As plans go, this one wasn't great. It wasn't even so-so. Actually, the word disaster comes to mind. And yet somehow, Jim Ellison, a man known for his less than trusting nature, fell for it.
"Come see this place I'm checking out for Mom."
"Naomi's coming to town?"
"Yeah, but, see, this time she's staying at a hotel. Better for everyone, right?"
"Sandburg, your mom doesn't have to stay in a hotel as long as she lays back on the herb-burning crap."
"Hey, that's nice, but this is what she wants." Or will want, when she decides it's finally good karma to step foot in Cascade again. I'd make sure she saw it that way, anyway. "I promised her I'd give it a feng shui once over."
He looked like he was giving the idea too much thought, so I threw in an offer for lunch at a little Japanese-Latin American barbecue place I was dying to try and he was in.
It was no consolation that this wasn't my idea—it was Simon's, although he'd never know I'd used it for the purpose of taking Jim Ellison into that uncharted territory known as his feelings. In fact, I'm pretty sure Simon would either laugh his ass off or send me to the department shrink if he ever found out. But they didn't make the man captain because he's a nifty dresser; he'd noticed I'd been preoccupied and had called me into his office for a little mano a mano chat that went something like this:
"Sandburg, whatever it is that's flown up your butt, find a pair of tweezers and a mirror and get it out. You need to be sharp out in the field and right now, I'm not sure I'd trust you with my niece's missing kitten, let alone a high profile murder case."
"Fluffy's missing? Gee, Simon, that sucks. Do you need help looking for him, because I have some free time—"
Insert trademark Simon Banks glare here. I countered with my "the angels are on my side" expression, but he wasn't impressed.
"Stop trying to change the subject. Get your act together before Ellison notices and comes complaining to me. You know we're all still on thin ice with the brass—let's not give them anything to build a case on."
"Yeah, well," I muttered. I was practically scuffing my toe like an eight-year-old, I was so embarrassed. "Easier said than done, man."
"Sandburg." Simon's tone softened noticeably. "After the year you've had, there can't be a hell of a lot of things that intimidate you. Whatever it is, take it by the horns and work it out. Why don't you start by talking to your partner?"
Talk to Jim—yeah, that was rich. It was because of Jim that I'd been brooding like a hero in a Mexican soap opera since Saturday night, the night he almost—I mean I almost—. Anyway, I'd backed out of Simon's office with one idea—if I was going to have a discussion with my partner about what nearly happened after the birthday party, then I wanted it away from the scene of the almost-crime.
The question was—where? Parks were out; an intimate conversation doesn't work when both parties were breathless from a run on the trails. Work was even less of a possibility—no privacy, for one thing, and for another, if Jim was going to get well and truly p.o.'d, he'd also be distracted and that is not a good thing in our line of work.
So that's why we were here at the Rainier Inn, in their third best guest room, me standing at the foot of a king-sized bed that was now attached to my partner via one shiny set of handcuffs.
"If you don't give me that key in the next ten seconds, I'm going to make Sandburg pudding when I get free."
Whoa. That was one I hadn't heard before. I cleared my throat and summoned up my best evil grin.
"Uh, Jim, don't you think that's incentive for me to not give you the key?"
Jim matched my smile with a more feral version of his own. "On the other hand, the longer it takes to unlock these cuffs, the longer I have to plan my retaliation."
I knew that tone and repressed a shiver. When Jim gets all quiet and reasonable, things do not go well for whoever's on the receiving end of that toothy smile. Not that I feared Jim would hurt me; the most pain he'd ever inflict on me voluntarily wouldn't be more than a severe head noogie. He may look like hell on wheels when he's mad, but he's got a heart as big as the sun—and it was that part of him that I was trying to reach right now.
"Duly noted, duly noted," I said quickly. "But come on, Jim, we've been avoiding this for the past three days and I really think we need to talk about it."
"So you get me to a hotel room under false pretenses, handcuff me to a bed frame and you think that's going to put me in the mood to talk? Jesus, Sandburg, how long have we known each other?"
"Four years, give or take."
"Right, four years. And in that time, was there anything that ever made you think that this—" he jangled the handcuffs, banging them against the metal support attached to the headboard "—would work?"
