Do Not Disturb (7 page)

He heard the quick catch of her breath. “Then I think we have a problem.”

“I don't see why.” He was done with worrying, for the moment. All he wanted right now was a little contact: her wet, satiny skin against his palms, her wet, satiny lips on his. Just a kiss. “You have self-control, don't you?”

“Of course I have self-control,” she snapped. “I can't speak for you, though.”

“Oh baby, I have very good reasons not to let this go too far.”

“Mine are better.” She dropped his hand and in the same movement slid out of reach. “It's against my journalistic ethics to get involved with the subject of a story.”

“You're doing a story on Stephen Whitney.” He stood and stepped toward her, the surface of the water lapping at his chest. “Not me.”

She put up her hand to halt his progress. “Stephen Whitney
and
you. Two stories. Now that I know who you are, I want to also write about C. J. Jones.”

It was the name that finally knocked some sense in him. That and the determined expression on Angel's face.

Lust cooled. Desire expired. Regret and that sense of doom that he was trying to become accustomed to rushed into the void.

“You
can't
do a story on C. J. Jones,” he said grimly, for the first time moving into the dim light.

“Oh, c'mon,” she replied. That coaxing tone of hers, paired with her youthful, innocent appearance, was
probably lethal to the usual man, woman, and liar. “C. J. Jones is news….”

Her gaze dropped from his face to his chest.
Ah, she sees it now,
he thought. The nine-inch scar bisecting his rib cage was darkly purple and fresh-looking. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

Her visible shock sent him vaulting from the tub, no longer concerned about his nakedness. She'd seen the worst of him already. Without another word, he located his towel, wrapped it around his hips, then walked toward the gate. Finally glancing back, he caught her still looking at him, her expression still stunned.

“You see, Angel, you can't do a story on him because…” Cooper hesitated, then decided there was no point in trying to make it pretty. “Because C. J. Jones died.”

The next morning, Cooper was standing at the breakfast buffet in the communal dining room when something blond and wild burst through the door. The retreatants in the room gasped, their collective breaths loud in the usual silence. The two-legged wild thing came toward Cooper at a slow stalk, the soles of her shock-green boots making heavy thuds against the terra-cotta floor tiles. He cautiously set his bowl of oatmeal aside, then braced himself as he watched her determined approach.

Obviously, Angel—the wild thing—had gotten over her surprise of the night before. He'd known she would, and also known that then she'd come after him for answers. What he didn't know was if she'd accept coronary bypass surgery as an excuse for the way he'd dumped the information on her. And for the way he'd
been reacting toward her too—cold one minute and hot the next.

She came to a lurching halt mere inches from his chest, her baby-blue eyes hidden under an untamed tangle of hair that was standing out around her head. He could feel the heat gathering on her tongue.

When her mouth opened, he clamped a hand over it.

“Mm!” Although muffled, her protest was clearly outraged.

With his free hand, he pointed to the nearby sign requesting silence. Though she followed his gesture, he could sense the words still boiling up inside of her. And he was certain this little teakettle had one hell of a whistle.

To save all their hearing, he made a hasty grab for one of the pads and pens that lay scattered about the room. He thrust them into her hands just as they appeared to be reaching for his throat.

Angel snatched the writing implements and he thought better of leaving his palm over her mouth. In this mood, her bark was probably less painful than her bite.

Though his hand was no longer clapped against her lips, she didn't speak, just moved her hand deliberately across the page. Cooper waited, prepared for her to take a layer off his skin. He'd mismanaged things with her, he had to admit it. Sex had been absent from his priority list for so long that he'd been knocked off his feet by its unexpected reappearance.

Riiiip
. The bad-tempered sound of paper being torn from the pad made him wince. She shoved the sheet
into his hand and, bracing himself again, he gingerly turned it over.

The handwriting was passionate and so were the words:

My hairdryer! I'm begging you!

Astonished, he looked at the paper another minute, and then at Angel. She shook back the mess of curls and he could see her eyes now. They weren't angry, but they weren't quite alert either.

She scribbled again.

Begging you!

At the near desperation on her face, he was forced to swallow his laugh.

What had he been so afraid of? He'd spent the night awake in bed, his ear plastered to the pillow, reassuring himself with his heartbeat and reciting all the reasons why he should keep clear of Angel. He'd vowed again to get her off the story and away from him.

But looking at her now, rumple-headed, heavy-eyed, and on Day Two of serious caffeine withdrawal, he thought she looked…manageable.

And hell, why not admit it? He thought she looked adorable too.

