The last person Martin Fitzgerald wanted to see when he left Jack's office was Danny Taylor—and yet there he was, leaning up against the wall with a smirk the size of New Jersey on his face. Martin ignored him and made a sharp left turn, intent on returning to his desk and getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Not surprisingly, Danny fell into step with him.
"Looks like Jack was really ripping you a new one," Danny said with ill-hidden glee.
Martin shot him a sideways glare. "You don't have to look so happy about it."
Danny touched his hand to his heart. "I'm not, I swear! I'm just glad it's you and not me he's mad at."
"Yeah." Martin let a small grin escape. "Last week was your turn to be in the doghouse, wasn't it?"
"Don't remind me. My ears are still bleeding." Reaching Martin's desk, Danny did a quick shuffle with his feet and jabbed at the air with his closed fists. "You want I should beat him up for you?"
Martin rolled his eyes. "Settle down, Sugar Ray. All I want to do right now is grab a cab and go home." He looked down at his right arm in disgust. "Oh yeah, and take this damn thing off."
Danny slid one finger beneath the strap of the sling that held Martin's right arm close to his chest.
"Not going to be doing a lot with a bum wing—you need any help?"
Martin glanced away. Demoralized and sore, he was in no mood to try and keep his emotions hidden and having Danny in his home was more than he felt up to handling. Even the fleeting touch of Danny's knuckle against his shirt was unnerving enough—being close to him for an entire evening was beyond him after the rotten day he'd had.
"Nah, thanks. I'll just get something from the corner diner—"
"No way." Danny shook his head decisively. "What you need is some good old fashioned comfort food. " He added a wicked grin that had Martin's stomach doing a quick flip. "Cuban style."
That was low—Danny had been teasing him for weeks about how good his cooking was, but Martin had laughed it off. If Danny had been angling for an opportunity to get closer to Martin, Martin wasn't about to oblige him—a guy with Danny's rep meant nothing but trouble for someone like Martin, who longed for more than what Danny was famous for never offering.
"Cuban, hunh?" Martin shook his head. "Sounds like a one-way trip to heartburn world. No thanks."
Danny's face fell and Martin felt a twinge of remorse that was quickly extinguished when Danny's expression turned intimately speculative.
"Give me a chance to prove you wrong?" he asked, his voice too low to be overheard by Sam and Vivian, chatting just a desk away. "I know some recipes so smooth, your mouth will think it's died and gone to heaven."
Martin hesitated; the prospect of a lonely night in his apartment with reheated diner food was depressing enough on a normal day. Tonight, after making a rookie mistake in the field that cost him not only the next two weeks on desk duty but the kind of ass-chewing he hadn't had from Jack in over a year, a little distraction was sounding better and better.
He dared a glance in Danny's direction and immediately regretted it—those chocolate-colored eyes were half-closed in gentle challenge and something more, something Martin hadn't seen before.
Or hadn't dared to notice.
The muscles in his arm chose that moment to contract painfully, reminding him that he was indeed in for a long, clumsy, painful night alone if he didn't give in to Danny's tempting offer. He bit his bottom lip and nodded slowly.
"Okay." He held up his good left hand. "But nothing weird, right? No sheep's brains or cow's stomach or anything like that."
Danny pressed his palms together and briefly closed his eyes. "I promise, I promise. Now let's get our stuff and get out of here before Jack comes gunning for you again and I get caught in the crossfire."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"Nope. Just sit there and look useless."
"I can do that."
"So I've noticed."
Martin grinned and reached for another corn fritter as he settled back in the chair that had been his perch since Danny had shown up with five grocery bags and proceeded to take over Martin's tiny kitchen. Danny cooked like it was a full-contact sport and Martin had stopped worrying over the state of his usually pristine counters after his first bite of a freshly fried and crackling hot fritter—sweet and spicy with a slightly licorice flavor, he ate them almost as fast as Danny fished them out of the oil.
The view wasn't so bad, either. His kitchen was a typical U shape with his tiny dinette sat tucked against one wall. Most of the time, he had a perfect view of Danny's jean clad rear end, an incongruous bow tied at his waist anchoring the red and white striped apron he'd also brought.
