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4. TRUTH AND DARE

She came awake slowly—so slowly, it took a while for the rise and fall of his chest to register. Her instinct was to recoil, but the feel and scent of him was familiar.

When had she memorized his scent?

Her eyes focused on the clock across the room. Two twenty-three in the afternoon. Had she really slept for over six hours? Willing herself to be calm, she slowly lifted herself off of him. His eyes were open, and he was watching her, gauging her reaction to him. Judging from the look of him, he hadn't been awake long. She untangled herself from him and sat back, directly facing him, one knee crooked sideways toward the couch's back even as he raised up and scooted his hips back so that he sat sideways, mirroring her position, their bent legs only an inch apart. This Lisbon, watchful and wary, was different from the fragile and pliant Lisbon he had fallen asleep with. Not knowing exactly what approach to use with her now, he reached for her, lightly wrapping his fingers around her unbroken wrist, the tip of his thumb on her pulse.

"About what happened—"

She wrenched away from him defiantly.

"I'm not a suspect."

"I know. I didn't mean to treat you like one."

His voice was low and steady, his gaze direct and unblinking. When he reached out and laid two fingertips on her knee, she batted his hand away angrily.

"I'm not a mark either."

He expected her to stand and storm away, but she sat, watching him, defying him to get it right. He looked away, searching for the right words to say. He put on his earnest face. No, that wasn't right. He took off his mask. She would know. She had seen him exposed to her before. He thought if he talked about a subject he'd never broached, something about which she'd never dared ask, about which he would never dare speak, it would draw her out. One hard truth for another. It was extreme, but he believed it was warranted. He took a deep, almost pained breath.

"When my wife and daughter died—"

She rose so suddenly it almost threw him off balance. She moved to the window, her arms folded around herself, feet planted shoulders-width apart. She was looking out, but he could tell she wasn't really seeing anything.

"Get out."

She had seen it as a ploy. Did she really think he was that low? He had to admit he'd only ever given her good reason to.

Wait.

He'd been a friend. He'd been part of her "family"—even when he didn't want to be. There had been plenty of times he'd been up front with her, helped her, watched out for her. He had bailed her out of trouble as often as he'd plunged her headlong into it. He hadn't failed her completely. He was the one who had called her—come looking for her. He may have given her a reason to think so little of him, but that didn't give her the right. Injury was added to the insult, and fueled by the combination of unresolved fear for her and frustration at not knowing what to do, a heated and irrational anger sparked and surged through him. Grace said she didn't care what he did. He didn't care either.

He moved more at her than toward her, spinning her around to face him, pushing her against the wall, grasping her forearms and pinning them on either side of her head.

"You know I can hurt you." She spat angrily.

"You're injured and weak. Odds are in my favor." He snarled back. He pushed his body full against hers. She struggled against him, her defiant eyes never leaving his sneering ones. He knew it was cruel in light of her recent ordeal, and part of him couldn't believe he had resorted to brute force. But he was at a loss and he was tired of her angry, super-cop crap. She's waffled on the trust issue for years. She doesn't then she does then she doesn't. I guess we'll see now.

Her movements slowed and decreased in force. There it was again—the injured, frightened bird, fluttering against him before she stopped struggling altogether. They both stilled. Now her gaze wouldn't move above his chest, and his was caught on the wall above her head. His breath ghosted across her forehead. She turned away and closed her eyes. His breathing was shallow—he couldn't seem to fill his lungs. His parted lips moved along her hairline down the side of her face barely skimming her skin. When they reached her jaw, her eyes opened in slits and slid sideways at him.

"This is low. Even for you."

He pushed away from her so angry he almost wanted to strike her. She looked at him like she fully expected him to. Her arms still hung against the wall where he had held them, but when a look of triumph shone in her eyes, he knew he had to get away from her before he lost control altogether.

He strode to the door and wrenched it open pausing on the threshold not bothering to look back at her. The sigh his body forced out of him was as ragged as his voice.

"Does Thai sound good?"

"Yes." Her voice was raw.

"I'll be back at 6." That almost sounded normal.

"Yes." Now she just sounded small.

"Lock the door. And set the alarm."

He stepped out and pulled the door shut without waiting for her response. As he stalked away, he heard the sounds of her compliance. He unlocked his car door and lowered himself into the seat, pulling the door shut, sealing himself off from the world around him. Grasping the steering wheel, he leaned his head on it, willing his heart to stop pounding. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering the same thing Lisbon did as she collapsed on her couch.

"What the hell just happened?"