CHAPTER FIVE

. . . .

. . .

When Juliet woke up, Carlton was already out of the room, a note on the table saying he'd gone for his run. She stretched out on the bed, yawning. While he'd slept well enough judging by his even breathing, she had been awake a long time. Buzzed.

Buzzed by having kissed him, being kissed by him, and wanting more. She had to force herself to spend those waking hours also thinking about her relationship with Shawn, and where it was going.

And she knew: it was going nowhere.

It was going nowhere, regardless of what happened with Carlton. It hurt to accept it, because… dammit, Shawn could be so sweet and he really did love her and they'd waited so long for their shot. But now they'd had it. And she'd had it with trying. Trying to accept his narcissism. Trying to accept his invasive ways. Trying to accept his certainty that no rules, ever, applied to him. Trying.

At the end of their so-called romantic retreat, she'd told him the weekend exceeded her expectations. Now she understood how depressingly low her expectations had been.

She let out a profound sigh, and the minutes ticked away in the silent room.

Sooo… can we talk about that kiss?

Ummm… do we have to?

Well, you liked it; right?

Damn straight I did. And he seemed to like it, too. But he probably thinks I'm a rotten person. He doesn't know I took 'a break' from Shawn. He might think I'm just leading him on.

Her mind drifted, thinking of the kiss. She could have gone on kissing him for awhile, truth be told; his mouth felt perfect. Perfect. Perfectly fitted to hers. Perfectly sensual. Perfectly arousing. And his body under hers had been a strong, solid heat. His arms around her, and his fingers in her hair, and his sigh… oh… mmmmm… she rolled over, restless. Just as well he was out of the room, if this kind of mood was going to strike her.

"Enough," she said out loud. There was work to be done.

. . . .

. . .

They breakfasted and met up with 'the Rankins' for a stroll around the grounds. The outdoor festivities were starting at eleven, and the reunion committee and their minions were already hard at work finishing the setup.

Lassiter glanced over at Juliet, who was talking to Linda Darrow. She had been bright and 'normal' and thankfully fully dressed when he got back to the room after his run, and he could almost forget the haste with which he had exited the room before she woke.

Despite that haste, he felt much more at ease with her today, and of course this was strange even to him; having kissed should have made everything awkward and weird and embarrassing, especially given the uncertainty he'd created over his own job.

But instead he felt… like a door had opened, or a hurdle had been crossed. He had no expectations anything would change between them, nor any belief that anything should; they were still partners and she was still with Spencer and the litany of reasons to remain detached was as long as it ever had been.

He did think, more definitely, that Karen Vick should separate them as part of her final decision regarding his ultimatum. He didn't want this, but it was logical. It was the right thing to do, for the sake of Juliet's career.

At eleven, most everyone seemed to be in attendance, speeches were made, Pamela and Susie cooed at the throng and lunch was eventually served.

Their fellow undercover cops agreed with them that no one was behaving unduly suspiciously, and Travanti had checked in to confirm that his team had found nothing unusual on the grounds to suggest any nefarious deeds were planned. He'd also added Nic Oswell to the watch list, but said there wasn't anything particularly of note in his history beyond a domestic disturbance call ten years earlier involving a garden gnome, his soon-to-be-ex-wife's plate glass living room window, and two cans of shaving cream.

So it might, Lassiter decided, turn out to be only a nice day in a park.

And that couldn't be right.

. . . .
. . .

"Why hasn't he asked you?"

Linda Darrow looked at Juliet in surprise, but understood the question and smiled wryly. "Inertia?"

Juliet really wanted to know. "Does he at least want to ask you?"

"I think so. We're… we're an open secret, I guess, at the station. But marrying would make it more formal, and Lenny's still not ready to go all-out public."

"How long have you been a couple?"

"Four years. We kept it at bay for three years before that, but eventually, you know, you just have to accept what is." She sipped her cola, giving Juliet a curious glance. "Do you know what is for you and your partner?"

Juliet wasn't going to pretend innocence. This woman knew, because she'd been there. She was there. "No, but I know what I'd like. It's complicated, though. He's complicated."

