True Colors Part 8

He reached for her chin, intending to angle her head so he could check her pupils, but she flinched back from the contact.

His concern went into overdrive when she brushed his hand away and got up from the sofa. Everything about her was off. She was tense and drawn, so pale her eyes looked sunken. She hadn't looked this strung out and sick since the first week after she died in the ER and was shocked back to life. His stomach clenched at the memory.

As he followed her into the kitchen, noting that she didn't quite walk in a straight line, he wondered if she was drunk. Before the shooting, she and Charlie would sometimes meet for margaritas after work. Maybe they'd resumed the tradition . . . except he hadn't noticed any alcohol on her breath.

"Um, did you maybe forget about our dinner plans?" he asked. On top of alarming, this was awkward. He didn't know whether to go or stay. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to go until he knew she was indeed okay.

"You were coming at eight," she said. "Are you early?"

"It's eight fifteen."

She stopped and stared at her watch as though she didn't believe what it told her. "Oh."

"Alex, are you okay?"

She raised her head, a s.p.a.ciness in her eyes that made them appear out of focus. "Yes, of course. I must have napped more deeply than usual." She headed for the door. "I need to feed the brood. It's way past dinnertime for them."

She faltered by the kitchen table, her eye caught by the daisies. "You brought me flowers?" she asked softly.

"They reminded me of you."

"That's so sweet. Thank you."

"Anytime."

She continued onto the porch area, and Logan paused in the doorway between the kitchen and the porch to watch her scoop dog food from a large Rubbermaid container into multiple doggy dishes. Dieter and Gus dug in as if they hadn't been fed in days.

"Want me to let in the others?" Logan asked. "I let them out when I got here. They seemed desperate."

"Sure, thanks."

As soon as he opened the door for them, four hungry dogs tore past him, through the kitchen and onto the porch, where they started to noisily chow down.

When Alex just stood there and watched the dogs eat, Logan said, "So . . . dinner?"

She ran another hand through her hair, obviously distracted. "I'm sorry I'm so out of it. I don't know what my problem is."

"If you don't feel like going out, we can go another time."

She seemed to think about that suggestion for a moment.

"Or," Logan said quickly, because he didn't want to leave her alone yet, "we could stay in, and I could cook for you."

She smiled faintly. "That sounds good. There's pasta and spaghetti sauce in the pantry, if you want. And a bottle of red wine, I think."

"Perfect."

"Do you mind if I hop in the shower? I was helping Charlie in her garden."

"No problem."

She flashed another smile at him, this one bright and devastating. He would have fallen straight into it and drowned if he hadn't noted that it was fake. More than anything so far tonight, that faux smile, coming from the most genuine woman he'd ever met, bothered the h.e.l.l out of him.

Twenty minutes later, Logan had doctored a jar of spaghetti sauce with chopped onions, bell peppers and fresh garlic. With sauce simmering, pasta boiling, and the pups lounging in the backyard, he opened the bottle of pinot noir he'd found in the pantry and poured two gla.s.ses.

He'd just finished lighting two tapered candles on the table when he turned to find Alex leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, her arms loosely crossed, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You've been busy."

Seeing her standing there, hair damp and a rosy hue in her cheeks, looking refreshed and relaxed, chased away the bulk of his concern. He'd startled her out of a deep sleep earlier. No reason to worry. Still, he couldn't completely shake the notion that something about her was off.

Then she wiped all thought from his brain as she walked over to him and took one of his hands into both of hers. She stared up at him with an expectant expression, and he wondered what she was looking for. Whatever it was, he'd give it to her, no questions asked.

Her brow creased and she stiffened briefly, a breath catching in her throat. And then, just as quickly, she relaxed and looked down at their joined hands. Smiling, she eased her thumb over the back of his hand in a soft caress that had his body reacting in an entirely too eager way. She seemed fascinated by the texture of his skin, or perhaps the movement of her thumb mesmerized her. Either way, he had to clench his jaw to keep from leaning into her and diving in. But, Jesus, he wanted to. He'd wanted to for so long.

As if she'd read his mind, she raised her head and stared into his eyes, invitation blatant in her dark gaze. He didn't need to be asked twice. He lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his. The first touch of their lips shocked him, revving his heart and spinning his head. He'd known all along that kissing her, tasting her, would be good, but he hadn't expected it to turn so quickly into heat and l.u.s.t and desperation. Before he realized what he'd done, he had her backed against the counter, his hands buried in her hair and his mouth fused to hers.

