It was on her desk Monday morning. Too small a thing to send her into such paroxysms of terror. Just one beautifully shaped peach rose in a cut-glass vase.
Pushing away the demons and ignoring the fact that she was late for exercise class, she dropped her bag and crossed to the flower. For just a moment, she savored the sweet scent, the exquisite shape, the soft petals.
With the rose fragrance wafting through the office, she tugged off her black sweats, then hurried to the arena, greeted the recruits and began the warm-up. Then she ran laps with the class. But exercise didn't interfere with her memories of the weekend just spent.
Late Friday night, they'd sat on her bed facing the fish tanks. Naked. Sated. The evening had been a sensuous feast, a healing banquet, one they both needed…
"Tell me about your fish," he said as he brushed her hair. "What kind are they?"
"That pretty blue one there is a betta. It's also called a Siamese fighting fish. You can only have one in the tank, because they eat each other."
"Hmm, sounds like our office the last few weeks." He bit her shoulder lovingly.
"Since you mention that, the betta is most ferocious when attacking rival suitors."
He scowled. "You told Scanlon you were unavailable, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are there any others who need to be put on notice?"
"No." She bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. "But speaking of that, see those white fish with black and yellow stripes? Those are angelfish."
"Yeah?"
"Well, the single male angelfish has a harem of female fish."
"Yeah…"
"And their names all start with M."
"I got a brush in my hand, Winters. Just right for paddling."
She giggled. It felt so good to have fun with him.
"What are those markings on their bodies?" he asked.
"Some people have commented the markings look like Arabic script. In Zanzibar, an angelfish was spotted that supposedly had, "'There is no God but Allah,' written on one side."
"What does this one say?" His mouth flirted with her ear. He spoke in a sexy whisper.
She turned her head, her lips almost grazing his. "'All those women were right about Dylan O'Roarke.'"
His kiss was passionate and consuming.
When he'd drunk his fill of her, he resumed brushing her hair and inquiring about the fish. "The orange ones outlined in black look like firefighters."
"They're clown fish."
"They tell jokes?"
She elbowed him. "Actually, they're an interesting species. In the ocean, they have a symbiotic relationship with sea anemones. The anemone sprays the clown fish with a mucus-like substance, which allows them to live within the anemone's tentacles for protection but kills all predators. In return, the clown fish goes to the surface and lures larger fish to the anemone as its food."
Abandoning the brush, Dylan moved closer, placing his legs on either side of her, and enfolded her in his arms from behind. They touched from head to toe. Serious now, he murmured, "I'll be your anemone, Beth. I'll protect you from everything." When she stilled, he waited. Then, as if to lighten the moment, he'd cupped her breasts. "I can think of a way you can feed me."
Afterward, as they lay together, only the glow of the tank illuminated their sweaty skin and the repetitive bubble of the water soothed their erratic breathing. Dylan said, "You know a lot about fish."
Sleepily, she indicated a row of books on the shelf above the tank. "I've read about them. I enjoy learning about the different species. And I grew up on a—"
She stopped abruptly.
"You grew up where?"
Here it was. The first of many inquiries she knew would come from him. Though it scared her, she said, "On a lake."
"Oh. Did you have a fish tank, too?"
She stiffened.
His hand closed over her waist. "Just a little bit, honey. I know it's hard for you, but share something with me. Please."
On a precipice of trust, she waited a very long time. Facing away from him, she finally whispered, "No fish tanks. But we had a dog. A big collie that looked like Lassie."
"What was his name?"
"Her. Edna."
"Edna?"
Beth smiled at the memory. "My father's old girlfriend's name was Edna. My mother, Mary, thought there were similarities."
"How old were you to know that kind of thing?"
"We got the dog when I was twelve."
He squeezed her shoulder in thanks for the confidence, so she found the courage to go on. "I came to live with them when I was eight."
Tension crept into him—she could feel it—but she didn't turn around. Hiding in the darkness, she spoke softly. "I was adopted by Bill and Mary Mack after spending a year in foster homes."
"What happened to your biological parents?"
"My mother died of a self-induced drug overdose. I never knew my father." Dylan sucked in his breath. "Don't feel bad. It was not pleasant living with her but finding the Macks was a godsend. They were wonderful to me."