"They're all complicated, honey." Linda was grinning. "Or at least they think so." She leaned against the side of the bleachers. "I noticed how you danced last night. You fit."

She couldn't help but feel… dreamy, and didn't miss Linda's slight smirk. "Okay, so maybe it's not that complicated. He's been hurt before and he's got trust issues and you already know getting involved with a partner is tricky. Nothing's happened between us." Liar. "He's… skittish. And I've kept my distance." Tell her about last night, liar. Tell her about sitting on his chest and licking his lips and finding out how well he can kiss. Yeah. Tell her that. "And… I've got a boyfriend."

Linda whistled. "Uh, that kinda trumps him being complicated, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well, 'complicated' is a democratic sort of word." Juliet sighed. "I don't know what to do but I'm going to do something."

"That's a nicely vague place to start."

"Couples' darts!" bellowed John Pollard, one of the committee minions. "Come throw sharp pointy things over here!"

Gretchen, whom they'd met yesterday, hurried over to Juliet, gesturing to Carlton. "Come play against me and Jack. We're terrible so you'll probably win."

Carlton had been talking to Jack, who heard Gretchen's words and protested, "We are not terrible! I've only ever hit one person with a dart and it was because he leapt in front of the board!"

Gretchen rolled her eyes and told the women, "Yeah, those octogenarians, they're real jumpers. Come on!"

Carlton was amenable, so they went over to the dartboards—three of them, hung from trees at the edge of the park—and signed up for a turn against Gretchen and Jack.

Pollard came around to hand out the darts, and kept up a steady carny-esque patter the whole time. "Get your darts here, ladies and germs, relieve that stress, pretend it's your mother-in-law's face up there, crush the competition, let's go, let's go, let's go!"

When the three teams were ready, he continued, "Kiss for luck! C'mon, ladies, kiss your men; men, kiss your ladies; we can't have couples' darts without a kiss!"

Juliet, heretofore amused by his schtick, wondered how Carlton would handle it.

"No kiss for luck?" Pollard asked, standing in front of them with an expectant grin.

Juliet glanced at Carlton and saw the muscle twitching in his jaw—and covered his potential embarrassment with a bright, "He's got me!" as if a kiss were superfluous.

Pollard laughed, but to her surprise Carlton said with certainty, "Yes, I do."

When she looked at him again, he was smiling down at her, and his expression was bemused.

And then he bent his head to kiss her, hesitating only a second before their lips met. "For much more than darts," he murmured too softly for anyone else to hear.

It was only a brief kiss, but it was sweet and tingly and she wished the still-grinning Pollard were elsewhere. Not just to kiss Carlton again, but to ask him to give her a list of the 'much more.'

"That's more like it," Pollard declared, moving on.

"Yes, it is," Carlton agreed, but would not meet her gaze in the seconds before the competition began.

Yes, it was, she thought. Yes.

. . . .
. . .

They lost to the third couple, but did beat Gretchen and Jack, and retreated to the edge of the group of onlookers. Elsewhere, the minions were setting up for ice cream dessert and more speeches and awards by the committee before the football game started in an hour.

He heard her sigh slightly, and glanced at her. "You okay?"

She smiled. "I'm fine. It's such a pretty day and it's hard to believe someone wants to ruin it."

"Whackjobs don't care about the weather," he observed.

"Guess not."

"Let's define 'whackjob,'" said a disturbingly familiar voice, and both turned.

Lassiter stared at Spencer, feeling a coldness settle over him.

Juliet was stunned. "Shawn, what in the hell are you doing here?"

Spencer grinned like there was no reason at all for them to be surprised. "I came to see you. Both of you," he qualified.

"Leave immediately," Lassiter said flatly, biting back the much ruder things he wanted to say.

"How did you find us?" she demanded, and at the same time took his arm to draw him away from the others, tugging on Lassiter's arm as well.

Stopping a fair distance from the nearest gaggle of alumni, she dropped Spencer's arm, folded hers, and glared.

