Jo Leigh - Lying in Bed

Jesus. A whole week of foreplay and no main event.

What the hell was it going to take to get him to stop thinking about her as anything more than a fellow agent? His gaze moved from her smile to the red blouse to her thigh-hugging trousers. The outfit made everything worse. At work, in her nonfitted suits she wore sensible shoes with small heels. Something she could run in. Today, the heels on her sandals had to be five inches. She was tall without them, but standing next to him like this, their eyes were almost level, and he was six-one. There was no way he could fool his brain into seeing her as anything but stunning. Beyond tempting. Sexy.

“Six couples,” she said.

He nodded, then turned away, checking out the rest of the room. Two exits, a bank of closed windows. The carpet was industrial, the tables in the back standard and there were two whiteboards, a blackboard and too many posters of greeting card couples on the walls.

The long tables with chairs had clipboards in front of each of twelve seats, along with the ubiquitous seminar water carafes and glasses.

“There’s Delilah,” Angie said, bringing Ryan’s attention back to her. She nodded toward a tall, attractive woman walking up to the whiteboard. Delilah had blond hair that reached past her shoulders. A nicely proportioned body and a broad smile completed the very-professional package.

“Older than her brochure picture.”

“Not by much,” Angie said, and they were both speaking softly, moving slightly away from a couple who hovered nearby. “She’s pretty.”

“Damn relaxed.”

“She would be. This is old hat for her.”

Delilah wore dark slacks and a sensible button-down white shirt. She would have looked at home in any business setting, and that surprised him. “I pictured flowing robes and too many flowers.”

“I guess they left that up to Ira,” Angie said, scoping out the tall, slender male therapist who’d just walked in.

“An aloha shirt?” Ryan watched Ira Bridges approach Delilah and put his hand on the small of her back. His salt-and-pepper hair brushed against his shoulders. Garish flowers covered the pale, roomy shirt. Ryan wouldn’t be surprised to find he wore a ankh necklace or an infinity bracelet. “Tell me he’s not wearing flip-flops.”

Angie leaned just enough to the left so she could tell. “He is.”

Ryan sighed. “They’re going to play that pan flute music, aren’t they? I hate the pan flute.”

Angie poked him in the side with her elbow, dislodging his train of thought. It didn’t hurt at all. In fact, it was more of a gentle nudge but it had been enough to remind him that her skin was slightly tan and looked like silk.

He held his breath, afraid to move. She’d never have done that back in L.A. under any circumstances. Angie would have cleared her throat, turned toward him, said something, but she wouldn’t have touched him like that. Angie Ebsen not only would, but should, and the touching would soon be a hell of a lot more intimate than an elbow to the ribs.

Another couple entered the room, which was what Angie had been alerting him to in the first place. He had no doubt he would learn more about these ten strangers than he wanted to. So he smiled as he cataloged his first impressions of the group. All of them were nervous and most of them held on to each other in some way because their partner was familiar and safe.

He reached with his left hand and found Angie’s right. She jerked at the initial touch, but he didn’t look at her. He kept his own slightly nervous smile on his face, and sure enough, she caught on and slipped her hand into his.

And he’d thought the elbow was memorable. God only knew what it was going to be like when they had to hug or kiss or he had to rub warm oil into her lush, lean body….

He cursed Jeannie and the entire legal system for putting him in this ridiculous position, and then he cut that nonsense straight out because Ryan Ebsen would be sizing up the men in the room and checking out the wives. Special Agent Vail would be looking for the other two staff members, and sizing up Delilah and Ira.

Neither of them would have an elevated heart rate because he was holding Angie’s hand.

“Come in, come in.” Ira Bridges welcomed the newcomers as he headed for the door. Delilah had written: Intimate relationships satisfy our universal need to belong and the need to be cared for in a clean, easy to read cursive on the whiteboard.

“There are nametags on the end of the tables,” Ira continued, his voice friendly, his smile wide and earnest. “Find a seat and please fill out the three-page questionnaire so we can get that out of the way. When you’re finished, come into the center of the room and find a spot … on the floor.” Ira beamed at the surprised murmur. “That’s right. Surprise is a wonderful part of intimacy, and it’s also a large part of this week, so keep on your toes.”

Ryan leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’m going to grab us seats.”

She jerked sharply, caught off guard, her eyes wide and her lips parted. He wanted to apologize but as soon as she settled, he wanted to surprise her again.

“I’ll get the nametags,” she said, then hurried away, glancing back at him once.

He walked more sedately to his chosen seat then stared at the papers in front of him without seeing a word. The last time he remembered touching Angie on purpose had been a brush of fingers across the back of her hand. He’d wanted her then, but it had been at the party, and she’d been dressed as Scully, and though he’d never tell a soul living or dead, one of the main reasons he’d gone into the Bureau was because of Dana Scully and the X-Files .

Not the best thing to think about when there was so much on the line. The sting, the convictions, the promotion. After pouring himself a glass of ice water and downing half the drink in one go, Ryan started filling out the paperwork on the clipboard.

The first page looked like something he’d find at a doctor’s office. Some overarching medical issues, which were easily dismissed, some personal info about family and work and hobbies and that kind of crap. Since they were using their own basic backgrounds, he was able to fill in the blanks in short order. He kept checking the still-open door, glad to have his mind occupied.

“Here.” Angie dropped his nametag, already filled out, in front of him. When she sat, she shifted the chair closer to his.

He didn’t acknowledge the tag, just slapped the sticky side to his shirt. Then he flipped to the second page of the questionnaire. “Shit,” he said, under his breath.

“What?”

“Page two.”

Angie checked out the material before she looked at him. “What’s the problem?”

“You need to go first. Just make sure I can see your answers.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment as she studied him, but she relaxed quickly with a nod. He went back and fiddled with page one while she attacked the intimacy portion of the opening challenge.

The first question alone had stopped him in his tracks.

I think of my partner lovingly many times a day .

He doubted he’d ever thought lovingly of anyone. Not that he didn’t have good thoughts about people, especially about women, but lovingly? “What does that first question even mean?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“We’re in love,” she said. “You’d think of me lovingly a lot.”

Right. They were in love. If anything, he should go overboard on this questionnaire. Still, he’d take his cues from Angie, follow her lead. Make it appear that it was love with a background note of desperation, that brought them to this retreat, desperation with a mask of love that made them want to put in the effort. No sweat as a concept, but he hadn’t really thought through the language issue.