CHAPTER NINE

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The night manager who'd called him was at the desk when he strode in. Flashing his badge to get her full attention, he barked, "Lassiter, SBPD. Where's Detective O'Hara?"

"She's in her room. She—"

"Debrief me, and make it fast. Is she okay?"

"She says she is—"

"I don't care what she says. Is she okay? You have eyes. Presumably you've seen her."

The woman stood straight. Her tone was crisp. "Yes, I have eyes, and if I may remind you, sir, I called you."

Carlton took a breath. Would Juliet think he was being rude? Yes.

Very slowly, he thanked her and repeated his question.

Mollified, Rebecca whatever-her-name-was said, "It appears to me she'll have a bruise by morning, and there's a small cut. She refused any treatment but she seemed shaken and after the cruiser took Scotty away, I insisted she let me call someone."

"Scotty being the bottle-tosser? What's his story? Isn't your pool normally closed at this hour?"

"Of course. He's a former employee who apparently made a copy of his pool room key. He came in drunk and broken-hearted. He's only twenty-one, and he—"

"Do not," he said brusquely, "follow that with a statement about how he's just a good kid having a bad night. What room is Juliet in?"

"729. It's around the corner and down the—"

But he was already racing out the door.

He found the wing with her room, and not particularly caring whether he disturbed other guests, rapped sharply on the door.

Juliet opened it right away, turning in the same moment and going back to sit on the edge of the bed. "You didn't have to come."

Carlton let the door swing shut behind him. The room looked lived in, but in a Juliet-gentled way. Touches of her—the scent of her—were everywhere. A pale green robe draped over the arm of the sofa, a paperback novel on the floor by the bed. Cast-off heels by the closet alcove.

Sitting cross-legged, wearing a Miami Dolphins windbreaker over a tee and sweats, Juliet was both appealing and worn-out. She pulled one of the pillows into her lap to hug, and gave him a somewhat baleful look.

He approached, intent on investigating the bruise already visible on her jaw, but she jerked back.

"I'm fine."

"Says you," he retorted, and reached out again.

Juliet again jerked back. "I'm fine, Carlton. You didn't have to come."

He grabbed the chair from the small desk and put it in front of her. "Yes I did, and let me see you already."

But as he sat, she scrambled across the mattress away from him.

Impatiently, he caught her arm and held her firm. "Juliet, stop it." He dragged her back to the edge of the bed. "Stop it."

Oh, those dark blue eyes were mutinous, but this time she let him touch her bruised skin (smooth skin, cool and soft). The cut Rebecca mentioned was about half an inch long and no longer bleeding. He spotted an ice bucket and washcloth on the end table. Good girl.

"How much does it hurt?"

"It's fine. Go home."

Carlton scowled at her. "Knock it off. I get a call about my partner being injured, I'm there. Suck it up."

Her glare lessened… somewhat.

"Why are you taking it out on me anyway?" He hoped he sounded reasonable.

Didn't seem to matter; she was still cross. "Because I wasn't moonlighting, and I'm not overworked, and I don't want to be fussed over."

"Never said you were moonlighting, I only wanted you not to overextend yourself during a stressful time, and I'm not exactly a fuss-over-anyone kind of guy. What happened?"

Juliet hugged the pillow once more. "The manager called to see if I'd go check out a disturbance at the pool. I went down there and this kid—Scotty, she called him—was drunk and singing and trying to slow-dance with himself on the diving board."

She fell silent.

Carlton reached over for the ice bucket and washcloth, wrapping a few cubes in the fabric. His intent was to hold it to her skin, but she took it out of his hand and did it herself, obviously irritated again.

"I told you I'm fine." Her tone was snappish.

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. So what about the dancing boy?"

"He was suffering from unrequited love," she muttered.

I can relate.

"That and having lost his job." She tossed the washcloth back into the ice bucket.

Carlton looked at her steadily until she met his gaze, and damn if she wasn't still baleful. "And?"

"And I talked to him and nagged at him until he came off the board but then he lost it and threw his bottle at me and I took him down and that's all, Carlton. It's no big deal. You can go back home."

This torked him off. "What the hell is your problem? Nobody made me come here. I wanted to."

"I'm surprised," she mumbled into the pillow.

"You're surprised?" He got up abruptly. "Suck it."

Juliet's eyes widened. "Hey—"

"That's what Spencer would say, isn't it? And everything he says is okay with you, right?"

(Whispered in her ear during another damned hug.)

"I don't care what he says. I care what you say."

"Yeah? Well, I care what you say too, and hearing that crap come out of your mouth isn't on my top ten list." He stood against the wall, stung and angry.

"It's not crap!" Her dark blue glare was back, and it was fierce. "I'm just surprised you could clear your social calendar enough on a Friday night to spare me any time."

