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She was mostly quiet as they went over the case files together the next afternoon, two hard chairs pulled up to the edge of his desk. Only when she had a question would she speak. And it was straight to the point. No long-winded chattery Bailey-tangents like he was used to. He never thought he’d miss her chattering at him until she stopped.
Clay would have to get used to that.
He didn’t mention it; didn’t want to force her to think about what had happened four months back.
The motor vehicle accident was still very much on her mind. They’d both been brought back out there to the scene. There’d been signs of an eleventh vehicle parked nearby, and Dr. Netorre, Bailey’s friend from Finley Creek, had reported a middle-aged man driving a red truck being in that general vicinity. Bailey had confirmed it.
But no one had any idea who he had been—or what had happened to the red truck. There was some question whether he had actually caused the incident.
He had to be found.
Bailey had postulated that he’d backed it out when the six ambulances that had been on scene for the minor injuries pulled out almost at the same time.
Clay hadn’t seen it at all.
Finley Creek forensics were going to go over confiscated cell phone videos when they could.
But Clay and Bailey had a murder case to solve.
Once they finished reviewing all of Kevin Beck’s notes and photos—and there were a lot—Clay was convinced they weren’t any closer to finding the answers than they’d been when they started.
And his partner was yawning. He checked his watch.
It was well past midnight. No wonder. They’d worked eighteen hours yesterday on the MVA. And another twelve today.
He wasn’t certain he could legally keep her any longer. He wasn’t too certain what the labor laws were right now. Not off the top of his head.
Bailey must be exhausted. “Take a break. I’m going to go photocopy these for Jeremy.”
She stood. “I’ll do it.”
“Absolutely not. Take a damned break, Bailey. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. I promise.”
He wanted to just scoop her up and hold her. Take care of her. Damn it, he wanted to have the right to do just that.
At the moment, as exhausted as he was and damned vulnerable, he almost did it.
That thought had him running from the room like the coward that he was. Again.
***
When he returned after he realized he’d run away from her yet again, Clay found her sprawled over her files, one skinny arm beneath her head. Out. He shouldn't have kept her this late. Not after last night. He thought about waking her, but he couldn't. She looked so exhausted. Like the world had weighed her down.
He doubted her sleep had been all that easy last night. His hadn’t.
They’d lost two people before they’d been able to extract them from the vehicles. If they hadn’t just happened to have two doctors in the crowd to help, they would have lost more. Clay knew that.
But this was Bailey’s first massive MVA. It would leave a mark that would never be erased.
He wished she had been anywhere but there last night. Wished she didn’t have to see those images up close and personal like she had.
He wished he had been able to protect her from it.
Bailey was supposed to be his damned Tinkerbell, flitting about everywhere. Making him smile. Reminding him that the world was as beautiful as her eyes. All he had to do was look. She wasn't supposed to look like this.
Clay shocked the hell out of himself when he cleared the junk off the couch in his office. He knew what he was doing was crazy. A bit unorthodox, at the least. Against policy, most definitely. Hell, he could probably get himself and the department sued if she wanted. But...he couldn't leave her sprawled there like that, all twisted up over photos of dead blond women who looked too much like her for his peace of mind.
He pulled her chair back quietly. The bottom half of Bailey rolled with it.
The top half of her didn't so much as shift an inch.
He fought back the rush of tenderness urging him to kiss those soft lips just once. Only the knowledge that he didn’t have permission kept him from doing just that.
But damn it, he wanted to kiss this beautiful, soft, wonderful woman so badly he could almost taste her. If he wasn’t such a damned coward...
Instead, he slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her waist a bit. Then he lifted. Damn it, she didn't weigh enough. Hot air and fluff and spirit—that's what Bailey Moore consisted of.
He carried her across his office, grateful his budget hadn't allowed for security cameras in the TSP post—one reason he’d wanted the case files in there to begin with.
Her head rested against his shoulder. Her sweet-smelling hair brushed his chin. A strand stuck in the stubble he hadn't shaved off.
A small hum of contentment slipped from between her lips.
He lowered her to the couch as quickly as he could. He did not need to hear the soft little sounds Bailey made in her sleep.
He already wouldn't sleep well tonight. Clay never did whenever he brushed up against Bailey.
He arranged her on the couch as best he could. It was a long couch—she was not a long woman. Then he pulled an old quilt out of the closet and covered with it. She never so much as stirred once.
Clay couldn't help himself. He cupped her cheek with one hand, just brushing his finger across her skin. She blinked open her eyes, for just one moment. Then as he watched, drifted back to sleep.
He closed his own eyes, praying for strength. Strength to forget exactly how she'd looked. Strength to not imagine her in his damned bed instead of on the dusty, old couch that had most likely been in his office since 1987.
He'd burned for Bailey from the very beginning. And the fire was just flaming higher.
But he was a smart man who had long ago learned not to play with fire unless he wanted to get burned. He left her on his couch. And went back to work. Where he was safe.