CHAPTER FOUR

. . . .

. . .

She didn't know why she'd done it.

When Carlton didn't come back immediately with the Coke, she figured he'd gotten caught up in a hallway conversation, and she merely wanted to change early for the night's events. She could have stepped into the bathroom; it would have taken an extra second at best to close that door.

But no. She'd just started to shuck off that shirt like she was in her own home, and the look—oh, the look—on his face when he came in had truly startled her. He was terrified and attracted and she could see it all so plainly in his blue eyes during the two seconds he stood there agape.

Attracted.

And now painfully embarrassed. Here she'd thought having to share a bed would be his undoing, but they hadn't even made it that far and he was already in shock.

When he returned, he barely spoke to her, let alone looked her in the eye. She didn't push it, pretending everything was normal because that's what he needed; she knew it because she knew him, dammit; poor vulnerable Carlton, and God, what she wouldn't do to ease his awkwardness.

They quietly got ready for the evening's events, and in near-silence went to meet the other undercover couple in the hotel bar to have a drink before the mixer.

"You're going to have to talk to me sometime," she pointed out carefully as they took seats in a booth near the door.

Carlton looked up, and then immediately away, summoning a waiter who was already on his way over. "I'm talking to you," he said curtly.

After the waiter took their drink orders, she leaned across the table and stared at him until he met her gaze reluctantly. "Carlton. It's okay. It's my fault and I'm sorry. But you're supposed to be my happy husband now, so please, for the case, relax."

Now he was surprised, blue eyes uncertain. "Why are you apologizing? I should have knocked."

Juliet sighed. "No, because we're married, remember? I should have gone into the bathroom. I'm… really, this is my fault. Please just… it's okay. Okay?" When he still stared, unsure, she said somewhat flippantly, "Besides, it didn't burn your eyes or anything, did it? Because I can take you to the ER if necessary."

He blushed, and she was appalled (and touched), and when the waiter reappeared with their drinks, he grabbed his off the tray and downed it in two gulps. "Another," he said tersely.

That did it; she laughed. She laughed until finally a smile tugged at his lips and his blush receded and he leaned back in the seat half-scowling, half-grinning.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, Sherry. I'm good."

"Glad to hear it, Jim." She smiled, toasted him with her still-full glass, and suddenly realized she hadn't thought about Shawn in hours. This man, this complicated man across from her; he was occupying her mind now.

Really, she didn't have any objections to that. She liked him. She liked her dysfunctional, cranky partner very much and liked him best of all when he was at ease, and prided herself that he could be at ease with her more than anyone else.

She also found him impossibly attractive and wondered about walking in on him with his shirt off; she wouldn't mind a good long look at the rest of the chest hair. Hmmm, that called for another swallow of Drop It, Stupid.

The San Luis Obispo team approached; 'Rob and Kate Rankin' for the weekend, they were actually Lenny Matthews and Linda Darrow, partners for ten years and well-suited. Juliet wondered how she and Carlton looked to them. Were they well-suited?

He got up to shake Rob's hand, and sat next to her when the 'Rankins' joined them, and feeling his body heat and knowing there was no way her break from Shawn wasn't permanent, she felt very damn well-suited to her partner.

. . . .

. . .

The Rankins were working the east side of the convention hall as the mixer/reception unfolded; the Tacketts took the west. Lassiter and Juliet stayed close enough to be able to rescue each other if conversations with alumni became too probing, but he had to admit he needed a little breather from her.

From her loveliness.

He could kick himself. Repeatedly. Why hadn't he knocked? Why hadn't he stayed one second longer with the women at the ice machine? Why were his legs so damn long that he got down the hallway as fast as he did?

Why was she so terribly, terribly pretty?