I lifted my chin and stuck my hands on my hips. "No, you're right, so let's get this straight. I'm going to talk and you're going to listen."
That got me an annoyed sigh as Jim grabbed another pillow with his free hand and stuck it on top of the one already behind his back. If you didn't notice the silver bracelet, you'd think he was waiting for room service and getting ready to watch a game on TV. That's when I noticed that he was actually pretty relaxed, a lot more than I would expect, given that he was absolutely right about the whole abduction thing. My palms had been sweaty and the cuffs had almost slipped from my hands, but I'd managed to get one around his wrist and the other around the post. Jim must've been distracted because it took me two tries to get them to lock, but once I did I backed off out of range. Jim may not ever hurt me, but that didn't mean he was above using strength and leverage to get at the key currently tucked in my watch pocket.
Right now, Jim didn't look especially dangerous. He didn't even look mildly put out. Those long legs of his were stretched out on the bed, crossed at the ankle, one sock-clad toe waving slowly back and forth. He was wearing his oldest jeans today, the ones that rode low on his hips, nearly translucent at the edge of the worn seams. I took a wary step back as he lifted up to unsnap his holster with his free hand, trying to ignore the graceful twist of his body as he placed the gun and holster on the night stand. So score another one for bad planning—Jim stretched out on a king-sized bed wasn't doing much for my concentration.
Wait a minute—when did he take his off his shoes? I looked around and saw his loafers not far from where I stood at the foot of the bed. I guess that was a good sign, although with Jim it could've been a decoy. It's like, "I'm here, Sandburg, listening, talk to me", when in fact he's planning to tie me to the shower head and leave the cold water running while he grabs a burger.
"So why are we here?" he asked. "Last I knew we still lived together, worked together—hell, we even drive to the office together. Plenty of opportunity to talk, if you ask me."
"Because—" I swallowed hard. What the hell was I thinking? No way Jim is going to take kindly to me forcing him to talk about three nights ago. "Neutral territory, man. The loft is where it, you know, almost happened."
"Let me give you a heads up, Chief. If you can't even say what it is you want to discuss, this is going to be one short conversation."
He's so damn smug when he's right.
Jim's forty-second birthday and miracle of miracles, he'd let me throw him a party. Nothing elaborate, but we had the gang from work over and we put together a pretty fine spread. The only rough spot was the helium filled balloons I'd attached in bunches to various pieces of furniture. Sure, they looked festive, but the sound of latex rubbing together made Jim's eyes water. So, like any self-respecting group of adults, we inhaled the helium and talked like Donald Duck—all except for Simon who declined forcefully enough to part my hair sideways. I certainly didn't want to push it, especially since I was still laughing from Jim's helium-enhanced version of Joe Friday reciting Miranda.
I loved it. Hell, I loved Jim, too, but enjoying this relaxed Jim Ellison was one thing; allowing myself the freedom to express thoughts that were better kept hidden was something else. It'd taken a year for us to fight our way back to all the good stuff we'd damaged so badly, so I had no room to complain.
And it wasn't just the fact that Jim was willing to be silly at a party, at least around his closest friends. There'd been other, more subtle hints that the weights and tensions and coiled springs that held this man together were loosening. He wasn't nearly so anal about things in general and me in particular. I like to think that his trust issues—and mine—were finally being laid to rest by the fact that we were both still here, still partners, still working to regain whatever magic had brought us together in the first place. While I doubt Jim would look at it in those less than prosaic terms, there was enough proof to back me up.
There was touching again, for one thing. Casual, teasing touches that had all but disappeared from our repertoire had returned, enough so that I felt comfortable doing things like giving the side of his head an easy whack after some smartass remark he'd made about something. That's what passed for affection in our world and while it wasn't ever quite enough, I was aware that it was probably more than we deserved.
After everyone left, there was the usual post-party letdown, a little worse than usual since another year had passed and I still hadn't found the intestinal fortitude to face up to what Jim had become to me. As for the clean up, given a choice, I would've left the mess and gone to bed, but he of the delicate nostrils said he can't sleep if he can smell even one crumb of cake on his precious couch (that was before we knew about the onion dip on the rug). I was resigned to a late night on my own, it being Jim's birthday and all, but I was pleasantly surprised to see Jim rolling up his sleeves and pitching in. What would've taken me a couple of hours—mostly because I get distracted by just about anything—was accomplished in about thirty minutes. The only thing left at the end was wrapping up the last of the food and while all the organic bean dip and buffalo chili and tofu rum balls had been devoured, there was still some fresh fruit sitting around.
