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partner, then grabbed another ball and dribbled off toward the hoop.
Grant turned back, his eyes locking with Sky’s. He had never seen her with her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Never gazed into the stark blueness of her eyes without looking through the lenses of her glasses. Never glimpsed her in shorts with her bare legs long and tanned and soft. It hit him then, that if he could get his hands on that barrier she’d put between them months ago, he’d rip it apart.
He let out a slow breath against the realization. Barrier or no barrier, he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet.
“Come on, Milano. Some scumbag might knock me on my butt someday. Maybe if you gave me some pointers—”
“You’re not a recruit. You’re trained, and you’ve worked the street. You know how to move.”
“True. But I might be rusty.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have a rusty move in your body, Pierce.” She glanced in the direction of the clock bolted high on the wall, then looped the towel around her neck. “I’ve got two minutes to turn in my class-evaluation sheets before the office closes.”
Lips pursed, Grant studied the graceful swing of her hips as she turned and walked away. When he heard an appreciative grunt, he shifted his gaze. Both patrol cops were dribbling their basketballs in place, their gazes plastered on Sky’s trim bottom. The familiar tightness that settled deep inside Grant had him acknowledging that his desire for her was unchanged, as sharp as ever. Maybe sharper.
“Great,” he muttered, shoving his fingers through his hair. Offhand, he could think of about six women who’d be happy to spend time in his company. What the hell kind of idiot was he, trying to steal a few extra minutes with a woman who had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him? He turned to go, then remembered what had brought him to the Training Center in the first place: Sky’s phone call.
She’d just cleared the opposite side of the mat when he jogged up behind her. Reaching, he snagged her shoulder. “What did you call—”
Before he could even react, she’d jerked his arm almost out of the socket and flipped him. For a breathless second, Grant had the sensation of flying. Then he landed hard, flat on his back.
The catcalls and whistles from the two patrol cops echoed off the gym’s cement block walls and high ceiling.
“Oh, God.” Sky crouched, patting his cheek with her fingertips. “Grant, are you okay?”
He shoved up on his elbows and blinked away stars. “Damn, Milano.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned closer, her eyes anxious as she peered at his face. Her dark hair swept forward, bringing her maddening soft scent into his lungs. “It was reflex, Grant. I just reacted to your touch, that’s all.”
He gave her a dark look. “Yeah. Thanks for saying that. I feel a whole lot better now.”
Chapter 3
“I’m sorry I flipped you,” Sky said again as she and Grant walked out of the gym into air that sat still and gauzy and full of early-evening humidity.
“Yeah.”
As they walked along the sidewalk toward the Training Center’s parking lot, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He looked irritated, and he carried his suit coat gripped so tight in one fist that it would take a heavy steaming to get the wrinkles out. She knew his present mood wasn’t a result of her having tossed him on his butt in front of the two patrol cops. What she’d said after she’d flipped him had been the thing that had turned his gray eyes the color of rolling storm clouds.
I just reacted to your touch, that’s all.
Sky stifled a groan. How could she have been so insensitive? Beneath her baggy T-shirt, dampness pooled between her breasts; nerves had her switching her gym bag from one hand to the other. After Grant had regained his feet, he’d informed her in a voice void of emotion that he’d come there because she’d called him. They obviously had business to discuss. Would she please give him a few minutes so they could just get their damn business out of the way?
Business. No way did business have anything to do with the fact that his presence in the gym had unsettled her far more than she’d cared to admit. Or, that when he’d slid off his suit coat, the sight of his formidable shoulders and chest beneath his starched white shirt had stirred something dark and dangerous low in her belly. There had been no way—no way—she would have accepted his challenge of going one-on-one and possibly winding up rolling around with him on the padded mat, their legs and arms locked in an intimate tangle. The image of them doing just that rose up with erotic insistence, and for a moment she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.
Business, she reminded herself, forcing away the image. She had the DNA results from the OSBI, and she and Grant had business to discuss. That was what they’d do, then they’d both go back to their own lives, just as they had for the past six months.
The knot in her chest tightened at the thought. Fine, they’d go their separate ways, but first she had to make amends for tossing him to the ground. She had hurt much more than Grant’s pride, and she needed to make him understand why.
His long strides took him around a corner of the building, and she had to double-step to keep up. Just ahead, their cars sat side by side; his sleek red Porsche with its convertible top down made her gray Blazer look like a hulking mammoth. It reminded her of the recruit Johansen.
“Grant, I want to tell you why I reacted—”
“Dammit, I know why.”
Eyes blazing, he wheeled on her so fast, she collided into his chest. For a split second she had the sensation of crashing against steel. Her gym bag slid from her hand, landed with a soft plop on the toe of her tennis shoe. “Some recruit off the street can touch you, but I can’t.” He made no move to steady her as she shook the gym bag off her foot and took an uneven backward step. “For you, my touch is poison.”
“It had nothing to do with you.” She knew he was talking about more than what had just happened in the gym. He was also addressing the night she’d literally fallen apart in his arms, but she didn’t trust herself right now to discuss how she’d reacted then.
“Nothing to do with me?” He lobbed his suit coat into the Porsche’s passenger seat. When he turned back, his expression had settled into cop mode, slightly remote, definitely cynical. “I didn’t notice anybody else around, Milano.”
“Not you specifically,” she amended. “I’d have reacted the same with anyone who came up from behind me like that.”
He jerked at his tie, flicked open the top button on his shirt. “You knew I was behind you.”
“Not that close. I’d walked away. I didn’t know you’d followed. The patrol cops were dribbling basketballs. I didn’t hear you. Didn’t know you’d gotten close enough to…” She closed her eyes. The heat seeping beneath her skin had nothing to do with the evening’s thick humidity. “The night I was raped, that’s how he got me. From behind.”
“Damn,” Grant said quietly as regret slid into his eyes. “Sky—”
“I didn’t know any self-defense then,” she hurried on, afraid if she stopped she’d be unable to get out what she needed to say. “He was tall and powerful and he had a knife. I couldn’t…get away.” Her voice wavered, and she dragged in steamy air that cloyed in her lungs. Her hands trembled and she jammed them into the pockets of her shorts. Six months ago—before she’d found the Monday night group and Dr. Mirren—telling Grant even that much had been impossible for her. Now it was just simple agony. “He came from behind and grabbed me. He…knew how to rape….”
“Sky.” Eyes eloquent, Grant reached a hand toward her cheek, then stopped. His mouth tightened; she saw a muscle tic in his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said, and let his hand drop. “So sorry.”
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