“He and my mom retired and moved to North Carolina. Now they golf and wear ugly clothes and make fun of the tourists. It’s a shameful thing, I’ve been searching for a cure for them. Where are your folks?”

He rinsed the plates in silence, sure she wouldn’t answer him.

“Dead,” she said finally. “They died when I was just a kid. I went to a foster family the week after they died and when my foster mother broke my arm I ran away.”

“Jesus,” he said softly. He crossed the room, wanting to take her into his arms, not sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s no big deal,” she said quickly. “It’s not like I remember my parents. You don’t miss what you never had.”

“Wrong, gorgeous. That’s the stuff you miss most of all.” And carefully, so carefully, he put his arms around her and drew her close.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at his mouth.

“Want to bet?”

Her mouth was a dream, the nicest dream he’d ever had, all sweet lips and lush softness. She pressed against him and he felt her breasts flatten slightly against his chest, felt her arms come around him, felt her mouth bloom beneath his. She sighed into his mouth and he shuddered, balling his hands into fists so he wouldn’t tear off her clothes and take her on the kitchen tile, which hadn’t been mopped since he was a med student. He heard her make a sound, some sound, a cross between a growl and a whimper and heard himself groan in response. Then she came to herself—or perhaps came away from herself, back to the cool exterior she liked to show the world—and stiffened and took her arms away and pushed him back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not very, but not interested in gaining a black eye either, “but you’re so beautiful and—and good, I can’t resist you.”

She looked startled, then sad. “I’m not good. I’m bad. You should keep it in mind, Jared.” She touched her mouth, then looked at him with something like wonder.

“Anybody who has Carlotti for an enemy—who would protect a stranger from her enemy—isn’t bad.”

“I’ve done…terrible things. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he urged softly. He took a step toward her and she skittered back, nearly tripping over the stool to keep away from him. He was struck once again by the combination of power and vulnerability.

She could snap his spine like a breadstick, he was sure. And yet, she was afraid of his touch. “Or not,”

he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve done terrible things, too. In med school one time, I brought my cadaver to breakfast at the local Denny’s. Man,” he said nostalgically, “the food inspector sure got pissed. On the bright side, my cadaver was a cheap date.”

She giggled, then choked off the sound and looked at him severely. “No more of that,” she said. “I’m here to keep you safe for a few days, not to play wifey.”

“Don’t play wifey,” he said promptly, “marry me.”

“Ha, ha.”

He decided not to mention the fact that he wasn’t kidding. “So now what happens?” he asked.

CHAPTER THREE

Good question, Kara thought, once again stretched out on the couch. She had decided to look after Dr.

Dean—Jared—for a very simple reason and her conscience had nothing to do with it. He had chased her not to hurt her or turn her in, but to ask if she was all right. That was when she realized Carlotti would come after him. That was why she was here. Jared’s stunning good looks, great sense of humor and outstanding dedication to helping others had nothing to do with it. There were plenty of good looking men in the world. Gorgeous, dark-haired men with a lightning smile. With a sense of common decency that was as much a part of him as his white coat and stethoscope. Phenomenal at healing and cooking, stitching head gashes with the same hands that whipped up a perfectly fluffy omelet. Dr. Dean was nothing special. Not him.

That surgeon, she thought with disgust. The bimbo who used him and dumped him. He’s too good for someone that idiotic.

She slammed the pillow over her head, muffling a groan. And if he’s too good for a surgeon, she reminded herself savagely, he’s a damn sight too good for you, silly bitch .

So the question remained: now what happens?

Sleep. Then lunch. He hadn’t wanted to go to bed; he’d wanted to keep talking to her. She first thought it might have been because he was interested in knowing her as a person, but that was too conceited to be considered for more than a moment. No, she was interesting to him, like a virus was interesting, if dangerous. He knew she could shake up his nice little life and so he was drawn to her, the way the new kids at Juvie were drawn to the ones who graduated to robbery and murder.

So he’d kept after her, talking to her and asking questions and telling her about himself and when she reminded him he hadn’t slept in twenty hours, he had looked stubborn and shrugged and asked her what her earliest memory was, because his was of his dad chopping onions while onion-tears streamed down his face and ever since then he’d felt kind of funny about onions, they were “the meanest vegetable”.

