warmth from the extra-hot shower. He silently turned her wrist until her palm faced up.
Hero let him, transfixed by the broad planes and sharp angles of his face. All anger had fled his features, replaced by a curious emotion she could only describe as reverence. She closed her eyes. Blood pounded through her veins, concentrating in the wrist he held, pulsing beneath his long fingers.
“To answer your questions: Yes, they all matter. And yes, you can trust that I’ll protect you with my life.” Luca’s murmur slid across her senses like silk over flesh. His other hand enfolded hers, the pad of his thumb running next to the raised ridge permanently slashed through her palm.
She opened her eyes as goose bumps flared over her skin, tightening her nipples and speeding her breath. Hero tried not to think of how close the bedroom was. Or the kitchen table. Hell, the floor would do.
She glanced down. Maybe not the floor. Sex on the case files would be creepy. But the couch…
Luca abruptly released her hands. “I’ll clean these up and take them back to the office. You don’t need them here.”
“No.” Hero tucked her hair behind her ears and stood, taking her food with her. “You work. I have a kiln to load and some bowls to throw. I’ll just work down the hall.” Trying not to melt into a puddle of hormones , she added silently. “Just let me know how much I owe you for dinner.”
Luca smiled. “Don’t worry about it, it’s on the Bureau.”
Hero summoned a smile and turned her back, making her way to the studio down the hall from the kitchen that she planned on avoiding for the rest of the night.
The sincerity of Luca’s promise echoed through her.
I’ll protect you with my life…
She prayed it didn’t come to that.
Chapter Eight
“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”
~William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Luca hunched over his unfolded map of Portland and checked his watch. 9:30 a.m.
A caffeine headache pricked behind his eyelids and started to spread over his skull cap. He’d showered, shaved, manscaped, dressed, and read over the detailed pathology reports from Hero’s refrigerator all in the last hour and a half.
A muffled noise from the direction of her door suggested she was awake. Finally. He’d lain up half the night on that godforsaken couch listening to the white noise of her potter’s wheel and her off-key sing along to alternating indie rock and dub step remixes. Luca rubbed at his left eye. Somewhere between midnight and 2 am he’d developed a twitch.
Hero’s door opened and Luca twisted his head around as she lurched into the loft toward the kitchen.
“Good morn—”
She cut him off by lifting her hand and squinting a grumpy scowl at him as she passed. “Don’t talk. Coffee,” she croaked.
Luca shot a glance over the half-wall at the shiny piece of machinery with a myriad of knobs and leavers that seemed to be the centerpiece of her entire mocha-colored kitchen. Which was basically a coffee shrine.
With her eyes still swollen half-shut from not enough sleep and motions that were jerky and dangerous, Hero performed a ritual Luca found so fascinating, he forgot to be miffed that she’d just shushed him.
Besides. She just said the magic word.
Three different whole beans from separate local coffee houses mixed in the grinder while she took down two hand-made mugs, some sugar, a bag of stevia, and poured cold water into the machine.
Luca stood very slowly, careful to make no sudden movements as he meandered toward the aromatic kitchen in the most unthreatening way.
Hero unceremoniously dumped the coffee into the filter and pushed a button. That handled, she leaned her forehead against the cupboard above the sink and let out a groan worthy of the walking dead.
So little Miss Sunshine wasn’t a morning person. Good to know.
Luca popped his head around the door and when she
Hero let him, transfixed by the broad planes and sharp angles of his face. All anger had fled his features, replaced by a curious emotion she could only describe as reverence. She closed her eyes. Blood pounded through her veins, concentrating in the wrist he held, pulsing beneath his long fingers.
“To answer your questions: Yes, they all matter. And yes, you can trust that I’ll protect you with my life.” Luca’s murmur slid across her senses like silk over flesh. His other hand enfolded hers, the pad of his thumb running next to the raised ridge permanently slashed through her palm.
She opened her eyes as goose bumps flared over her skin, tightening her nipples and speeding her breath. Hero tried not to think of how close the bedroom was. Or the kitchen table. Hell, the floor would do.
She glanced down. Maybe not the floor. Sex on the case files would be creepy. But the couch…
Luca abruptly released her hands. “I’ll clean these up and take them back to the office. You don’t need them here.”
“No.” Hero tucked her hair behind her ears and stood, taking her food with her. “You work. I have a kiln to load and some bowls to throw. I’ll just work down the hall.” Trying not to melt into a puddle of hormones , she added silently. “Just let me know how much I owe you for dinner.”
Luca smiled. “Don’t worry about it, it’s on the Bureau.”
Hero summoned a smile and turned her back, making her way to the studio down the hall from the kitchen that she planned on avoiding for the rest of the night.
The sincerity of Luca’s promise echoed through her.
I’ll protect you with my life…
She prayed it didn’t come to that.
Chapter Eight
“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”
~William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Luca hunched over his unfolded map of Portland and checked his watch. 9:30 a.m.
A caffeine headache pricked behind his eyelids and started to spread over his skull cap. He’d showered, shaved, manscaped, dressed, and read over the detailed pathology reports from Hero’s refrigerator all in the last hour and a half.
A muffled noise from the direction of her door suggested she was awake. Finally. He’d lain up half the night on that godforsaken couch listening to the white noise of her potter’s wheel and her off-key sing along to alternating indie rock and dub step remixes. Luca rubbed at his left eye. Somewhere between midnight and 2 am he’d developed a twitch.
Hero’s door opened and Luca twisted his head around as she lurched into the loft toward the kitchen.
“Good morn—”
She cut him off by lifting her hand and squinting a grumpy scowl at him as she passed. “Don’t talk. Coffee,” she croaked.
Luca shot a glance over the half-wall at the shiny piece of machinery with a myriad of knobs and leavers that seemed to be the centerpiece of her entire mocha-colored kitchen. Which was basically a coffee shrine.
With her eyes still swollen half-shut from not enough sleep and motions that were jerky and dangerous, Hero performed a ritual Luca found so fascinating, he forgot to be miffed that she’d just shushed him.
Besides. She just said the magic word.
Three different whole beans from separate local coffee houses mixed in the grinder while she took down two hand-made mugs, some sugar, a bag of stevia, and poured cold water into the machine.
Luca stood very slowly, careful to make no sudden movements as he meandered toward the aromatic kitchen in the most unthreatening way.
Hero unceremoniously dumped the coffee into the filter and pushed a button. That handled, she leaned her forehead against the cupboard above the sink and let out a groan worthy of the walking dead.
So little Miss Sunshine wasn’t a morning person. Good to know.
Luca popped his head around the door and when she
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