Looking back I admit that by this time, I was tired. I may be a party animal when the lights are on, but after all the planning and execution, it was now past midnight and I was thinking about getting horizontal sooner rather than later. I'd planted a hip against the kitchen counter and was watching Jim gather up Tupperware for the citrus we could salvage and not thinking about much of anything other than damn, Jim looked good in that blue v-neck. Maybe my guard was down, because the next thing I knew, Jim was right in front me me, a plate of peeled orange slices on the counter between us.
"You try some of these?" Jim asked. An innocuous question, but he followed up by nearly blowing my mind as he took one of the slices and placed it between his lips, his eyes on mine as he sucked on it, turning it slightly as it slid into his mouth.
I blinked at him, not exactly sure what I'd seen. However, my body was interpreting his actions in all the wrong ways. I started to take a backward step, but Jim's hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around my wrist.
"Here. Have one."
Another slice was poised at my lips and my mouth opened automatically. I couldn't believe this was Jim hand-feeding me orange slices, his eyes on my mouth and his fingers sliding beneath my wrist to lightly rub against my skin. I chewed and swallowed on auto pilot, too stunned to immediately register the small trail of juice escaping down my chin.
Jim didn't miss it, though. He raised his free hand and brushed away the tiny trickle, then lifted his hand to his own mouth to lick the gathered juice from the tip of his thumb.
It was a breathless moment ripped straight from the headlines of my dearest dreams. Maybe I'd have blown it off if there had been the slightest hint from Jim that he was yanking my chain. But there was nothing in his eyes that night but warmth and love and rueful good humor as he inclined his head toward mine.
"Nice party, Blair," he murmured, the sound of my name said in that growly, sexy undertone doing more strange things to my nerve endings. "Let's do it again next year."
"Yeah, sure," I babbled. I twisted out of his grasp and backpedaled toward the bathroom. "Sounds like a plan. Great idea. Gonna go brush my teeth see you in the morning goodnight."
Mr. Smooth I am not. At least I wasn't that night, not when it was Jim and me and four years of love and hurt and misery and glory on the table between us, just like that plate of fruit.
I spent the next three days making awkward attempts at broaching the subject with Jim, but my hasty retreat scared him off the whole thing. Totally my fault for so many reasons—for being willfully blind to the signs Jim had been giving me for weeks, for reacting like an idiot when Jim made a gentle but unmistakable overture, for falling back on old habits of mistrust and self-preservation.
But I know what I saw in Jim's eyes that night, and that's what had me going to extreme measures to get Jim to talk to me. Even if he claimed it was all brought on by a helium-induced psychotic break, I'd give it to him. A small lie, but it could save us, and that was more important than anything
Which did not mean I was ready to let Jim off the hook. If he could be so easily put off by my poorly timed reaction, then then the big dope didn't deserve me. And so, since I'm not inclined to do things half-assed, handcuffing Jim to a motel bed seemed like a perfectly reasonable—if somewhat drastic—solution to me.
"You said you were going to talk, Sandburg. What's the holdup here?" Jim angled his head around until he could see his watch that was currently attached to the wrist that was attached to the bed. "Lunch is about over—can we move this along?"
This was strange behavior for Jim, a guy with more than a few tweaks in his personality. Four years ago, he would've been threatening to haul my ass to jail for pulling something like this; three years ago it would've been something more along the line of a loud complaint about what he'd figured was another damn experiment. Two years ago I have no idea how he would've reacted to this stunt of mine, other than really, really badly. Even as much as six months ago, this wasn't something I'd have tried drunk or sober.
But this was four years into our relationship, our friendship, and he was reacting in a way that I didn't know how to read. Aside from the pudding threat, he'd been almost tolerant about the whole thing.
Something was up.
"Okay. Talk. Right." I cleared my throat and did a quick tug of the one hoop earring I'd gone back to wearing. "Look, I'm not exactly sure where things were heading between us the other night, but I want to tell you that I'm sorry I ran out on you."
There, it was out. Ball in Jim's court.
"Fine. Give me the key and let's go eat."
