The phone rang on O'Roarke's desk Monday morning at seven-thirty. Beth had showered after her workout with the recruits, dressed in a crisply pressed uniform and was towel-drying her hair and sipping badly needed coffee when she came out of the bathroom. It took her a split second to decide to answer the call. Like one buddy would do for another.
Yeah, right. As she sank into his chair, she tried not to remember that buddy driving into her like a man crazed, caressing her like a man in love.
"EMS office. Winters speaking."
A long pause. Then, "I, um, was lookin’ for Dylan. I mean, Lieutenant O'Roarke." The soft feminine voice dripped with southern honey. "Isn't this his number?"
"This is his extension, yes." Beth ignored the angina-like tightness in her chest. "He's not in yet."
"Can I leave him a message?"
Beth closed her eyes, telling herself she was only angry at the inconvenience of having to act as O'Roarke's social secretary. But she couldn't block the images of him above her, beneath her, on his knees. Loving her.
No, it was just sex.
"Ma'am?"
"Of course. A message. Go ahead."
Retrieving a pencil from a mug that said, Firefighters Are Always in Heat, she thought, Tell me about it. In her distraction she knocked over a photo. As she righted the frame, she looked at the old picture. It was black and white, of a man and woman, arm and arm, in front of a firehouse.
Dylan was close to his grandparents. He started the fire truck collection with them. Her eyes drifted from the photo to the rows of Quantum Pumpers, American LaFrance replicas, even a HazMat vehicle. In spite of her inner turmoil, Beth smiled.
"…if we're on for tonight?"
"Excuse me?"
"I said—" the Georgia drawl became irritated "—ask him if we're on for tonight. I tried to call him before my graveyard shift at the diner, but I couldn't get him. And I'm goin’ to bed now, so he shouldn't call me until…well, he knows when."
"Fine." The word was clipped.
"Or," the woman said, her voice perking up, "is his calendar there? On his desk. You could see if he penciled me in."
Penciled you in? Oh, for God's sake. What kind of idiot would put up with that treatment?
But as she searched for O'Roarke's calendar, she answered her own question. The kind of idiot who'd been subjected to his drugging kisses and mind-bending caresses until she'd do anything to experience them again.
Beth swallowed the emotion that threatened to consume her. She picked up the swimsuit edition of the Sports Illustrated calendar with shaky fingers. "What did you say your name was?"
"Melanie."
Ah, the Barbie who'd had her hands all over O'Roarke's chest at Pumpers that Friday night. The chest that Beth had traced in exquisite detail with her own mouth and fingers last weekend.
"Why, yes, I see Melanie penciled in here. For eight o'clock tonight."
"Does the note say where?"
"No." Exasperation finally won out over decorum. "Excuse me. I've got a class in fifteen minutes. I'll leave him the message."
Hanging up, Beth bit her lip and sank into O'Roarke's chair. Her lids fluttered down out of fatigue and disgust. Why did she care what he did? Or who he screwed? He was a paramedic, he'd take precautions, so his behavior wouldn't affect her. The utterly sick feeling in her stomach was simply due to exhaustion and the stress of her weekend with O'Roarke. Anyway, she was glad she'd taken the call because Melanie reinforced one thought. She would not become another of O'Roarke's groupies.
When she opened her eyes, he was slouched in the doorway. Her traitorous mind took in every detail of him—damp hair that looked inky black, shoulders encased in light blue that almost spanned the archway, the long, lean lines of his legs—before he said, in a husky voice, "You left me Sunday morning. Without even a word."
He wasn't going to give her any quarter, that was obvious. Setting the right tone was vital. Crucial to the health and wellness of her emotional life. She raised her eyebrows in an intentionally condescending gesture. "Yes, I did."
"Why?"
"You were sound asleep."
"That didn't stop you at dawn from, ah, getting me up."
Remembering how she'd kissed her way down his body when she'd awakened the first time with the sun, she felt the telltale blush start in her chest and sweep up to the roots of her hair.
The pencil she'd used to take the message from his girlfriend snapped in her hand. The noise sobered her. She picked up the pink slip. "You had a call before you got in."
"Leave it on my desk. I want to talk."
"No, really, you should read this. Barbie needs to talk to you, and she's going to bed in a few minutes."
"Barbie?"
"I mean Melanie." Beth shot an exaggerated glance at the clock. "But you could probably catch her before she goes night-night, if you try now."
