The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Thirty-Eight

He couldn't see her face, but he could hear her impatient exhale. Still, she said, "What?"

"What're you doing on your next day off?"

She didn't answer right away, and once he had his jeans up his hips, and was buckling his belt, he looked toward her face, which had gone all crimped-up with some sort of internal conflict. When they made eye contact, her gaze skated away across the room. "Paperwork," she said.

"Aw, man, that's lame. It's called a day off, Dixie."

"Don't call me that," she snapped, and her cheeks pinked, brighter than they'd even been in the throes. She blushed every time he called her that, and every time she told him to knock it off. "I can't afford to fall behind on anything." She fiddled with her hair, smoothing it, a self-conscious gesture. "Rookies can't fail."

"Who says you're failing, sweetheart?" He tugged his shirt over his head and stepped in closer to her. She whipped her head around and pulled back when he moved to cup her chin. "Hey, easy, girl."

"I'm not a fucking horse," she said, but held still when he reached for her again. When he had gentle hold of her chin, he could feel the fine shudder that trembled in the soft skin beneath her jaw. She scowled up at him, but there was anxiety in her gaze, too much of it for her to mask properly. "What do you want?"

"We should grab dinner."

"What? I told you I'm on call–"

"No. On your off day. We'll get dinner and catch a movie. There's gotta be some kinda superhero shit I'm behind on, and we can–"

Alarm flashed in her eyes. She took a big step back, out of reach, but not before he felt the leap of her pulse against his fingers. "What are you doing?"

"Uh...asking you out."

"Don't do that."

He put on a frown and stepped toward her – only for her to step back again, until her back hit the closet door. She looked positively trapped. "Why not? We've got a good thing going here."

Detective Dixon, with her marching walk and her angry looks, was, deep-down, a very frightened person, he'd learned. She wasn't from New York – her accent was proof of that – but though she'd never offered up even one personal detail, he could read the fear in her, at moments. Moments like these, when he stopped angling to get in her pants and offered something a little realer. Bad breakup? Family trauma? Who knew. But there was something there.

She bristled up now like a little cat. "This thing" – she gestured between them – "is a business arrangement. I'm here for intel, not dates."

He grinned. "Really? You're not here for this?" He grabbed at his crotch and she made a disgusted sound. He sobered. "Seriously? What sort of arrangement? I snitch on little pissant dealers and then get, what, the chance to look at your pretty face?"

"You get my leniency every time I find Dog-dealt coke in this city."

"Ah, now, see, we don't tag our shit. How would you even know it came from us?"

"You're telling me Four-Shoes Jimmy in Theater Row isn't peddling your shit?"

He let his grin widen. "Ask him next time you see him." When he shifted in closer, she stopped him with a hand on his chest, something like panic tweaking her features.

"Pongo."

"Alright, alright." He backed off with a shrug. "I only wanted to show you a good time, doll. But I can take a hint." He pouted. "You don't like me, you only like my dick."