Sighing, he watched her talking to some ex-cheerleader (Botox, too-blonde hair, spandex leggings), while a couple of guys nearby watched her too. On the one hand, he wanted to march over and deck them for ogling his 'wife,' but on the other, well, damn, that silvery blue skirt and top brought out her eyes, and her healthy glow was enhanced by her golden hair, and for a second he wondered about that lacy bra he'd glimpsed.

The cash bar was close by. Yeah. Drink more.

Knock it off, Lassiter, he ordered himself. You're working. And when you get back, you will encourage Vick to assign O'Hara a new partner who won't obsess over her, so you never have to deal with this again. Best for both of them. It was. His heart ached. Dammit.

On the north side of the room, the band started up, something half-raucous to announce the beginning of speeches by the hosts, and Juliet came to collect him, slipping her hand into his as if she had every right to torment him. She pulled him over to the side where they could see the crowd facing the stage, and together they scanned the faces and body language of the alumni for clues.

Pamela Unger and Susie Otten, flanked by their husbands, took the microphone and welcomed everyone to the reunion. There was applause, a chorus of the fight song, a detailing of all the fabulous things lined up for the weekend, a reminder of the exhibition game during the picnic along with other competitions, and finally introductions of the reunion committee.

He already knew Pamela and Susan had headed the cheerleading squad, and some of the others introduced were the football players who'd brought the most glory to the school way back in '87.

Juliet squeezed his hand and leaned in close. "See the guy over by the exit on the east side? He's been sort of skulking all night."

Lassiter checked; he'd noticed the man too. "Shall we go in for a closer look?"

"Why yes, Mr. Tackett." She grinned, and they ambled around the edges of the throng in no particular hurry. The man's attention was focused on the committee anyway, and they were only about ten feet away when he noticed them.

Sparing them a brief glance—somewhat baleful—he drank deep from his beer and angled himself away, more directly toward the stage.

Lassiter stepped up briskly, offering his hand. "Randy? Randy—oh, sorry, you looked like Randy Monmouth."

The man's nametag read Nic Oswell, but he shook Lassiter's hand anyway. "Happy reunion, man. Did I know you?"

"Doubtful," Lassiter said, but Oswell interrupted.

"I know I'd remember this girl." His tone was admiring yet vaguely creepy, and Lassiter felt Juliet's grip on his hand intensify.

He tightened his own as well. "Were you on the team?"

Oswell rolled his eyes. "Hardly. I couldn't make waterboy back then. But my ex was on the cheerleading squad." He gestured to Pamela Unger. "Fit 'em like a glove, too. Crazy chicks all headed for early hag-dom."

Juliet cleared her throat. "Divorced long?"

Oswell gave her a look which could have been either amusement or annoyance. "Long enough," he finally said. "They're going to start dancing soon. Save one for me?"

She smiled tightly. Lassiter knew her exact level of creeped-out-ness, and intervened with a smooth, "For the first twenty dances, she's all mine." He nodded at Oswell, and led Mrs. Tackett away.

"We'll be checking up on that guy," she said grimly.

"He wasn't on Travanti's list."

"He will be now." They were at the edge of the dance area and as if on cue, the hosts announced it was time for some non-football fancy footwork. "Dance with me," she said simply.

He only knew how to slow-dance (and tap, which wasn't really appropriate in this setting), but he managed to turn her around the floor well enough. He liked making her smile, and liked even more how she felt in his arms. He hoped the smile was real and not part of the performance, even though they were both better off if it was all an act.

Juliet said, "Don't let anyone cut in, please," and when the first real slow-dance started, she rested her head on his chest, her arms around his neck, swaying with him in a way which made him hope like hell she couldn't feel his pounding heart.

As if he'd let anyone cut in now.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet sighed, warm in Carlton's arms. She was an idiot, yes she was, because his heartbeat was fast and he was trying to hold her without holding her at all and this was going to be a long weekend if she was going to have to coax him through every minute of it.

Of course, her heartbeat might have been a little fast, too. She was enjoying this too much, this closeness.

