A Cop's Honor. Emilie Rose

have a seat.” He did as directed then sat at the table. By the time he had his shirt fabric bunched in his hands, she’d set down the box and held a playing card. Her gaze ran over him. She blinked, hesitated, then licked her lips. He caught himself watching her pink tongue and mentally kicked himself.

      “Where are the ones you couldn’t reach?”

      “Back.” The word came out gruffer than intended.

      She whirled a finger, signaling him to turn. He twisted in the chair. “There are three and two stingers are still in.”

      He felt the rasp of the card across the first bump, then the second. A moment later the coolness of the cream hit his inflamed skin, accompanied by a twinge of pain caused by the light pressure of her touch. Then the warmth and slow caress of her fingertip registered.

      “Turn around,” she ordered before he could figure out what was causing him to have difficulty breathing. Was he having a delayed reaction to the venom?

      He turned and found himself at chest level. The neckline of Hannah’s sundress dipped low enough to reveal smooth skin and a fine gold chain that disappeared between her breasts. His lungs locked. He swallowed—hard—then closed his eyes and forced a breath into his tight chest. Her scent, combined with a hint of flowers, filled his nostrils. His mouth dried. He opened his eyes and searched for safer territory. He spotted a quarter-inch thread standing out from the seam of her dress on her left shoulder and fixated on it. But then his mind took an unexpected detour. What would happen if he pulled that thread? Would the dress fall from her shoulder?

      “You’re lucky you’re not allergic. With this many stings this could have been a life-threatening situation.”

      His attention lasered in on the gentle stroke of her finger on the thin skin beneath his eye, then she moved on to the sting on his cheekbone, smoothing small circles over the puffy flesh. His pulse jackhammered with near-deafening force against his eardrums.

      Delayed reaction to the venom.

      She rubbed the lump beneath his earlobe and the one under his chin, and his respirations shallowed and quickened. The pressure descended from his chest to his groin. What in the hell was wrong with him? This was Hannah. Rick’s Hannah. And getting a woody in response to her was unacceptable. But there it was, straining against his zipper. He held out his hand to take the tube from her.

      Ignoring his silent request she squeezed out more cream. “Sit still, Brandon.”

      He gritted his teeth against the pleasure/pain and gripped the T-shirt in his lap so tightly he’d probably imbed permanent wrinkles into the cotton. He hoped like hell Hannah didn’t notice his condition.

      She brushed the tender, swollen flesh of his upper lip and a lightning bolt of sensation shot south. He jerked out of reach, sucked in a sobering breath and snatched the tube from her hand. “I’ll get the rest.”

      She stilled. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

      What was that song lyric? Hurt so good? “No. But we need to get painting. Put on your work clothes. I got this.”

      Looking as relieved as he felt, she stepped back. “Well...if you’re sure. The guest bathroom is—” She shook her head. “You know where it is.”

      “Yeah. I do.” His momma had raised him to stand whenever a lady entered or left the room. He did so, but he kept the T-shirt in front of his crotch until Hannah left.

      What in the hell had just happened? And how could he make sure it didn’t happen again? He mentally shook himself and caught Mason watching. “Put on your painting clothes, kid. After we knock out this job I’m going to wipe up the basketball court with you.”

      The kid glanced toward the den. “I need to work on my project.”

      “More online research?” The computer was in the den.

      “Yeah.”

      If Hannah was going to paint upstairs and Mason was going to be on the computer downstairs, then the kid wasn’t as supervised as Hannah thought. Brandon filed that away and went into the bathroom to treat the remaining stings.

      Once that was done he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing the spare bedroom door opened. Hannah, wearing a T-shirt that had seen better days, cut-off jeans a thread longer than indecent and sneakers, stepped out. She’d changed clothes. Behind her he spotted the dress she’d been wearing draped across the corner of the bed he’d slept on a few times when Rick’s renovation projects had run late into the night.

      He assembled the clues. “The master bedroom is downstairs.”

      Her gaze flicked away then returned—evasive, like her son’s. “I can hear the children better up here.”

      “What happened to that fancy monitor I gave you when Belle was born? Camera, sound and the whole deal?”

      She shifted, drawing his attention to her legs. He hoisted his gaze north. “I’d have to come up anyway if they needed me during the night. It’s easier not to have to race up the stairs when I’m groggy.”

      She no longer slept in the downstairs master suite she’d shared with Rick. “When did the move take place?”

      “Does it matter, Brandon? We have work to do. Belle’s room will probably take several coats...unless you’re not up to it.”

      A challenge to distract him. He recognized the technique but followed Hannah into Belle’s room without comment. The six-year-old stood in front of an easel with a paint-by-number set attached. “What’s that?”

      “While we’re painting the walls Belle will be creating artwork to hang on them.”

      “It’s going to be a ballerina,” the girl said and twirled, making her little plastic paint smock fan out. “Like me.”

      “I’m sure it’ll look great.” He turned his attention back to Hannah, who’d bent over to open a can of paint. The pose hiked her shorts up, revealing even more leg, and caused her shirt to gape. Her bra was pink. The knowledge paralyzed him.

      “Honey, run down and eat your lunch. I left it in the refrigerator for you. You can paint when you’re done.”

      Belle skipped off.

      Brandon pulled himself together. “Mason says he’s going to work on his project instead of helping.”

      “That’s right. He has a paper due Friday.”

      “But you’ll be up here.”

      Her eyebrows dipped. “Yes.”

      “That means he’ll be unsupervised on the computer.”

      She bit her lip again then took a deep breath, stretching the worn-thin shirt. “Only for a little while. Your point?”

      “You can’t watch your kids one hundred percent of the time. No parent can. Let me install the software.”

      “No. Absolutely not. Do not bring it up again, Brandon. I’m going to grab a sandwich. You can get started or wait for me.” Then like Mason, she walked away, deftly avoiding the conversation.

      Which left Brandon back at ground zero. With nothing. He was certain the boy was up to something, but pushing would get him booted out and ruin any chance he had of keeping his promise to Rick.

       Chapter Three

      HANNAH SWALLOWED THE last of her sandwich and tried to diagnose her reluctance to return upstairs.

      Touching Brandon had been...unsettling. And that made no sense. As a physical therapy assistant she touched people all day, five days a week. She’d dealt with plenty of men as attractive, if not more so, than Brandon, but none of her patients had ever elicited a frantic pulse or the shakes.

      Maybe her jitters