She smelled like Christmas cookies and tasted just as sweet. He couldn't get enough, didn't want to ever let her go, yet he still sensed something was wrong. She seemed a little too desperate, a little too eager. And while his ego-and body-wanted to rejoice, his brain told him to slow things down or they would both regret it. Easing back from her, he put his hands on her arms when she tried to recapture his retreating lips.

"Dinner's getting cold," he said, a rasp in his voice that betrayed his outward show of control.

Faint disappointment clouded her features, as though she wanted him for dinner. And as she backed away, cheeks flushing pink, he could have kicked himself. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with him? He wanted her, wanted to taste and touch and love, and she'd just offered herself on a silky platter. What kind of idiot said, "Wait."

She turned before he could get a read on her expression.

He'd given her the wrong impression and didn't know how to fix it. At the same time, he didn't want to rush. They had something good here, something promising. They'd gotten to know each other over the past several months, built a friendship before a romance. And he knew her well enough to recognize that she wasn't herself right now. He wanted-needed-to know that her head was in the game, their game, before they raced to the next level.

On top of all that, he knew a d.a.m.n good thing when he had it, and Alex Trudeau was not the kind of woman a man took to bed on impulse, then dealt with the consequences later. She was the real thing, and he planned to make all the right moves at all the right times.

Retrieving the winegla.s.ses, he set them on the table, then pulled a chair out for her.

She watched him with inquisitive eyes, as though trying to figure out where they stood.

He searched for something to say to break the tension. "Please don't tell me you're not hungry. I slaved over a hot stove all day."

She cracked a smile at his exaggeration, and her shoulders relaxed. As she sat, she inspected the bowl of pasta sauce. "Looks like you added stuff."

"Yep."

"Better watch it. You're going to spoil me."

"I plan to."

"I love the sound of that." She loaded up her plate with spaghetti and sauce.

Once he had his own plate filled, he asked, "What'd you do today?" Probably not the most covert way to seek clues to her . . . off-ness, but he had to start somewhere.

"Helped Charlie in her garden."

Too much time in the sun could explain her sluggishness. And maybe she'd overdone the activity. She was still healing, after all.

She twirled pasta onto her fork. "Can I cash in my rain check from this morning or is it too soon?"

He took a drink of wine and wished he'd had a follow-up question about her day ready sooner. But he supposed he couldn't dodge talking about his childhood forever. He was surprised she'd let him dodge it as long as she had. He set down his gla.s.s and took a breath. "My parents died when I was four."

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry." Her compa.s.sion was a wave of warmth that enveloped him. "What happened?"

"Truck driver on the road for fourteen hours dozed off at the wheel, crossed the center line and smashed head-on into their Niagara Falls tour bus."

"That's awful."

"I went to live with my only remaining grandfather, but by the time I hit six, Papa was destined for a nursing home. He fought hard for me, but social services had other ideas." He paused, trying to suppress the bitter twist to his lips. "Foster care sucked. Nine different homes in seven years, and by then I wasn't cute anymore. n.o.body wanted a thirteen-year-old with a chip on his shoulder."

"G.o.d, Logan." Alex pushed back her plate.

"I survived." He angled a chin at the pasta she'd abandoned. "You're not eating."

"How?" she asked, ignoring his observation.

"Joined a gang." The ease with which he said it should have shocked him. But, then, this was Alex. She could get anyone to open up when she peered at them with her empathetic gaze.

"A gang? For real?"

"I got busted early on. By an old cop determined to save me from myself. Officer Mike was probably the only person, besides my grandfather, I can remember caring about what happened to me. He died a few years ago. Old age."

"I bet he was proud of you."

He wondered what Officer Mike would have said about his colossal mistake in Detroit. "Your turn," he said, before she could drill him some more.

"My turn for what?"

"You told me how you're close to your dad because of his Nikon and the newspaper biz, but what about your mother?"

She shrugged. "That story is boring."

"Not to me. And, hey, I showed you mine."

She flashed him an amused smile. "If you yawn, I might smack you."

"As long as you smack me on the a.s.s, everything's cool."

