(Author’s Note:  I wrote Padding the Truth to redeem Vartan’s callous attitude in the episode "Big Middle", so if you haven’t seen that ep, you will be spoiled here. Speaking of spoiling, I credit VR Trakowski with inspiring, encouraging and helping me write this. She’s a kind soul and deft with words and ideas. She’s also a great writer. When I mentioned that I wanted to follow up with the characters of Sam Vartan and Regina Owens she was there to tell me yes, do it.  So here it is.)

 
 

He was back. Reggie could see him through the glass of the front window, sitting on the ledge of the fountain, eating a sandwich and looking as if he had every right to be there, the creep. A handsome creep, she admitted to herself, but still—having him out there unsettled her. It had been a week since she’d first noticed the guy and he was definitely getting on her nerves.

 

She thought about calling the cops on him, or maybe Jose, the mall security guard. Jose was pretty old, but he still looked tough, and he’d make it clear that while it was a free country, the bum could go celebrate his rights at some other part of the outdoor mall. Reggie picked up the phone and was on the verge of tapping in the security number when through the glass she saw the guy do an odd thing. He stood up, threw away his sandwich wrapper and picked up a bag. That wasn’t odd all by itself; it was the fact that the bag was one from her shop—Intimates—that startled the daylights out of her. Reggie KNEW she’d never waited on this guy. She would have remembered that, definitely.

 

Carefully, she watched him stride towards the shop door and yank it open, stepping inside. He didn’t look around, like most guys would have, and he didn’t fidget either. Instead, he came straight towards her, his expression sort of . . . grim. She straightened up from the counter and set her expression into her best slightly frosty look.

 

“We meet at last. May I help you?” she asked. Yeah, that was the way. Let him know she had his number, but stay professional about it, Reggie decided. The guy looked a little startled, glanced over at the window and then back at her. She saw a little flush come up on his cheekbones, which were pretty amazing. He hadn’t been hard to look at from a distance, and up close, whoa. Too handsome for his own good.

 

“Ah, yeah. I’m returning this for my brother-in-law. He’s a little shy about coming in.”

 

Nice voice, sort of low.

 

“Ah.” Reggie remained neutral while she fished into the bag. The top of it was a little damp; from his palm, she guessed, and that sent a little pang through her. A guy like this couldn’t be nervous about a simple return. She pulled out a long mauve nightgown, edged with soft silver feather boa fur and smiled when she recognized it as one of the Twilight Time nighties. One of her best designs and a personal favorite. Good seller too, judging by the way it had moved last month. Lightly she stroked it and looked up, realizing with a shock that the guy was staring at her, not the gown. He had a nice nose, and a sort of chiseled mouth, very classic, but she’d bet every dollar in her register he knew how to kiss . . .

 

Jumping away from these unsettling thoughts Reggie drew in a breath and tried hard to smile. “So, she didn’t like it? Was it the wrong size? Do you have a receipt?”

 

“She said it, ah, wasn’t . . .  purple enough. I have the receipt right here—“ he muttered, fishing something out from his jacket pocket. As he moved, Reggie caught the flash of his badge on his belt and the holster of his weapon. She froze for a second, and turned big eyes at him, wishing her surprise didn’t show on her face. He noticed it and gave a shrug.

 

“Plainclothes detective. Comes with the job.”

 

“Oh.” She managed, reaching for the receipt. Carefully, he slid his palm under the heel of her hand, pressing it up into her grasp, their fingers touching in a brief stroke. His hand was warm. Reggie knew her own was cool, and tugged the little paper up to look at it. The date/time stamp showed the gown had been purchased a week and a half ago, around Veronica’s shift. Credit card, in the name of Samuel D. Vartan. That fit. He seemed like a Sam. And then it hit her.

 

His card. Not the brother-in-law’s—his.

 

 Reggie looked up and gave a little sigh. “I’m sorry sir, but with a credit return, we can’t give you cash, just a refund on your card, or an exchange if there’s something your sister would like better.”

 

“My sister—yeah. Um. What have you got?”

 

Reggie nearly snorted. He’d only been hanging outside her shop for almost a week. He HAD to have some idea about the inventory, and suddenly, the coincidence of a sister needing a return seemed a little too pat. Cop or no cop, Reggie didn’t like the ruse. She lifted her chin and looked at him directly, meeting his eyes in a straightforward stare.

 

“I’ve got plenty, Detective Vartan, don’t doubt that. What is it you REALLY want?”

 

He paled a little, saying nothing, and Reggie wondered if she’d been too quick to judge. Carefully she picked up the Twilight Time nightgown and slipped it on a hanger to buy time for both of them. Finally he cleared his throat.

 

“You’re not buying my story, are you?”

“Nope.” She felt a rush of relief. At least her instincts weren’t wrong this time, and she let herself smirk a tiny bit. When she peeked at the detective, he was still a bit pale, but the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes looked cute as he managed an almost imperceptible smile. Lord he was a handsome one.

 

“Okay, fine. I bought the thing so I’d have a reason to come back in here, okay?”

 

“You don’t need to buy something to come into the shop, you know. Lots of guys cruise around. Some shop for their girlfriends or wives--or for themselves.” At his startled expression Reggie burst into a deep giggle. She couldn’t help herself; the man looked so stunned at that thought that she reached over to pat his hand, and the minute Reggie touched him he glanced down at her hand, then back at her. She could have sworn there was a sense of relief in his face.

