CHAPTER TWO: GORGEOUS

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter couldn't help but dwell on the remark Juliet made before they got to Galway's house.

He tried not to dwell. He did everything he could not to dwell, but dammit, the woman had used the word 'gorgeous' about his eyes. 'Gorgeous,' by pretty much every standard of which he was personally aware, was considered a big compliment. It far surpassed the barista's casual 'pretty eyes' remark. Who the hell cared what the barista thought anyway; this was Juliet he wasn't dwelling on.

Sure, she'd complimented him before, on a new tie or suit, but 'gorgeous' was not a word she'd used in the past. Not about him.

She liked football player types and uber-suave men... and much too recently, Spencer. Lassiter grimaced at his computer screen.

Gorgeous?

Damned weird.

And oh yeah, that little 'only man in my life' remark. That was interesting. But it was easily explained as being a reference to not dating anyone at the moment, and after all, they did spend every day together, sometimes in close proximity, one-on-one, for hours on end.

And lookie there: he was dwelling. Annoyed with himself, he grabbed his coffee mug and strode across the hall for a refill. It was nearly five, but there was no bad time for coffee, and it's not like he'd be going home any time soon, let alone trying to sleep.

Juliet turned from her desk. "Got the report in on Galway's house." She joined him by the coffee urn, reading the sheet of paper. "It's clean. No prints on the prisms, no sign of any activity on the roof, the eaves, the siding."

Lassiter stirred creamer into his mug, but when she glanced at the sugar bowl he manfully resisted adding more than one spoonful. "It's still not enough to make me think it was aliens."

"We should look into his background and associates—and his interests. This could all be a huge prank. If anyone else had or figured out his alarm code, the prisms could have been planted at almost any time. We need to talk to him again."

He felt himself scowling. "I don't want to talk to him again. Let's send McNab and Dobson."

To his surprise, she smiled and agreed. "At the most, it's a broken window. He says nothing was stolen, and if he sells the prisms, the cost of replacing the window might take care of itself."

It occurred to him she was standing closer than usual, and he held his coffee mug up as if it were a shield.

"You used to have a deck prism?" she asked, curious.

"I did, in a nice illuminated base. One of my college professors gave it to me for helping him with a project." Why did she have to smell so good?

"What happened to it?"

He chose his words carefully. "It got broken." Seriously. Lilacs, peaches... whatever it was, she smelled too good. He wondered if there was a department regulation against tempting your male coworkers with pleasant scents.

Juliet was surprised. "How so?"

Lassiter eyed her over the top of his mug. "Angry wife with a sledgehammer."

He could not have been more shocked to hear her swift near-whisper of "Bitch!" Louder—her color high as if she were truly personally affronted—she demanded, "Why would she destroy something beautiful that you valued?"

"Because I valued it," he said simply. "It was one of the events leading to the separation." He was mesmerized by her expression: she clearly, sincerely, wanted to hurt Victoria. "It's okay, O'Hara. It was a long time ago."

"What else did she destroy?" Her eyes were afire.

Lassiter, before he could stop himself, reached out to touch her arm. Soothingly. Crap, what was wrong with him? "O'Hara. It's okay. I'm over it. I promise."

She relaxed, slowly, and had no idea how her concern and anger moved him. "Sorry," she murmured. "It just pisses me off when people lash out like that. I mean, sure, I know you probably weren't exactly Prince Charming, but..." She stopped, and looked at him earnestly. "Wait. You didn't do anything like that, did you?"

"No. The worst I did was shoot the figurines, but technically those were mine." His hand was still on her arm. What the hell? Why was his hand still on her arm?

"Come again?" A small smile; she was calmer. And she didn't seem to mind his hand on her arm at all.

"I idiotically sent Victoria some of those frou-frou little figurines after we were separated. She sent them back with a terse note reminding me we were separated, and I thought it would be appropriate, as well as therapeutic, to blow them to smithereens."

Her eyebrows went up, and her smile was broader. "Did it work? Oh wait-I remember that! I came looking for you in the shooting range that day. You did seem happier."

"I was," he agreed, and dropped his hand.

But Juliet, confoundingly, put her hand on his arm then. "You're in a better place now, you know. You're a better man than you were then."

Later he never understood what possessed him, but the words which seemed to fly out of his stupid, stupid mouth were sincere: "You're a better woman than she ever was."

Juliet gaped.

He fled.

. . . .

. . .

Tuesday morning was rainy, and Juliet shook her umbrella out before she entered the police station. Carlton was coming out of the coffee alcove when she got to her desk, and she was dead sure he remembered running from her yesterday, just as she was sure he knew she remembered as well. She only smiled, because having him compliment her was a good thing. Rare, to be sure, but definitely good.