He smelled so good. He looked so good in the white shirt, open at the neck, the gray slacks, the blue of his eyes piercing even in the half-light.

Hell, maybe Carlton did need a new partner. If she couldn't trust herself to get through a few dances without practically drooling on him, how was she going to get back to their normal workday routine?

But no. No new partner. She would take cold showers and sleep on porcupines if it that's what it took to stay detached from these new(ish) feelings for him. Emphasis on the ish.

She was not letting him get away from her, and if she had to choose partner over drool-object, she'd choose partner.

Both, now… both would be pretty damn nice.

But partner first.

The dance ended and she needed a drink like never before, and they met up with the 'Rankins' at the bar. They compared notes on various 'interesting' alumni, and Linda said Nic Oswell had hit on her already, with her 'husband' just a few feet away at the time.

They'd noticed a couple of other potential disgruntleds, one of whom was on Travanti's list, and Carlton offered to call in what they'd all seen.

Juliet stayed with the Rankins while he went out to make that call. Lenny was drawn into a generic football conversation with a nearby clump of alumni, and Linda sank into the seat next to Juliet. "Damn shoes. Why are women so stupid?"

"No clue. We're supposed to be the smarter sex, right?"

"I wonder. Well, you have an excuse; your partner's tall. I'm just stupid because my mother beat it into me that women are supposed to wear heels, and no matter how many years go by, I can't shake it."

Juliet admitted, "I even wear them on the job. I don't know why. Carlton's perfected an eyeroll specifically for my shoes."

"And with eyes like that," Linda said dryly, "that'd be pretty impressive. You've been under with him before? You seem like a good team."

"We are a good team, but no, not really. He, um, well… this isn't one of his strengths. By his own admission," she added quickly. "He's the best at most everything else."

Linda grinned. "And he lets you know that?"

"Oh… not really. When I was still new, I guess. He did have a sort of 'let me educate you in the ways of detective work' tone sometimes. But over the last few years…" And she paused, thinking it through. "He just takes it for granted that I'm going to do my best." This realization made her smile. "And I do. For him."

Linda's eyebrows went up. "That sounds—"

Juliet hurried to add, "Not like that. It's just that he's the head detective and it means a lot to me to have his respect. He doesn't give it easily and… and it matters. I've learned so much from him over the years, and while I would never suggest he's perfect in any way, I can say he's… he's the best partner I could ever have." She looked at her earnestly. "Does that sound corny?"

She smiled. "Nope. It sounds fine. Something personal going on there? Wait, that's none of my business." She bent to adjust the back of her shoe, giving Juliet a chance to breathe after the cardiac arrest caused by the simple question.

Still, she had to answer it. "No, there's not. I guess it's a typical partnership. I mean, you and Lenny have a history too, right? Whether or not anything personal came out of it? Ten years should make for a pretty strong bond."

Linda sat up straight and gave her a wry look. "Honey, I'd marry him tomorrow if he asked me."

While Juliet's mouth was hanging open, Carlton and Lenny both returned to where they sat. "Done," Carlton said.

"Dance?" Lenny asked Linda, who smiled at Juliet meaningfully before putting herself and her aching feet back into his grasp.

Carlton sat beside Juliet. "How are you doing?"

She looked at him, at the lines of his lean face, at his long dark lashes and astonishingly blue eyes. "I am doing surprisingly well," she finally told him, for a woman who's just figured out why you're so important to her.

His smile was slow. "Glad to hear it. Drink or dance?"

"First one, then the other?"

"Agreed."

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter, despite a rather marvelous evening with Juliet, felt his tension returning as they got closer to their room.

This was it.

This was sharing a bed with her. With Juliet.

Yes, yes, you idiot, fully dressed, and it's a queen, not a twin, and you're not going to go up in smoke, and you're not going to spontaneously roll over and attack her in your sleep, because it's not like you're actually going to be able to sleep, buddy, just forget that crap right now.