And Danny—being Danny—talked. He told stories from the happier parts of his childhood and spoke of the meals his mother and grandmother had prepared for special occasions. Before Martin knew it, he was sharing similar tales of his own family, mostly centering on his late aunt and the plethora of cousins that he'd grown up with. He'd long since stopped paying attention to what Danny was doing—there was an amazing and confusing array of ingredients and Martin couldn't begin to fathom how they'd come together. But Danny could've been cooking cardboard for all Martin cared, because this was the Danny he'd always wanted to get to know, the one with the tender heart and the gleaming eyes that tried so hard to remain unknowable.
It wasn't just the companionship—and the easy friendship growing between them—that Martin was enjoying. Danny had been making himself at home not only with Martin's kitchen but with Martin himself—guiding him to sit down with a hand on his shoulder, ruffling his hair as he passed him on the way to Martin's meager pantry. Those were friendly, explainable touches but when Danny had reached over and knuckled away a small fritter crumb from Martin's lower lip, there was nothing comradely about it.
But the moment had been broken by the sharp hiss of spitting oil and Danny had resumed his entertaining chatter, leaving Martin wondering if he had any chance of holding his own against someone who affected him so effortlessly—and so carelessly.
"Okay, ready for the next course?"
Danny pulled a steaming casserole out of the oven and set it on a folded towel on the table. Martin, mindful of his sore shoulder, leaned over and sniffed appreciatively.
"Wow," Martin breathed. "What's that?"
Danny sat down at the table and draped a napkin across his lap. "That, my friend, is pulpeta, better know as Cuban meatloaf."
Martin looked up from the large portion Danny was placing on his plate. "Meatloaf? You gotta be kidding me. Meatloaf never looked like this when I was growing up."
"That's because you didn't grow up Latino. You grew up white bread, which, I might add, is not in pulpeta. You want more milk?"
At Martin's nod, Danny tipped his chair back so he could reach the refrigerator and pull the gallon of whole milk he'd brought without getting up. He'd scorned Martin's weak protest that 2% was healthier, pointing out in a lofty tone that with all the good spices he was using, they'd need the butter fat to balance the strong flavors. Martin didn't know if that was true, but he was beyond caring as Danny poured him another glass. He couldn't remember the last time milk tasted so good.
And damn it, Danny was right. The food was beautifully flavored but the spices were strong and in combinations that were foreign to Martin. The thick, cold milk refreshed his palate and he knew Danny liked it when he asked for a second helping, his honest smile of pleasure causing another one of those unwanted flutters in Martin's chest.
As the meal went on, Martin found himself relaxing even further as Danny coaxed him to talk. All of Danny's smartass expressions were nonexistent and even better, he was making Martin laugh. In fact, he was going out of his way to help Martin get past a bad day, cheerfully telling stories about screw ups he'd made before Martin's time.
The night flew by but Martin was increasingly aware that Danny was going to be leaving soon and their time together would be over. For whatever reason, Danny had decided to turn his considerable energies toward cheering Martin up—and Martin knew that the next day, he'd feel bereft of that attention when Danny moved on to something—someone—else.
Danny wouldn't let him help clean up either, not that he could do much with a wrenched shoulder. Despite the chaos he'd wrought on Martin's kitchen, Danny's cleanup was quick and efficient and sooner than Martin imagined, he was being ushered into the living room with a cup of hot espresso and scalded milk laced with cinnamon and sugar. Not wanting the evening to end, he was more than glad to see Danny untie his sneakers and curl his legs beneath him beside Martin on the small couch.
"I don't know about you, but I'm stuffed." Danny patted his flat stomach and cast a sideways grin at Martin, who groaned in agreement.
"Me, too. Forget law enforcement, man—I think you missed your calling. You should've been a chef."
Danny shook his head. "Me? Nah. I couldn't handle the stress."
"Right. What you do now is so much more peaceful."
"Oh, yeah."
They subsided into a comfortable silence and despite his best intentions, Martin began to drowse. That in itself was a shock—he'd been on his guard with Danny for so long, to be able to be completely at ease in his presence was an unforeseen pleasure.
