In Close Quarters. Candace Irvin

yellow. From the flowers on her bedcovers to the brass bed and the light-blue walls, somehow she had managed to incorporate every shade of the rainbow. It did not make sense. Indeed, compared to the winter wonderland of the rest of the apartment, this was most baffling. When had this woman decided to suck the color from her life?

      And why?

      Because it had happened in that order. He had finally placed the faint odor still lingering in her living room.

      Paint.

      “Tomás?”

      He returned his attention to her. He was fairly certain she had not realized she had used his given name again. Though oddly enough, on her lips the cursed name did not carry its customary sting. Progress on all fronts.

      He smiled. “¿Sí?”

      “This may hurt.”

      He flicked his gaze to the needle and syringe she was holding and nodded. “Begin.”

      She bit down on her bottom lip and bent her head. Several pricks later her gaze returned to his and she eased out her breath. “Okay?”

      He nodded again.

      “Good.” She smiled softly and this time it reached her eyes, beautiful blue eyes that were still tinged with concern.

      Most definite progress.

      “I just need to give the lidocaine a chance to numb the skin, and then I can start.” She placed the empty syringe on the nightstand and reached into her bag again, this time removing a suture kit not unlike the one the paramedic had waved beneath his nose as the man yelled at him. The paramedic had ceased arguing once TJ had sworn he would stop by the hospital and see a doctor.

      True, he had not made it to the hospital. But he was seeing a doctor, was he not? A competent and stunningly beautiful doctor at that. As Karin readied the supplies, he caught her glance stealing across his chest—and the softening in her gaze.

      His breath stopped. She wanted him still.

      Why, then, had they returned to this distant dance?

      And why had she started it?

      Not that first time at his home, but the second. Why had she accepted his invitation to dinner at the wedding only to reject it—and him—once and for all at the reception? The question had driven him nearly insane these past six months. And now he would finally get his answer. All he needed to do was bide his time until she was well and truly distracted. He settled back to do just that.

      He waited as she took the first stitch in silence, and then the second. The third and the fourth followed. Still he waited. Again and again, stitch after stitch. Until finally she was three-quarters of the way through sealing his cut, and then—

      “Why did you change your mind?”

      She froze, for perhaps no more than a second. And then she resumed her stitching. She did not glance up as she tied that stitch and started in on the next, but neither did she ignore him. Nor did she pretend ignorance.

      “The wedding.”

      Somehow he managed not to flinch at the sudden, but not thoroughly unexpected, fist of chill that gripped his heart.

      Surely she did not mean—

      No.

      Had he not already considered this? And many times. He had even thought to ask. But why? It was never wise to borrow more trouble than one already owned. And given his past, he owned more than enough with this woman. Besides, Consuela had cornered him in the unlikeliest of places. Nor had Karin behaved differently following his escape and return to the wedding dinner. True, he and Karin had been seated on opposite sides of the bride and groom, but he had most definitely been watching. Waiting. Praying.

      Nothing.

      She had even agreed to dance with him after the meal.

      But she had been reluctant, had she not?

      Again, the fist of dread.

      Best he tread carefully. He cleared his throat. “The wedding?”

      A sigh rife with exasperation filled the room as she tied off her stitch and moved on to yet another. “Yes, the wedding. Surely you haven’t forgotten your date so quickly?”

      “My date?” Carajó, this did concern Consuela.

      Another cold fist.

      And another stitch. But no words.

      Yet another prayer as he prompted her again. “Did my cousin say something to offend?” Please to God, let this be all it was.

      A long pause as Karin took the next two stitches and tied them off. Through both, she still refused to raise her head and meet his gaze. And then a sigh. Heavy. Rife with pain, with certainty. “Your cousin didn’t have to say anything.”

      Madre de Dios, she had seen them.

      Worse, she had taken the sight, unexplained, aboard her ship and on to her deployment. For six months.

      He reached for her cheek. “Cariño, I am sorry you saw. But you must know I did not kiss Consuela. It was she who—” He closed his hand as she jerked from his touch.

      At least her gaze had found his.

      Unfortunately fire had consumed the blue. “Hogwash. I was there. So was the champagne, but you weren’t. Silly me, I assumed you’d gone to squirt shaving cream on the car, or whatever it is best men do, so I slipped out of the reception hall to warn you that it was time for the toasts. But you weren’t in the parking lot, either. Or back at the church. And when I saw the door to the minister’s office ajar…”

      Her brows lifted sharply.

      The fire had cooled. But the hurt that replaced it burned him regardless. More painfully than the knife he had taken to his chest an hour before. “Querida, I swear to you—”