Love Can Be Murder

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 of the opportunity to study him.
    His profile remained rigid, even in repose. But his brow was more relaxed and his jaw unclenched, shaving years from his face. His beard, darker than his auburn hair, hovered just below the surface of his skin. His tousled hair gave him a boyish appearance, and she could easily imagine him at twenty-five, eighteen, twelve, six years old.
    Capistrano stirred and his arm tightened around her involuntarily. Not an unpleasant feeling. His head was propped up on two pillows, and the sheet rode down to his waist. Massive shoulders and arms, impressive pecs, and a narrow waist. She decided she liked the hairy chest after all—it was...insulating. His morning call tented the sheet and sent a twinge to her thighs.
    This was the kind of man, she realized, that incited career women to trade in their navy pumps for a breast pump—being around a man so male couldn't help but make you feel vigorously female. Her ovaries were probably straining against her birth control at this very moment.
    Across the room, a phone pealed—his cell phone. Since he was immediately awake and across the room in three strides, she imagined he'd been awakened similarly many times before.
    "Yeah?" he said, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. His hair stuck out at odd angles. Seconds later, he smiled—whoever was on the other end was someone he was glad to hear from. "Oh, hi, Betty...no, it's fine. Just a late night is all."
    She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed and covered herself with a towel. Her limbs ached.
    "Really? That's great. I'm headed home today, so I'll stop by tomorrow...sure thing, see you then." He disconnected the call, his sleepy face wreathed in smiles. "That was my partner's wife—Lafferty came out of the coma this morning. The doctors say he has a good chance of a full recovery."
    Roxann's smile mirrored his. "That is good news." And a fitting close to their time together. From the rueful look on his face, she knew he was thinki ng the same thing.
    "I thought I'd go to the hospital early this morning to see Angora," she said with forced animation. "And I