No, wait a minute. We're baring our souls here, Jim. Keep up.
"Eat? But what about—"
"It's okay, Sandburg. I can take a hint. I took my shot and you're not interested. End of story."
If I didn't know Jim's voice as well as my own, I never would've caught it, that tiny, emotion-roughened inflection that yanked me out of my free fall into misery. I'd been avoiding looking at him but I did now, surprised and a little unsettled by what I saw.
Jim, my Jim, my self-possessed, straight-shooting Jim, could not hide behind his offhand words. He was staring past me, his jaw clenched, both hands rolled into tight fists. Twin patches of dull red had risen across those high cheekbones, and even in the dim lighting of the hotel room, I could see the pain-filled shine in his eyes.
"But I am," I whispered. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
In an instant, all signs of discomfort vanished. Jim relaxed back against the pillows, but it wasn't the posture of someone relieved by what they'd just heard. No, it was more along the lines of a cat settling back to watch the mouse in the corner he's about to enjoy for dinner.
"Funny way of showing it. You could've just said something that night and we could've gone from there."
"Woulda, coulda, whatever, okay? I admit I screwed up but you haven't given me much of a chance to fix things, have you?"
Jim shrugged. "I didn't see much of a point."
"Gee, Jim, thanks a lot."
Jim started to say something, then stopped. I couldn't believe this was happening—sure, I'd gotten Jim to talk, but somewhere in my fantasies I'd expected something a little more hopeful. Now I felt like I'd hit the brick wall of Ellison pride and there was no way to get around it. I was reaching for the key in my pocket when Jim spoke.
"Can I get some water?"
"Uh, sure." I started toward the bathroom, my head spinning with the disintegration of my plans. After my confession, Jim was supposed to say he understood and then we'd talk about it, at least until that pudding thing no longer seemed viable.
"Not from the tap, Sandburg. That stuff is foul."
I slapped my forehead. "Right, right." There was a bottle of water in my backpack, so I walked over to the closet and slid the door open. I'd stashed the backpack there earlier; hopefully, old Eagle Eye couldn't see what else I'd brought.
When I turned around, Jim was sitting on the side of the bed, his feet on the floor. I tossed the bottle and he tried to catch it, but the handcuffs made him muff the catch. The bottle fell at his feet and rolled beneath bed.
"Damn, sorry," I mumbled. "I'll get it."
I went down on all fours next to Jim's feet, contemplating the idea of crawling beneath the bed and staying there. My fear of dust bunnies and visions of Jim dragging me out by my ponytail stifled the compulsion almost immediately. Tempting, though—this just kept getting worse and my window of opportunity had slammed shut. All that was left was to get the bottle, unlock Jim and work on some heavy damage control.
What happened next is still not exactly clear. My butt was higher than my shoulders as I shoved my hand beneath the bedspread and felt around for the bottle. When I couldn't feel it, I flipped the bedspread out of my way and stuck my face beneath the mattress frame. I'd just pulled the bottle to my chest when I felt a firm hand at the small of my back as the collar of my shirt was pulled taut against my throat. I let out a yelp and the water bottle was forgotten as I was hauled upward by my belt, not to my feet, but off my feet. I was bounced into a half-crouch on the bed, but that was momentary. My waist was gripped before I could get my balance and I was flipped and rolled, landing dizzy and disoriented and wondering where I'd lost control of the situation.
Assuming I'd ever had control, of course.
One minute I'd been looking into a gray, musty expanse of nothingness and the next, I was flat on my back on the bed, my arms pinned down on either side of my head and my thighs braced between Jim's knees. Filling my field of vision was the lean features of Jim Ellison, his mouth set in stern lines and his eyes alight with an undeniably wicked gleam.
"You—you're free."
"Yep."
"How?"
Jim released his grip from my right wrist. I couldn't look away from his eyes—the angle of light in the room was poor and so all that blue was hidden by shadows that criss-crossed his face. He was less than a foot above me and unmoving except for the hand that landed on my hip. I held myself still as well, which wasn't easy considering he was insinuating his fingers into my watch pocket where I'd put the key to the cuffs.
One finger dipped deeper than the other and I gasped, my body reacting to the teasing intimacy of the touch. Thankfully, it was brief, because a second later, the key was being held before my eyes.