Unless there were a few bottles of mini-Jack in that mini-fridge.

He'd packed flannel pajama bottoms—dark blue plaid, discreet—and a t-shirt, and hoped to God he wouldn't look ridiculous to her.

She showered first, filling the room with the scent of peaches after she came out wrapped securely in her robe. He was lying on the bed flipping aimlessly through the channels on the TV, pretending not to notice how fresh and lovely she looked, even with damp tendrils of hair curling around her rosy cheeks.

He went on to pretend he was watching CNN when she took the robe off later and revealed her own pajama pants and tee, climbing into bed beside him. Immediately he got up to make his own bedtime preparations. Maybe she would be asleep when he came out. Maybe the image of her showering could be driven away if he sprayed deodorant in his eyes.

When he emerged, the room was quiet, the TV turned down. She was lying on her side facing the curtained window, and didn't stir when he slipped into bed. TV off. Lamp off.

Every nerve ending ON.

He lay on his back, not moving.

There was a faint red spot of light on the far wall—the smoke detector doing its silent job—and he stared at it until it became several spots. Then he stared at the blinking green 12:00 on the microwave for awhile. Then he studied the line of light under the door to the hallway.

Sleep, dammit.

SLEEP.

There was a rustle beside him and suddenly he was hit in the face with a pillow.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, as the pummeling continued. "O'Hara, what the hell?" He grabbed at the weapon and held it back out of her reach, sitting up.

Juliet was outlined by the dim light around the curtains, and she was out of breath. "You have to relax, Carlton, or neither one of us will get any sleep."

"What are you talking about?" Deny, deny, deny. "I'm lying here minding my own business and you—"

She swatted him with his own pillow. "I can feel you, Carlton. I can feel your stress like a—like a—" She gave up searching for the right analogy and swatted him again.

"O'Hara, knock it off," he snapped, slightly annoyed now, and when she wouldn't stop, he swatted her back.

At first he was appalled—but Juliet actually laughed. "Now it's on!"

He didn't know what came over him but he found himself laughing too as the pummel-fest commenced, and it wasn't until she had advanced to his side of the bed, struggling to retrieve the pillow he'd snatched from her grasp, that it stopped being funny.

Juliet had him—him—pinned down, trying to wrest the pillow away; she was straddling him, both of them breathing hard, the laughter fading as they both realized the intimacy of their position. At least that's why he stopped laughing. She may have stopped because she regretted starting the pillow fight.

Oh, God, he thought. Oh, dear God.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It's on."

She lowered her head slowly, so slowly, as if she thought he might somehow bolt from underneath her, but Lassiter was frozen both by shock and desire. Her thighs were warm against his sides, her breath was warm on his face, and her peach scent was irresistible, and so was she.

Damn it to hell, so was she.

She kissed him, her lips gentle and soft, and Lassiter dropped the pillow and let his arms circle her body. If he was going to hell in a hand basket, he might as well go in style.

Such soft, sweet lips. Such a teasing, tentative, delicious tongue meeting his. Flavor of mint toothpaste.

He could feel her heart pounding—finally, damn, it wasn't just him nearing cardiac shutdown—and her kisses moved to his throat and cheeks. He ran his fingers through the cascades of her peach-scented hair, sighing deeply.

"So much for relaxing," she said softly. She had stopped, and was staring down at him in the dim light. "Are we back to square one?"

Lassiter thought about it. He wanted her, but he thought about it, and surprisingly, he did feel better than before, because now he knew… he didn't know exactly what he knew, but it was better than feeling like the only total moron in the room. Somehow, knowing she was attracted to him enough to kiss him… wasn't terrifying.

"We're good," he said, his voice low to match hers.

"Good." She moved off him slowly, and he gave her back her pillow while adjusting his. She surprised him one last time by staying close, resting her body against his, pulling the coverlet up. No distance between them at all.

And he slept wonderfully.

. . . .

. . .