"My social calendar?" he sputtered. "Spare you the time?"

"Well? Seems like you've been juggling women left and right for the last few months and I'd hate to think I might have interrupted any crucial developments."

Carlton stared at this unfamiliar creature before him. She spoke English and sounded like Juliet, and she certainly looked like his beautiful Juliet, but she was an angry stranger to him tonight.

"What in the hell are you talking—"

She cut him off. "Go home already! Go home to the woman du jour. I don't need you here!"

Still he stared at her.

Finally, a purely male part of him stepped up to explain it to him clearly and patiently.

Lassiter, he was told, this woman is jealous.

Yes, you heard that right. Stay with me now. Jealous.

She is jealous because you've been seeing other women.

Women who aren't her.

Further, the explanation continued, this would imply she is interested in you for herself.

Which, he instantly concluded, was beyond ridiculously ludicrously stupendously unthinkably stupid.

"Do you even know who you're talking to?" He knew he sounded incredulous.

"Yeah, I know who I'm talking to," she shot back bitterly. "Casanova Lassiter."

It was in her eyes, in her posture, in her tone.

She was jealous.

And Carlton found that completely and utterly infuriating.

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. . . .

You have to get hold of yourself.

But Juliet was tired and her jaw hurt and he just looked so damned good all fresh-out-of-bed rumpled and why in the hell couldn't he want her instead of that platoon of other women?

Okay, valid question, but you have to work with this man. You keep pushing his buttons, Monday's going to be really really awkward.

Incredibly awkward, because right now the look in his crystal blue eyes was more than a bit frightening.

Juliet gathered herself. Whatever he was about to say, she probably deserved.

But she was still Extremely Vexed.

Carlton ground out, "Have you ever seen the movie Love Actually?"

Okay, wasn't expecting that.

"Remember the part where what's-his-name goes to Juliet's house—because of course her name had to be freaking Juliet—and stands in the street and holds up all those cards to tell her how he feels about her?"

Juliet was immobilized by his tone, his anger, and damn, those intensely blue eyes.

"You know the difference between you and her? She needs to eat a damned sandwich." He glared at her. "You're perfect."

Oh… what? … oh! … wait… recalculating… recalculating….

"You know the difference between me and him? He's a lazy-ass slacker. He said he'd love her until she was a desiccated mummy, but I'm the sorry son of a bitch who's going to love you until you're nothing but a handful of dust."

She was stunned, floored, gobsmacked and nothing but goosebumps.

RECALCULATING!

Carlton pressed on, "This whole summer. This whole stinking summer has been my 'enough now.' Trying to give up the fantasy. Trying to figure out how to have something else—someone else—since I was never in a million years ever going to have a shot with you. So you don't get to sit there insulting me, acting like you're jealous, dammit. You don't get to do that. Especially not if you're just on the rebound from Spencer. You understand?"

Her heart was beating frantically, trying to leap out of her chest and possibly into his.

"Wait—"

"No. Enough waiting. I'm done waiting. That's the point, Juliet. That's the damned point: no more damned waiting!"

She wailed, "I'm not on the rebound!"

"Doesn't look that way to me." Ice. All ice.

"I left him months ago! I left him the same weekend I kissed you. It just took me a while to get around to moving out."

"Yeah? You sure about that? I saw you with him," he said flatly. "I drove by the station last Friday night. You looked pretty comfortable with your arms wrapped around each other."

Oh no… no no no, not now, not that.

"And you were pretty chummy in the restaurant today. Not much of a breakup to the naked eye, O'Hara."

She felt frantic. This wasn't happening, but it was happening, and he was too close to the door—and incidentally a known flight risk—and there was too much to say. "I didn't even see it coming. I didn't want it. I didn't need it. And the hug last weekend—he asked for that. I couldn't say no but I got out of it as fast as I could."

Carlton's eyes were mesmerizing: deep blue and angry… and uncertain.

"If you ask for a hug," she whispered, "I will never let you go."

Instantly he bit out, "I am not asking you for one damned thing."

"Then I give it." She stood up and rushed at him and he didn't move back but neither did he return her embrace. His arms hung at his sides and his fists were clenched and he was breathing rapidly but he wasn't hugging her back.

It was like trying to maintain balance on an icy patch. Must stay upright. Must get to the other side. Must not lose this.

"Carlton," she pleaded.

He shook his head, all systems locking down.

She was losing him.

Juliet realized how long he must have had these feelings. How he had been so sure—was still sure—that they were for nothing.

He didn't think he could trust her with his heart, not now.

She whispered, "Please." She grasped his hands and brought them up to her lips for a kiss.

And in those blue, blue, tell-all eyes… she detected a trace of heat, a glittering glimpse of hope… and desire.