O'Roarke scrutinized Beth until her throat felt parched and her skin prickly. Seriously shaken—by just seeing him, damn it—she rose unsteadily and crossed to her side of the room. She was in the chair before he pushed away from the doorjamb and sauntered over to her. The big steel desk offered little protection from his Schwarzenegger muscles. He braced his arms on its surface and bent close to her.
"We need to talk, Beth." His voice was gravelly, like it had been when he made love to her.
"O'Roarke, we're at work. This isn't the place for personal business."
"You're right. Let's get together tonight. About eight.”
Her brows arched. "You have a date. Remember, you penciled her in." In spite of her vow to remain neutral, Beth snapped, "Why would anyone put up with that shit anyway? Is she just penciled in until something better comes along?"
"I made that date before you and I…" His words purposefully trailed off. Her mind filled with snapshots of you and I all on its own. More like an X-rated video. Oh, God.
"Your plans are fine with me," she said waspishly. "I'm having dinner with Eric tonight anyway."
O'Roarke's hands fisted on the desk. After a long stare, he drew back.
Dylan watched her for several seconds. Play this right, buddy, or you'll be out of the game before you even have a chance to score. Well, he'd scored, so to speak, but he wanted to win the game, go on to the playoffs and take the whole damn tournament. Obviously, though, she was choking. Which maybe was a good sign.
Noting the smudges under her eyes and the pale cheeks— the instructor was definitely not herself today—he drew back and crossed to his desk. He set down his backpack and pulled out some notes. He would have preferred to bring her roses this morning—delicate peach buds—but he knew that would be a big mistake. So he planned to give her something she'd accept. If he was going to break down her defenses, which he had every intention of doing, he'd have to be sneaky about his plan.
He'd been pissed off when he'd awakened at ten Sunday morning to find her gone, not only from his bed, but her entire hotel room swept clean of all evidence of her. If his body hadn't borne the signs of their lovemaking, what she insisted was just sex, he'd have thought he dreamed the encounter. But she'd left her mark on him—long scratches on his hip, teeth imprints on his shoulder, even a bruise from hands that gripped him with a passion he'd been shocked to discover in her. His body hardened just thinking about their time together.
He strolled to the computer, flicked the switch on and waited for the machine to boot up, watching her surreptitiously. Yesterday he'd made himself crazy with worry about her driving back from New York City, six hours all alone, in what had turned out to be drizzly weather. He remembered thinking before he fell into a coma-like sleep early that morning that he'd ride back with her the next day.
She hadn't given him the opportunity. She was determined to keep things strictly sexual between them. Her attitude called for drastic measures, one of which he'd implement today.
On the short flight home yesterday, he'd asked himself if what was between them was just sex, as she'd insisted. The answer was clear. Not for him. They'd made a powerful connection with their bodies, one that had knocked his socks off as no other lovemaking had. And he'd never been able to separate his body from his emotions. He didn't want to. What he wanted was to get close to her, physically and emotionally, and he was going to accomplish that. Why? He was intrigued by her, probably had been for years and had disguised his feelings with anger. Was the same true for her? He'd also had a premonition that if he didn't pursue this relationship, he'd regret it for the rest of his life.
Full of those surprising thoughts, he focused on the computer, typed his sheet, printed the information and swiveled to face her. She was reading some reports, her head down.
"Want first shot at this week's trivia game?"
"Not particularly." She didn't raise her head.
He checked the clock. "We've got time before roll call. How about if I read them to you?"
"No, thanks."
"Hey, I need somebody to tell me if they're worded right."
She threw the folder down and yanked off her cute glasses. "Fine, if it will stop your wheedling."
Ah, there it was again, the attempt to make him feel like a little boy. Huh! She knew—first hand, he thought, chuckling—he wasn't a little boy.
"I've changed the format a bit this week. All the questions relate to one topic and they're true or false."
"How clever."
He cocked his head and gave her a searing look. "Sleeping together was supposed to make us nicer to each other."
Her lips thinning, she glanced at his phone.
Oh, so she was steamed about Melanie's call. Hell, that made his day.
"You're right." She gave him a poor imitation of a smile. "Read."
He flashed her a let's-go-to-bed grin. She squirmed in her chair. Good, good.
"Number one. Though scores of firefighters still die in blazes, the U.S. Fire Administration states that after peaking at 171 in 1978, the latest stats show a continuing downward trend in line-of-duty fatalities."
Her jaw tightened and she didn't speak.
