"I don't want to go with you," I said, scowling at him. "I want to stay with her."
"Tough. You're going with me, and that's that." He clamped a strong hand around my right wrist and, on that note, hauled me out to the car.
It was a silent drive to his house while I ruminated on what this latest show of temper meant. From him, not from us. I knew what was up with us, so there was no point in thinking about it.
I'd scared him. Not just momentarily, as I'd thought at first, the way someone is startled by something unexpected, but all the way to the bone. He'd been stricken with fear.
That was it, plain and simple. He'd seen me shot right in front of him; then the very next day he'd stashed me at what he thought was the safest place in town, his mother's house, and after a stressful day he'd walked in to find me trying my level best, in his view, to break my neck or at least tear out all my new stitches.
In my view, one adult apology deserved another. If he could do it, so could I.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to scare you, and we shouldn't have teamed up on you."
He gave me a brooding glance and didn't reply. Okay, so he wasn't as gracious about accepting apologies as I was. I let that slide, because his surliness meant he did care for me, after all; he wasn't driven just by sexual chemistry and that competitive streak of his. Whether he cared about me enough for us to have something to build on was still up in the air, but at least I wasn't in this alone.
Just before we reached his house, he muttered, "Don't ever do that again."
"What?" I asked in bewilderment. "Scare you, or team up on you? You can't mean doing a handstand, because you, like, know what I do for a living, right? I practice gymnastics every week. The members of Great Bods see me practicing and they're reassured that I know what I'm doing. It's good business."
"You could kill yourself," he growled, and with shock I realized that in fact he was, in a very manlike way, seizing on what he saw as the cause of his scare.
"Wyatt, you're a cop, and you want to lecture me on how dangerous my job is?"
"I'm a lieutenant, not a patrol officer. I don't serve warrants, make traffic stops, or do undercover drug buys. The guys on the street are the ones in danger."
"You may not do them now, but you did. You weren't hatched out of the academy as a lieutenant, after all." I paused. "And if you were still a beat cop and I pitched a fit because of the danger, what would you do?"
He didn't say anything as he turned into his driveway and pulled into the garage. As the door was coming down behind us, he said grudgingly, "I'd tell you it was my job and I'd do it to the best of my ability. Which has absolutely nothing in common with you doing a handstand in my mother's kitchen the day after being shot."
"That's true," I agreed. "I'm glad you realize it. Just stay focused on what you're mad at so we don't get sidetracked into arguments about how I run my business."
He came around to open the door for me and help me out of the car, then got the bag with my clothes Siana had packed from the backseat, and led the way inside. Then he dropped the bag on the floor, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me to him for a long, hard kiss.
I was kissing him back with enthusiasm when, belatedly, my danger signals began buzzing at me. Breathless, I managed to pull back. "You can kiss me, but we can't have sex. There. I said it after you touched me, so it counts."
"Maybe all I planned on was kissing," he murmured, and kissed me again.
Yeah, and Napoleon's venture into Russia was just a little day trip. Uh-huh. Did he really think I was buying that?
He kissed me until my knees were wobbly and my toes were curled, then released me with a smug look on his face. He couldn't hide the woody in his pants, though, so I felt pretty good myself.
"Did Lynn find the name of that man in the files?" I asked. Maybe I should have asked that much earlier, but the handstand thing had kind of thrown us into a no-talking zone for a while. We were over that, so I wanted to know.
"Not yet. MacInnes was going to call me as soon as they got the name and he did some preliminary checking. Lynn was having some trouble with the computer."
"What trouble? Why didn't she call? She knows how to use the programs, so what's wrong?"
"It crashed."
"Oh, no. The computer can't crash. We're supposed to open again tomorrow. We are opening tomorrow, aren't we?"
He nodded. "We finished processing the crime scene, and all the ugly yellow tape is down." He put little verbal quotation marks around "ugly yellow tape," and I knew MacInnes had probably given him-and the entire department-a verbatim replay of our conversation.
I waved that aside. "The computer," I said urgently.
"I sent one of our computer guys over to see what he could do. That was right before I left work, and I haven't heard anything since."
I dug out my cell phone and called Lynn's cell. When she answered, she sounded a little distracted. "Blair, we have to get another computer. This one's possessed."
"What do you mean, possessed?"
"It's doing weird stuff. It's speaking in tongues. Typing in tongues, anyway. This is gibberish. It isn't even English."
"What does the computer cop say?"
"I'll let him tell you."
A moment later a man said, "It's a major crash, but I can salvage most if not all of your files. I'm going to uninstall your programs and reinstall them; then we'll see what we have. Do you have a backup?"
"No, but I'll get one there tonight if you say we need it. What caused the crash?"