She’d waited for him. The sweetness of that speared through him as he crouched beside her. For so many years now, he’d come home alone, to no one. Gently he brushed the dark red curls from her cheek and replaced them with his lips. She stirred, murmuring. Her eyes fluttered open.

“I’m just going to carry you into bed,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Alexi.” She lifted a hand to rub over the cheek he hadn’t shaved that morning. Her voice was thick with sleep, her eyes glazed with it. “What time is it?”

“It’s late. You should have gone to bed.”

She made a vague sound of disagreement and pushed up on one elbow. “I was waiting up, but the movie was so bad.” Her laugh was groggy, and she rubbed her eyes like a child. “It zapped me.” She circled her shoulders before leaning forward to kiss him. “You had a long day, Detective.”

“Yeah.” And maybe, because she was half-asleep, he could put off the rest. “So have you. I’ll cart you in.”

“No, I’m okay.” She sat up, yawning. “Did you eat something?”

“I caught a sandwich. I’m really sorry, I tried to call.”

“And got the machine,” she said with a rueful nod. “Because I’d forgotten the paprika and had to run back out to the market.”

“You cooked?” The idea both touched him and accented his guilt.

“I amazed myself.” It felt good to settle against him when he joined her on the couch and slipped an arm around her. Cozy, right, and wonderfully simple. “Your mother’s recipe for chicken and dumplings—Hungarian-style.”

“Csirke paprikas?” Normally it would have made his mouth water. “That’s a lot of work.”

“It was a culinary adventure—and the cleaning lady will probably quit on Monday, after one look at the kitchen.” She laughed up at him, then scrubbed her knuckles over his cheek when she caught the look in his eyes. “Don’t worry. It’ll heat up just fine for tomorrow’s lunch. Then again…” She snuggled closer. “If you’re feeling really guilty, I’ll take you up on that ride to the bedroom—and whatever else you can think of.”

But instead of chuckling and scooping her up, he pushed away to pace to the television and snap it off. “We have to talk.”

His tone had nerves skittering in her stomach, but she nodded. “All right.”

He thought it might be best—for both of them—if they had some of the brandy she had offered him during an earlier crisis. Trying out the words in his head, he walked to the lacquered cabinet.

“It’s bad,” she murmured, and pressed her lips together, hard. Her first thought was that he had changed his mind about her. That he had finally taken that good look she’d been afraid of and realized his mistake.

“It’s bad,” he concurred, then brought the snifters to the couch. “Here. Drink a little.”

“It’s all right. I don’t make scenes.”

He tilted the brandy toward her lips himself. “Just a little, milaya.”