"Since you don't play, I'll give you the answers. It's true."
Still the stony response.
"Number two. Recent reports indicate that firefighters are being killed and injured during the initial stages of the fire." He spared her a quick glance and could see her temper simmering. "Also true. Number three. Considering the four factors contributing to these deaths—lightweight wood truss construction, energy-efficient windows, older buildings and lack of survival training—little can be done to rectify the situation."
She was scowling, that lovely brow striped with pique.
"The answer to that is false. Fire departments focus on survival training."
"What are you trying to pull, O'Roarke?"
He gave her a look of little-boy innocence. "I went to a few workshops in New York on safety issues, besides yours and Carrington's." He let the message sink in. "This one guy from Dunkirk gave a great talk that I related to."
In spite of her obvious determination to remain aloof, the hazel eyes that had haunted him for twenty-four hours warmed to the topic. She leaned over and clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm sorry I missed the talk."
"I think you were off cavorting with your boyfriend," he said with a little more edge than he intended. "Anyway, the guy's point was that firefighters, like me, will inevitably get themselves in dangerous situations. That’s the nature of the beast. Therefore, the training of recruits, as well as experienced firefighters, should be on staying alive in tight situations." He grinned again. "As a matter of fact, that was the name of the workshop—Stayin' Alive."
He wanted to kiss the surprise off her face. Then her gaze narrowed into suspicion. "Why are you taking a sudden interest in this topic?"
That burned his buns. There was nothing sudden about his concern for firefighting safety. But he quelled his irritation and leaned back in his chair, mimicking a nonchalance he didn't feel. "Because we agreed to try to get along better, right?"
Warily, she nodded.
"That was the purpose of continuing our sexual relationship, right?" When he got no response, he gave her a sideways glance. "You haven't forgotten about that, have you?"
Her nod was accompanied by a blush.
"So, I thought this might be a good thing for me to explore." He sobered. "It fits in with my MO—getting into tight spots."
"What do you mean?"
He stood. "I think I can help teach myself, and others, better ways to get out of them since I can't seem to keep from getting into them."
"What are you going to do?"
He held up the trivia game. "Increase awareness first."
"Then?"
Standing, he swaggered to her desk and leaned near her face. "I guess you'll have to wait and see. Just remember, I'm keeping my part of the bargain." He hesitated for effect, then gave her a meaningful look and said with all the subtly of a fire truck blaring its siren, "You better keep yours, Lizzie."
* * *
Lizzie. O'Roarke had called her that only once before, the first time he'd thrust inside her. The way he'd said the nickname—a crazy, affectionate combination of teasing and intimacy—conjured a vivid image of that one moment in time. For her, the name evoked the sight, sound and smell of him.
The feeling stayed with her most of Monday and into the dinner she shared with Eric at his country club. The sexy, handsome Scanlon bored her to tears. When she'd yawned her way through dinner, he took her home early.
She hadn't seen O'Roarke much today, either, and for that she was grateful. Connie Cleary had asked to switch their workout to the evening, and Beth had just finished with the recruit and was heading to the office to shower when she heard the commotion behind the maze. A large storage room was back there, and light spilled from it. Several male voices could be heard arguing. Tugging on a knee-length T-shirt that said, EMS: When Seconds Count over her leotard, she went to investigate.
The entire twenty-by-twenty room had been cleared and scrubbed clean of cobwebs and dirt. There were no windows, but the overhead lighting kept the space from resembling a cave.
Ben Cordaro, his father Gus, and an older man Beth didn't recognize poured over some plans spread on a table made of sawhorses and a slab of plywood. Jake Scarlatta measured a far wall. "If we section this off, it can house the consumable material that will need to be replaced after every training session."
"Is that the best location?" Alex Templeton's handsome head popped up from behind a stack of Plexiglas squares.
The older man talking with Ben and Gus circled around. "Yes, young man, it is. I owned a construction company for years before you were born. That’s the best location."
Alex shot Jake a befuddled frown. Jake threw an indulgent look at the older man and shrugged.
Beth’s presence in the doorway went unnoticed, and she watched the guys confer, measure and trade suggestions. Then she felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. The instant prickle on her neck told her who was there before he spoke. "Nice outfit, Winters. But Sergio Oliva has a weak heart, and I don't think his seeing what that spandex does to your legs is a good idea."
