Dangerous to Touch. Jill Sorenson

remember every dog who’s ever come in here?”

      “I’d remember that one,” she said, shutting off the faucet.

      He conceded her point. “The news report didn’t give his name.”

      She began scrubbing furiously, drawing his attention to the way her breasts moved beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. “That dog is a blue roan. It’s an obvious choice.”

      With some effort, he lifted his eyes to her face. “What’s a blue roan?”

      “The color of his coat. It’s like calling a black dog ‘Blackie.’ An easy guess.”

      Marc was annoyed with himself for asking an important question while he was distracted. He couldn’t tell if she was lying. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?” he asked, crowding her a little. Sure enough, that got her attention.

      “Back off,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

      He didn’t move. “I’d be a fool not to consider your behavior suspicious.”

      She was breathing heavily, from the exertion of her duties, which she performed with brisk efficiency, and the implied threat in his words. But what he saw in her smoky-gray eyes wasn’t just guilt or fear. It was desire.

      As her chest rose again, his gaze dropped to her breasts, and the hard points of her nipples, jutting against the soft cloth.

      In that moment, he felt very masculine and very powerful.

      “Oh, get over yourself, Lieutenant,” she said, disgusted, shoving away from the sink. “Just because I look like—” she gestured to herself “—this, and you look like—” she waved her hand at him “—that, you think I’m going to fall all over you?”

      He opened his mouth to protest then closed it.

      “Go dominate one of your dumb blondes,” she added, leaving him standing there.

      Marc couldn’t decide what astounded him more: her low assessment of her own attributes, or her scathingly accurate critique of his.

      Following her, he started to ask how she knew him before he realized it was an admission. Shaking his head, he tried to get back on track. “Why do you wear those gloves?”

      “Because I work with animals,” she said. “It’s very unsanitary not to.” Proving it, she removed a litter box from a roomy cat cage.

      “You weren’t wearing them outside.”

      “I don’t wear them when I hose down kennels. Water is clean enough.”

      “Maybe I’ll ask Dr. Vincent,” he said softly.

      “Go ahead,” she said, the panic in her expression belying her bravado. “I’m eccentric. It’s not a crime.”

      “We’ll see,” he promised, pleased to have regained the upper hand.

      After parking in the covered garage all the units on the block shared, Sidney trudged down the sidewalk to her house, feeling defeated, confused and exhilarated.

      Her life must have been getting particularly monotonous lately for her to enjoy any part of being a witness and suspect in a kidnapping-murder case.

      Guilt was a major factor in her unease. If she’d been completely honest, she might have been able to help the investigation. To do so would have made Marc Cruz even more suspicious. He had disbeliever written all over him.

      Throwing herself down on her green futon couch, she considered the handsome detective. When he’d touched her, she hadn’t been swept away by a tidal wave of psychic impressions; she’d been completely distracted by physical sensation. His hand on her bare skin was like a match striking flame.

      Then she’d noticed him studying her clinically, assessing her reaction, and she was taken back into her own memory, to a time when boys at school had poked and prodded at her just to watch her squirm.

      Reaching into her back pocket, she found his card. It was a simple, cream-colored rectangle with black lettering, offering only his name, rank, department and phone number. Tracing her fingertips over the surface, she couldn’t get more of a read on him than she had before, a vague feeling that she wasn’t his type. The insulting remark she’d made about him preferring biddable blondes was an educated guess.

      And a direct hit, judging by his expression.

      She never knew when a psychic flash would hit her. Every time she reached out to touch someone, or something, she did so with trepidation. Usually the insights revealed to her were as mundane as a mental grocery list, and often she saw nothing at all, but every once in a while she was assaulted by ugly thoughts, dark musings people hid from others and words better left unsaid. The experience was discomforting, to say the least.

      It was kind of like shaking hands with a clown and getting zapped by one of those gag buzzers. The anticipation of the shock left her on pins and needles.

      Sidney tossed the card on the coffee table, rested her cheek on a throw pillow and wondered what to do with the rest of the afternoon. She kept the kennel closed on Sunday, and although she went in twice to feed and clean, it was her lightest day. Sometimes the free hours loomed rather than beckoned.

      Marley jumped on her back and began a vigorous kneading, cheering her. At the same time, she became aware of a strange sound emanating from the kitchen.

      “What’s that?” she asked, lifting her head.

      Marley kept digging her soft paws into her back.

      Sidney clambered off the couch, sending the cat sprawling. It was the answering machine. She pushed the blinking button with relish.

      “Sid? Are you there? The kids are driving me crazy about going to the beach. Call my cell when you get this. Bye.”

      Her sister hardly ever brought her daughters over to visit. It was one of the great sorrows of Sidney’s life. Picking up the phone, she dialed Samantha’s number from memory.

      “Hello?” her sister answered in a low-pitched voice.

      “It’s me.”

      “Sidney?” The sultry tone disappeared. “Are you home?”

      “Yes.”

      “Thank God. We’re parking right now. The girls are wild today.”

      Sidney couldn’t hear any background noise to corroborate that statement. Taylor and Dakota were the most sedate children imaginable.

      With no further explanation, Samantha hung up.

      Sidney raced upstairs to change, giddy at the prospect of spending time with her nieces, the last of her close relatives who didn’t cringe away from her touch. On impulse, she rummaged through her bedroom closet until she found the bikini her sister had given her as a birthday gift last summer.

      Tearing off the tags, she shimmied into it, checking her reflection in the mirror to make sure the fabric covered all of the required parts. The bikini showed a lot more skin than the serviceable black Speedo she usually wore, in a way that was far more flattering.

      It was a perfect fit, actually. Stylish and sexy, like the clothes Samantha favored. So why had Sidney never worn it before?

      When the doorbell rang, she ran downstairs to greet the girls with open arms. They hugged her dutifully, with a lack of enthusiasm that was more a product of their raising than a reflection of their true feelings for her. She hoped.

      “Hey, sis,” Samantha said, gracing her with an air kiss and a wooden smile.

      Sidney tried to ignore the painful twist in the middle of her chest. Her sister’s rejections weren’t personal, but they hurt all the same.

      The girls fawned over Marley for a few moments before returning to their mother. “Can we go to the beach now, Mommy?” Dakota asked, tugging on the edge