"Jules, come on—I'm psychic!"

"Oh, I will slap you."

Lassiter looked at her; she was serious. No hint of a smile on her normally sunny face.

"Look," Spencer began, "I really did come here to talk to you both. I figured, neutral ground, moderate tempers, nice day—it's all good, right? Neutral ground?" He paused. "Bueller?"

"We're undercover," she hissed. "That is not neutral ground. How did you know where we were?"

"Well, you didn't answer my calls, right?" Spencer's expression was one of apparent befuddlement. "Naturally I got a little worried, so I went over to your place and saw you'd left your phone there."

Juliet's arms got tighter around her chest. Lassiter wanted to reach out and pull them loose, but she might deck him. "My phone was on my bedside table. That means you went inside."

"You did give me a key," Spencer said, his tone just a touch patronizing.

"Shawn. If my car wasn't there and it was a workday, you had no reason to go into my apartment. At all."

He rushed past that detail. "Anyway, I went down to the station, since Lassie—Lassiter—wasn't answering his phone either."

It was true; Lassiter had ignored seven calls and six texts from Spencer since Wednesday.

"So?" she demanded. "No one at the station would have told you where we were. That's why it's called undercover, Shawn."

"I know, I know, but look. I was worried. My dad wouldn't tell me anything, Vick gave me one of those killer glares, and I—well, I looked in your day planner, that's all. And I figured out where you were." He added slyly, "Got here just in time to see the darts competition and a little kissy-face."

Lassiter tensed, but glanced at Juliet, who looked remarkably like an ice maiden. However, this ice maiden was also about to kill; he was all too aware of the Glock tucked in her handbag, since he himself was currently unarmed (Travanti having insisted there would be no way to properly conceal a weapon with the casual clothes he would be expected to wear).

"Spencer," he began, because no matter how much the clod deserved it, he couldn't let Juliet blow their cover by blowing her boyfriend away, "you'd better—"

But Juliet interrupted, blue-gray ice-eyes focused only on Spencer. "My day planner was locked in the top drawer. That means you either broke in, or at some point in the past stole and copied my desk key. I would really like to hear what stupid-ass excuse you come up with to justify either of those actions, Shawn. Really. Go on."

Spencer, with a swallow, obviously decided to skip ahead. "All right, look. I wanted to talk to you both at the same time."

"While we're undercover," she said with enough shards of glass mixed with the ice to kill a man.

Or a woman, Lassiter thought, to be fair. Maybe two women, if they were really thin. "You've said enough to me," he told Spencer, and started to walk away; what was going to happen didn't need him as witness.

"Wait, Las—what's his name?" Spencer hissed to Juliet.

"Jim," she hissed back.

"Jim!" he shouted, and Lassiter—seeing some of the alumni turn curiously—had no choice but to go back. "Okay, everyone calm down. I'm here to apologize. La—Jim, you're a great cop, you know I think so, you've saved my life more than once and Gus' too and you shouldn't worry what I think about your police skills."

Lassiter stared at him. "I don't care what you think, Spencer. I care what you say in public. I care how you undermine me at every opportunity. I care how you go out of your way to tell the world that the cop leading the investigation is incompetent. That's what I care about. What you think is totally irrelevant, and I can still kick your ass."

Juliet advanced on Spencer. "So can I."

A touch of his usual cockiness came back, and he said with a smirk, "Well, if I let you, yeah. And Jim, I wouldn't be so sure. I could grab on to your flappy ears and just—"

Detecting the motion before Spencer did, Lassiter caught Juliet's arm before she let fly with what surely would have been the mother of all slaps. Releasing her as soon as she nodded curtly, he said, "I'm done with you, Spencer," and walked away.

There was a picnic table about fifty feet away and he stopped, sitting on the bench and looking back toward Spencer and Juliet. Theirs was a very tense conversation, particularly on her side. Much gesticulation. Anyone watching would have had much to wonder about, and Lassiter was past caring. He could only hope everyone's attention was focused on the ice cream portion of the afternoon's entertainment, starting up off to his left.