 

“Trust me, I’m not a part of THAT market. I’ll be buried in my boxers thank you very much.”

 

“And it will be a gorgeous funeral I’m sure,” Reggie blurted, then went pink at her own audacity. Detective Vartan merely grinned a bit wider though, and planted his hands on his hips.

 

“I doubt it’ll be gorgeous. I guess I’ll take the refund.”

 

“Fair enough.” She agreed. As she took his card and set about filling in the credit refund slip, simple curiosity got the better of her. It usually did, but in this case more than ever. As she handed him the pen, Reggie blurted, “Why did you need a reason to even come into Intimates anyway?”

 

He took the pen and hesitated, the point of it pressed onto the paper, resting there a long moment. “I . . . wanted to talk to you. Say hello, that sort of thing. I knew if I tried to catch you in the parking lot you’d think I was a creep, and I didn’t want to flash my badge and give the wrong impression, so it just seemed like buying something and bringing it back would be sort of . . . natural.”

 

“Spontaneous,” she offered softly, marveling at the awkward flow of his words. He looked up at her and nodded, relieved that she seemed to understand. Reggie pursed her mouth, but her eyes twinkled. “Like combustion.”

 

He didn’t say anything, but for the first time she noticed a hint of pink on those high cheekbones. With a sigh, Reggie decided the least she could do was help him out, so she held out her hand, gently.

 

“Hi, I’m Reggie Owens, owner and manager of Intimates.”

 

His hand engulfed hers, and she felt calluses on his palm, firm strength in his grip. “Sam Vartan of the LVPD.” As he said it, Reggie’s glance narrowed and a chill rushed through her. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it firmly and she couldn’t.

 

“Detective, huh? You didn’t just happen to be the one investigating the death of Maurice Hudson, did you?” His guilty glance answered her question before he could say anything, and with a tug, Reggie tugged her fingers free of his grip. “It figures. So what are you, another one who gets off on the zaftigs of the world?”

 

It came out a little bitterly; Reggie hadn’t forgotten the comments made at her expense in the waiting room of the police station, even though the criminalist girl had apologized. It hurt. No matter how many times it happened, and she’d gone through a lifetime of them, it still hurt.

 

He flinched.

 

“You know what? Lying sure as hell didn’t get me anywhere before, so yeah. I happen to like gals with more. I like redheads too, and blue eyes, and last I checked, none of that was a crime.” He snapped back, the pink blooming into a full flush, though whether it was embarrassment or anger, Reggie couldn’t quite tell. What did she DID know was that he looked twice as good when he was angry; his nostrils flared a little and he loomed, LOOMED over the counter at her, one tall feisty drink of water.

 

But looks weren’t everything, and Reggie lifted her chin, trying to keep her voice steady. “Nope, none of that’s a crime, just . . . suspect. That damned interrogation wasn’t exactly my most shining moment and I’d rather forget everything associated with it, you know?”

 

And then, just like that, he looked embarrassed. A little disappointed too, though Reggie didn’t know why—after all, he’d only been doing his job in the long run. He ran a hand over his mouth and his shoulders settled; Reggie had a quick desire to rub them in comfort for some damn reason.

 

“Okay. I can understand that I guess.” He sighed and reached for the credit slip. She pinned it with her nail, holding it on the counter, and when the detective looked at her in surprise, she gave him a very gentle smile.

 

“You know . . . if you’re not in a hurry to get refunded, you could always stop back in on Mondays. That’s when we get our new shipments in, and you might want to look around and see if there’s anything you . . . like.”

 

He stared at her for a long moment, surprise and finally a hint of mischief in his dark eyes. His smile was small, but sweet.

 

“I just might do that.”

 

***   ***  ***

 

He liked Mondays now. At least, he liked the mornings when he got off of work and drove over to the Mesa Alta mall to grab a cup of coffee. The little donut shop was across and one up from Intimates, and Sam would sit in there watching Reggie when she arrived. He knew the store didn’t really open for business until ten, but she’d clean and dust and restock inventory and generally bustle about the place.

 

She hadn’t caught on yet that he was spending time watching her for a while before he’d come across past the fountain with two cups of coffee, bringing her one. Three Mondays so far and Reggie still looked surprised to see him showing up, holding out the steaming cup to her. She was definitely a woman after his own heart, matching his one cream two sugars exactly, and cupping it in both hands to enjoy the warmth off the cup as she sipped it.

 

“Perfect.”

 

“Hey, if there’s one thing a cop learns early, it’s all about the coffee,” he told her. “That and donuts.”

 

“I thought that was just an urban legend.” But she smiled as she said it, and Sam liked the look of her dimples, deep and damned cute.  He settled in against the counter, watching as Reggie deftly pulled boxes of new merchandise out and began to unpack it. At first it embarrassed him, seeing her lifting piles of panties out, but her matter-of-factness made it easier each time. The new box was filled with packages of stockings and she carried it over to a display along one wall.

 

“Black, tan, white, taupe and nude.” She commented after a companionable silence, setting them out in corresponding piles. He liked the way she twitched her nose when she was pre-occupied.