"Did you lose them, too?"
She nodded.
"Can you tell me how?"
Beth felt panic shoot through her veins. She hadn't talked to anyone about this since Tim. "I—I…"
Patiently Dylan waited, hugging her, watching the fish cruise and dart
"It was a boating accident. They loved the water. They were out for a night ride. I was studying for a final exam and didn't go with them." She shuddered. "I wished I had."
His arms tightened around her, enfolded her in a blanket of warmth. "I'm glad you didn't." After a moment he asked, "What happened to you?"
"I went to live with our next-door neighbors, Mike and Leona. They were my parents' best friends."
"Did you adjust?"
"Uh-huh."
"Did they have any kids?"
"Yeah, one. We got to be—" she hesitated only briefly "—good friends."
Dylan said nothing for a long time, as if he was waiting for her to go on. But she couldn’t tell him more. She'd used up her capacity for confiding…
"Ms. Winters?" Connie Cleary was beside her, healthy sweat on her now fit body. Beth focused on the young woman. She'd stopped running; they all had. "Our, um, laps are done."
"Oh." Beth blushed. "Sorry. I was somewhere else."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, of course. Let's do some flexibility exercises."
Beth tried to concentrate on the class. She noted that Barnette looked tired and missed several commands, and Wanikya appeared even more somber than usual. But then she zeroed in on Tully's smiling face, which reminded her of Dylan, and in the middle of leg extensions she was back on that bed with O'Roarke quicker than a flash fire…
"A promise?" he said warily in response to her request. It was Saturday afternoon and raining. The temperature had dropped to forty. They'd not left the house since he arrived the night before.
"Give me an hour," she whispered, sitting on the bed in a forest green teddy.
"With what?" He was in black boxers, lazing against the pillows.
"With your body."
"To do?"
"All those things you did to me last night." She paused. "Let me touch you like I've always wanted to." Beth was as shocked by her proposal as she was by the sultriness of her voice. For a second she was frightened that he could turn her into someone she didn't recognize.
But Dylan laughed, hugged her and asked how he could possibly lose on a promise like that.
Ten minutes later Dylan was flat on his stomach, moaning, long and loud into the pillow. “You touch my butt one more time, Winters, and I can't be held responsible for my actions."
"You're such a smooth talker, O'Roarke. You've really got a way with words." Just for good measure, she bit his cheek, then soothed it with the baby oil she'd fetched from her bathroom and heated in the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later he was on his back and swearing. "Damn it, Beth, you can't possibly expect me to take any more of this."
She kissed his chest "You promised."
"My arms are tired."
"I've seen you haul hose longer than this." He groaned. She said, "Don't you dare let go of that headboard. It arouses me, seeing you defenseless like this."
Massaging her way down his body, she reached his flat stomach. "That night of the first basketball game, in the office, when you lifted your shirt to wipe your face, my mouth went dry when I saw this." Her tongue drew circles around his navel.
"Be-eth!"
Bypassing the part of him that stood at attention, she kissed his thigh. It became rock hard, and she lingered there. When she reached his calf, she poured more oil on her palms and kneaded it into his muscles. His hips ground into the sheets.
"Remember when you hurt your calf on the treadmill?"
He made an incoherent sound that she took for agreement.
"I wanted to touch you all over." She switched to the other calf. "Intimately. Do you know how much you excite me?" Once again, her voice was a stranger's and her confession foreign. Beth had never in her life behaved this way.
Eagerly she went back to his thigh. With her mouth. "I want you to want me like I've wanted you, O'Roarke."
"I do, oh, I do."
"I'm not quite certain." She took his marble hard penis into her slippery palms. And rubbed. Slowly. Up and down. "Maybe, but I've got—" she squinted at the clock "—four more minutes to make sure."
"You're heartless, woman…"
"Ah, Ms. Winters, we lost you again." Beth returned to the reality of the recruits, whom she'd obviously neglected a second time. "And your face is red." Cleary spoke, but the rest of them gazed at her with avid interest—and a bit of amusement.