He didn't know what it would take for her to finally reach her limit, but if he were Spencer, he'd be terrified about now. Then again, the self-proclaimed psychic was notoriously clueless about the women Lassiter had known to be in his life—but how in God's name could he be so stupid as to risk his relationship with Juliet? Juliet was—she was—she was the Holy Grail of women Lassiter had ever known personally. She was… God, she was beautiful and wonderful and sexy and a crack shot and he'd kill for a chance to—stop it, Lassiter.

She was approaching him now, and Spencer was walking away. His posture suggested things had not gone well, and Lassiter, unexpectedly, felt a twinge of pity for the idiot.

Juliet sat next to him on the bench, sighing. "And just like that, it ends."

He looked her over judiciously, not allowing his internal reaction to show. "You okay?"

"I will be." She faced him, turning on the bench. "I was really upset on Wednesday. You know I was. I was angry with him and terrified about your ultimatum to Vick and after you left I told Shawn I needed a break. I asked him to stay away for a while." She traced a knothole on the bench with one slightly-shaking finger. "I had never been so angry with him as I was that day. I thought, when he pushed my father back into my life, that he couldn't possibly ever do anything as thoughtless and… unthinkingly cruel as that… and that I would never again have a reason to be so angry and hurt and—" She stopped, taking a breath, and Lassiter wanted with sudden desperation to take her into his arms. Looking at him earnestly now, she said, "I'm so sorry, Carlton."

He was surprised. "What for?"

Juliet put her hand on his arm, sliding it down slowly to his wrist. "I'm sorry I didn't do more to prevent this situation."

Lassiter felt her sorrow as much as he heard it in her tone, and marveled that she'd be thinking about him after breaking up with her boyfriend. "O'Hara," he said gently, "It wasn't your battle to fight. I should have done more to prevent it. I should have cut him off at the knees the first time it happened."

"You were trying to be professional. The grownup."

"Not always," he reminded her. "I took more than a few shots right back, remember."

"Yeah, and sometimes I wanted to smack you both," she admitted with a little grin. "But overall you took the high road more often. And you shouldn't have had to."

"O'Hara, stop—" He hesitated. "Stop."

"And it was my battle," she insisted sadly. "I'm your partner. I should have been there at your side."

"You were. Every day you remained my partner, you were."

"Why would I want to work with anyone else?" Her eyes were bright and her tone a bit fierce. "Did you ever?"

Lassiter let out a breath slowly. "No. Never."

She lifted her cool hand to his cheek, and he felt warmth suffusing him at her touch. "Then understand how important you are to me. I told Shawn my partnership—my friendship—with you was the longest, most stable relationship of my life." She moved her hand gently, stirring him. "I didn't tell him it was also the most meaningful. The one I value most. The one it would kill me to lose." Her voice was a whisper now, or maybe it was just that his pounding heart was drowning her out.

"O'Hara," he murmured, because this could not be happening and using a low voice might help. "You're in shock."

"No, I'm not, and Mrs. Tackett is going to kiss her husband now." Before he could react, she'd slid closer. This kiss was not chaste. This one was sensual, unmistakably so, as her mouth fit to his and she melted her body to him.

Lassiter sighed, letting his should-know-better arms snake around her. His self-control took a big hit once he felt her tongue against his, and if they'd kissed like this over by the dartboards, they'd have been disqualified for indecent behavior.

She was the one to pull away, but not far, her forehead to his shoulder and her arms around his neck.

Pause.

"I know what you're thinking," she murmured.

Doubtful. Well, maybe, judging by her trembling against him.

"The case, the situation, Shawn," she continued, her head still down and her voice soft. Then she looked fully at him, her eyes with that same impassioned light. "But this is real, Carlton. This is separate. This is."

For a moment he didn't understand... but then he did. This is.

His heart twisted a bit with a feeling of ... uncertain... good... warmth... hope?... love.

He stared at her, and the look in her misty blue eyes did nothing to stop the hope.

Clearly another kiss was in order, but then things over by the ice cream social area started exploding.

. . . .

. . .