She spun around, and the wise retort died on her lips. O'Roarke hovered behind her, sexy as sin and as dangerous as those fires he loved to fight. His hair was damp with sweat, his face animated with high color. He wore blue jeans that ought to be illegal and a white T-shirt that was just as criminal. Tearing her gaze away from him, she nodded to the room. "Who's Sergio?"
"A friend of ours from Dutch Towers." At her quizzical look, he added, "You know, the senior citizens' apartment complex around the corner from Quint/Midi Twelve."
Beth remembered that Francey had told her Dylan spent a lot of free time there with the older people. "What's he doing here?"
"Helping out."
"With what? What's going on?"
"Part two of my plan."
"Your plan?"
"For stayin' alive, babe."
"Hey, O'Roarke, quit flirting and give us a hand." Sergio's booming voice didn't indicate a weak heart. "We're marking off where we're gonna divide the interior wall section and the window section."
Squeezing her arm, O'Roarke said, "Oops, gotta go. Sergio is a hard taskmaster."
He entered the consultation as Jake and Alex crossed to the older men. Beth watched them gesture and argue for another few minutes, then she left.
Not until Thursday morning did she find out what was going on. O'Roarke was teaching a firefighter class in the EMS classroom because the one the fire people usually used had been turned over to confined space training for station house personnel. Since the EMS room was connected to Beth’s office, she was disturbed by the CD blaring through the open door. A disco song from some movie reached her from the storage area where she was trying to order supplies for the upcoming recruit practicals. She rose to shut the door.
But stopped at the entrance.
And couldn't believe her eyes. The front tables had been moved back, and O'Roarke was standing in the midst of the recruits. On the boom box, “Stayin' Alive,” from the 1970s film Saturday Night Fever, blasted out. O'Roarke addressed the class. "I was just playing the song to make a point, wise guys. I wasn't plannin’ a demonstration."
"Come on, Lieutenant," Austyn Myers called. "We've never seen live disco. We don't believe you can dance."
"Oh, ye of little faith," he said, faking insult. "All right, just one time."
Beth watched openmouthed as he executed the dance, stabbing his finger in the air in the fashion of John Travolta's character. The recruits howled. Sandy Frank laughed so hard she doubled over.
Unexpectedly Beth's eyes stung, but not from mirth. Tim liked to dance and he’d loved this old movie and learned to disco from it. He’d tried to teach Beth, but she was hopeless.
The song ended. O'Roarke switched off the music and raised his head. His eyes narrowed on her. She shook off the sadness, but the expression on his face told her he'd misunderstood her reaction.
"I was just focusing the recruits on my lesson for today." His voice was curt, and something else. Hurt, maybe.
She arched her brows. "You're going to dance your way out of fires?"
Several of the recruits turned and gaped at her. So she could make a joke.
O'Roarke gave her a grin that said, Good job, little girl. You'll get your reward later.
Beth coughed to cover her response to him. He asked, "Care to watch the initial lesson on stayin' alive, Ms. Winters?"
Don't stay, an inner mechanism that had kept her sane for twenty years warned her. He's pulling you in.
But how could she ignore this…peacemaking effort? Anyway, the standoff between them wasn't good for the recruits. She and O'Roarke had agreed to compromise. So she sank into a chair at the back. “Yes, I would."
The recruits moved the tables back and sat. Dylan's face sobered as he addressed the class. "We've added a part in your curriculum under firefighter safety. Handouts are being prepared now, but we want to get some instruction in before evolutions and practicals begin."
Beth watched with interest as he clicked into a PowerPoint. It read, Remember The Three Stays. He asked, "Who can repeat the three Stays of firefighter safety?"
Ace Durwin replied. "Stay low, stay oriented and stay calm."
"I get it," Tully blurted. "Stayin’ alive."
"Very good, buddy." O'Roarke smiled at his protégé. "This new program is going to teach you some skills to do that—stay alive. You'll be the first recruit class to get this training, so you'll be ahead of the experienced smoke eaters. However, Chief Cordaro is thinking of recommending this course as required training for all RFD personnel."
No one asked why.
"Now, let's look at the program. We’re going to cover these seven elements." He clicked the remote. "In order to get out of dicey situations, you need to learn and practice the following: rapid location of windows and doors, window removal, breaking down interior walls, emergency SCBA realignment, forcible entry, following a hose line, escape via windows." He shrugged. "Some of this isn't new. We've already instructed you on three of these. But at this conference I went to, it was packaged a little differently and emphasized the practice part. And coupled with some new stuff even I haven't done."