"Sorry," she said brusquely. "Let's head to the weight room.” There, at least, the recruits could work on their own. Beth couldn't seem to string two coherent thoughts together. As they mounted machines and spotted for each other, Beth walked around, gave some recommendations, then sat on the padded bench against the wall to oversee them. Once she was idle, the lure of her memories drew her to the final day of her marathon weekend with the recruits' favorite lieutenant…
"I have to go out today," he said, sliding off her and sinking into the mattress.
She struggled to sober up, but she couldn't shake the sexual buzz induced by thirty-six hours of Dylan O'Roarke. "Oh, sure, it's okay."
"No, really, I wouldn't go, but I promised."
"It's fine."
She sprang off the mattress, where they'd been playing with the condoms, this time the edible ones, which functioned as toys, not contraception, much like edible panties. She grabbed a white terry robe, donned it and faced him from the foot of the bed. "You've got a life, I understand."
He moved to the end of the mattress, spread his knees and tugged on the sash of her robe. Unsteadily she came to stand between his thighs. With just his nose, he nuzzled open her robe. "Don't shut down on me, honey. I made a commitment to Mrs. Santori at Dutch Towers that I'd help her husband move some furniture today."
"Oh."
"Come with me."
Beth shook her head. It might be good to get away from him for a while, to collect herself.
"Please. I don't want to be without you."
She tried to resist, but in the end, she accompanied him. They even dressed alike, in jeans and flannel shirts.
The Santori apartment was located on the fifth floor of Dutch Towers, which was around the corner from Quint/Midi Twelve where Dylan had worked since he'd graduated from the academy. Housing seventy senior citizens, the complex boasted neat, inexpensive accommodations, social areas, a big yard and a convenient location. Beth knew from Francey that the older people were sweet on the fire department whom they called regularly to check gas leaks, put out stove fires and deal with small medical emergencies. Jake Scarlatta was their favorite. It appeared O'Roarke ran a close second.
"Marone, Dylan, you came." A small woman, gray hair scraped back in a bun and an apron over a pink-checked housedress, opened the door to them. She reached up and kissed Dylan's cheek.
"Josephine, you wound me. I said I'd be here."
"A young boy like you has other things to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon."
Smiling, Dylan dragged Beth from behind him. "I brought the only other thing I wanted to do with me. Josephine Santori, this is Beth Winters."
"Welcome to our home, Beth."
The old woman said something in Italian as she ushered them into the living room. "I think so, too, Josephine," Dylan said.
"Mama, I told you not to bother the boy." From a door off a hallway, a big, burly man without a hair on his head chided his wife. He wore brown pants and a green sweater and reminded Beth of the old men who'd lived on the lake when she was a child.
"I'm glad to help, Moses." He winked at Josephine. "It impresses my woman."
Dylan introduced her to Moses Santori, who said, "He really comes for Mama's cookies."
They laughed, but Beth felt uncomfortable with the closeness among them. She realized she was getting pulled in, dragged under and swept away by the current of O'Roarke's life.
Josephine frowned. "Our Joey should be helping." Another firefighter, Joey Santori, was their grandchild and Francey Templeton's former fiancé
Dylan didn't say anything.
"Our Joey's been a mess since Francey married that rich guy," Moses told Beth. "He don't help nobody anymore."
Throwing an arm around the older man, Dylan scowled. "I got better muscles than that punk, anyway. Come on, show me the furniture Josephine is badgering you to change around."
"Can I help?" Beth asked.
"No, it's man's work." Moses Santori was of another generation. Dylan's wink warmed her as he followed the older man down the hall.
Josephine faced Beth. "I'll get coffee and some cookies while we wait. Sit down, please."
Beth perched on the edge of the slipcovered couch. While Mrs. Santori was in the kitchen, Beth noticed that crocheted articles were everywhere—afghans, doilies, a rocker seat cover. Beth perused the walls, too, then the shelves on the far wall.
And froze.
Josephine came in and found her that way. Tracking her gaze, the older woman smiled wistfully. "You like my dolls?"
Beth nodded.
"I made them all myself."
"They're—" she coughed to clear her throat "—they're beautiful."
"Go look close."
Forcing herself to move, Beth rose and crossed the room, wondering fleetingly if it was coincidence or another example of fate intervening. Gingerly, she picked up the bride doll, much like her own. "For your wedding?"