"See this?"
I had to swallow before I could answer. "Yeah."
"Guess what. I have one just like it."
My immediate reaction was to cover my face in humiliation, but my right arm had been recaptured. I strained against Jim's hold, but he merely tightened his grip and pressed me harder into the mattress.
Message received—we were in this for the long haul now. Part of me was pretty pissed with myself for letting things get so turned around. But what the hell—this whole misbegotten exercise was about getting Jim to talk to me and if he wanted to do it with me surrounded by nothing but Ellison strength, I was going to have to deal with it. That I could do; telling my body to ignore the situation wasn't as easy.
With the soft mattress beneath me and the Jim-cage all around me, I forced myself to relax. I took a deep breath and plunged back into the battle.
"Okay, now that I've got you exactly where I want you, I really need you to understand that I was freaked out because you were going someplace I've wanted to be for a really long time. Having you—" another difficult swallow—"want the same thing scared the hell out of me."
Jim considered that for a moment. "And this was your great plan to get us back on track?"
"Uh, yeah."
"How's it working for you?"
"Not so well, actually."
"No kidding."
I tried wriggling my hands but there was no give in Jim's grip. "So what happens now?"
The fingers around my wrists tightened again. "Depends. What's your duffel doing in the closet next to your pack?"
Damn it. He probably smelled my shaving cream or something stupid like that.
"I was planning on staying here a few days if this conversation didn't go well."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "You were leaving?"
"No, no!" I hastened to assure him. "No, I just wanted to give us some space if it turns out we weren't on the same page. Strictly overnight stuff, I promise. The loft is my home. I would've come back."
"Good."
There was a lot of satisfaction in that one word and that's when I began to think we were going to be okay. Next level or not, we were going to be able to work this out. I was going to suggest that Jim get off me, since my own senses were getting a little over-loaded, when Jim finally released my wrists. But instead of letting me go completely, he slid his palms upward until they matched with mine, then tangled our fingers together. Slowly, giving me time to adjust, he leaned forward, guiding our entwined hands over my head and bringing Jim's mouth to within an inch of my own.
"So, are we on the same page or what?" His voice was back to that sinful growl and the warm gust of his breath across my lips wrung a shiver out of me. This was it, truth or dare time, and since I couldn't possibly be in a more vulnerable position, there wasn't much else to do but give it to him with both barrels.
"Yeah, we are. Assuming, of course, that page says that it's you and me and only you and me from now on, and that making love together is something you want to do very badly, and that we can review the situation but only after we've given it fifty or sixty years of solid research." I smiled slightly. "At least that's what's printed on my page. How about yours?"
Jim nodded very seriously. "Yeah, pretty much the same thing. My version also had something about you staying out of trouble, but somebody crossed it out."
I couldn't help it—I snickered. There was an answering twitch of Jim's lips and then he was tilting his head, his eyes on my mouth and his intent unmistakable.
"Uh, Jim?" I murmured.
"What?" he answered with a small sigh.
"Is that pudding thing off the table now?"
"Yeah, no Sandburg pudding, I think." Jim shifted his lower body, one knee nudging my legs apart until he could lay between them. "But I'm pretty sure I can make you melt."
"Uh—" Wow, my mind was already halfway there.
"So can I kiss you now or do you have some more questions you'd like to ask?"
"I don't—"
"Rhetorical question, Blair."
Jim's mouth descended and I lifted my head to meet him, intuition and prolonged need giving us the perfect angle. His kiss was hard, uncompromising, demanding, allowing me no retreat. Hands that had held me captive released me to race over my skin, stroking every available patch as his tongue plundered my mouth.
Oh, God, this was Jim at his most basic, succumbing to the temptation of his wide-open senses and reveling in the searing pleasure he was giving to me. His lips traveled over my face and throat, coming back to my mouth with deep, hot, wet kisses that threatened to turn me inside out. My hands were clutching at his back as I held on for dear life, wanting nothing more than to share this, share everything, with Jim. When one hand moved lower, lingering on my belly, I wrenched my mouth away and buried my face in his neck with an incoherent plea that he had no problem understanding.
