on coffee and doughnuts. He was looking around her kitchen. "How is it you've only lived here a couple of weeks and this place already looks more lived-in than mine?" She pretended to consider the matter. "I believe it's called unpacking."
He looked up at the ceiling. "I missed this?" he muttered at the plaster, still seeking enlightenment.
Jaine sneaked several glances at him as she got two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice. Her blood was zinging through her veins, the way it always did when she was around, whether from anger or exhilaration or lust, or a combination of all three. Confined by her cozy kitchen, he seemed even bigger, his shoulders filling the doorway and his size dwarfing her small, made-for-four table with the inlaid ceramic tile top.
"What kind of state job were you interviewing for?"
"State police, field detective division."
Taking the pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, she poured the two glasses full. "Lemon?"
"No, just straight." He took the glass from her, his fingers brushing hers. That was enough to make her nipples pucker and stand at attention. His gaze zeroed in on her mouth. "Congratulations," he said.
She blinked at him. "Have I done something?" She hoped he wasn't referring to all the publicity over the List oh, God, the List. She had forgotten about it. Had he read the entire thing? Of course he had.
"You haven't cussed once, and we've been together half an hour. You didn't even swear when I dragged you out of the supermarket."
"Really?" She smiled, pleased with herself. Maybe having to pay all those fines was working on her subconscious. She was still thinking a lot of swear words, but the fines didn't kick in unless she said them out loud. Progress was being made.
He tilted the glass up and drank. She watched, mesmerized, as his strong throat worked. She struggled with a violent urge to tear his clothes off. What was wrong with her? She had watched men drink all her life, and it had never before affected her like this, not even with any of her three ex-fiances.
"More?" she asked when he drained the glass and set it down.
"No, thanks." That hot, dark gaze went over her, settled on her breasts. "You look extra spiffy today. Anything special going on?"
She wasn't going to avoid the subject, no matter how touchy it was. "We had an interview for Good Morning America this morning at four A.M. if you can believe it! I had to get up at two," she complained, "and I've been comatose most of the day."
"The List is getting that much publicity?" he asked, surprised. "I'm afraid so," she said morosely, sitting down at the table. He didn't sit down across from her, but took the chair beside her. "I tracked it down on the Web. It was funny stuff Ms. C." She gaped at him. "How did you know?" she demanded. He snorted. "Like I wouldn't recognize your smart-ass mouth even in print. 'Anything over eight is strictly for show-and-tell'," he quoted at her.
"I might have known you'd remember only the sex stuff."
"Sex is much on my mind these days. And just for the record I don't have anything for show-and-tell." If he didn't, he hadn't missed it by much, Jaine thought, remembering with great fondness how he had looked in profile.
He continued, "I'm just happy I'm not in the point-and- laugh category."
Jaine shrieked with laughter and threw herself back in the chair so hard it tipped her out onto the floor. She sat there holding her ribs, which had pretty much stopped aching but now decided to resume at such rough treatment, but she couldn't stop laughing. BooBoo cautiously approached, but decided he didn't want to get within touching distance and instead sought refuge under Sam's chair.
Sam leaned down and scooped up the cat, settling him on his lap and stroking down the long, lean body. BooBoo closed his eyes and set up a buzz-saw purr. The cat purred, and Sam watched her, waiting until the gales of laughter had subsided to giggles and wheezing. She sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her ribs and her eyes wet with tears. If she had any mascara left, it had to be running down her cheeks, she thought. "Need any help getting up?" he asked. "I should warn you that if I get my hands on you, I may have trouble taking them off again."
"I can manage, thanks." Carefully, and not without some difficulty because of her long skirt, she got to her feet and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
"Good. I'd hate to disturb... what's his name? BooBoo? What the hell kind of name for a cat is BooBoo?"
"Don't blame me; blame my mother."
'A cat should have a name it can live up to. Naming him BooBoo is like naming your son Alice. BooBoo shoulda been named Tiger, or Romeo "
Jaine shook her head. "Romeo's out."
"You mean he's ?"
She nodded.
"In that case, I guess BooBoo's a pretty good name for him, though BooHoo would be more appropriate." She had to hold her ribs really, really tight to keep from bursting into more laughter. "You're such a guy."
"What the hell did you want me to be, a ballerina?" No, she didn't want him to be anything except what he was. No one else had ever made excitement fizz along her veins like champagne, and that was quite an achievement, considering that a week ago they hadn't exchanged anything except insults. Only two days had passed since their first kiss, two days that had seemed like an eternity because there hadn't been any more lasses until she grabbed his ears at the supermarket and pulled him down to her level.
"How's your egg?" he asked, lids heavy over his dark eyes, and she knew his thoughts weren't far from hers. "History," she replied.
"Then let's go to bed."
"You think all you have to do is say, 'Let's go to bed,' and I'll fall over on my back?" she asked indignantly. "No, I hoped I'd have a chance to do a bit more than that before you fell over on your back."
"I'm not falling anywhere."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm having my period." Funny, she couldn't remember ever saying that to a man before, especially without even a twinge of self-consciousness. His brows snapped down. "You're what?" he asked in growing anger.
"Having my period. Menstruating. Maybe you've heard about it. It's when "
"I have two sisters; I think I know a little about periods. And one of the things I know is that the egg is fertile roughly in the middle of the cycle, not close to the end!" Busted. Jaine pursed her lips. "Okay, so I lied. There's always a slight chance the timing is off, and I wasn't willing to take that chance, all right?"
It evidently wasn't all right. "You stopped me," he groaned, closing his eyes as if he were in acute pain. "I was damn near dying, and you stopped me."
"You make it sound on a level with treason." He opened his eyes, glaring at her. "What about now?" He was about as romantic as a rock, she thought, so why was she so turned on? "Your idea of foreplay is probably @ "You awake?' " she grumbled.
He made an impatient gesture. "What about now?" "No."
"Jeez!" He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes again. "What's wrong with now?"
"I told you, I'm having my period."
"So?"
"So... no."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to!" she yelled. "Give me a break!" He sighed. "I get it. PMS."
"PMS is before, you idiot."
"That's what you say. Ask any man and you'll hear a different story."
"Like they're experts," she scoffed.
"Honey, the only experts in PMS are men. That's why men are so good at fighting wars; they learned Escape and Evade at home."
She thought about throwing a frying pan at him, but BooBoo was in the line of fire, and anyway, she would have to find a frying pan first.
He grinned at the expression on her face. "Know why PMS is called PMS?"
"Don't you dare," she threatened. "Only women can tell PMS jokes."