The old woman nodded as she sat in a rocker and sipped from a fragile china teacup. "I made that doll and all the bridesmaids. Moses is there, too. I wanted to remember my wedding day."
Beth found the groom, resplendent in an old-fashioned tux. "He's handsome."
"Later, I did my sons and grandsons." Mrs. Santori waved her hand to indicate the menagerie. She'd captured images of all of the people she loved in cloth and buttons and beads.
Beth's heart pounded like a trip-hammer when she picked up the last doll. It looked like Dylan in his RFD uniform. "Is this Joey?" Her hand shook.
"No. It's Moses again. He was a fireman, too."
When Dylan and Moses returned, they joined the women for cookies and coffee. While Dylan sampled what Josephine labeled crispets, Italian spice balls and fruit bars, Beth nibbled on a sugary confection. But her gaze kept straying to the dolls.
"Your woman likes Mama's dolls," Moses observed bluntly.
Caught, Beth flushed.
Dylan cocked his head. "Really?"
Beth said, "They're lovely."
After packing up not only cookies, but some of Mrs. San-tori's lasagna for dinner the next night, Beth and Dylan returned to her place. Once inside the door, he stole her breath with a kiss, robbed her sanity with an intimate dip into her shirt and irrevocably absconded with her heart as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
Later that night, as they lay spoon fashion in bed, Dylan tugged up the sheet to cover them. "You liked the dolls?"
She stiffened.
"Beth, what is it?"
He was pushing for more and she wasn't sure she was capable of giving it.
"Beth?"
Burying her face in the warmth of his arm, she shook her head.
Dylan didn't say anything for a long time. Then, in a tone she'd never heard before, he asked, "You know why I go to Dutch Towers so much?"
"Why?"
"I was close to my grandmother. I was an only child, and my mother died when I was five. Dad spent a lot of time at the station house, so I stayed with her and Grandpa." She could hear the smile in his voice.
"It was great being out of the city and getting so much attention from them. Grandpa was terrific and taught me a lot about being a man, but I loved Grandma Katie more than anyone in the world. And I miss her."
Beth squeezed him tightly.
The next words were wrenched from him. "She died in my arms, Beth. A myocardial infarction, when I was seventeen. I came over after school and found her on the floor." He drew in a deep breath. "I wanted to die, too—she'd been such a big part of my life." A long pause. "I went into EMS because I thought if I'd known more, I could have saved her."
She turned in his arms and brushed his knitted brow with her lips. "You couldn't have saved her. You must know that now."
"Now I do. But then—" He broke off.
"I'm so sorry."
"Reed thinks that experience is why I have this driving need to save everybody. Because I couldn't save her."
"Oh, Dylan."
"I've never told that to another soul except him."
Her throat clogged. "Thanks for telling me."
He didn't respond for a long time then he pulled away and stared at her bleakly.
She knew what he wanted…needed.
Turning around in his arms, she settled against him. "I had…have a doll collection."
"You do?"
"It was special."
This time, he squeezed her, for comfort and encouragement
"They were all handmade, like Mrs. Santori's. Chronicling my life."
"Can I see it?"
"I'm not sure, Dylan." She kissed his hand. "I don't share stuff like this. Ever."
"I don't talk about Grandma Katie, either."
She got the message. "I'll think about it. That's the most I can give right now."
"It's enough," he whispered achingly. "For right now…"
Once again, Beth was brought back to the present by Cleary. "Ms. Winter, we're done in here. We're leaving, but don't mind us. You go ahead and, ah, do whatever you were doing."
The recruits chuckled all the way out of the weight room.
Beth sensed that her hard-nosed reputation was shattering. Right along with the protective shield that had kept her sane for years.
Both scared her to death.
* * *
Dylan rushed through the academy doors for the second time that morning, and into the arena where the recruits were lined up for roll call. He scanned the area for Beth but didn't see her. The gym had been set up for EMS practicals today, simulations of activities they'd have to perform to pass the state exam. The recruits would be tested in three areas of practical skills—hemorrhage control, primary assessment and airway management and oxygen therapy. Then to become a Certified First Responder, they'd have to take a written exam. After they graduated, they’d have to go on for their EMT card. Dylan and Beth had made sure their tests and practicals were harder than the state ones, so the recruits wouldn't have a problem passing—except for maybe Tully.
