Got Your Number

huge campus, but it seemed intimate when I was here. Like we were in a little world of our own. I didn't want to leave." She smiled. "I know that sounds silly. Did you go to college?"
    He nodded. "Criminology, Mississippi State. But I couldn't wait to get out and go to the police academy."
    "Do you like what you do?"
    "Most days I love what I do. And even on off days, I can't imagine anything I'd like better."
    "That must be nice, to have found your calling."
    "Haven't you found yours?"
    She shook her head. "I resigned from the Rescue program."
    "Why?"
    "Because I'm not convinced that my contribution is making a difference. I sort of feel like a stick in a bucket of water—if you took it out, no one would know it had ever been there."
    "Ah, but you're concentrating on how the water was affected, and not the stick."
    She digested his response, wondering how much psychology a person had to study to earn a criminology degree.
    "So you're free to live anywhere?" he asked, wisely changing the subject.
    "I suppose."
    She waited for his comment, but he offered none, which was even more vexing. They traveled in silence the rest of the way. Her limbs sang with fatigue, and her jaw throbbed where Cape had hit her. Beneath the blanket, her clothes and shoes were still wet. A permanent chill had invaded her skin. She needed to call Angora, but she decided to wait until morning and perhaps deliver the good news in person. For now, she just wanted to be horizontal for several hours.
    She started peeling off wet clothes before he even unlocked the hotel room door. He'd already seen everything she had at close range, so modesty seemed pointless. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She sat down on the bed to remove her socks, then unhooked her bra.
    He came back out and jerked his thumb toward the open door. "You go first." But his gaze moved over her unabashedly.
    Roxann stood and walked to the bathroom door, then turned. "We could share."
    He started walking, removing his clothing along the way. She slipped into the shower first, wincing against the stinging needles of the hot water against her cold skin. She washed her hair, dragging her nails over her scalp again and again. She'd rather gotten used to the extensions and was considering letting her hair grow. Angora would be pleased to know she had managed to erode Roxann's aversion to all things inherently feminine.
    The door to the glass enclosure opened and he stepped in behind her. With a thick white washcloth, he rubbed her arms, back, and stomach, massaging in the soothing lather of the evergreen soap. Slowly, slowly, she warmed beneath the pressure of his hands. Then she returned the favor, enjoying the way her touch affected him. When her fingers played over the scar on his lower shoulder, and the bruises on his legs, she was reminded of how close he'd come to dying tonight at the hands of Cape. And if he hadn't risked his life, who knew what Cape might have done to her to persuade her to talk?
    When Capistrano kissed her breasts, she didn't stop him. When his ministrations intensified, she didn't stop him. And when he lifted her against the tile wall to join their bodies, she opened her knees to receive him. He rocked his hips into hers, taking her breath away. They found their rhythm to the song of mingled moans and mutual words of encouragement. The exquisite synchronization of their stroke obliterated the anger and fear and frustration of the past several days. She came explosively, a full-body contraction that depleted him seconds later. They recovered slowly, then cut off the water, wrapped themselves in towels, and fell into bed.
    "That didn't mean anything," she murmured against his arm.
    "I know," he whispered back.
    Her dreams were profound and troubling, disjointed and colorful. Carl, Elise, Richard, Dee, Cape. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Worse—they'd found out her secret and were holding it over her head.
    Roxann started awake. The room was dark, but slivers of daylight shone between the drawn curtains. She turned her head to look at the clock—ten-thirty on Sunday morning. She would try to make it to evening mass at the university cathedral. She had plenty to be grateful for today.
    But meanwhile, she was wrapped around Capistrano like a beer huggy. Their towels had become tangled with the bedcovers, and she couldn't tell whose legs were whose. He sighed heavily, as if resetting his breathing tempo. Lifting her head, she took advantage