Suddenly she wanted to see that look in his eyes sometime when he was on top of her, in bed, driving into her, and overwhelming want for him shocked her into action.

Linking her arms behind his neck, Juliet pulled at him, dragging him closer as she backed up, so that when she fell onto the bed he was unable to break his own fall. His warm weight on her was delicious.

His gaze was now half-surprised, half-angry … but only briefly, as she pulled at him again, this time to drag his mouth down to meet hers.

The kiss was instantly searing, hot and insistent. Branding.

Just like the first time. Just like every fantasy. Just like Carlton.

But he pulled back before she could even think 'don't stop.'

He was tense. Not cold—but tense. "You seem pretty sure of yourself."

She tried to ease him, while simultaneously pressing up against his lean body. "I'm sure I want you."

"Wanting," he growled, "isn't the important thing."

Juliet got his meaning: desire alone could be fleeting. Keeping her arms locked around his neck, she said, "Let me tell you about my summer. While you were out boinking every woman in Santa Barbara—"

Carlton reared as far back as her grip would allow. "Son of a bitch! I was not boinking every woman in Santa Barbara! It was one time with Manda, nothing ever happened with Emily, and if Victoria had tried anything—"

She interrupted hotly, "You listen to me, Carlton Lassiter. If that woman left one mark on your body, I guarantee no one will ever find hers."

For a moment—just one, but it was precious—he smiled, but then his anger came back. "And what's it to you anyway? Have you been celibate since the night we kissed?"

A stab of pain—for the pain she'd caused him—made her falter.

He tried to roll off of her but she tightened her grip. "Carlton, please. Just listen."

Another growl, and he most definitely pressed back when she arched against him. "No! Dammit, I can't listen and be on top of you at the same time."

"Learn," she insisted. "It's where I want you to be anyway. Why are you still so pissed off?"

"Because you're pissing me off," he snapped. "I don't have any reason to think this is real. You've been attached to Spencer for way too long to just waltz out of that and over to me." With a greater effort, he broke free of her grip and sat up on the edge of the bed, disheveled and gorgeous and locking down.

Juliet sat cross-legged next to him, casting off her windbreaker and tossing it to the floor. His gaze raked her bare arms and it felt incredibly erotic.

Do. Not. Screw. This. Up.

"Listen to me. While you were trying to figure how to…"—it seemed so self-centered to say it—"…how to get over me, I was busy accepting that my relationship with Shawn was always doomed, and furthermore, the man I really wanted had been there the whole time. You."

Keep talking. Keep talking. Say all the words. Keep him here.

"You," she repeated. "My best friend and most excellent partner. Good and bad, better or worse, all of it. You, with your big blue eyes and your wonderful hands and God, I even love the way you smell and the way you look at me when I bring you your first cup of coffee for the day. You. Carlton. Please."

He was looking at the floor, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Juliet reached over and ran her fingers through his soft black and silver hair, and he sighed heavily.

"Seeing you having a life with those other women… without me… that just cemented everything into place."

"Your backup plan falling apart," he suggested, bitterness in each syllable.

"No!" She tugged on a lock of his hair and then leaned in to kiss his face, his jaw, wanting desperately to kiss him harder, more intimately, and all over. "So it took me longer than you, okay?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I've been so jealous I couldn't even recognize myself. I can't even begin to tell you how much I loathe those women. All of them. Victoria the most. No… Manda. Because Manda got you into bed, and I didn't."

Carlton rubbed his temples. "I am having a catacylsmic aneurysm."

"No you're not." She leaned in and kissed the temple he'd just rubbed, breathing in the scent of his warm skin. "I'm here now. I'm here forever, Carlton."

"Don't make promises." Still harsh. "Don't you dare promise me one thing."

"It's not a promise. It's a fact."

He turned his head and looked at her, blue eyes ablaze. "Here's a fact."

With that he pushed her back onto the bed, climbing on top of her, covering her body again fully with his. She barely had time to register the sensory pleasure of this pressure before he was kissing her again, his tongue invading her mouth and his hands tugging at her sweats, jerking them down.

She didn't try to speak—she certainly wasn't going to protest—as he yanked the sweats down over her hips, rising up over her only long enough to get her panties out of the way as well.

His fierce kisses did not abate. His hand moved between her legs and she struggled only to remove the impediment of clothing completely. His tongue battled hers and his fingers stroked her insistently and her orgasm was fast and hard.

It had been building for weeks, after all.

Carlton drew back to get his own pants unzipped and off and then he was inside her, with her legs locked around his hips as he thrust again and again until she was gone, just gone.

All his.

And after he was gone too, he collapsed on her heaving body, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder.

She had time to think—with happiness blazing up inside her—we are finally here.

But then he rolled off her, sat up on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.

"Sorry," he said raggedly. "I'm sorry."

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