Karen Rose - Have You Seen Her?

"Neat or on the rocks?" she asked.

"Neat," he answered and bent down to scratch Jean-Luc behind the ears. Jean-Luc responded by flipping to his back, presenting his belly for more scratching.

"Coming right up." She went back to the kitchen.

"Jenna, why do both your dogs have the same name tag?" he asked. He looked up when she approached him with his filled glass. "And why do both tags say 'Captain'?"

"You don't watch much television, do you'" Jenna responded, holding out his drink.

"Not anymore." He absently swished the scotch in the glass. "I used to enjoy old movies."

Jenna stowed that common interest away for a different day. "But not sci-fi?"

He looked appalled. "God, no."

Jenna chuckled. "Then I won't even ask if you're a Star Trek fan."

His mouth tipped up. "I admit I have watched a few reruns. I remember a green lady…"

Jenna tried to look severe. "The makeup artists must have used a year's supply of green paint on that woman," she said. "She showed an awful lot of green skin."

His smile went just a shade naughty and her heart skipped a beat. "Yeah," was all he said.

She hugged herself to keep from throwing her arms around him and narrowed her eyes in mock ire. "Forget about the green lady and think about the captain."

His brows bunched as he thought. "Jim, wasn't it?"

Jim perked up his ears.

"And, Next Generation !"

Steven shrugged.

"Counselor Troy, skintight uniforms?" she prompted and he grinned again.

"Matt really likes her," he said and she wanted to punch him.

"And her captain's name is…?"

He snapped his fingers and both dogs sat up. He looked impressed. "That was pretty good."

"You should see what they do when I pop the bubble wrap at Christmas," she said wryly and he threw back his head and laughed. And once again took her breath away.

"The bald guy was the second captain, right? He must have been Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc nuzzled his hand and Steven stroked the dog's soft muzzle. "Sucker guess," she said, her voice coming out a little huskier than she'd expected and he chuckled, making her feel ridiculously clever for having made him laugh. For making the worry go away for just a little while.

"So much for the power of my honed deductive reasoning," he said mildly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He cast his eyes aside, scanning the items covering her walls, and once again she felt the switch go click . He was gone again. She felt dismissed and wasn't sure if she should be taking it personally or not.

Maybe all cops did that. She wondered if he did that at home, llicking the switch, cutting off his kids. Then again, maybe it was just her. He'd been throwing mixed signals all night, by turns hot-she swallowed, remembering the restaurant-then… nothing. So maybe it was just her.

He was standing poised on the balls of his feet, hands in pockets, eyes looking everywhere but at her. She waited for him to "come back" or whatever it was he did when he flicked the switch back on, but there was only awkward silence.

She cleared her throat. "Can I take your coat, Steven?"

His eyes glanced toward her, then away again. "Sure. Thanks." He shrugged out of the tweed jacket and she wanted to groan. Yards of muscles stretched and moved and flexed under his crisp white shirt. Take off your shirt, too , was on the tip of her tongue.

She bit her tongue. Don't be stupid, Jenna . She hung his jacket on the back of a dining-room chair and returned to the kitchen without another word.

She hoped he'd follow her, but instead he released the clasp on his holster and draped it over his coat before wandering over to the wall where she kept her diplomas and awards. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Camel trousers that clung to the nicest ass she'd ever seen.

'"Duke for your bachelor's and UNC for your doctorate." he observed from the dining room. "And Maryland for your master's degree. Why did you go all the way up there for your master's?"

"My dad." The memory of her father put a chill on the heat. "My dad was sick and we lived in Maryland," she said, still remembering the day she got the call to come home. It was the worst day of her life. At the time. "He had a stroke shortly after I left for Duke. I wanted to come home then, but he wouldn't hear of it." She looked over her shoulder to find him still staring at the diploma, his hands still in his pockets. "I had a scholarship and Dad didn't want me to lose the opportunity. He had another stroke right before graduation, so one of my profs pulled some strings and I was able to get into Maryland's master's program at College Park at the last minute."

"What happened to him?" Steven asked, his voice softer, the edginess gone.

"He died before Christmas that year," she answered.

"I'm sorry," he said, and after a moment turned back to the frames cluttering her wall.

In the past she'd gone more for a tasteful print here and there, but when she'd moved into this apartment, days after Adam's death, the empty walls had mocked her. Cluttering the walls had made the place seem a little less empty. A little less… dead. At a minimum it provided distraction when she thought she would lose her mind from the loneliness. 'Thank you."

"Who's Charlie?" Steven asked. He was looking at a certificate Charlie had made for her birthday the year Adam was sick and no one had known what to say. But then-eight-year-old Charlotte Anne had managed where all the grown-ups failed. To the world's greatest aunt , she'd penned in purple crayon . I love you .

"My niece. Well, actually she's Adam's niece, but I'm still very close with his family. She's eleven. She made that for me when Adam was sick."

"So it's priceless," he said, and her heart clenched a little knowing he understood. He took a few steps to where her mounted patent awards hung. "You have patents," he said with surprise, changing the subject. He bent closer to read the fine print. "What did you do to get them?"

"Pharmaceutical research." She donned oven mitts and took the pizza out of the oven. "In a previous life," she added. Bending over, she searched her lower cupboard for a pizza cutter in the box of utensils she never used.

"I know it's down here somewhere," she muttered, clanging pots and pans. "Steven, this pizza is half supreme and half pepperoni," she said to the inside of the cupboard. "Which do you want?"

No answer met her ears. She put her hand on the pizza wheel and straightened, turning at the same time. "Stev-?"

The second syllable of his name evaporated from her tongue. He stood in the open doorway of the kitchen, filling it with the breadth of his shoulders. His chest heaved inside the starched white shirt as if every breath took superhuman effort.

Oh, my God.

He was… interested.

That look of his could melt solid steel. That look made her heart pound, her nipples hard, made every ounce of sensation pool between her thighs. One throbbing, aching mass of sensation.

He took a step forward and she met him halfway, taking the leap she'd wanted all evening, throwing her body against his, feeling every incredible inch of him pressed against her.

It was incredible. But it wasn't enough.

Then he was kissing her, finally kissing her, and she whimpered. His hands pulled her closer to him. His lips were hot and hard against her mouth.

Incredible, but not enough.

In one movement she opened her mouth beneath the pressure of his and slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. The oven mitt dropped to the floor behind him and she vaguely heard the clang of the pizza wheel against the linoleum as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, seeking, finding a mate as she again met him halfway. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, still closer. Her tongue tangling with his. Exploring. Learning. Harder. Deeper.