Chuck Lorenzo wandered among the standing-at-attention group, as did three other instructors. Dylan joined them, wondering where Beth was. As he went up and down the two lines, he frowned. She'd awakened at five to get here for her exercise class. He'd tried to snuggle with her before she got out of bed, but she was all business. He'd left her house while she dressed, detoured to an all-night superstore to get the rose, stopped in here with it and had gone home to shower and change.
"Lieutenant O'Roarke?"
Dylan looked at Tully. "Yes, Recruit Tully."
"You're, um, just standing there staring at me."
Dylan recovered quickly. "I was looking at that poor excuse for a knot in your tie."
Tully reddened. "I can't tie them good."
Dylan was about to joke when he saw the sadness in Tully's eyes.
"Never had a dad to teach me," the recruit confessed.
Giving the kid a comforting smile, Dylan winked. Now that they were into the second half of the class, the officers were less formal with the recruits at roll call. "That's okay, Tully. Women love to tie ties for men. They can't resist a man in need."
"Is that so?" The familiar voice came from behind him.
Dylan pivoted to face Beth. Bombarded by emotion at just the sight of her—jeez, now she even looked sexy in her uniform—he nevertheless summoned a devilish smile. "Yes, ma'am. They can't keep their hands off you when you need help with ties." His searing look said, Remember New York City.
Winters coughed and turned to Cleary. "Do you think that's a sexist statement, Recruit Cleary?"
Cleary hid a smile. "Yes, ma'am."
"Hmm." Beth tipped Cleary's hat and said, "We'll have to think of a way to retaliate."
Dylan wanted to whoop. A few weeks ago, Beth would never have joked with the recruits.
As Chuck Lorenzo called the group to attention again, Dylan stood behind them and covertly watched Beth. She'd gone to stand with Lou Giancarlo. Dylan was keeping his distance because he couldn't trust himself near her. She'd made him promise, and he'd agreed, to keep it very cool at work: no touching, no personal talk, no sexual innuendo. He'd run his hand down her cheek and told her he wouldn't touch her and he'd try not to say anything out of line or indicative of the change in their relationship in front of anybody else. But to expect no personal remarks at all, especially if they were alone, was unrealistic.
Scowling, he remembered the second promise she'd exacted from him, one he really didn't like…
"No, Beth, I won't agree to that.”
They were in her bathtub, a huge whirlpool in a surprisingly large bathroom. She nestled her back against his chest. "Hear me out, please."
Rubbing the washcloth down her arm, he grunted agreement.
"Let's keep the change in our relationship quiet. Just for a while. I can't answer any questions about us yet. I don't even know how I feel about this. Don't make me explain what’s happened to anyone else."
He didn't say anything, but he tensed.
She pushed her fanny against his groin, angled her head and reached her arm behind her to bring his face close. "It's so new…so scary," she'd said against his lips. "Let me get used to what’s between us before we go public."
But Dylan wanted everybody to know about them. Should he give in on this one? Learn the wisdom of compromise, Dylan. It's better to bend than break. Jeez, he thought, scowling, Grandma Katie's words came back to him at the damnedest times. Then he smirked and pulled Beth closer. His grandma would have loved Beth and the sensual closeness Dylan had with her. An earthy woman, Katie O'Roarke knew what was important—and what was right. So he agreed to what Beth wanted.
Once the practicals began, he crossed to Beth. She stood in the corner as Lorenzo divided the recruits into thirds and gave last-minute instructions. Paramedics at each station would conduct the practicals. Dylan and Beth would rate the recruits. She handed him a clipboard as he reached her.
"Hi."
"Hi." There was a reddish mark under the right side of her collar, and he remembered how his mouth had made it last night. Gripping the clipboard, he struggled to keep his first promise.
She averted her gaze and stared at the group. "Thank you for the flower. It's lovely."
"Didn't send you into a panic, did it?"
Still not looking at him, she smiled slightly. "I managed."
"Good. Shall we split up or do the assessments together?"
She looked at him. Her eyes burned briefly with emotion. "We'd better split up."