He roused when his empty mug was plucked from his hand. Thinking Danny was getting ready to leave, he looked up and said the first thing that came into his head.
"Okay, Taylor, spill—why are you being so nice to me?"
The couch dipped as Danny sat close beside him. Martin blinked at him sleepily, wondering if he was dreaming—and then came wide awake when Danny slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.
"Aw, White Bread, haven't you figured it out yet?" he murmured. "And here I always thought you were so smart."
The fingers cupping Martin's hip tightened and he inhaled sharply, reading the warm intent in Danny's expression. Martin felt caught between twin surges of desire and fear, unable to articulate either before Danny's lips brushed against his—once, twice, a pause—and the kiss fell into place on a pair of softly indrawn breaths. Their free hands caught and held even as Martin realized he should be rejecting the seductive taste of Danny's mouth, but his brain's nascent protest was suffused by the pure pleasure of Danny's tongue brushing against his. There was no conquest in the caress, no demands, only a gentle inquisition that skimmed the edge of deeper emotions, letting Martin take as much or as little as he wanted.
And because Martin wanted so much more, he was the first to pull away. He had a few precious seconds to watch Danny's unguarded face, soft-edged and gilded by the table lamp, and his stomach clenched when Danny finally lifted his eyes to his. He swallowed hard and summoned up a crooked smile.
"So, you think I can be had for meat loaf and a cup of coffee?"
Danny was holding him lightly, their hands still entwined on Martin's thigh. His sore shoulder was cradled in the curve of Danny's body, allowing him to feel more than hear Danny's soft laugh.
"You kidding me? I had you at the first corn fritter."
Martin's smile brightened before fading away. Danny saw his expression change and tightened his fingers when Martin tried to extract his hand.
"Hold on there, Martin. I know what you're thinking—I can see your mind working from here. You're thinking, this guy, he thinks he can cook me a fabulous dinner and then get away with a little necking on the couch as a payback."
Danny shifted closer. "But that's not it—that's not it at all. This is what I've been waiting for—this chance to get past all the crap we have to deal with on the job. I know we have to stay strong, but you—you're so damn self-sufficient, you wouldn't ask for a cup of water if you were on fire. This—" his palm slid up Martin's back to rub the tense muscles in his neck—"this gave me a chance, you know?"
"Chance for what?" Martin murmured.
"For you to see me, really see me, not the guy you have to work with, the guy who annoys you all the time about what you eat."
Martin glanced away, ordering his thoughts. He didn't want to hurt Danny, but it would be unfair to them both if he didn't lay it on the line now.
"See you? You think you'd annoy me half as much if I wasn't paying attention? Hell yeah, I see you—I see you flirt with the girl at the coffee cart and the UPS guy and the lab techs. I see you leave work with that grin on your face that says you're gonna get laid and I see you come in the next morning looking like that's exactly what happened."
He scrubbed his free hand over his eyes.
"Look, I just don't want to be the next guy that puts that look on your face, okay?" And because Martin had to be scrupulously honest in order to live with himself, he lowered his head with a sigh and added, "I want to be the only guy."
He waited, eyes on his sock clad toes, listening for the lighthearted words that would extract Danny from an embarrassing situation. As the silence lengthened, he untangled his fingers from Danny's and folded his hands between his knees, his eyes drifting shutting when Danny withdrew his arm from Martin's shoulder.
"Sounds like you have a pretty low opinion of me."
Martin winced at the coolly spoken words. He turned his head until he could see Danny's composed face.
"Nah, man, just the opposite. That's the problem."
Danny shifted forward, mirroring Martin's position, their bodies aligned from hip to knee, their mouths inches apart.
"What makes you think I don't want the same thing?" he asked.
Martin shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled his abused muscles. "Why should I?"
Danny leaned toward him until their temples touched. "Because I cooked for you."
Martin closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of cinnamon that lingered on Danny's skin.
"And that's what, some kind of secret signal that I missed?" he whispered.
Danny's lips brushed the corner of his eye. "Ah, Martin—I haven't cooked for anyone in ten years. Maybe more."