Turning away, he grabbed a mug and filled it with hot water from the nearby carafe. Then he took her hand and started towing her out of the building. She stumbled along behind him, admirably keeping her
mouth shut until the dining room door slapped closed behind them.

“My hairdryer?” she asked, voice full of hope.

“Shh!” From the corner of his eye he could see one of the regular visitors coming their way, her hand-carved walking stick poking into the dirt with each step. Mrs. Withers would whack them both with it if they dared to disturb the quiet.

As the old lady passed, they exchanged nods, and then he rushed Angel around the corner of the next cottage and toward his own. “No hairdryer,” he said to her under his breath. “But coffee. I can get you coffee.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “Coffee,” she repeated, in the same tone he'd heard the Benedictine brothers up the hill use during prayer. “Real coffee.”

He didn't go so far as to commit to that. But at least it kept her quiet until he got her inside his cottage. A quick rummage in a cupboard produced a tiny bottle of crystals that had hardened into instant-coffee clay. He managed to scrape off enough with a spoon to color the hot water in the mug a muddy brown.

“Here.” He passed it to her.

Holding a clump of curls off her face with one hand, she brought the mug to her lips. Drained it. Then she blinked a couple of times, looking around her as if coming awake from a long sleep. “What day is this?”

His lips twitched. “Tuesday.” Oh yes, she was manageable, all right. And still damn adorable, with her baby blues now clearing and that hair of hers waving about as if half-electrified. If somebody was going to do a story on Stephen—and under the circumstances
Cooper could only welcome good publicity—Angel might very well be the best for the job.

“Tuesday?” she echoed.

Nodding, he reached for the mug. “Let me take that from you.” Then he shooed her toward the loveseat and easy chair that were angled beside the window in the front room. A plan was forming in his mind, one that would keep all the cards in his hand.

She obeyed, the overstuffed, denim-covered chair nearly swallowing her up. “Tuesday, you said. That makes last night—” she broke off, narrowing her gaze at him.

Yep, she was waking up, all right.

“
Last night,
” she repeated.

The ominous way she said the words made him guess she was remembering the night before and how he'd tried to let her think the sexual pull was on her side only. How he'd let her apologize for it.

He dropped onto the sofa. “I was wondering when you'd get to that.”

She was still staring at him, narrow-eyed. “I…you…” She sputtered, her hand lifting. “You…me…” The hand dropped.

“Yeah.” Whatever he was admitting to seemed to satisfy her, because he waited a moment and she said nothing more. Hoping they'd left that topic behind for good, he continued talking. “I'd like to talk to you about something else.”

He paused, giving her a chance to light into him if she must. But when she merely lifted her eyebrows, he finished his thought. “I have a proposition for you.”

Her eyebrows rose even higher, and then she settled
back onto the cushions and crossed her arms over her chest. “A proposition?” she repeated, her voice oh-too-cool. “What kind of proposition?”

“So suspicious.”

“So wise,” she retorted.

He shrugged. “Whatever. Here's what I'm offering. The cooperation of our family and friends, complete cooperation, on your story about Stephen.”

“I already have that. Your sister—”

“Will change her mind if I ask her to. You can figure out why she'd be interesting in keeping me happy.”

“Hmm.” Angel crossed her jeans-clad legs at the ankle and pursed her lips, obviously considering all the angles.

Cooper knew the plan was perfect. With the hairdryer and caffeine as last-ditch leverage, keeping her on the story would be a safer bet than some unknown reporter. They could end up with a writer bent on a hatchet job, instead of one who admitted to usually writing pieces on philanthropists and little-known sports.

Oh yeah. The Angel he knew was preferable to some devil he didn't.

She was still eyeing him suspiciously, though. “And in return for all this cooperation, what, exactly, do I give up?”

Smart woman. It had taken her less than ten seconds to smell a catch. “In return,” Cooper said, “you
offer
up your promise not to write about C. J. Jones.”

She offered up nothing right away. A moment passed, then her gaze dropped from his face to her lap. “You said he died.”

“Thanks to the miracle of modern science,” he replied lightly, “they managed to bring me back to life. Twice.”

Her lashes rose and he was looking into that heavenly blue of her eyes again. “There's more to it than that,” she said.

“Sure. You've seen the scar.” He stretched his legs out in front of him, pretending a casualness he'd never feel about it. “I had an acute myocardial infarction.”

“Heart attack.”

