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“Stop squirming,” I say, lifting her into my arms. “Although the boob jiggling action is working for me.”
“Put me down!” She smacks my arm. “I can walk to the bathroom myself.”
“Uh-uh. First off, I like sweeping you off your feet. And second, carrying you is part of the Peters’ TLC Program.”
“I’m heavy.”
“You’re perfect.” I strengthen my grip under her knees to keep her from wiggling free, and deposit her into the tub.
I get in behind her and ease her against my chest. The sound of the lapping water and Dee’s contented breaths are calming. I lazily glide the loofah sponge over her shoulders and down her arms.
“Something else I could get used to,” she says, sighing.
“What?”
“Being pampered.”
“I like taking care of you.”
“I like it too.” She taps her fingers in the bubbly water. “So, tell me what else you have planned as part of the Peters’ TLC program.”
“A massage.”
“Mm.”
“Then dinner on a blanket by the fireplace.”
“An indoor picnic. Very romantic.”
“Ladies’ choice of menu.”
“Something light and easy to prepare.” She ponders. “What about the chilled lobster and salads you brought from Mort’s?”
I freeze. I still haven’t told her what happened at the deli yesterday. About Paul O’Malley, gunning for a story, confronting me with his knowledge of my “mystery woman.” About the steps I’ve taken to keep her safe.
“Mick?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything okay?” She angles her head up at me.
“Everything’s good.” I shift back into motion, circling the loofah across her shoulder blades, determined to have a night of peace with Dee.
A night where there is nothing and no one but us.
ChapterFour
Dee
Monday morning, I wake drapedover Mick. Our legs are intertwined and one of his arms is curled around my hip. After years of being apart it’s no mystery as to why we now sleep attached to each other.
I ease up onto my elbow just for the pleasure of watching him. The blanket is bunched at his waist. Deep breaths move his chest up and down. His right arm, with the ink of flames—a tattoo he’d gotten when he joined the Miami Heat—is flung across the pillow, above his chiseled face.
He honest-to-God looks like a Calvin Klein model that has just been plucked from a magazine ad and injected with a triple dose of testosterone and sexuality. By any standard, Mick is gorgeous. But he’s so much more than his looks and celebrity jock image. Beneath the packaging is a man of integrity. Of honor. Devoted to his family, to Papa’s Kids. To me. Even the scar on his right cheek is a symbol of his character. He survived his father’s abuse. He could have been cold and bitter. Violent and cruel. But he isn’t any of those things.
He is totally red-blooded and his passion runs hot. Yet he is also kind and gentle. Protective and strong. Last night, he took care of me. Loving me through the pain of our past to pave new ground for our future.
My finger trails along his jaw. In sleep, he looks relaxed and unworried. No guilt furrows his brows. I breathe him in. His skin is warm and smells so good. I could stay like this all day. But duty calls. I place a light kiss on his breastbone and slip naked from his arms, reaching for my robe.