Martin tilted his head away to see Danny gazing at him, eyes bright with mischief. "Why not?"
"Because," Danny replied with exaggerated patience, "maybe I want you to be the only guy, too."
The words hit Martin hard. Keeping Danny Taylor at a distance was difficult enough when it was all theory, just a fantasy—but Danny had plowed through his defenses and made it clear that physical attraction wasn't all they shared.
"You think—" Martin swallowed and began again. "You think that'd work? You and me?"
"Wouldn't be here if I didn't," was Danny's prompt reply. "But you—you're not so sure, are you?"
"It could screw up work."
"Yeah. It could."
"And Jack won't like it if he finds out."
"Jack will hate it. "
"What about—"
"Martin." Danny held up his hand. "You want promises, you want guarantees? Not gonna happen."
He rose from the couch and brushed Martin's upturned cheek with his fingertips. "But if you want to take a chance, I'll be waiting."
Martin stood up as Danny shoved his feet into his sneakers. He didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed that Danny wasn't pushing the issue, but he did know that he couldn't let Danny leave without giving him some kind of answer. Without thinking it through, he slipped his good arm around Danny's waist and pulled him close.
"Thanks," he said, and pressed his lips to Danny's. Danny responded instantly, carefully wrapping Martin in a gentle embrace, inviting Martin's tongue into the warm cavern of his mouth. The kiss grew lush and deep, deeper than Martin had intended, and when it ended they were both breathless and dazed.
"You're welcome."
There was no mistaking the delight in Danny's eyes and Martin couldn't help but smile back. With great reluctance, he put some space between them and jerked his head toward the door.
"You sure you want to leave? You don't have to."
Danny nodded. "Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
Danny grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and slipped it on. "Because I want this to go right, okay? And I need you to be sure, as sure as I am."
"But—"
Danny stopped him with another brief caress to his cheek, following it with a chaste kiss.
"It's okay, Martin. You think about what I said, you enjoy the leftovers—and when you're ready, you'll let me know."
"I will? How?"
Danny grinned at him. "Smart guy like you? You'll figure out a way."
Four days later, they'd wrapped up their current case. Despite having been relegated to his desk for the duration, Martin still shared in the team's satisfaction that someone had again been found alive. That didn't happen often enough for any of them, so they took their victories whenever they could.
But his gratification from a good job was quickly forgotten as he watched Danny out of the corner of his eye. Martin had been erasing the board when Danny had arrived from the field, and now he was gathering up files from the table as Danny reached his own desk.
Martin had spent a long, sleepless night after Danny had left his apartment—sleeplessness caused not only by a sore shoulder but by the regret he felt at mishandling the situation. He liked to pride himself on his fast thinking, but that night, he'd fumbled badly—and it had cost him four days. Four days of Danny's sidelong glances and subtle teases, four days of stretching the pulpeta until all he had left was enough for one pitiful sandwich—and four days of knowing that what he'd wanted for so long was within his reach.
It was as he was logging on to his computer that Danny saw the small note tucked beneath his keyboard. Martin watched him unfold it, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms beginning to sweat. When Danny didn't look in his direction, he began to fear he'd made a huge mistake.
But Danny was too busy searching for a pen, finally digging one out of his suit jacket's inner pocket. He scrawled something at the bottom of Martin's note and then refolded it. Still without a glance toward Martin, he walked the note over to Martin's desk and dropped the note there, then announced to no one in particular that he needed caffeine. Martin waited until Danny was out of the room before returning to his desk and after making sure no one was paying attention, unfolded the note. After reading it, he took his wallet out of his back pocket and slipped the paper behind his driver's license.
His own message had been simple—an offer to cook dinner at Danny's place on a night of his choosing. Danny's reply had been more than he'd hoped. In a loping scrawl, he'd placed his answer beneath Martin's more restrained cursive.
Friday, he'd written and underlined, then beneath that—breakfast is on me.
Martin tried and failed to suppress a grin—he didn't know the first thing about cooking. He'd have to figure out something fast and chances were good it would end up inedible anyway.
Somehow, he had a feeling Danny wouldn't mind—as long as there was dessert.
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