Sacred Sins

the sheet beside her.
    He'd stayed with her and kept the bargain. They had rolled and tossed and loved each other into the night until exhausted sleep had been the only alternative. No questions, no words, and the only answer had been what they had both needed. Each other and oblivion. He'd needed that too. She'd understood that he'd needed a few hours without tension, without puzzles, without responsibilities.
    Now it was morning, and each had a job to face.
    Tess rose, then slipped into the kimono that had been discarded onto the floor. She wanted a shower, a long, hot one, but she wanted the coffee more.
    She found Ben in the little el of her dining room, with a map of the city, a tangle of notes, and her own yellow tablet spread over the table. “Good morning.”
    “Hi.” He said it absently, then glanced up and focused. Though he smiled, she saw that his eyes were shadowed and intense as they studied her face. “Hi,” he repeated. “I was hoping you'd sleep longer.”
    “It's after seven.”
    “It's Sunday,” he reminded her, then rose as if to separate her from what he was doing at the table. “Hungry?”
    “Are you cooking?”
    “Are you squeamish?”
    “Not particularly.”
    “Then you can probably stomach one of my omelettes. Game?”

    “Yeah, I'm game.” She went with him into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. From the look of the pot, he'd already had several. “Have you been up long?”
    “Little while. How often do you shop for food?”
    She glanced behind him, into the now open refrigerator. “When my back's to the wall.”
    “Consider it there.” He pulled out a carton of eggs that was less than half full and a miserly chunk of cheddar. “We can still manage the omelettes. Just.”
    “I've got an omelette pan. Second shelf in the cabinet to your right.”
    He sent her a mild, pitying glance. “All you need's a hot skillet and a light hand.”
    “I stand corrected.”
    She sipped coffee while he cooked. Impressive, she thought, and certainly better than she could do with gourmet utensils and a detailed recipe in front of her. Interested, she leaned over his shoulder and earned a silent stare. Tess split an English muffin, popped it in the toaster, and left the rest up to him.
    “It's good,” she decided when they sat at the table and she'd swallowed the first bite. “I'm pretty pathetic in the kitchen, which is why I don't keep a lot of food around that obliges me to deal with it.”
    He shoveled into his own with the easy enthusiasm of a man who considered food one of life's top physical pleasures. “Living alone's supposed to make you self-sufficient.”
    “But it doesn't perform miracles.” He cooked, kept a tidy apartment, was obviously proficient at his job, and apparently had little trouble with women. Tess topped off her coffee and wondered why she was more tense now than when she'd gone to bed with him.

    Because she wasn't as handy with men as he was with women. And because, she thought, she wasn't in the habit of sharing a casual breakfast after a frantic night of sex. Her first affair had been in college. A disaster. Now she was nearly thirty and had kept her relationships with men carefully in the safe zone. The occasional side trip had been pleasant but unimportant. Until now.
    “Apparently you're self-sufficient.”
    “You like to eat, you learn how to cook.” He moved his shoulders. “I like to eat.”
    “You've never married?”
    “What? No.” He swallowed hard, then reached for his half of the muffin. “It tends to get in the way of—”
    “Philandering?”
    “Among other things.” He grinned at her. “You butter a great muffin.”
    “Yes, that's true. I'd say another reason you've never … let's say, settled is that your work comes first.” She glanced at the papers he'd pushed to the end of the table. “Police work would be demanding, time-consuming, and dangerous.”
    “The first two anyway. Homicide's sort of the executive end. Desk work, puzzle work.”
    “Executive,” she murmured, remembering very clearly the ease with which he had once strapped on his gun.
    “Most of the guys wear suits.” He'd nearly polished off his omelette and was already wondering if he could talk Tess out of some of hers. “Generally, you come in after the deed's been done and then put pieces together. You talk to people, make phone calls, push paper.”
    “Is that how you got that scar?” Tess scooted the rest of her omelette around her plate.