MEL BOUGHT a pair of peanut shell earrings, hand decorated with bluebonnets, then shellacked to a high shine. A silly souvenir for a silly day.
That’s what she told herself, anyway. Trying to be sensible, objective, logical.
Failing spectacularly. Face it, she wanted Jack—all of him. Maybe she hadn’t dated half the population of Plano, but even she knew that few kisses—few kissers—actually shorted out the kissee’s neural activity.
Jack’s kiss did. Not to mention what his touch did to her. And not just physically.
It was the other ways Jack affected her—when he wasn’t even present—that concerned her. Difficulty concentrating—never on patients, but some of her billing sheets got kicked back these days.
Occasional irritability, too. Especially during the week following their day in Canton. Because, aside from that toe-sizzling interlude behind the booths, Jack had pointed out a hundred different hobbies and interests turned into part-time businesses.
Mel got his point: there were lots of ways to spend your time. And that, even if one could, maybe it wasn’t good to work at life-and-death stress levels all the time.
She’d concede that seeking balance was as desirable as more caresses from her spouse.
But Mel knew one thing about balance: it couldn’t be found anywhere under Bowen’s supervision. The two short—fourteen-hour—days she’d worked while he conferenced in Belize—the meetings must have been held outdoors, judging by his sunburn—she’d nearly caught up on her reading and her casework.
Only to be dumped on again the minute Bowen returned. She pulled a thirty-six. Followed by another.
Before Jack, she’d thrived on the heavy workload. Before Jack, she hadn’t thought about anything but surgery. Saving lives.
Now she found herself thinking about the quality of the lives she was saving. And about the quality of her life.
It’s pretty rank, Burke. Pretty lonely, too.
Which was pretty silly. She had a spouse at home—a spouse who might not be interested in true love or a real marriage, but whose body seemed interested enough.
In what, though? Her? Or generic sex? And did she want to find out? If so, how could she if she was stuck here at the damned hospital?
She was still pondering possible answers on Friday night, a week after the trip to Canton, as the residents gathered around a video monitor to view a surgical tape.
Dobson and Svoboda had performed a cleft palate repair; now Bowen had the whole group reviewing their performance. Dissecting every slice and suture. Puhleeze.
“Well, Burke? Care to join the discussion?” Bowen snapped.
“Not really,” Mel snapped back. No, she just snapped. In a going-postal kind of way. “I’d rather go home and get some rest, so I can be fresh tomorrow.”
“This is a training program, Burke,” Bowen shot back. Mel had heard it before. More than often enough.
“Supposed to be,” she agreed, “but we’re not discussing surgical techniques here. We’re just second-guessing the surgeons. Why? They’re good doctors. They had to make decisions on the fly—and they did.
“So I might have done one or two things differently—so what? The girl’s palate is fixed, her condition is stable. End of story.”
You could cut the tension in the room with a dull scalpel. None of the other residents would even look at her.
Bunch of cowards, Mel thought as she waited for Bowen to go ballistic.
He looked at his watch first. Then, after a longish—geologic-era longish—pause, the program chief said, “You’re right. It is late. Good night, everyone.”
Like zombies, the shocked residents filed silently out of the room. Except they moved a whole lot faster than movie zombies, Mel thought as she started to follow the last one out.
“Burke.” Dr. Bowen halted her exit. “A word with you.”
Since it wasn’t a request, Mel simply turned around and waited. Interesting that he’d restrained himself until the others left. Public humiliation was Bowen’s usual method.
“I know I work you residents hard.”
And since that wasn’t an apology or a question, Mel just nodded.
“I’m trying to prepare you not only technically, but for life as a pediatric surgeon. It’s not just tonsillectomies and fat fees, you know.”
Bowen stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I screen my residents for dedication as well as skill. My approach is designed to let you know what you’re getting into, the sacrifices you’ll be required to make….”
He’d made those perfectly clear, thank you. But he was right, too, so Mel bit her tongue before she snarled herself out of the program.