“Right.” Though
attack
didn't come close to describing the long minutes when pain rolled over his chest like a two-ton Ford Ranger and more agony had sliced like a butcher's knife along his left arm. He ran his hand over his face, remembering how the sweat had poured off of it. “And then I had coronary bypass surgery.”

“You said they saved you twice.”

“I don't remember the second heart attack. I was on the operating table.”

“And since then…?”

“Since then,” he replied, “I've recovered, stopped smoking, learned to eat differently, exercised a lot, managed my stress.” And waited to die.

“But Cooper, it would make a great story…” she began, but the wheedle in her voice was halfhearted and she left off altogether when he started shaking his head.

“You get Stephen,” Cooper said. “Or you get me.”

She rose to pace back and forth in front of the window. “I don't like it,” she muttered to herself. “I just don't like it.”

He stood too, and on her next pass grabbed her hand to halt her. “I prefer to keep my health issues private.”

Her chin edged higher, her cheeks going pink. “You make me sound like a gossip.”

He just looked at her.

She whipped her hand from his. “What if I called
you
an ambulance chaser?”

He shrugged. “I don't apologize for seeking justice.”

“And I don't apologize for seeking truth!”

He had to smile at her passion. “So we're a matching pair of idealists.” But then he sobered. “Seriously, though, Angel, who really needs to know about my heart attacks and surgery?”

Her gaze slid away.

“Who?” he insisted.

“Nobody,” she finally admitted. “Not when you put it like that. But my slant would be C. J. Jones and his most important, albeit out-of-courtroom, battle.”

“
No
.” God, no. Because both C. J. Jones and Cooper liked to win, and he planned on going out a winner, at least in the eyes of the public.

She studied his face. “All right,” she finally agreed. “On one condition.”

He set his jaw. “The hairdryer's still out. And I can't promise the coffee'll get any better either.”

She shook her head and he watched with wonder as her hair lifted a couple of inches and stayed there, suspended in midair. “It's not that. I want you to reconsider the story once you come back to San Francisco.”

“Huh?” He blinked away his distraction and refocused on her face. “What?”

“When you go back to work at your firm, at DiGiovanni & Jones, I want you to reconsider letting me interview you.”

“When I go back to work. At the firm.”

She nodded. “Just think about it, okay? A story like yours could inspire people, you know.”

He wanted to laugh again. “Man smoking and working himself into an early heart attack? What's inspiring about that? We could add that since my father suffered the same fate I should have known better.”

She ignored his protest. “Tell me you'll consider it.”

He sighed. But then, since he would never practice at DiGiovanni & Jones again, he decided it was simplest to agree. “Fine.”

After a moment more's hesitation, she shoved out her hand. “Then you've got yourself a deal.”

Her fingers were warm and small in his. He held them a second. Two. Too long. Because then it happened again, that undeniable yearning to touch her further. Touch her more. Hungry for the long-lost pleasure of female skin, he found himself succumbing to it, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles.

So smooth, soft. His muscles tensed, his blood went predictably thick, and his free hand found its way to her cheek.

The skin warmed beneath his palm. Then his thumb moved of its own volition too, brushing across her lower lip.

Her breath rushed over it. Hot, quick, nervous.

He'd forgotten that about women. The first time an encounter turned from flirtatious suggestion to blatantly sexual there was always that brief hitch, that vulnerable moment when they revealed their lingering doubts, and yet didn't move away. It used to make him wary, he remembered, as if he were taking advan
tage somehow. As if a woman's trust put too much expectation on him and what they might be to each other.

But Angel's stillness,
her
final decision to trust, made him feel surprisingly smug. He smiled to himself and drew his thumb over her mouth again. Then he froze, recognizing his own gesture as a possessive one.

Possessive.
Jesus
.

He had no business wanting to hold on to anything. Any woman. Her.

Lifting his hands, he stepped back.

They stared at each other.

“Well,” she said after a minute.

“Well,” he echoed.

“I suppose there's that attraction thing again.”

The offhand way she mentioned it worked like a charm to relax him. He found himself smiling, because he was beginning to enjoy her I'm-no-good-at-coy directness. “Yeah.”

She nodded slowly. “And though you tried to make me believe otherwise, you say it does go both ways?”

“Obviously.” He was still smiling. See? He'd been right. The lust was controllable.
She
was controllable.

She nodded again. But then she stilled and her eyes went wide. “Hey! Wait a minute! It occurs to me that since we've just agreed you're no longer the subject of a story…”

He felt his smile fall from his face.

“…there isn't a reason in the world we can't pursue that attraction now, is there?”

His perfect plan wasn't so perfect after all.