"Oh, yeah," someone called out. "Like what?"
O'Roarke gave a self-effacing grin. "Like interior wall breaching. So we're going to learn pieces of this together. We managed to get plans from the workshop guy to build a simulator room, and they were okayed by the brass. Donations of time and money have come from firefighter personnel and local businesses. The room should be ready next week, but we can start the instruction today."
Beth remembered that Alex Templeton was here that night and guessed his local business had provided funds—partly to help keep his wife safe. Jake, Ben and O'Roarke, and probably other firefighters, were giving up their free time to build the room.
O'Roarke watched the silent recruits for a minute, then set his hands on his hips. "Yeah, yeah, I can see the doubt in your faces. Why me? Why do I want to do this?" His brief glance at Beth was sheepish. "I've recently been touted as a hero by Firehouse magazine, but it's been called to my attention that my actions could be a negative example to you. If that's the case, I'm publicly stating that you should follow SOP. However, even that's gonna get you in deep doo-doo with the Red Devil, so I'm gonna show you—and myself—how to get out of tight spots."
Beth closed her eyes, terror creeping through her. He was playing dirty. Attacking her animosity at the core like he'd attack the base of a fire. What would she ever do without that barrier between them?
Become one of O'Roarke's groupies?
* * *
It had been a terrific week, Dylan thought. Cleary had lost five pounds and regained fifty percent of her aerobic capacity, Tully had squeaked by on his EMS exam with a seventy, and there had been no real run-ins at the RTR meeting this morning. Now, if he could just get Lizzie Borden into the sack tonight, life would be perfect
He was in the office storeroom at about five o'clock, after a not too grueling confidence walk, replacing some gauze he'd used with the recruits, when Beth came in, all sweaty and grubby like he was.
"Oh. I didn't know you were here. I needed a Band-Aid." Stepping back from him, she knocked her arm against a box, which crashed to the floor. They both bent and reached for it.
"What the hell are these?" Dylan held up a handful of foil packets.
Beth bit back a grin. "We should throw those out.”
As awareness dawned, Dylan chuckled. "Mind if I ask why you've got—" he peeked inside "—hundreds of condoms in here?"
She stashed them back in the box. "The pharmaceutical companies we order from send us free samples of new products on the market. For some reason, Ramses and Trojans have put us on their mailing lists." She grinned. "Tom Jackson was fascinated by the…variety of styles and colors of these things and kept them all. It's been a joke around here for a while." She stood. He matched the action, clutching the box in front of him. He fished inside and drew out a handful.
"Mmm," he said suggestively. "French ticklers. This one has little curlicues on the end."
Beth blushed.
"And lookee here. Scented ones and flavored ones." He dropped his voice. "You prefer raspberry or banana, Winters?"
She choked. "Banana?"
"An appropriate image."
She chuckled.
Without touching her—he swore he wouldn't compromise her at work, even though his fingers curled with need—he leaned close to her ear. "Why don't you pick out three or four and bring them over to my place tonight?"
She swallowed hard. In her beautiful eyes, he could see the struggle. He stifled a spurt of exasperation.
But he pushed. "I thought we agreed to work at the animosity between us. To have sex from time to time in order to get along better." When she remained maddeningly silent, he added, "I'm exceeding my part in this compromise, Beth."
She looked at him with more than a business agreement in her eyes. They were deep and wide with fear. Damn, why couldn't she admit she wanted this, too?
"You're right. I did agree. Give me your address."
* * *
Beth arrived at O'Roarke's house exactly at eight o'clock. In the intervening three hours, she'd taken a long bath to calm herself, rationalized all her reactions to O'Roarke and felt in control once again.
He lived near Ellison Park. She was surprised to find his home was a log cabin, nestled by itself on a back road and surrounded by woods full of oaks and maples whose leaves had turned vibrant shades of red and yellow. Meticulously kept grass surrounded the house. She swung into the gravel driveway and parked next to a big green Cherokee, then got out of her car and approached the porch. To the left of the door, a cozy wooden swing swayed in the breeze. O'Roarke's home was as overpowering as he was.
She rang the doorbell only once before he flung it open. He'd been waiting for her. Very flattering. Very dangerous. "Hi."
Behind him scampered fifty pounds of dog. Circumventing his master, the Dalmatian pounced on her. Beth let the dog lick her until O'Roarke tugged him back. "Down, boy. Come on, Quint, she's mine tonight, not yours."