“I have two sons,” Bowen said, scowling at the shiny linoleum floor. A scowl, Mel realized as he went on, not of anger, but of guilt. “And an ex-wife. All of whom blame me for the breakup of our family.”
Was that why he drove them all like slaves building Pharaoh’s pyramid? Not so much obsessed with surgical perfection, but defending his own imperfections?
Nah. Couldn’t be.
Bowen looked up at her. His facial muscles spasmed—no, that was a smile. “I don’t think their complaint is valid, of course. But maybe I’d better make sure I don’t get the blame for your marriage crumbling, too.
“You’re a superb surgeon, Burke. You’ve also worked harder than any of the others. So why don’t you take the weekend off?” he suggested. “Take Monday, too.”
She was stunned, but not stupefied. “O-okay,” Mel said. “Th-thanks.”
“I’ll rearrange the call schedules,” Bowen offered. “See you Tuesday.” He strolled out, leaving Melinda alone to contemplate something she hadn’t thought about in years: her immediate future.
A whole weekend with Jack. Just the two of them. In the same house for days. And married, though not…involved.
Could that change in three days?
Mel’s pager buzzed. The readout sent her rushing for the Pediatric ICU. Jamison’s heart valve was crashing and she was on call tonight. Her near-term personal life would have to wait.
JACK FROWNED at the cubs frolicking around the mother cheetah.
Again, he thought disgustedly, his frown turning to a scowl as he gazed at the sofa and its sleeping occupant. What kind of moron was Mel’s boss—and how was overworking his students till they fell in their tracks considered brilliant training?
Bowen and Jensen should be exiled to the same desert island.
“They could cook rats together,” Jack muttered, powering off the TV and steeling himself to just pick the woman up—like she’s a sack of groceries, pal—and carry her up to bed.
Again.
Where he’d leave her. Alone. Again. In her bed.
He’d leave her there fully dressed, too.
Because damned if he was undressing any part of Melinda Burke’s exquisite body again unless she was awake—and returning the favor. He was already taking too many cold showers.
Another unobstructed look at his spouse’s frontal curves would have him instantly and urgently ready to commit an act that’d be classified a felony without her prior consent.
Which she couldn’t give when she was passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Dammit.
He’d heard her come in around one; he’d pulled on knit lounging pants around two and traipsed down at two-thirty to find her collapsed on the sofa in the den. Again.
Lifting her gently, Jack crossed the carpet and mounted the stairs with his burden’s silky hair rubbing erotically against his bare upper body.
“Mmm.”
Was that him or her?
“Jack?” Mel’s sleepy murmur against his skin sent hot tingles straight to the appendage stirring below his drawstring.
Until he wondered who else she thought might be carrying her sleeping self around. “Yeah, it’s me,” he growled.
“Don’t wake me up,” she purred. Her lips curved into a smile that tickled the sensitive skin of his—huh. All his skin was sensitive right now, as sensitive as a hair trigger on a semiautomatic.
“I’m not. I’m just putting you to bed.”
“’Sgood.” Her arms curled around his neck. “Think I’ll sleep all day.”
Right. Like she’d suddenly take another day off. Just for clarity’s sake, though, he said it aloud. “You’re kidding, right?”
Her chocolate hair slid over him, back and forth. Jack almost dropped her as the sensations rippled through him. He wanted her, damned straight. But carrying her like this—he also wanted to take care of her, protect her, bring her the world on a platter.
Oh, hell, he sounded like a Hallmark card! He didn’t feel that way about Melinda Burke. Did he?
Jack pushed open the door to Mel’s room with his foot. The soft jolt halted her head movements.
“Not kidding,” she declared sleepily. “Got th’whole weekend off. So’m not waking up till I feel like it. No coffee t’morrow, Jack—’kay?”
“Okay,” he agreed as he reached down awkwardly to pull back the bed covers. “Sleep as long as you want.” He laid Mel down, removed her shoes and tucked her in.