 

“How can stockings be nude?”

 

“Nude is fleshtone, Sam.”

 

“Then what’s tan?”

 

“Tan is . . . darker than fleshtone. Or fleshtone for women who are darker than nude, I guess.” She ventured, shooting an exasperated glance at him. He shrugged and sipped more of his coffee.

 

“Pretty suggestive for a color.” He ventured, just to see her blush a little. It was fun to tease her, he knew, and predictably, she rose to the bait, dropping her hands on her hips and staring at him.

 

“It’s—evocative, okay? A woman buying stockings wants some mystique to it, and fleshtone just doesn’t have the same mental imagery as nude.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Sam agreed with a grin. Reggie rolled her eyes, but smirked as well, and feeling a bit more confident, he added, “So, what are YOU wearing today—tan or nude?”

 

“Ha. That’s for me and me alone to know, buster. A lady never tells.” She managed, turning away but not before he caught a hint of red in her face. He laughed and rose reluctantly, glancing at his watch as he did so.

 

“Time to hit the hay?” she asked sympathetically aware of his nightshift hours. He nodded, feeling the fatigue settle back in as he straightened up. Reggie came over, leaning against the door as he tossed his coffee cup in the wastebasket and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, the cracks and pops of his neck vertebrae audible in the quiet shop.

 

“That didn’t sound good—“ she ventured. He sighed and began to loosen the knot of his tie, digging two strong fingers under the noose of it. He braced an arm on the other side of the doorframe and looked at her.

 

“It’s not bad, just loud, I guess. You’re going to lock up behind me, right?”

 

“Sheesh, yes, Sam. Just like I do EVERY time.” Reggie muttered, secretly pleased at his concern. “I’m not foolish, okay?”

 

“Force of habit. I don’t like it that this place only has one guard on duty and an old guy at that. He’s fine chasing the skateboarders off, but push comes to shove in a real crime, Juan isn’t going to cut it.” Sam growled.  He was taller, and looked down at her while she sighed.

 

“Jose. His name is Jose, and he does a good job. You’re just—paranoid.”

 

For a moment Sam frowned; then pushing himself off the doorframe, he reached out and lightly rubbed a finger on the end of her nose. “I’m a cop. I know this place is a crime scene waiting to happen. And I don’t want YOU to be here when it does, Reggie.”

 

She tried to look at his finger, and ended up cross-eyed with the effort. Sam chuckled, even as he fought off the urge to lean down and kiss her. Instead he sighed, and straightened, up, pulling his finger back after it trailed down over her lips.

 

Soft, warm lips.

 

“Be good. Lock the door.” He rasped.

 

“Go to bed, Sam.” She told him. He headed out, and after he was six steps away she called to him, “Hey!”

 

Sam turned, his expression curious. She grabbed the edge of her skirt and hiked it in a quick flash. “Nude.”

 

“I knew you were trouble, Owens. You’re buying the coffee next time!” he grinned. With a last wave he headed to his car, feeling the odd mix of comfort and concern that had become all too familiar the more he was around Reggie.

 

As he started the engine, he sighed with a degree of content. He liked stopping by the shop. The first Monday he had, they’d argued about the best teams in the NFL and lost track of time, stopping their loud, good-natured sparring match when a group of little old ladies stood knocking on the glass door and pointing at their watches. Reggie blushed and let them in, still hissing her undying support for the Packers.

 

The second Monday they’d hashed over favorite movies, and found enough common ground to make both of them relax. Reggie liked car chases, and big explosions, which left Sam feeling those preferences might actually offset her atrocious football loyalties. He wasn’t sure about her moony-eyed devotion to Sean Connery, but given that the guy was in his seventies now and living out of the country—

 

And last Monday, they’d talked about themselves. That was a good morning, and hearing about her childhood had been a kick. Navy brat. One sister, one slightly insane grandmother and a Chief Petty Officer father, touring the Pacific. He heard about the practical jokes and the holidays and in the undertone he heard about the joy and sacrifice and strong love she grew up with. There had been one melancholy note there, and that was her mother, who was missing and had been since Reggie was seven. Went off base one night to run errands and never came back. Her car was found two states away, stripped.

 

Sam wanted to hold her, even though her recitation was calm and straightforward, but she’d kept moving around him, hanging up clothes, shifting stock. Twenty-two years had given her time to cope, she’d told him, but Sam wasn’t sure THAT loss was something anyone could ever completely deal with.

 

In turn he’d told her about his family, trying to make light of the fighting, concentrating mostly on the antics between himself and his kid brother Matt, who was now running a fishing boat in Oregon. A goofball life, but apparently it worked for him, and every now and then Sam would go spend a vacation hauling nets and drinking beer with Matt. She’d laughed and demanded pictures, which he off-handedly promised to bring at some point.

 

Both of them had danced around the issue of significant others carefully; Sam sensed Reggie wasn’t being coy, just cautious. He told her about his last disastrous two dates—Janna, who’d used him to make her old boyfriend jealous, and Cindy, who’d gotten drunk and thrown up in his car. Those had been nearly half a year ago, which didn’t seem long enough in his estimation. Neither woman had been particularly his type, but he didn’t bother sharing that.

 

Then Reggie mentioned Louis, and the hackles had gone up on the back of his neck at the soft tone of her voice.

