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Burying Dexter here was the most logical thing to do, until she could get everything arranged back home. She supposed there were places where his body could be stored, but whatever Dexter's failings, and they had been many, he had still been a person, a man, a husband, and a father, not just a lump of dead flesh. He deserved the ritual of a funeral, the prayers said over his remains.
She felt a sense of relief and knew she was doing the right thing.
The detective's radio crackled, rousing her from her drifting, half-asleep reverie, though she didn't open her eyes. He spoke quietly into the radio, and it was like hearing his voice again for the first time. She didn't notice his voice as much when she was looking at him, she realized; he was a physically compelling man, not so much because of his looks as because of the forcefulness of his character. He controlled his intensity, but it was revealed in those narrow, glittering eyes.
Now, though, his voice poured over her like dark honey. She didn't listen to the words, just the tone. The slur of his drawl was relaxing, as if there was no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. The way he said "where" gave the word two, perhaps three, syllables.
If he took as much time making love as he did talking, he must be—The sexual thought shocked her, and her eyes flared open. She didn't dare glance at him, though she was abruptly, acutely aware of him sitting no more than a foot away.
Her cheeks felt hot. Where had that thought come from, and now, of all times? She wasn't in the habit of speculating about a man's sexual skills. She wasn't in the habit of speculating about men, period. In her view, sexual freedom was stupid from the beginning, and now it was dangerous as well. She had never dated much, and not at all since Jeanette's death.
The truth was, she had always avoided getting emotionally involved with a man because she had
n't trusted any of them. She had been afraid to risk her heart the way her mother had done; she didn't want to waste her life loving a man who never returned that love. Instead, she had been wasting her life not loving a man at all.
She felt stupid and angry at herself. All men weren't alike; she knew that. Yes, her father had abandoned them, but she also knew men who loved their wives and families, who were faithful and dependable. But emotionally she hadn't moved beyond the quiet fear and desperation of her childhood. Only yesterday… no, this morning—God, the day felt as if it had been a year long, and it wasn't over yet—she had decided not to let the past drag her down. She had started making plans for the apartment, for her career, but those plans hadn't included a man.
How dumb could she be? Why hadn't she seen this before? She refused to cheat herself out of a husband, a family, just because of her father's miserable example. When this was over and she was home again, she would start accepting some of those invitations that occasionally came her way. She knew some nice men, and it was time to give one of them a chance to be more than just a casual friend.
In retrospect, she was glad she'd had such a spicy little thought about Detective Chastain, because it had sparked that burst of self-examination. And he probably was good in bed, she thought, feeling defiant. Whatever his personal opinion of her, he was going out of his way to smooth the path for her. One of her friends on the surgical floor, Piper Lloyd, said you could always tell if a man was a good lover or not just by watching him at work. Some of the male doctors—okay, most of the male doctors—thought they were God's gift to women, but according to Piper's theory, they were too arrogant and in too much of a hurry. If they didn't pay attention to their patients, they weren't likely to pay attention to a lover.
Piper would approve of the detective, Karen thought drowsily. She would already be batting her eyes at him and fluffing her cap of black curls, but then Piper was a battle-scarred veteran of the love wars. She was careful about sex but not shy about going after what she wanted.
Karen wasn't anywhere in Piper's league. Just dating occasionally, giving a guy a chance, would be a big step for her.
"Are you married?" Her eyes popped open when she heard the words come out of her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that; she hadn't intended to say anything at all, because it had felt too good to sit there with her eyes closed. Instead of looking at him, she stared at the passing scenery, where Burger Kings had given way to trees and grass as they left the city behind.
"No, never have been," he replied, his tone easy, surprising her. "How about you?"
"No, I—no." She had started to go into a long explanation about being too busy but decided to leave the answer as it stood. She hadn't been too busy, she had been too wary.
"Engaged?"
Well, one nosy question deserved another, she thought. "No."
"I was, once, but we both thought better of it." He flashed her an oddly veiled look. "Cops have the highest divorce rate in the country. Some women can't handle kissing their husbands good-bye in the mornings, knowing it might be the last time."
Karen clucked her tongue, irrationally amused instead of sympathetic. "Shallow," she pronounced in judgment. "Imagine being upset over a little thing like that."
A quick grin lightened his expression. He had what she thought of as the typical cop look, slightly remote, definitely cynical. The military-short black hair made him look even harder, so the flicker of amusement was as brilliant as a jag of lightning in a sullen sky.
"You could marry another cop," she suggested.
He grunted as he turned on his left signal, slowing as he approached an intersection, then taking a secondary road. "Yeah. Like you'd marry a doctor or another nurse."
She made a face. Some people married within the profession and made it work, but Karen wanted some freedom from the hospital. She immersed herself in the work while she was there, and she loved her job, but she didn't want to take it home with her.
"What type of nursing do you do?"
She gave him points for actually knowing there were different types. "I work on a hospital surgical floor, but I'm thinking about going back to school and getting my master's, maybe specializing in trauma."
Saying the words aloud, however, seemed to solidify them, and she knew she was going to do it.
One eyebrow quirked. "Isn't that like ditching a desk job for front-line duty?"
"You're in the trenches yourself," she pointed out. "Besides, I want to know more, do more." She tucked a curve of hair behind her ear, half turning toward him, her normally serious expression bright with intensity. "I want to know what the latest procedures are, the newest drugs and treatments. I don't want to change a surgical dressing, I want to apply the pressure that stops the bleeding." She didn't know why she was telling him, a virtual stranger, all of this, but there was something about him that made it easy to talk. Odd, because they certainly hadn't started off in a buddy-buddy mode. Maybe it was because he seemed really interested, or maybe it was just a relief to get her mind off Dexter. Maybe she was punch-drunk with fatigue or riding a sugar high from all the soft drinks he had poured down her.
He pulled into the parking lot of a small country church, empty and dozing in the fierce afternoon heat. To the side, beneath the sheltering limbs of massive live oaks, was a well-tended cemetery. Karen looked at the graves and felt her insides tighten again. She had managed to forget for a few minutes, but the respite was over. She squared her shoulders and got out of the car.