“’M not sleeping all weekend,” she insisted, burrowing into her pillow. “Jus’ morning. Then I wan’ t’get t’know you better. Much better….” Eyes closed, she flashed a satisfied smile—and flopped onto her other side.
After a long look at her blanket-covered back, Jack retreated. From her room, down the hallway, finally stumbling downstairs to finish the cheetah documentary while he assimilated this surprise development.
And contemplated how soon they could start.
“YOU’RE EATING BREAKFAST.”
Jack looked up, milk dribbling from his suspended-in-midair spoon. “Ye-es,” he said cautiously.
“But it’s seven o’clock at night.”
“So it is, sleepyhead,” he said with a grin that practically seared her insides. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
At a loss on how to respond—defensively? Or with an expression of gratitude for not being disturbed while she racked up the zees?—Mel spied the coffeepot and helped herself to some caffeine.
After a sip to clear her head, she managed to say, “Breakfast at night, interesting idea. Guess I’ll join you.” As she turned around, her nose flattened against a steel plate.
No, that was her spouse’s chest.
“Oh!” The gasp of surprise came out more squeak like. Mel tried again. “E-xcuse me.” Great. That sounded breathlessly ridiculous.
Okay, her intergender skills were adolescent, but she was twenty-eight. Why couldn’t she act like it whenever Jack was within three feet of her? She was around men all day; none of them turned her to jelly.
“Sorry.” His deep voice, well, deepened. His body was an inch from hers. “The bowls…for the…cereal…”
Mel’s mouth curved into what had to be a fatuous smile, but she couldn’t stop herself. Lordy! Her lips, her breasts, her pelvic region—everything was zinging.
Until Jack broke away to hurtle across the kitchen to the pantry.
“I—uh, here. Try this,” he said, returning to shake a cereal box at her like a Native American dance rattle. “If you like it, I’ve got a coupon. It’s supposed to be low sugar and all-natural fiber and…”
While he continued lauding the flaky stuff, he swooped past her to grab a bowl, tore open the box and tipped it up so far that the cereal cascaded not only into the bowl but all over the counter.
Mel stood there, wide-eyed, until the significance of his antics hit her. Then she started to laugh.
Jack froze in the act of sweeping the spilled cereal back into the box.
The man was as flustered as she was.
“The counter’s clean,” he said defensively, and she laughed harder.
What a weekend this was going to be! She could feel it. Right in her pelvic region. “Forget the cereal,” she said with a grin. “Let’s order a pizza!”
WHILE SHE WAITED for extra-pepperoni, extra-cheese to arrive, Jack sped to the video store to rent a movie. He had no idea what to get, so he picked flicks from three completely different genres: martial arts, action-adventure and supernatural–space terror.
Anyone would like at least one of those categories, but to be sure, Jack called his sister as he left the store.
“What are they again?” Tess asked, once he’d convinced her he wasn’t inviting her to watch them. Sheesh! The woman was paranoid—came from spending too much time alone.
“Hong Kong Hoopla, with the great Jackie C. Bombs Over Terre Haute. And Galactic Ooze.”
“Gosh, Jack, you sure know how to put a woman in the mood, don’t you?”
Before he could inform her that these were very mood-and thought-provoking films, Tess went on, “Of course, the way Mel looked at you on our little outing, I think I could show her the home movies of you making mud pies, wearing only your diaper, and she’d be in the mood.”
“The way she looked at me or the way I looked at her?” Jack stepped out of the way of a gaggle of giggling teens while he waited for Tess’s answer. It was, he realized, an essential piece of information.
Ever since Canton, he’d been thinking of “getting to know her” in biblical terms; he’d wondered if Mel being so serious minded might mean trying that dating routine again first. Finding out her favorite color and political leanings and stuff.
“Yes,” his smart-aleck sister replied. “Oh! I’ve got another call,” she added, then with a quick goodbye, she clicked off. Hmm. She sounded almost…excited. Over a phone call?
Who was calling Tess on Saturday night? Jack wondered as he headed for the car. He had to spend more time with her. Definitely. But not this weekend.