 

“Boyfriend?” Sam tried hard to sound civil. Tried. Reggie had been struggling to dress a manikin in a bathrobe and looked over at him.

 

“Once. Sort of. See, Louis was working through these issues about his sexuality, and I—“

 

“Oh come ON, Reggie—there aren’t any issues about sexuality for guys. You either like girls and you’re straight, or you like guys and you’re gay. Anything else is just being . . . greedy.” He snorted. Reggie peeked over the shoulder of the manikin and tried not to snicker herself.

 

“Bisexuality is a legitimate alternative, Sam. There ARE people attracted to both sexes, and Louis wasn’t sure if he was one of them.”

 

“Riiiiiight.”

 

“Oh Thank YOU Doctor Ruth.”

 

“Hey, at least I’m a confident heterosexual.” He teased, knowing she’d probably recognize the quote. She did, rolling her eyes at him.

 

“Rustler’s Rhapsody—boy, that’s an OLD one. You probably have a thing for Marilu Henner, right?”

 

“Redheads. Gotta love ‘em.“ he glanced into the depths of his coffee cup for a few seconds before plunging on. “So—Did this Louis ever figure out the orientation of his 
. . . plug?”

 

“It’s . . . an ongoing project,” she had sighed. “But I’m definitely out of the applications part of it all.”

 

And that cheered him up for the rest of the day.

 

***   ***   ***

 

A month later, a few minutes after eight AM, Reggie checked her watch. Repeatedly. It bothered her that Sam didn’t show, even though she knew he probably had a good reason, or two, or twenty. She bustled about setting up shop, annoyed with herself for missing him, and slightly panicked at how quickly she’d acclimated to Monday coffee together.

 

She tried to end her fretting by working with her design book, but by the time Veronica showed up and clocked in, Reggie was starting to feel sorry for herself. She’d let a little flirtation get under her skin, and now her depression threatened to ruin the rest of her day. Veronica took one look at her face and sighed.

 

“Oh come on, girl—you always assume the worst, and most of the time you are so dead wrong. The dude’s not a flake, so he’s probably got a good reason. Maybe a case is running long, or maybe he’s in traffic.”

 

“Yeah, or maybe he’s wrapped up in charming the pants off some skinny-assed meter maid somewhere,” she griped back, but half-heartedly. Veronica guffawed, her long nails glittering in the light as she waved her hand in the air.

 

“Nuh uh, not hard-LEE! The man only has eyes for YOU, Reg. Dig me, girl--I checked you two out on my Tarot reading this morning and plain as day he’s the one. Can’t lie when the Lovers card comes down on the Fate card AND the Moon card honey.”

 

“You’re kidding,” Reggie laughed, feeling intrigued and amused. Veronica sighed dramatically and rolled her shoulders in a slinky pose of utter confidence. She batted her heavily made up eyes and snapped her fingers.

 

“Tarot tells ALL, Sugarbritches, especially in matters of love. So don’t you fret none, because if Mr. Cheekbones ain’t here this morning, he’s got a reason. Now let’s see if we can’t get some stock moving today, because I do NOT want to see a frown on you no more, ya dig?”

 

Still chuckling, Reggie reached for the ringing phone on the counter, bringing it up as she watched Veronica saunter into the back room. “Intimates apparel, this is Regina, how may I help you?”

 

“Reggie?” came a familiar voice, a little strained.

 

Sam. She sighed a little, shifting the receiver to pin it between her shoulder and ear as she tapped some numbers on her calculator.

 

“Oh hi.” She managed in a tone that was cool, but not icy. “Got busy this morning?”

 

“You could say that. Sorry about missing coffee. Say listen, could you do me a favor?”

 

She hated to admit she was so glad to hear from him that she’d have done just about anything, so instead Reggie made a soft little noncommittal sound deep in her throat and focused on the numbers in front of her. He gave a dry chuckle.

 

“I need a ride.”

 

“A ride?” She repeated, feeling a tinge of annoyance and a faint uneasiness. Veronica came out with a box and looked at her, eyebrow up in an unspoken question and Reggie answered with a nod. Satisfied, the black woman grinned and carried her armful off to a display table. “What’s wrong with your car, Sam?”

 

“Nothing. But the hospital won’t release me unless I have someone else drive me home, and—“

 

“Hospital? Sam, what the hell happened?!” Reggie demanded, the calculator forgotten in the face of this alarming news. Over the receiver, Sam was trying to make calming sounds.

 

“Whoa, whoa slow down Reggie, slow down. I’m okay. Got broadsided by a perp and hit my head. Nothing serious, just a little concussion.”

 

“A concussion?!”

 

“Yeah. I’m fine except for a little headache and a banged up elbow, but like I said, the hospital doesn’t want me driving home. I could catch a cab, but I feel bad about missing this morning, so if you give me a ride, I’ll make sure you get breakfast, okay?”

 

Reggie smiled into the phone, exasperated and relieved. “You don’t have to bribe me, Detective. What hospital?”

 

“Desert Palms. So. You’re coming to get me?” he sounded so wistful that Reggie was tempted to tease him, but didn’t.

 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just let me set things up here, okay?”

