She inhaled deeply, having already forgotten how completely he filled her.
He began a gentle back-and-forth movement, gripping her shoulders, watching her face.
Guilt and her innate honesty nagged at her. "I'm not taking birth control pills," she blurted, knowing this wasn't exactly the best time to bring up her lack of protection.
He didn't stop. "I'm not wearing a rubber," he said equably. "I would stop, but that would be like closing the barn door after the horse is out, wouldn't it?"
Afterward, while she was in the bathroom, he finished dressing--again--and called out, "I'll go down and start breakfast again."
"I'll be there in a minute." She still felt incredibly weak-kneed, and relieved. She stared at her face in the mirror, her brown eyes huge. She was going to get pregnant. She knew it, sensed it The prospect both terrified and exhilarated her. From now on, her life would be changed.
She went out into the bedroom and collected her scattered garments, pulling them on again. After a lifetime of caution and careful behavior, taking such a deliberate risk was nerve-racking, like climbing on board a space shuttle without any previous training.
It pays to be careful, Price had said, but sometimes it paid to be careless too. And, any way, she was doing this deliberately, not carelessly.
One of her socks had ended up between the bed and the nightstand. She got down on her knees to retrieve it, and because she was there, because she had just been remembering what Price had said, she opened the nightstand drawer to make certain the pistol was there.
It wasn't.
Slowly she stood, staring down at the empty drawer. She knew the pistol had been there. When her dad had left, she had checked to make certain it was loaded and returned it to the same place. Living in such an isolated place, where self-defense was sometimes necessary, she had learned how to use the weapon. Idaho had more than its share of dangerous wildlife, both animal and human. The ruggedness of the mountains, the isolation, seemed to be a magnet for nut groups, from neo-Nazis to drug runners. She might happen upon a bear or a cougar, but she was more worried about happening upon a human predator.
The pistol had been there, and now it wasn't. Price had asked where she kept it, not that finding it would have been that difficult. But why hadn't he simply said he wanted it close to hand? He was a cop; she understood that he was more comfortable armed than unarmed, especially when he wasn't on his own turf.
She went downstairs, her expression thoughtful. He was standing at the island, taking up the bacon. "Price, do you have my pistol?"
He slanted a quick, assessing look at her, then turned back to the bacon. "Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me you were getting it?"
"I didn't want to worry you."
"Why would I be worried?" "What I said about other people coming here."
"I wasn't worried, but you seem to be," she said pointedly.
"It's my job to worry. I feel more comfortable armed. I'll put the pistol back if it bothers you."
She looked around. She didn't see the weapon lying on the cabinet. "Where is it?"
"In my waistband."
She felt uneasy, but she didn't know why. She herself had thought that he would feel more comfortable armed, and he had said so himself. It was just--for a moment, his expression had been... hard. Distant. Maybe it was because he worked in law enforcement and saw a lot of things the average person never even dreamed of seeing that he expected the worst. But for a moment, just for a moment, he had looked as dangerous as any of the scum with whom he dealt. He had been so easy and approachable until then that the contrast rattled her.
She shoved the uneasiness away and didn't say anything more about the pistol.
Over breakfast she asked, "In what county do you work?"
"This one," he said. "But I haven't been here long. Like I said, I knew this place was here, but I hadn't had time to get up here and meet you and your dad-- and Tinkerbell, of course."
The dog, lying on the floor between their chairs in obvious hopes of doubling his chances of catching a stray tidbit, perked up when he heard his name.
"Table scraps aren't good for you," Hope said sternly. "Besides, you've already eaten."
Tink didn't look discouraged, and Price laughed.
"How long have you worked in law enforcement?"
"Eleven years. I worked in Boise before." His mouth quirked with amusement. "For the record, I'm thirty-four, I've been divorced eight years, I've been known to have a few drinks, and I enjoy an occasional cigar, but I'm not a regular smoker. I don't attend any church, but I believe in God."
Hope put down her fork. She could feel her face turning red in mortification. "I wasn't--"
"Yes you were, and I don't blame you. When a woman lets a man make love to her, she has a right to reassure herself about him, find out every detail right down to the size of his Fruit of the Looms."
"Jockeys," she corrected, and turned even redder.
He shrugged. "I just look at sizes, not brand names." The amusement turned into a grin. "Stop blushing. So you looked at my briefs; I looked at your panties this morning, didn't I? I bet you just hung mine over the railing to dry, instead of sniffing them the way I did yours."
He had sniffed, drawing an exaggeratedly deep breath and rolling his eyes in pretended ecstasy, making her laugh, before he had tossed the garment over his shoulder with a flourish.
"You were goofing around," she mumbled.
"Was I? Maybe I was turned on. What do you think? Was my dick hard?"
"It was hard before we went upstairs, so you can't use that argument."