She laughed before taking another drink of wine. "My mother is most interested in high society. It drove her nuts that all three of her daughters turned into tomboys rather than girlie girls."

"Why do you think that happened?"

"I guess we all gravitated toward Dad. He talked to us, listened to us, challenged us. Mom just tried to tell us what to do and got wenchy when we disappointed her. My sisters and I can be a bit . . . contrary."

"So you and Charlie both ended up working at the family newspaper. What about your other sister? What's her name?"

"Sam. She's the oldest. Can you tell Dad wanted boys? Mom calls us by our full names. Charlotte. Samantha. Alexandra. Dad's a bit contrary himself."

"And where's Sam?"

Her expression had relaxed as they talked, but now it tensed again. "I don't know. She took off as soon as she turned eighteen. She checks in every now and then, but no one really knows where she is or what she's doing. It's kind of weird, like she's a spy or something."

"I could try to track her down, if you want. I have friends in the FBI."

"That's nice of you to offer, but Charlie and I decided a long time ago that if Sam needs us, she knows how to reach us."

"That must be tough to accept."

"I admit that I really miss her."

Logan searched for something to say to lighten her mood. "So . . . why six dogs and no cats?"

She gave him a crooked smile. "Charlie has a cat, so that angle's covered." But then the smile faltered. "Apparently, I surround myself with dogs because people cause too much pain."

He couldn't stop his brows from arching. Not the answer he was expecting.

She shook her head and picked up her wine. "Forget I said that. It's just something someone said earlier that I want to believe is a load of baloney."

"You want to believe it, but you don't." Come on, Alex. Talk to me.

She toyed with her gla.s.s, swirling the last half inch of wine in the bottom. He thought she might actually start spilling what was on her mind, but instead, she set down the stemware and scooted back from the table. "Want to take the mutts for a walk with me? They've been cooped up most of the day."

She was avoiding him, but at least she didn't ask him to leave, or even hint that she wanted him to. For now, he'd let her get away with it. "Sure, a walk sounds great."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The walk with the menagerie and Logan helped relax Alex some. Now, they sat on the sofa, hands loosely linked, and watched a Seinfeld rerun. Leaning against the warmth of Logan's body, feeling his strength seep into her, comforted her, though the aimless wanderings of Jerry and friends through a parking garage did little to distract her from her circling thoughts.

She knew Logan was worried about her, could sense the tension in his muscles, but she didn't know how to tell him what was on her mind. Blurting, "Hey, guess what? I'm psychic," didn't strike her as a good approach. He'd think she'd lost her mind. And maybe she had. Maybe she would if she touched the wrong person.

Besides, she didn't know where she and Logan stood now. He'd pushed her away when they'd kissed in the kitchen. Well, all right, he hadn't pushed her away. But he'd made it clear that he was more interested in dinner than walking her backward down the hall to her bedroom.

And, d.a.m.n it, kissing had been the wrong thing to do just then anyway. They hadn't even graduated to hand-holding at that point, though they did round that base on their walk. The moment he'd caught her fingers with his had made her heart give a happy jump. So maybe he'd insisted on dinner instead of what she'd wanted-the physical release that would wipe her whirling mind clear-because he'd sensed her turmoil.

G.o.d, she was still so freaking confused. Was she empathic or not? Earlier, she'd touched Logan deliberately, had taken his hand in hers and waited for the impact of something that had happened to him in his past. A test of sorts. If she couldn't handle what haunted him, then how could she handle a relationship with him? Mostly, she'd succ.u.mbed to curiosity about her ability. She still wasn't sure how this empathy thing worked-or whether she even believed something so unbelievable could exist. Instead of a trauma from Logan's early life hitting her, though, she'd experienced the intensity of his fear and concern for her when he'd found her dead asleep on the sofa. A recent trauma, rather than a blast from the past. So maybe Charlie was right. Maybe with Logan, she wouldn't get thrust into his past like she had with AnnaCoreen and Charlie. Different body chemistries and all that. Maybe she'd flash only on his most recent terrifying moment, and that was it. She thought she could live with that.

With that mystery possibly solved, she'd looked into his eyes and wanted nothing more than to kiss him and forget everything that had ruined her day . . . and possibly her life.

Then he'd stepped back.

Wham. More confusion.