Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

He gave a minute shrug, a silent and?

“You really think-”

He put a finger to her lips. “Fixing things is what I do, right?”

She looked down the street. Owen had really gone. In spite of all his suspicion these past days, he’d left his vulnerable brother here in her company. In her care. “Hey,” she said suddenly, more than ready for a change of subject. “How about Atilio?”

“Back with his family.” Dave relaxed a little, as though the conversation had been a little intense for him, too. “They were recent immigrants, their papers still in transition. Longsford sent some men their way to suggest that under the circumstances, the authorities would take all their children away and reconsider their immigrant status.” He snorted, shaking his head in a gingerly fashion. “But Atilio hadn’t been at the dry-ice place for long. Longsford never had the chance to-”

“Good,” Karin interrupted him. She added more pensively, “I saw the newspapers. That broken concrete…I should have known it meant something. They’ve found all the boys now?”

“All of them,” Dave said, and closed his eyes, tightening his mouth on pain. His head or his heart, she wasn’t sure. He opened them with obvious determination. In spite of his paleness, he gently bumped her shoulder with his own. “What’s with your wrist?”

She looked down at it. “Longsford’s guy smashed my cast. I didn’t figure it was safe to go to any of the city hospitals. If you’d-well, if you’d told them-”

“Nothing,” he said. “They don’t even know you were there. Atilio kept your secret. But I know you were there. Among other things, I remember an excellent kiss. I remember screaming, and then this guy in the door was coming for you…” He shook his head, his gaze going vague as he hunted for more. “No, that’s as good as it gets.”

“You played the hero,” she said, and laughed at his frankly skeptical look. “No, seriously. It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“It could be what you do, too.”

She laughed, loudly enough that he winced. “Sorry,” she told him, shifting her aching wrist to a more protected position-a gesture that hid her sudden longing. The rush of being the rescuer had been so much more intense than the jazz of any scam. The rush of doing it with Dave…yow. But she shook her head. “You’ve forgotten which side of the law I’m on.”

“Were on.” He said it firmly. “We’ll take care of the warrant. And after that, what’s the problem? I liked working with you. I want to do it some more. I’m the black-and-white guy, you’re the creative gray. We’ve got it all covered.”

“Creative.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not a term that’s been applied to me before.”

“Let’s go inside. Talk about it.”

“Trying to lure me into your lair?” she asked, but her words were teasing and her hand ached to hold his.

“My butt’s cold,” he said. “I’m wounded. I want the nice soft couch. I want you on the nice soft couch next to me, telling me that you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about thinking about it,” she corrected him. “There’s a lot about my life to straighten out first.” But she stood, and she extended her good hand to help him up. “Come on. Let’s go sniff some Cardhu together.”

He took her hand, but his lean face with its wide jaw and lurking early smile lines reflected nothing but confusion as she hauled him to his feet. “Sniff it? Is this something new we came up with that I don’t remember, or-”

She held the screen door open so he could fumble with the key and unlock the front door, and gestured at him. “You, head injury. Me, not drinking without you. That leaves sniffing. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at it this last week.”

“I’m touched. You waited.” He opened the door and made it just exactly as far as the couch.

She shrugged, and gave him a wicked grin. “Or maybe I just wasn’t sure you hadn’t drugged it.”

He regarded her with horror. “Drug my Cardhu?”

No. Not Dave. Not the Cardhu. Her grin turned genuine, enough so he realized he’d been had. She dropped his overnight bag at the side of the couch. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll get the flask. We can sniff a toast.”

He still looked bemused when she pulled the flask from her courier bag, uncapping it. “Sniffing requires a silent toast,” she told him, sitting down beside him. “Like this.” She closed her eyes, dared to hope that Dave was right about clearing her name, and toasted their chances. Then she moved the flask under her nose, breathing deeply of the peaty essence of scotch. When her sinuses reached the stinging point, she opened her eyes and passed the flask over. Dave imitated her thoughtful silence and was purely a natural at the scotch-sniffing.

And when he opened his eyes and caught her gaze, she had no question about his silent toast. About his beliefs…or about his wants.

Good thing the couch was comfortable.