This weekend he and Mel were going to become better acquainted.
But…he was damned well moving slowly. Carefully.
Mel had certainly participated enthusiastically that day in Canton, but was she interested in anything more? How much more? Getting naked together? Naked and horizontal? More than once? And how soon?
He’d bet she wasn’t the most experienced woman in the world. If he moved too far too fast, she might feel obligated to throw him out, and then what would he do until he took the CFP exam?
More importantly, who’d take care of her and the house and the yard and the old geezers and…?
Jack looked down at the video boxes in his hand. There was a lot riding on this unexpected weekend.
Meaning, dammit, he’d better be on his best behavior.
“I HONESTLY DON’T think a human could jump through plate glass, fall three stories into a bomb blast and just walk away,” Mel said seriously. The last video was over and the silence in the den deafening. And what the heck did she know about post-movie chat?
“The percussive effects alone would—” She looked over at Jack, who’d been hugging the far end of the sofa all night. His head had fallen back and his mouth was open.
A tiny snore came from him. How darling, Mel thought, then realized it was probably a comment on the exhilarating company.
Well, what did she know about watching movies with a guy?
About as much as she did about seducing him. Mel sighed. Jack’s attention had been riveted on the TV all night; she’d taken that to mean he wasn’t interested in talking. To her, anyway. Or cuddling, either.
Of course, the movies’ plots had been somewhat confusing; she’d had to watch carefully, too, to follow the stories.
Which seemed to be less important than the body count, the number of fires and explosions and the inclusion of high-speed auto—or as the case may be, spaceship—chases at regular intervals.
“Jack?”
“Yeah!” His head jerked up, his eyes flew open. Surreptitiously, he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Classic Chan, right? And Ooze—great effec—” A yawn interrupted his discourse.
“They were all…” Mel searched for a polite term that wouldn’t commit her to a lie. “Interesting,” she finished.
Jack nodded, smothering another yawn. “You should see the one where he takes on a Russian Mafia smuggling operation on an island with a volcano about to erupt. Incredible!”
“I’m sure it is,” Mel said dryly, watching a third yawn form. “Why don’t you go on up to bed?” she suggested.
For some reason, he went perfectly still.
“I, uh, think I’ll read a little. I’m not, ah, sleepy yet,” she assured him. “I’d better decide what to do with the rest of my time off, too. I’ve got two whole days to fill. Wow! I can’t remember the last time…”
Mel quit listening to her own babbling. It was like a conversational bleeder. She had to clamp it off somehow, but how?
“If you have any ideas for things to do, let me know, okay?” she heard herself say. She was groaning silently over her infantile idiocy when Jack leaped to his feet.
“Tired!” he exclaimed. “Right. Really tired. Going to b—my room. G’night.” Three long strides took him to the foot of the stairs. As he grasped the banister like a drowning man clutching a lifesaving rope, he added, “Shopping. You should go shopping tomorrow. Mall. Sales. Relax.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, he climbed out of sight.
“Guess you got your answer,” Mel muttered to herself as she rewound and boxed the video for return. Maybe he was right, though. All Jack wasn’t much different than all work, if you were trying to build a balanced life.
And she was. That was her goal, not dancing and romancing the weekend away with a hunky husband she craved the way chocoholics obsess over Godiva truffles.
Fine. She’d go shopping tomorrow. Spend a little of the money she’d been making. Get some exercise walking the mall. Hmm…if she could find a swimsuit, she could do a few laps in the revitalized pool.
Maybe that would ease some of this odd, antsy feeling jittering through her insides like confetti fluttering above Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
JACK HIT THE POWER SWITCH and jerked the cord from the outlet as the vacuum whined down.
A few dust bunnies probably remained free to lurk beneath furniture, but, like dirty dishes, he’d learned they were always going to be part of his life.
Today, though, the repetitive nature of housework was driving him nutzoid.
No, Jack admitted with a sigh as he wound the cord and shoved the vac into its resting place, what was driving him bonkers was Melinda. Within reach.