Wincing inwardly at his phrasing, Beth dropped to her knees and nuzzled the animal. He was warm and real and soothed her nerves. "He's beautiful."
"So are you."
She stood and tried to close down. She wished she could shut out the sight he made, barefoot, wearing those disreputable jeans and a thermal navy blue shirt that… Get control girl. "Before I come in, let's not forget the ground rules."
"Ground rules?" His tone lost some of its warmth.
"This is just sex, O'Roarke."
He scowled and stepped back. "Just sex. Fine."
Wary at his tone, she entered the foyer as he led the dog to the rear of the house—the kitchen?—and closed him in. She got a glimpse of the interior off to the left—log walls, worn leather furniture, a fieldstone fireplace, a wooden floor with a plush rug, large framed firefighter prints hanging everywhere.
He was on her the next instant, from behind, encircling her, smothering her with his heat.
It was like trying to fight a forest fire in the middle of a drought. Everywhere he touched, her skin burned. His fingers on her waist were like flames, flaying off layers of skin to reach her nerve endings. Like an out-of-control blaze, his body singed hers with no mercy. As before, she couldn't think with the sizzling intensity of his touch.
This is just sex, she reminded herself. He was cooperating in the deception—ripping at her jacket, tearing off the plain cotton blouse she'd put on with jeans. She hadn't fussed. Nothing was special tonight. It wouldn't have mattered what she wore. In seconds her clothes were gone, then his. He didn't say anything the whole time, just yanked her around and crushed her to him.
"Protection," he said in almost a growl as he pulled away to get a condom.
She stopped him with firm hands on his shoulders, then leaned down, reached into her bag and ferreted out the ones she'd filched from the storage room.
He gave them a cursory glance and tore one out of her hand, letting the rest fall. He rolled the rubber on, backed her up against the wall, lifted her and plunged into her. "God, Lizzie."
Dylan plundered her body—there was no other word for what he was doing—and the whole thing was over in a flash. He sagged against her, thinking he'd rammed into her with all the finesse of a bull, up against his foyer wall as soon as she walked through the door. His caveman behavior wasn't even because she'd made him angry by saying their relationship was just sex. It was what happened when he got near her, got to touch her, got to be inside her. His civilized nature turned primitive; he became an animal. That the same seemed to happen to her took the edge off his feelings of remorse, but not enough.
He drew back slightly, and she whimpered. Like the last time, her body clung to his, inside and out. Still inside her, he brushed her damp hair off her sweaty face and kissed her nose. She was too dazed with passion to resist the tenderness, and he savored her pliancy. When he felt her sanity return, signaled by the slight stiffening of her body, he scrambled for a way to keep her close.
"I don't know about you," he whispered, "but ninety seconds is a record for me."
He felt the giggle more than heard it. Holding on tight to him, she responded in kind. "I probably could still catch a nine o'clock showing of the new Star Wars movie."
"Not on your life, Winters. I haven't had nearly enough of you yet." He slipped his hand behind her knees, threw her over his shoulder rescue-style and carried her to the bedroom in the back of the house.
Two hours later he rolled over in the bed, waking from a sleep brought on by more lovemaking. He yawned, then frowned. Beth was already up. Lying back on the pillows, he watched her for a minute. "Where are you going?"
Fully dressed, she was at the foot of the bed, stuffing something into her duffel bag, which he'd retrieved for the indisputably erotic condoms. The moon slanted in from the four wide glass doors across the room, bathing her in an eerie glow. She glanced at him, then away. "Home."
That zinged his pride. He pushed himself up to lean against the headboard. "Why don't you stick around?"
She hefted the bag to her shoulder. Her hair was still mussed from their lovemaking, her mouth still swollen. "Why?"
"Have a beer. Maybe order a pizza."
"No, that's not a good idea."
A thought struck him, cramping his gut. His whole body tensed. "Do you have something else to do? Someone else to go to?"
"Of course not." At least she sounded as disgusted as he with the idea that she could see another man after this cataclysm they'd experienced together.
"So, stay."
She shook her head vehemently. "Listen, O'Roarke, we're not buddies. This is just sex, plain and simple. You haven't forgotten that, have you?"
"Maybe for a minute."
Did she have to look so horrified?
"Do us both a favor and don't forget again.” Her voice was a tortured whisper.
Damn her! She was at the door by the time he bounded out of bed and grasped her arm. "Wait."
She turned away from him.