Tomatoes were the nicest, so round and sweet and juicy, they were—

She interrupted him, he argued, they bargained. He agreed to sleep for a few hours if she would let him take her to lunch when he woke. To which she agreed, looking forward to the lunch and mad at herself for looking forward to it.

He had given her a longing look over his shoulder as he trudged to his solitary bed and she’d been ridiculously tempted to follow him and undress him and find out if he was as good at other things as he was as kissing.

But that was madness, pure and simple and she wasn’t about to open herself up to a citizen, someone who didn’t know the first thing about survival or what she had been through. Someone who would be shocked and horrified at what she did. Someone who would wait around long enough for her to love him, then abandon her once she depended on him.

Dr. Jared Dean was the best kisser in the world. And she didn’t intend to find out anything beyond that.

* * * * *

It was no use. He couldn't sleep. He pulled his pillow from beneath his head and punched it. It was too hot-- he was too hot—and Kara was too close.

The more he tried to ignore the fact that The Delectable One was sleeping just a few feet away, the randier he got. It wasn't fair...why couldn't his bodyguard be dull and ugly? Uncomplicated and bow-legged?

It's just because you're in a dry spell, he told himself. When was the last time you got horizontal with anybody? The last time you got some nooky, they were still debating whether Gore or Bush had won the election. Right? So just...put her out of your mind.

Right. Sure. Piece of cake. Ha!

As if in response to his frustration, his door creaked open with ominous slowness. Jared clutched the blanket beneath his chin and stared at the large, menacing silhouette framed in the doorway. He was a fan of horror movies, so he knew he was about to be stalked, chased, then cut in half with a table saw, only to be saved at the last minute so he could appear in the sequel. A bad sequel.

"Leave me alone," he said to the approaching silhouette. "Go find Jennifer Love Hewitt."

The silhouette stopped short of his bed. His curtains were wide open, and as the moon came out from behind the clouds he saw it was Kara. Her silhouette was menacingly huge because she was wearing an armadillo suit.

"That's a new look for you," he observed.

"God, I want you," she replied, approaching so quickly her armadillo tail knocked everything off his bedside table. "You're all I can think about, Jared."

"That's nice. Really! Uh. What are you doing?"

She was unscrewing the jar she was holding. Then she tossed the lid behind her where it hit the floor with a clatter. She reached into the jar with her armadillo paw and extracted something small. Which she flung at him.

Jared felt the pickle slice hit his forehead with a wet smack. "Pickled vegetables make me sooooo horny," she whispered. She then upended the jar all over herself. Pickle juice rained down on his floor...and her armadillo suit. She writhed and moaned within the dill scented shower.

"On any other day, I would find this extremely weird." In fact, he felt pretty sanguine about what was happening. "However, it's been one of those days, so nothing surprises me."

He heard a purring sound as she unzipped her armadillo suit and stepped out of it. For a moment she was naked in the moonlight, her skin almost alabaster in the eerie lighting. Then she pounced on him. Her breasts brushed his chin as she leaned forward and sucked the pickle off his forehead. He heard her crunch, gulp, then felt her tongue as it slid back and forth across his forehead.

"Ummmm," she moaned, "Vlassic."

"Uh...Kara...are you on any medication that you want to—?"

"Shut up and take me," she commanded, her breath redolent with dill. "Take me like you know I want to be taken."

"Okay...but I'll have to stop and fill up my gas tank, first."

"Stop that. There's something you should know."

"I can't imagine what the hell it could be," he said, with perfect truth.

"When I eat pickles...afterwards, I must always wash them down with your dick."

"Wha—aigh!" Shockingly, she reached back and grabbed him. Even more shocking, he was as firm as a crisp pickle.

Quick as a fish, she whipped around and dived for his dick like a gull diving for a herring. Instantly her warm, wet mouth was on him, while he was face-to-face, so to speak, with her delectable ass. It looked good enough to eat. He leaned forward and gently bit down on the plump, smooth flesh.

She hummed in response, which sent glorious vibrations through his dick, vibrations he felt all the way up to his eyeballs.

Her head was pistoning up and down like that stupid woodpecker toy he had as a kid. And speaking of peckers, his was so hard he felt like it had to be three feet long. Her lips surrounded him, her teeth scraped him—very, very gently!—and he groaned around a mouthful of her ass.