Like a monarch butterfly to those trees in Mexico, irresistible forces drew Jack through the house to the French doors leading to the backyard.
She’d gone shopping, as agreed—while Jack blitz-cleaned the house and wondered what OSHA-approved activity he ought to suggest tonight.
But now…now it was four o’clock and Melinda lay on one of the chaises that he and Old Man Lopez and his pal Edgar had scrubbed clean just this week.
She was wearing the sexiest one-piece bathing suit Jack had ever seen. Maybe because it was on the most enticing—okay, Garden of Eden level tempting—female body he’d ever seen.
Jack wanted to do more than see it. He wanted to experience it, every inch of it, every curve…. He wanted, in the process, to taste her, touch her, inhale her scent and hear her moan with pleasure.
He voted for a duet of pleasure-moaning.
Voting was still in progress when Mel looked up and waved. She turned a page in the book she’d brought home from the mall and went back to reading.
As she did, Jack caught a glimpse of the cover. Huh. Looked like those books his sister used to read—the ones he and his brothers would steal in order to study the juicy parts.
He was no earl or pirate or whatever, but he’d sure as heck like to act out one of those steamy scenes with Mel!
Vivid recollections of their intimate encounters flashed through his mind. They hadn’t exactly been one-sided. And with the book maybe getting her in the mood…
The hell with good behavior. Let’s go back to getting her out of your system by thorough indulgence.
Jack cracked the door and stuck his head through. Well, no sense air-conditioning the whole neighborhood. “How about a frozen margarita?”
Mel’s smile almost knocked him on his keester. From fifteen feet away. “That’d be great, Jack.” Her smile faltered as she added, “Would you like to join me?”
The wattage kicked up again when he said, “Sure! Be right out.”
He should have been planning his moves while he got out the blender and mixed the drinks, but all he could think about was the sheer domesticity of the scene. Last night, too: middle-class married American weekend.
He pictured himself repeating such homey experiences weekend after weekend, year after year.
Weird. Instead of revolting him, the picture—and repeating it—attracted him.
Even now, Jack thought, as he poured his slushy tequila concoctions into tall, salt-rimmed glasses, set them on a tray and added a bowl of tortilla chips and some salsa, he was looking forward to more than a little sensual romping.
For the first time in his life, no-strings sex wasn’t all he wanted. Picking up the tray and balancing it on one hand, Jack walked through the house and out the French doors.
But it was a helluva place to start.
YOU CAN DO THIS, Mel told herself as she accepted the margarita and swirled the straw. She’d thought about it all day. Rehearsed her lines.
Too bad Jack didn’t seem to know his part. She’d broiled out here for almost an hour already while he puttered around inside. She’d been just about ready to march in and haul him outside herself when he’d offered to bring her something cold to drink.
Nervously Mel took a sip of margarita. Thinking about a successful outcome to her plan of action made her so hot she was surprised the frozen drink didn’t start boiling right there in her hand!
Quit stalling, Burke. “Um, Jack…” Oh great, that came out like a gerbil’s chirp. “Would you mind—”
Jack said, “What?” at the same time.
Mel slugged back half her drink, then blurted out her request. “Wouldyourubsomelotiononmybackplease?”
“Huh?”
She made herself say it slower, but to do that, she had to stab her straw repeatedly into her margarita. “Would you rub some lotion on my back, please?”
It seemed to require some thought, but eventually, in a strangely tight voice, Jack said, “Sure.”
Mel put down her glass before she dropped it, handed him the bottle of suntan oil she’d bought earlier for this very purpose and flipped over onto her stomach. She almost flipped back over at Jack’s sharp intake of breath.
And then his hands, slippery and smelling of childhood summers and swimming and lighthearted fun, began to move, trembling with banked power, in sensuous patterns over her back. Warm, slow, caressing strokes over her shoulders, then below the strap across the middle of her back. From thorax to pelvis, Jack massaged, stroked, aroused her backside.