 

“’kay.” A weird little pause hung between them for a few seconds, a space where something more was felt but unsaid, and finally with a sigh, Sam hung up. Reggie gave a little gulp, setting the receiver down as Veronica came up to her, a grin on her face.

 

“I take it that was your missing coffee mate?”

 

“Veronica, I have a BIG favor to ask,” Reggie began, even as the blush crept over her face.

 

***   ***   ***

 

He was sitting in the waiting area just off the emergency room entrance, his coat over one arm, tie hanging loosely. Reggie noted his left shirtsleeve was undone and a bulky bandage showed through the outlines of his arm midway up. Sam glanced up just as she walked towards him and nearly jumped to his feet. Reggie looked into his eyes, searching them, trying hard not to look upset.

 

“Samuel Vartan, what on earth happened to you?” she tried to make it sound light and teasing.

 

He grinned.

 

It was an amazing smile, soft and boyish, almost shy, but definitely something special and Reggie could only stare into those lapis blue eyes with surprise as he stepped closer.

 

“Me? I got in the way of a suspect and got knocked down a little. But we caught the guy,” he finished with pride. Reggie reached up to brush a stray wisp of bangs from his forehead. He closed his eyes briefly at her touch, and she was reminded of a big tomcat savoring a caress.

 

“Yeah, well I hope HE’S got two broken legs and a bloody nose then. The nerve of some people, riding roughshod over the law like that.” Her words were brave, but Reggie fought a shiver as Sam chuckled and stretched a hand out to briefly cup her cheek.

 

“Feisty. I like that in a lingerie saleswoman.” Under his fingers her cheek felt like warm velvet, and a sense of lightness made his head ache a little less. At that moment a young nurse in a colorful smock bustled up, papers in her hand.

 

“Okay Mr. Vartan, here are your workman comp forms, your accident report, your home care instructions and your prescription. Doctor Tanner would like you off work for a few days, so here’s your note for that—“ she handed him the sheaf and glanced at Reggie, flashing her a quick grin. “And keep this man from operating any heavy machinery, hear? No drill presses or laundry manglers.”

 

Reggie turned to Sam and arched an eyebrow at him, giving a mock-sigh. “Looks like you’ll have to scrub that NASA mission of yours.”

 

“Oh shucky darn. I guess I’ll just go home and sulk on the couch.” He managed, but she could see the tension back in his face, so she jingled her car keys. He nodded gratefully, and quietly they walked out of the hospital and across the parking lot. Sam kept close to her, and Reggie could feel his presence at her shoulder.

 

The sun was in full blaze, and Reggie fished out her sunglasses. She glanced at him squinting and handed them to him; Sam looked at the thick black Ray-bans a moment, then shrugged. He slipped them on and sighed a little while Reggie chuckled.

 

“You look like a spy.” She told him, motioning to a green Mustang with plush leopard print upholstery. Sam winced as he folded himself up and into the car.

 

“Interesting set of wheels.”

 

“Hey, it’s a girlie car. I make no apology.”

 

They pulled out of the parking lot, as Sam gave directions in a low terse voice, then slumped back in the seat. Reggie was glad the car was clean for once, and drove quietly, trying to watch Sam from the corner of her eye as she did. He looked pale, and that worried her, but she sensed that after the sort of morning he’d had he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

 

After a fifteen-minute drive, Reggie pulled up to a gate, and Sam muttered a number to her; tapping it in, the gate rolled open, revealing a community of townhouses all cunningly landscaped into a hillside. Sam grunted an address. “1534 Hawthorne.”

 

“Well Lah-de-dah,” Reggie murmured, more impressed than she wanted to admit. They passed a clubhouse and pool, and what appeared to be a community gym. Sam gave a soft snort.

 

“They only let me move here because I’m a cop.”

 

“Good for the property values, huh?”

 

“That and I’m a sucker for Girl Scout cookies. Here—“ he pointed his chin at a small townhouse set at the back of a circle. Reggie pulled up in the driveway and hesitated, but Sam unfolded himself from the car and fished in his pocket for his keys. “I need . . . nah, it’s okay. I guess you have things to do, huh?”

 

“Sam—“ Reggie climbed out and looked at him as he handed her back the sunglasses. He still looked sickly, and his hair was sticking up, but he managed a small smile.

 

“I need someone to make a run to the drugstore for my prescription. Should have thought of it before we got home, but didn’t.”

 

“I can do it. Let’s get you inside and I can run out for it in a few minutes.”

 

Sam nodded and headed up the steps to the townhouse. Reggie liked the grey wooden deck, and when he opened the door he politely ushered her in. It was a split-level, with the front door opening on the landing. Stairs leading up showed glimpses of the living room, and stairs down seemed to lead to a bedroom. Sam pointed up with his chin and slowly mounted the carpeted steps. Reggie followed.

 

The upstairs turned out to be a kitchen and a very nice living room, furnished sparsely but with comfort in mind. A large leather sofa in dark green faced a wide screen television, and the coffee table between the two was loaded with magazines, a pizza box, and no fewer than three remotes. Reggie hid her smirk at that, but not fast enough; Sam shrugged wearily.

 

“I’m lazy and I lose them a lot. Sue me.”