"I want to know when we're going to do this again."
Pivoting slowly, she looked at him with bruised eyes. "When?"
He couldn't fathom why this was so hard for her. Was he repugnant to her in every way but sexually? The thought notched up his temper. "Yeah, when. You're a good lay, Winters. And I like to have the best."
Her chin rose. "All right, Sunday. Same place, same time."
"Fine." He dropped his arm. “I’ll pencil you in."
* * *
Two weeks later, just past midterm, the academy bubbled with excitement over the newly completed simulator room, over recruits who'd mostly scaled the academic hump—the second half of the curriculum was nitty-gritty hands-on stuff—and over instructors who'd found a way to coexist.
Dylan had managed the latter by tangling frequently with a punching bag he'd set up in the weight room. Slugging it out with an inanimate object, like now, took the edge off his misery and his temper.
Punch, punch. He ignored the pain in his gloved hands, the sweat soaking his navy gym shorts and tank top.
What the hell's the matter with you, O'Roarke? You're acting like you've lost a battle with a fire. He hadn't lost anything, except maybe a little pride.
You couldn't lose a person you'd never had.
Punch, punch, punch. The ache escalated to a dull throb.
Wiping the perspiration off his brow, he thought back on the past two weeks. They'd had sex. God, he was getting to hate that phrase. A lot. But it was accurate. They'd had sex. In more ways than Dylan had ever imagined, except in his randy teenage days. Torrid, wild. A young man's fantasy. But not his. Who would have thought?
Punch, punch, punch, punch. When the pain shot up his arm, Dylan backed off some.
There was never any foreplay. And when he tried to cuddle her afterward, she drew away, dousing his euphoria. She'd quench his physical hunger just fine, but she'd leave him parched for emotional fulfillment. The worst was when she got up immediately and took a shower, washing away his scent, obliterating all traces of him from her body. Only in those split seconds right after she lost control, after he emptied himself into her, that he really had her. She'd immerse herself in him, sink into his body like water into dry ground and hold him as tightly as he held her. Although he suspected she would stop even that if she could. For those few precious moments, he put up with the rest. That and because his body craved hers. He thought the need would wear off, but it didn't, and he worried that there was no cure for the narcotic obsession he'd developed for her. He needed sexual rehab, he thought with grim humor.
As October drifted into November, and the cold weather set in, Dylan had never been more wretched.
Punch, punch, punch, punch, punch.
* * *
Beth wasn't happy. O'Roarke thought she was fine, but she wasn't. Often she went outside running, like now, which she hated, just to clear her head, garner some resolve. She hadn't dressed warmly enough today—she was in shorts and a thin sweatshirt—and she was cold.
It was getting harder and harder to stay impersonal, to remain distant, to keep their relationship on sexual terms. She'd managed to do it but with excruciating difficulty. Sucking in air at the crest of a small hill by her condo, she tried to block out how subtly O'Roarke had lured her in. Every single time he hoarsely uttered, Lizzie, and touched her with those clever hands, she wanted to give in, relent, open up to him. And each time he protested—nonverbally, but it was as loud and demanding as an ambulance's siren, she lost more of her reserve.
Running faster, she winced at her behavior over the past few weeks. She'd purposely kept herself detached in small ways. She allowed no intimacies, no talk, not even the naughty kind she suspected he was good at. She didn't invite him to her house and she left his body, then his home, as soon as she could tear herself away.
Working beside him at the academy was equally painful. He'd been trying hard with the recruits, making a valiant effort to instill caution and prudence in them, qualities foreign to his nature. And he did all that for her.
Slowing to a fast walk—she'd exceeded her limits and was struggling for air—Beth thought about how she'd met him halfway at work. She designed lessons that recognized the iffy nature of some emergency calls and had the recruits brainstorm alternatives. When Reed mentioned a new set of videos, she previewed and ordered the films, which could have been made by O'Roarke's mental twin. The cocky paramedic narrator recognized the need for circumspection and the risky nature of the business in humorous presentations and role-playing episodes.
The recruits were well-adjusted and progressing fine.
She was the one who had regressed. She, who had to fight every single day to keep from caring about a man the way she'd once cared about Tim. She stopped herself from falling for O'Roarke by picturing Tim's smiling face, by consistently pushing to the foreground of her mind the fact that she had lost one man—and it had almost killed her. That was what kept her from letting O'Roarke into her heart.
Tim's face. And the face of her baby, who'd died with him.