I'd managed to slide one hand beneath Jim's waistband, my fingers stroking over soft skin and firm muscles and eliciting a sharp growl from Jim as he popped the top button of my jeans. I had one fleeting, satisfied thought that my plan had actually worked far better than I'd imagined, but then another button was undone—and so was I. Jim was seduction in motion and I was right there with him, matching his passion with my own, giving back when I could, taking what he offered, joy and love and history saturating the moment with meaning far beyond the obvious.
The twin sound of ringing cell phones penetrated the thick fog generated by Jim's incisive lovemaking. He broke away first with a moan of regret and left me panting on the bed as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. I sucked in a lungful of air and rolled off the bed to get to my own phone, tucked in a pouch of my backpack.
It sounded like Jim was talking to dispatch, but my caller ID told me to expect the dulcet tones of my captain.
"Hello?" I croaked. My head was clearing but my body was still wondering who called off the parade.
"Sandburg! You and Ellison need to get back here—we've got a break in the case."
I looked down at my loosened jeans and sighed. "Yeah? Somebody spot Fluffy dealing nickel bags of catnip over on Ninth?"
There was that impressive pause that only Simon could invoke, the one that said he was counting down both his blood pressure and his days until retirement. I didn't care—I was in love, and Jim loved me, and Fluffy was on his own.
Before Simon could respond or explode, I continued.
"Hey, I did what you suggested. I talked to Jim."
Another pause, this one without the addition of labored breathing. "Yeah? You two work things out?"
I looked across the room at Jim. He'd concluded his own conversation with dispatch and was already in pack up mode, retrieving his holster and clipping it to his belt. He must've felt my eyes on him because he looked over at me and then nailed me with the tenderest, happiest smile I'd ever seen on that too-damn-handsome face. I don't know what my expression gave away, but whatever it was, it made Jim laugh.
Jesus, we were going to be soppy for a while.
"Uh, yeah," I mumbled. "We're on our way." I thumbed the disconnect and shoved the phone into the pack. Yeah, we worked it out, I added silently. For the rest of our lives.
I pulled my stuff out of the closet and tossed my duffel to Jim. Hauling my backpack onto my shoulder, I met him in the middle of the room where we proceeded to grin at each other for a few seconds. Yeah, we knew Simon was waiting for us, but nothing could have prevented me from reaching up and cupping Jim's cheek with my hand. His smile faded, eyes closing as he nudged into my touch, and the perfection of the moment left me short of breath and weak in the knees. I slipped my hand behind Jim's neck and guided him downward until our mouths touched in much-needed reconnection, the caress achingly brief but treasured anyway, promise and reaffirmation rolled into one.
The kiss broke but we remained close, resting against each other as the truth of what we'd become began to sink in. I was struggling to say something flippant to get us out the door when another thought occurred to me.
"Hey, I have this place for the rest of the night. You want to come back here after the shift and finish what we started?"
"No." Jim's answer was firm. "I want to go home after the shift and I'll tell you right now, I have no intention of finishing with you, ever. You got that?"
Okay, soppy and possessive. I liked it, but Jim wasn't the only one with a jealous button. "Goes both ways, man."
"I can live with that."
"Good, because I have plans for you later, too."
Jim grimaced. "Haven't we had enough of your planning today? Can't we just go with the moment?"
I waved off that stupid suggestion as we headed to the door. "Yeah, right. Look, Mr. Spontaneity, it was my great plan that got you to listen to me, right?"
"You handcuffed me to a bed and forgot I had the key."
I opened the door and ushered Jim through. "True, sure, but I was watching you the whole time."
"Until I asked for the water, you idiot. That's all it took. Besides, I let you handcuff me to that bed."
"You totally did not."
"You need to work on your technique, that's all I'm saying."
"No way! Jim—hey, wait up! Jim!"
We argued on the way back to the office, through most of the case, and all the way home. At that point, we called a truce and moved on to other, more intimate forms of conversation that didn't require an extensive vocabulary. I'd probably never be able to convince Jim that the whole hotel thing had been by design, but that's okay. There are other things more important in life than being right all the time and besides, I had my whole life to prove to Jim that everything had gone off perfectly.
After all, I am Blair Sandburg—the man with a plan.
For Kathleen, who wanted a first kiss, some other stuff, and handcuffs. Gotta admire a mind that works that way.
And I know all about holding on to what brought me here—thanks, Aithine *g*.
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