 

“Sure you don’t want to tuck one in your holster, or wear one around your neck on a chain?” she teased, guiding him to the sofa and settling him down on it. Without prompting he swung his feet up and toed his loafers off, letting them thump onto the carpet with a sigh.

 

“Sorry about the pizza box. I was in a rush last night, didn’t have time to tidy up.” He confessed, stretching out and closing his eyes. Reggie patted his shoulder, which was as hard as a rock under her fingers.

 

“No big. I’ll pick it up, but I am NOT cleaning anything else. You sit here and let me look over your paperwork, okay? Want the shades open?”

 

“Nah—it’s about midnight for my body clock,” he reminded her gently. She looked down at him, feeling a wave of tenderness at his obvious exhaustion and concern for his condition.

 

“Are you going to be all right?”

 

“Once you get back I’ll feel better,” he murmured, his words warming her a little.

 

***   ***   ***

 

Reggie heard voices as she cautiously opened to door when she returned. Her hands were full; she juggled the pharmacy bag and a few groceries as she stepped in and headed up the steps.

 

“And so I told her that we don’t open on Sundays, just Saturdays. I wish you’d stop by sometime, Sammy. I can get you a membership for almost nothing!” came a syrupy woman’s voice. Alert, Reggie stepped up into the living room and felt a sickening drop in her stomach. Sam was sitting up on the sofa now, and next to him was a woman. She looked over at Reggie and her eyes narrowed, but her smile was big and sunny.

 

“Oh hi! I’m Brandi, Sammy’s neighbor from two doors down!”

 

“Hello,” Reggie managed civilly as she studied the woman in despair. Brandi was a thin, tanned and streaked blonde with gleamingly white teeth and a cute little jogging shorts outfit. Sam turned to look at Reggie and his expression hit her hard; he looked like a tomcat that’d been dressed in doll clothes--that intensely annoyed expression.

 

At her? Or at the blonde?

 

Suddenly Reggie didn’t want to know. She turned and headed into the kitchen, setting the bags down with more force than necessary, pulling out cans of soup and biting her lips hard to keep herself in check. In the living room she heard Sam growl something and start to get up. Brandi’s whisper fell into the little awkward silence, and because of that carried perfectly through the townhouse.

 

“Wow, she’s kind of . . . you know, large--isn’t she Sammy?”

 

Reggie felt a sharp pang in her chest, a little dagger nick of fresh humiliation. Carefully she pulled out the prescription bottle and set it on the counter in slow, deliberate movements. She heard Sam’s footsteps as he entered the kitchen behind her, but she didn’t want to turn around just yet.

 

“I didn’t realize you had company Sam. I’ll go get my purse—“

 

“Reggie—“ he murmured, low. She felt his hands on her shoulders, squeezing, and the warmth of them, big and strong nearly made her cry right then. She drew in a deep breath.

 

He turned her around, and slipped an arm around her waist. Reggie barely had time to look up, and then Sam tugged her forward, dropping his mouth on hers. The wave of him over her, a wall of heat and strength and warm familiar scent shocked her, and as she gasped, the lovely pressure of his chiseled lips on hers increased.

 

Sam groaned against her lips, utterly enchanted by the amazing flavor of Reggie; lipgloss and coffee accents on a delicious mouth as soft and slick as a melting marshmallow. His tongue longed to slip out and deepen that kiss, explore the sensual lure of her hot little mouth, but with considerable reluctance he pulled back and drew in a breath, contenting himself with staying only a few inches from her face. Sam was dizzy, and the concussion was only a tiny part of it, he was sure.

 

“Sam—“ Reggie reached up to his chest and pushed him away. Or tried to, but the minute her hands touched him she hesitated. He caught them and pinned them there for a moment, whispering gruffly.

 

“Stay.” Turning his head he spoke in a louder voice to the woman in the living room. “And as you can see, Brandi, I’m in excellent hands here, so thanks for stopping by, but don’t let us keep you, okay?” the dismissal in his tone was firm, bordering on curt, and the other woman blinked rapidly at his words.

 

“Well. Yeah, Okay, if you’re sure.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Brandi rose and stiffly walked out of the living room and down the stairs, and the front door closed with a bit more force than needed behind her.

 

Reggie blinked rapidly, searching Sam’s face. “What the hell do you think you’re DOING, Vartan?” she demanded, finally managing to push him a little. He inhaled deeply and let go of her hands with reluctance.

 

“I’m . . . getting my feet under me.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair. His gesture made it stand up more than ever, and Reggie giggled, out of tension as much as amusement. He gave her a grateful grin and gently, slowly, pulled her into a hug. Reggie sighed and relaxed into it, letting her arms slide under his and hook up to his shoulders.

 

He let his mouth brush against her hair as he spoke again in a low, rapid voice. “I like you Reggie, a lot more than I’ve been able to admit up to now either to myself, or to anyone else. I’m new at this, okay?”

 

“Not by THAT kiss,” came the muffled observation against the base of his throat. The vibrations of Reggie’s voice there were amazingly sensual, and Sam groaned a little at the feel of them, sensing another surge of reaction much lower along his body.

 

“You know what I mean . . . I think,” he amended. In his arms, Reggie shifted a little, pulling back to look him eye to eye again.

 

“You mean because I’m fat.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“You’re not fat. You’re curvy, and full, just the way I like a woman.”