She almost came off the lounger when his hands moved to one leg, then the other. From ankle to upper thigh, anterior to interior, his magical touch heated her insides. Not knowing what to do about it, exactly, Mel lay perfectly still.
What she wanted to do was writhe. Writhe and wriggle. And touch him the same way.
“Melinda.” His hoarse whisper cut through her sensually induced fog. “Turn over.”
She did, then curled her fingers around the chaise’s armrests to keep from grabbing him, stroking him, pulling him down on top of her….
No worries. Apparently, Jack had the same idea. He didn’t bother to pour oil in his palm; he just leaned over and lowered his hands to her thighs.
Then he covered her lips with his and while their tongues danced and mated and thrust and explored, his hands slid upward to pull down her top, then cup her breasts. When his thumbs brushed the tips and circled their sensitive flesh, she thought she’d levitate off the planet.
His mouth followed the path blazed by his fingers. His lips, his tongue, even his teeth—gently—driving her wild and wilder. Afraid she’d come off the lounger as he laved her beaded nipples, her hands came up to clasp his rib cage and the hard sheath of muscles covering it.
Jack moved his hands, too. Lower…and higher again.
Mel moaned with pleasure. The man knew exactly where and how and what to touch. He was playing her like a Stradivarius—and she was singing!
“O-ooh!” She couldn’t help gasping as his fingertips teased along the lower edges of her suit.
Yes, she thought through the delicious haze encompassing her. Touch me. Deep. Hard. Touch my feminine core with your—
Jack’s hands jerked away, leaving her body humming like an eight-hundred-person kazoo band. His head swiveled, aiming his face skyward. He appeared to be jutting his jaw and clenching it at the same time. “Are, are you sure about this?” he asked hoarsely. “I—I don’t want to rush you into anything, Mel.”
He didn’t? Because he didn’t want to rush or because he wasn’t as hot to go as she was?
Either way, it’s time to hit the pause button, Burke.
As she waited for her pulse rate to drop to mere stroke-out levels, Mel restored her suit to its appropriate location.
Once she had herself decently covered again, she looked over at Jack. He had his eyes closed and both hands in his hair.
“Hey, Halloran!”
Who the—?
“You out here?”
An elderly man’s face, topped with silver hair, appeared above the side fence. “Well, hi, Melinda. I didn’t know you were home today.” Without waiting for her to reply, the neighbor addressed Jack. “I found that pension notice you were talking about,” he announced cheerfully, waving a sheet of paper above the wooden slats. “You wanna see it now?”
After throwing a helpless, pleading look in her direction, Jack called out, “Sure, Pres. Why not.”
Mel slid off the lounger, stood on still-shaky legs and started walking away. Carefully, like a drunk trying not to show it.
Neighborly interruption or not, she knew they ought to stop here. At least for now. Until at least one of them thought through the whole sex question. Consciously. Sensibly.
Mel hoped she’d make it into the house before her bones liquefied completely. She definitely needed to think before they went any further, but all she wanted to think about was going all the way. With Jack.
“Go over and see Mr. St. Clair,” she encouraged him when her hand gripped the door leading inside. “I’ll—” take a cold shower “—make dinner.”
“No!” Jack leaped to his feet. “I mean, let’s go out. Get some Mexican food to go with our margaritas.” Still agitated, he practically skipped around the pool and across the grass to tell her parents’ neighbor they’d talk tomorrow.
Mel frowned as the reason for his agitation came to her: maybe he didn’t want to have to consume her cooking.
That frosted her. At least until they were sharing a single serving of flan for dessert and she realized they’d been talking, easily, honestly and nonstop for almost three hours.
Part of the comfortable mood derived, she thought, from not having to wonder who was playing what role. El Mirador’s chef cooked, the waiter waited—and she and Jack just ate their chicken enchiladas and enjoyed each other’s company.
Well, there’d be other meals…like breakfast, tomorrow. She’d show Jack she wasn’t completely undomestic—just in case that mattered.