He looked only moderately uncomfortable, and thrust a folder into her hand. "Galway called Vick and asked for us personally. He had another alien visitation last night."

"Ooh. More prisms?"

"Nope. Something bigger, he said, but we have to come see it."

She judged his expression to be not pissed off. "Carlton, it's not like you to humor a possibly crazy person."

"But you're smiling that I am."

"I'm smiling because it's a nice day," she countered.

Carlton frowned at her rain-spotted jacket. "It's raining."

But I'm looking at you, she thought, so it's nice. "You want to go now?"

"Might as well. You want coffee first?"

"Starbuck me."

They stopped on the way, and he bought her coffee, which was unexpected and nice and she felt hopeful that maybe this bridging-a-gap issue wouldn't be as hard as she imagined.

Mr. Galway met them at the front door and insisted they wipe their shoes and leave their wet coats in the foyer. "Here," he said, a touch more agitated than yesterday. "Here! Explain this!"

Sitting in the middle of the living room carpet was a circle of blue gazing balls.

Carlton put his hands in his pockets and considered; Juliet stepped past him to take a closer look.

They were all about the size of basketballs, blue mirror surfaces reflecting her shoes as she bent to inspect the nearest one.

"There are thirteen," Galway said defiantly. "Thirteen!"

Carlton eyed him. "Another important number? I can't wait for the 666 moon rocks arrive."

"Detective!" Galway snapped. "This is not amusing. They've been here again. In my house. While I slept."

"Aliens?" Juliet wished she'd been able to drink more of her coffee. "You discovered these this morning?"

"Yes. I went to bed at eleven, like always; I came down here at seven, like always. The house alarm was set, as always, and yet these... these objects were arranged here like you see them. I've checked the windows and doors and there's not even any footprints in the carpet!"

"Looks brushed," Carlton commented, and he was right; the carpet a few feet out from each ball appeared to have been brushed or smoothed, as if whoever (whatever) placed them did so at arm's length.

"Mr. Galway," Juliet said with all the politeness she could muster this early on a caffeine-light rainy day, "are you absolutely, positively, certain no one else has access to your alarm code?"

He turned his aggravation on her. "Detective O'Hara, I am an intelligent, educated, reasonable man. If you think I would leave a window open and then be surprised when my TV goes missing, you are misjudging me. I cannot imagine that I am acquainted with anyone who would find it worthwhile to plant deck prisms and gazing balls in my home."

"So that's a no?" Carlton drawled. "Look, Mr. Galway, try to see this from our—"

"No. You try to see it from mine." Galway was irate now. "I am a tax-payer and thus entitled to the full resources of the police department!"

And you happen to be the mayor's cousin, Juliet thought, and are not above using that connection. "You're getting them," she assured him. "But we have to ask all the questions, not just the ones you want to hear."

Carlton glanced at her; she thought it was with approval. "The thing is, what's more logical? Someone screwing around with you or actual aliens leaving random objects in your house?"

"But these aren't random! 42 prisms? At 10:13? Thirteen gazing balls? On the fourth day of the fourth week of the fourth month?"

With a sigh only Juliet heard, Carlton turned away from the man and gave her a look suggesting he was about to say something he knew it was best not to say. He approached, to go around her to see the whole room, and his hand brushed against hers as he passed.

He seemed to pause just there… and instinctively, she clasped his hand briefly, to calm him, to show support, and at least partly because she'd wanted to touch him ever since he uncharacteristically touched her arm yesterday.

Carlton tensed, but squeezed her hand lightly in return, and she moved out of his way to face Galway directly.

Later she was impressed that she spoke coherent English to him, because the all-schoolgirl part of her psyche was squee-ing about that simple touch. When had they ever touched like that? In six years?

Then she thought, crap, did Galway see it? Probably not, she assured herself. She'd been between the two men, so their hands were hidden by her body.

Meanwhile, Galway was staring at her expectantly. He'd said something about the numbers and she was pretty sure she'd asked him about his regular visitors.

Carlton saved her by asking, "What's the significance of the date?"

Galway snarked, "You don't have a TV or book reference for that?"

"Would I ask if I did? Look, you don't want us to waste your time, then don't waste ours."

"Fine. I don't know. I just know it has to mean something."

"Mr. Galway," Juliet intervened, "if you are at all familiar with the public perception of alien visitation, you have to know this isn't typical. This is just objects placed in a home. The broken window is actually an anomaly; why would an alien need to break a window? Especially if no window had to be broken for these gazing balls to be placed?"

"More likely a poltergeist," Carlton mused.