 

“And that’s why you like me, huh?” Reggie demanded, all humor gone from her voice. Sam blinked down at her, well aware this conversation was now on a dangerous edge. He slid his hands to her shoulders, holding them gently, feeling how much smaller they were than his own.

 

“Reggie, no. I like you for a whole LOT of reasons. What I’m saying is for the first time in my life I feel I can actually admit that I have a type, and you’re it.”

 

Her expression made it clear this didn’t quite sit well either, and Sam sighed heavily, casting about for some way to save the moment.

 

“Oh come on, babe, everybody on the face of the planet has a type, you know that. I mean, aren’t you the one with the hots for Sean Connery? What is it about THAT guy? The accent? The eyes?” he accused gently. Reggie tried not to break her serious expression, but when Sam waggled his eyebrows she spluttered a giggle.

 

“Well if you want the truth . . .” she began, closing her eyes tightly, “It’s . . . the furry chest.”

 

“Oh really?” Sam muttered after a moment, feeling a little nonplussed. Reggie nodded rapidly, risking a glance up at him.

 

“Oh yeah, I’ve always had a thing for that hint of caveman . . . just—oh I get it now, Just MY preference. Making a point here, huh?”

 

“Sort of.” Sam admitted smugly. Reggie pulled herself out of his grip and turned back to the counter, sorting cans of soup. Sam looked over her shoulder, waiting for her to say something, and finally she made a noisy sigh.

 

“Okay. Fine. I GET the aspect, Detective. Now what kind of soup do you want so you can wash down your antibiotic?”

 

“Cream of tomato. Did you get little crackers?” he asked, hopefully. Reggie nodded, pointing to the shopping bag. Eagerly he dug the goldfish out of the bottom and opened them as she did the same with the soup cans.

 

They ate on the sofa in front of the television as the Sportscenter announcer wrapped up the week’s scores for everything from basketball to golf, and Reggie made sure Sam finished the entire bowl in front of him. Not that it was difficult; he seemed to have regained an appetite, and when he was done, yawned hugely. She moved to clear the dishes, but Sam shook his head.

 

“Later. Right now all I want is to stretch out a little.” He settled himself with his head in her lap, facing the TV. Reggie propped her stockinged feet up on the coffee table and waited.

 

 It didn’t take long. She felt his breathing even out, and gradually deepen; within half an hour Reggie felt him begin to snore, lightly. She reached down and gently stroked his hair, aware of the warm weight of his head on her thighs. It was amazingly sensual, despite the innocence of it all, and she hadn’t realized how thin the material of her skirt was until now.

 

Reggie shifted a little, and Sam made a little growly protest, snuggling down against her lap, causing her to giggle. She was reminded of her old dog, Leo, who did the same thing years ago when she was a kid. He didn’t like to be moved when he was comfortable, and obviously, Sam didn’t either. The thought privately pleased her, and she sighed with contentment. The replays of various games rolled on across the screen as the hours wore on, and gradually Reggie herself dropped off, dozing lightly as the warm cocoon of the afternoon spun around them.

 

Sam woke up slowly, drifting up through consciousness in layers. He knew he was warm and comfortable, and that something smelled very nice. Something feminine and sweet and very sensual. Sam smiled even with his eyes closed, and wondered if Reggie would notice as he sighed. The pliant warmth of her thighs, the curve of them under his cheek sent little thrills through his own, and for the first time in a long time, Sam felt both aroused and nervous. He shifted slowly, turning onto his back, and for a moment luxuriated in the glorious vision of the underside of Reggie’s full chest, a full double handful and then some if he was any judge.

 

Frankly he was DYING to judge, too, and debated with himself on whether the risk of copping a quick feel would be worth the indignation or smack that would probably follow. Deciding no guts no glory, Sam began to reach a hand up, only to have his wrist seized, gently but firmly. Reggie looked down at him, fighting a grin.

 

“Ah-ah. I see you’re feeling better—“

 

“That’s not all I was going to feel,” he confessed.

 

“Yeah I noticed. Good thing I stopped you, because getting your sexist pig ass dumped onto a coffee table and then the floor would HURT, Sam Vartan. Keep that in mind.”

 

“You wouldn’t hurt me—I’m ALREADY hurt!”

 

“Not enough, apparently.” But she relented, releasing his arm and using her hand to brush his forehead. They smiled at each other for a moment, and Reggie sighed uneasily. “Okay, we need to get up now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because my leg’s asleep, and I need to use your bathroom and mostly because it’s too comfortable.” She told him gently. With real reluctance, Sam sat up and Reggie slipped out from under him. He pointed to a doorway off the other side of the kitchen, and when she was gone, he turned the channel to the news and checked the time. Nearly four-thirty. His head felt better, and although his elbow was a little stiff, Sam tried to bend it.

 

Big mistake. He felt the newly formed scab begin to crack, and the renewed trickle of blood flow. Cursing under his breath, he began to roll up his sleeve. Reggie came out and caught sight of what he was doing. With a little oath, she reached for his arm, trying to roll the sleeve up and having no success. Sam listened to her fuss and laughed to himself at her ongoing litany.

 

“ . . . Just like a guy think you’re superman, able to heal up overnight, but oh no, you have to PUSH the limits and look what happens. Does it hurt?”