A HOLIDAY MONDAY MORNING. Jack ruffled his hair as he strolled into the kitchen. Wow. Almost nine already. It was great getting a break from the predawn coffee patro—what the hell was that smell?
And what the hell was he seeing? Jack rubbed his eyes and gave it another try. Same image: someone crouched over the trash can, cradling the toaster under one arm, wielding a knife with the other hand.
Not someone. “Mel?”
She spun around. Guilt, then something else flashed across her features. As she straightened, she tried to hide the toaster behind her.
She looked upset. Dammit, he didn’t want her upset. Jack hurried forward to make it better. “Whassup, darlin’?” he asked as he pried the knife and the toaster from her.
Whew! He still didn’t know what the smell was, but he’d found its source. “Get something stuck in here?” He peered into the bread slots.
A yellowish, plastic-looking substance covered most of the heating wires and filled the bottom of the slots.
Jack looked up from the strange mess admiringly. He’d never thought of using the toaster to melt stuff. “What happened?”
“I was trying to make French toast,” Mel said stiffly, which Jack didn’t know how she managed to do with her lower lip quivering like that. It was making his primary male part quiver, too. “I wanted to make you breakfast and I thought…”
Hellfire. Her beautiful green eyes were dripping tears. “Don’t,” Jack murmured as he dropped the toaster on the counter and gathered her in his arms. Where she belongs.
“Don’t cry,” he soothed. “I’m not big on French toast anyway. And breakfast is still my job. Nobody expects you to turn into Donna Reed the minute you have a day off.”
He put bacon in a skillet, turned the burner to the right temp, then rushed off to buy cinnamon rolls at the supermarket bakery while she “cooked” the strips of cured pork.
After breakfast, they took turns showering. Jack considered suggesting a water-saving technique, but forced himself to hold that one back for now.
You’ve got all day, he told himself as he shaved. Take it slow and easy.
MEL CAME DOWNSTAIRS, rosy from her bath, her silky chocolate hair now turned to black satin—er, damp. Her hair was wet.
The hell with slow and easy.
Jack plucked her from the third stair, twirled her around and let her slide slowly down his body.
Just as her feet touched the floor, every phone in the house shrilled, breaking the moment’s spell like divine intervention.
“I…I’ll answer tha—” Mel started to say, moving backward until they broke contact.
No way. “I’ll get it.” Jack strode over to snatch up the nearest receiver. No distractions allowed today.
“Burke residence,” he said, trying to lock her gaze with his.
“Then put Burke on the phone!” snapped the caller. Male, irate, obnoxious.
Bowen, Jack mouthed without thinking, then showed Mel a palm to keep her back.
“Oh, never mind!” Dr. Congeniality snarled. “Just give her a message. Tell her Zunica broke an ankle sky-diving, the imbecile. Tell her if she wants to scrub in on a liver transplant, she’s got seventeen minutes to get her tail down here.”
“Nice talking to you, too,” Jack told the dead receiver before replacing it in the charging dock.
He ought to lie like a lawyer, he thought darkly, but relayed Bowen’s message to Mel. Who immediately started flurrying around looking for her beeper, scraping her hair back with one of those zigzag torture bands and wishing aloud she’d eaten something more substantial than sugared bread.
Jack slapped together a turkey and Swiss on oat bran, threw some baby carrots into a zip baggie and filled a travel mug with milk.
“Here.” He handed the lunch off resignedly as she darted past. “Eat in the car. See you when I see you.”
“I have to go,” she said softly. “I want to go. This is too big to pass up. You have to understand that.”
Jack shrugged graceless acceptance. His gaze shifted to the refrigerator.
Then Mel cupped his cheek with her free hand. Her palm urged his face downward, toward her.
“But I also want to stay here,” she whispered, her lips curving into that sweet smile that just fried him. “With you.”
“Go!” Jack insisted hoarsely. “Now!”
Mel went.
As he listened for her departure, Jack made himself—and Melinda—a promise. One of these days, they’d finish what they’d started this weekend. One of these days soon.
And if his vote got counted, that would be just the beginning.