She didn't know what was odder; Galway's theory or Carlton throwing out these non-Carlton observations so easily. But if he was about to say they call in Shawn—

"I think I know who can help us," he said, with no particular tone. "The SBPD has a consultant who specializes in odd cases like this." He would not look at Juliet, but she spotted the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth. He advised Galway not to move anything until someone had come out to take photos, and said they'd be in touch about the consultant. "Oh, and change your alarm code just in case."

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter, back in the Crown Vic, gave a quick look to Juliet as she sipped her still-hot coffee. He wasn't at all sure about what happened back there.

She had, on occasion, touched his arm or grabbed his elbow to get his attention or head off his rising irritation when they were talking to people who annoyed him, but she'd never touched his hand like that. He hadn't even been that annoyed; in fact, he was pretty sure he hadn't been even a quarter as rude to Galway as he was capable of being.

He could still feel her cool fingers against his. It was nice. It was... intimate.

Dammit, he couldn't afford to think like that.

"So," she said far too casually, "do you seriously think Shawn can help on this case, or were you just trying to get out of there?"

He shrugged. "He's good at reading people."

"Galway is the mayor's cousin," she reminded him. "Pissing him off is a surefire way to get Vick pissed off at us."

"Well, that's why we're going to run it past Henry first."

"Huh. You're being very reasonable today."

When Lassiter looked at her, she was smiling. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope."

"You're a good influence on me," he suggested, and he meant it, and knew it was true.

Juliet laughed. "Not always."

"Yes, always." He wasn't sure why he felt so fierce about it, and the way she was looking at him now—touched, pleased—wasn't helping his funny mood.

She didn't say anything; she only smiled and sipped coffee.

But when they got back to the station and he held the main door open for her, she did it again.

She touched his arm gently as she went by, sliding her hand down to clasp his for a second, and he felt heat flood his face. Like he was a damn teenager, trying not to get caught crushing on a girl. Dammit.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet kept her back to Carlton for the next few hours. She was blushing furiously, nonstop, to the point that McNab asked her if she was too warm when he dropped some casefiles at her desk.

She couldn't believe she'd touched Carlton like that.

Oh come on, it's not like you grabbed his butt. You only touched his hand.

Again? Twice in one morning? Really? Really, O'Hara?

Well, you know he loves you—

Wait, though. Do we know he loves YOU? Couldn't he have meant some other woman who recently broke up with her boyfriend?

Reality check. You may see his potential, and granted, he's not that talkative about his personal life so maybe there could be someone else... but come on. There's no way he meant any other woman.

Juliet sighed and punched in some report data angrily. Why didn't other women see what she saw in him? His intelligence, his diligence, his perseverance, his blue, blue, blue eyes, his long fingers, his lean build, the occasional wry smile which seemed only for her. The way they could communicate with just a look sometimes; the way he knew what kind of day she was having (and vice versa) before she even had to tell him. She even liked the way he scowled at crooks, and was oddly charmed when he got puffed up about something, maybe because she knew the puff came from a greater insecurity, and rather than thinking less of him, she was pleased that he could have pride about anything.

And maybe she was merely an addled moron who'd been ogling her partner too long.

She sighed again. It didn't help.

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter was terrified.

As the morning progressed, and Juliet kept herself away from him, he imagined any number of scenarios, all bad, none of them leading to him carrying her off to his bed (yes, carrying, every last foot of every last mile to his place AND up the stairs).

He was an idiot. An idiot.

She wasn't avoiding him exactly but there was a problem. She was embarrassed about touching his hand. She figured he was obsessing about it (who, Lassiter?) and wanted him to calm down before she spoke to him again. She wished she hadn't done it. She'd mistaken him for a mannequin. What? That made no sense even to him.

Six years.

Six years of pining, if you wanted to call it that, and he didn't want to call it that because it was pathetic, and now, this week, he had been reduced to idiocy simply from a smile, a kind word about his freakish eyes, and a touch. Or two.

He rubbed his temples hard and Henry Spencer looked up from his laptop.

"Migraine?"

"Close enough."

Henry grinned. "Girl trouble?"

Lassiter got up and walked away without a word to get more coffee.

But this put him in Juliet's territory, and she suddenly turned her chair. "Are you ready to go to lunch?"

They were coming at him from all sides! People who could read his minds! Like those bastardly squirrels, they were—and then he looked at her. She was smiling. She was pretty. She seemed to like him on at least some basic level. She was so pretty. And her smile, on those perfect lips, made her lovely eyes that much more— "Yes," he said.

"May I drive?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, and that's when he knew he was completely putty in her hands.

He didn't want to think about what else her hands could do.

Aw, crap. Too late.

. . . .

. . .