"He believed me."
"He got his expert's report shortly before I got mine. He's going to take the information and his progress report to Bittle in the morning."
"I—can't take it in."
"That's all right." He pressed his lips to her brow. "Take your time."
"You believed me," she said shakily. "From the first day, on the cliffs. You didn't even know me, but you believed me."
"Yes, I did." He kissed her again and smiled. "It must be that nose."
"Whose nose?"
"I'll explain later. Come on, we have to fill Josh in."
"Okay. Byron—" She squeezed his arm. "You went to see Kusack before you came here. Was that what you'd call a white knight sort of thing?''
Sounds like a trick question, he thought. "It could be construed in that manner."
"I thought so. Listen, I wouldn't want you to make it a habit, but thanks." Grateful and touched, she pressed her lips to his. "Thank you very much."
"You're welcome." Because he didn't want her eyes swimming, but laughing, he traced a fingertip over her beautifully bared shoulder. "Does that mean I get to see your underwear?"
Chapter Sixteen
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Kate had a long-standing concept of what Sunday mornings were for. They were for sleep. Throughout college she had used them for extra study time, or to finish up papers and projects. But once she entered the real world, she designated that time for indulgence.
Byron had a different agenda.
"You've got to resist both ways," he told her. "Mentally isolate the muscle you're working on. Right here." He pressed his fingers to her triceps as she lifted and lowered the five-pound weight, over her head, behind her back. "Don't flop your arm," he ordered. "You're pulling it up and pushing it down through mud."
"Mud. Right." She tried to envision a pool of thick, oozing mud instead of a nice soft bed with cool sheets. "And why am I doing this?"
"Because it's good for you."
"Good for me," she muttered, and watched herself in the mirror. She had thought she would feel ridiculous in the little sports bra and snug bike pants. But it wasn't really so bad. Besides, she got to look at him, too. A well-built man in a tank top and sweat shorts wasn't hard on the eyes at all.
"Now stretch. Don't forget the stretch. Go to the set of concentration curls. Remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
She sat on the bench, frowned at the weight she lifted and lowered and tried to imagine her biceps growing. Good-bye, one-hundred-and-two-pound weakling, she thought. Hello, buff.
"And when we're finished here, you're going to make French toast, right?"
"That was the deal."
"I've got me a personal trainer and a chef." She flashed him a smile. "Pretty cool."
"You're a lucky woman, Katherine. Other arm now. Concentrate."
He moved her through flys and dead lifts, hammer lifts and extensions. Though he'd completed his Sunday routine before hauling her out of bed, they'd both worked up a nice sweat by the time he proclaimed her finished.
"So, I'm going to be buff, huh?"
He grinned, rubbing her shoulders, massaging his way down her arms. "Sure you are, kid. We'll put you in one of those little bikinis, oil you up, and shoot you into competition."