 

“A little,” Sam admitted. Reggie sighed and shot him an exasperated glance.

 

“We’re going to have to change the dressing then. Maybe you ought to go . . . um, shower . . . and we can put a clean one on afterwards.” She blushed, and some of her warmth seemed to reach him; Sam felt his own face heat up, but he nodded at the eminently sensible suggestion.

 

“Yeah, I have to go in and handle some paperwork anyway. You saw the doctor’s note—no work,” he pointed out when Reggie looked indignant. As he spoke he began unbuttoning his shirt, and she turned away, unwilling to watch. Sam gave a shrug. He slid out of the broadcloth and tugged the undershirt off over his head, wincing as it slid against his bandage. Reggie had retreated a few steps, still averting her eyes.

 

“Sam!”

 

“What?” he replied with a feigned nonchalance. He hadn’t intended to startle her, but the sight of her discomfort amused him. “Ah for Pete’s sake, I’m only taking my shirt off so you can help me undo the bandage, Reg—“

 

She turned back and blinked a little as he held out his arm, and the spark of heat in her gaze as she looked at him sent and answering throb down his spine. Her eyes widened.

 

“Oooooohhh, fuzzy.” She weakly muttered. He glanced down at himself and nodded.

 

“Yep. Blonde but substantial. Hope that’s not a problem.” Sam told her. Reggie shook her head softly.

 

“Nooo, not a problem,” came her fascinated little murmur. Sam quickly grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest, against the fur there. Reggie gasped, fingers tightening slightly against the heated muscle. Sam chuckled awkwardly.

 

“So—do I look like Ron Ely or what?”

 

That made Reggie laugh; the giggles bubbled up out of her in a sweet fountain of hilarity and she rolled her eyes. Sam smirked with relief, his expression becoming hooded when Reggie slid her fingers from one broad pectoral muscle to the other in a gentle caress. He felt his skin flush under the tickle of her long nails. God he loved the feel of those along his body.

 

“Much handsomer than he ever was, and you KNOW it too. Go shower, Sam.”

 

He nodded reluctantly, feeling a definite stir between his thighs as he brushed past her, and right then and there Sam knew he liked Reggie.

 

 Liked her a LOT.

 

***   ***   ***

 

It was later, after he was washed and dressed, when she was winding the gauze around his elbow, clucking gently that he worked up the courage to say anything. Up close she gorgeous lashes, and he found himself staring at her mouth, remembering how soft it had been.

 

“Reg?”

 

She glanced up, and seeing the look in his eyes scared her, Sam could tell by the way she pulled her head back and tugged a bit harder on the gauze.

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No, I like you too, and that’s why I’m NOT going to sleep with you, Sam.”

 

He flushed, half in disappointment, half in frustration, his brows pulling together in annoyance.

 

“I have to ask—why? And how did you know I was even going to . . . ask.”

 

Reggie drew in a breath, her mouth making a little twitching gesture as she gently fixed a butterfly clip on the gauze. “I told you why. I like you, Sam. And that . . . scares me. Not you, you don’t scare me, but this . . . I don’t know, this feeling around you. It’s a good thing, and I for one don’t want to mess it up. I’m not good at relationships, but I do have urges, so I have flings once in a while. I have those with people who’re in it for the moment, for the fun. NOT people like you, Sam.”

 

“I could be fun,” he protested, feeling a cold chill deep in his stomach. Reggie looked up at him through her curly bangs and the little glint of pain there stunned him.

 

“Don’t I know it, Detective. I’ll remember that kiss in the kitchen for weeks . . . MONTHS even. However, I’m not ready to take you on for a quickie fling, no matter HOW amazing it might be. It’s not fair to you, and God knows it would utterly kill me to walk away from that. Be honest, Sam Vartan—we’re not ready for this, neither one of us.”

 

The little ache between them deepened, and he was aware there was a brightness in her eyes that could only be unfallen tears. He flexed his arm slightly, welcoming the slight sting of pain it brought as he sighed.

 

“So I’m not going to be a fling, huh?” he demanded gruffly, trying not to let any hurt creep in his voice. Reggie shook her head slowly.

 

“No.”

 

Blindly he reached out, slid his good arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, nuzzling her sweet-scented hair, feeling a wave of anguish inside him at the unfairness of it all. Reggie’s arms slipped around him and tightened, and the pure rightness of her fit, the simple easy way they molded to each other suddenly made Sam grin.

 

“But we can be friends, right? Coffee and hanging out and doing things—“ he ventured softly, not releasing his hold on her. In the warmth of his hug, Reggie stiffened slightly then relaxed.

 

“Well . . . yeah. Friends do that. Sure.”

 

“And if ONE of the friends just, say, happens to have tickets to the UWLV game on Saturday and wants to bring his buddy . . . “ Sam commented thoughtfully. Reggie turned her face up, eyes still bright, but her mouth curled in a smirk.

 

“Then the buddy might skip out on her laundromat trip and go. Provided she can pay back her pal with beer and hot dog money. You know, for parity and all.”

 

“Of course,” Sam agreed, privately deciding that would happen over his dead body and then some. He didn’t want parity, or paybacks or anything that took away from simple fact that it was a date.

 

 Reggie might not want to call it that, but it was, Sam told himself.