He sees her face across the room. She's not expecting him. The office is a frenzy of commotion, new security precautions from events half a world away prompting a crackdown on local suspects that had once been on the wait-and-see list. Now was the time for official action, so all hands on deck. Phones purr intermittently, chatter hums constantly; nearly every office door is shut, and animated conversations erupt in muted silence, suited mimes in tragic one-act plays.
She leans one hip against the desk of a bubbly CSI—Dani, if he recalls correctly. The CSI gestures to the plastic sheet that Abbie holds aloft and shakes, pointing a delicate painted finger at one of the black oval smudges on it. She glances from the page to the other woman, head titling left and right as she asks a series of rapid questions; her unblinking eyes are commanding, but her lips continue to move, leaving the other woman precious little time to answer. To defend herself, Crane corrects. Clearly, the CSI has not done her task appropriately, and Agent Mills has no time to waste.
Abbie's hair is pinned behind her, but a few coiled strands frame her face. Her eyebrows are straight, her lips pulled together in a pout that speaks to her focus and concentration on the evidence she examines, but Crane's vision clouds with images of the previous night.
All he sees is those lips, luscious and intoxicating, pressed to his forehead, his stomach. He feels her breath as she exhales across his exposed skin, the rolling thrill of goosebumps that percolate in its wake.
The CSI pulls a binder from the shelf behind her, placing it open on the desktop. Abbie stands, then angles forward over it, fingertips scanning its pages as she reads.
Instead, his mind sees her above him, a tantalizing siren holding his gaze as she leans toward his face, languid movements of her torso keeping time with her hips. His fingers delve into her warm skin, worshipping it, skimming and clenching it, helpless against her charms. She hovers inches from him, lips parted, chestnut eyes enchanted as they look into him, through him. His eyes slip closed as he surges forward to slide his tongue into the chalice of her mouth, along the delicate hollow of her throat, the sharp tilt of her clavicle. Delicious.
Agent Mills straightens and hands the plastic sheet back to the CSI, who hastily smoothes her lab coat and snatches the offering. Abbie's hand falls to rest on the woman's shoulder, her expression sincere, encouraging.
From his doorway perch, Crane feels his fingers interlock with hers and press insistently into his yielding feather pillow. The delectable scent of coconut and sandalwood, her scent, envelops him. His cheek brushes hers, and he hears his own amazed whisper, "God, Abbie...my beautiful Abbie…"
His ears fill with the rush of her voice, sighed with an arch of her back, "Ichabod…"
Crane grips the doorframe. His pulse races, as do his thoughts. He is a man who has staked his career, his life, on his capacity to maintain self-control. His intellect has been his savior more times than he could count. When faced with dilemmas, life-threatening or otherwise, he reasons through them carefully, with detachment, to find a solution. He is not one to allow his emotion or imagination rule over him, to stamp out the functionality of his rational mind.
But all of that evaporates in a fog when confronted by the formidable Lieutenant. How can this be? he muses. How can I be so utterly enraptured by a simple memory? How can one person—one tiny person—truly hold such power over me?
Abbie swivels her head and finally notices him. Her eyes light as a broad smile splits her face, and she gives him a little wave. She nods to Dani, then makes her way over to him with elegant and efficient strides. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise." Her hands are on her hips. "What brings you to these insane trenches?"
His answer escapes before he can stop it. "Love."
Abbie's eyebrow raises and her smile grows devilish, "Is that so?"
It is. It is the answer. It is the only answer that Ichabod has, the only answer that ever applies where Abbie is concerned, and he realizes suddenly that before he met her, he'd never even understood a single question.
She runs a palm up and down his lapel. "Well, now, I really like the sound of that."
He holds up a brown bag. "Hungry? I thought you could do with a spot of lunch."
Her jaw drops. "Really?" She clutches at the bag with both hands, nearly shoving her whole head inside of it to drink in the odor of the roast beef and potato soup inside. "Oh, God, thank you! Crane, you have no idea how perfect this is!"
Crane smiles quietly as he follows her to her office. He knows. Finally, he knows exactly.
** I feel as if everything I write is a devotional to Abbie and Crane; I love them almost as much as they love each other!
I live for your comments and feedback; PLEASE tell me what you think! **