He arched a brow.
"I won't be able to concentrate with you near me, O'Roarke. I already made a fool of myself at exercise class this morning."
"I can't wait to hear about that," he said, pleased.
"In your dreams." As she pushed off the wall and walked away, she called over her shoulder, "Start with station two."
"Yes, ma'am." He gave her back a salute.
Dylan crossed to the hemorrhage station just as Tully volunteered to go first. "You're on," the supervisor, an off-duty paramedic firefighter, told him. Sandy Frank sat in the designated victim's chair. The recruits would take turns being patient and Certified First Responder on the scene. The CFR required the recruit to talk through the process as he performed it.
"First,” Tully said, "I'd use universal precautions." Though they didn't actually don gloves, goggles and mask for practicals, a student would fail automatically if he forgot to indicate the initial procedure. The supervisor nodded that Tully was protected. "Next I'd locate the wound and staunch the blood." Tully stretched out Frank's left arm and took a sterile pad to cover her fictional gash.
"It's still bleeding," the instructor said.
"I'd elevate the arm." Tully raised the patient's arm to a right angle.
"Still bleeding."
"Then I'll wrap it in gauze." With his big hands, he wrapped the gauze as surely as he handled a basketball. Dylan knew he was right about this kid being a good firefighter.
The instructor once again said, "Sorry recruit. The wound is still bleeding."
Tully scowled.
Come on, Dylan thought Locate the brachial artery under her arm. We went over this last week.
The four recruits in his group were silent. They knew he'd fail if he missed this.
“Oh, wait I know—locate the artery under her arm and apply tourniquet-like pressure."
Dylan said, "Yes!" closing his fist and jerking down his arm.
The recruits laughed.
This was going to be a great day.
At lunchtime, he walked into the office where she was working at her desk, her cute glasses perched on her nose. Looking up, she said, "Good, there you are. I need the assessment sheets so I can compile all this information."
He wished she'd smile, or do something to indicate what she was feeling, but he forced himself not to dwell on negative thoughts. Crossing to her desk, he handed her his forms. He glanced at hers. "How'd they do?"
"Pretty good. Lots of fumbling," she added dryly. At practical, the recruits always got nervous, and their hands shook as they wrapped bandages or examined patients. "I was a little surprised at Barnette, though. He messed up on the ABC's of patient assessment." They'd taught the students a mnemonic device to remember how to assess a patient: check Airways, Breathing and Circulation, see if there was a Disability and Expose the body for injury. "So far, Barnette's gotten perfect scores on the tests."
Dylan edged his hip onto the perimeter of her desk. "Sometimes it doesn't transfer. The best book learners don't always make the best firefighters and EMTs."
"I told him I'd work with him at six. He'll miss your basketball game."
"This is more important."
Her brows raised at his easy acquiescence.
"I can be reasonable," he said innocently.
She rolled her eyes.
"Let's see if you can be, too. Come to lunch with me."
Her face paled, and she glanced at the flower. "I don't think that's a good idea."
He didn't say anything.
"You said you understood about keeping this private for a while."
He crossed his arms. "No, I said I'd go along with it. I don't like the secrecy at all."
There it was again. That scared, vulnerable look suffusing her face. His insides melted like candle wax.
"Oh, all right. I'll go see if Jake would like my company." She was so relieved, he got angry. "But I want to see you tonight."
"So soon? We just…I thought you'd at least wait until—"
That made him mad. He got up and closed the door and leaned against the heavy wood. "I want to be with you tonight. I don't necessarily want sex. Maybe we'll have dinner, watch a movie, sleep in each other's arms." He branded her with an impatient stare. "That's what people who care about each other do, Beth."
A rainbow of emotions filtered across her face. She bit her lip, the gesture almost making him retract his demand. Damn it, though, he wasn't asking for that much. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let her fears keep them apart.
Silently he watched her struggle. She took in a deep breath, fingered the rose, then looked at the ceiling. Finally her gaze landed on him. "Can I have some of Mrs. Santori's lasagna for dinner?" she asked, obviously trying for a light tone.
"You can have anything you want, Beth." He did not return her levity.
And the realization that he was dead serious frightened even him.