Flash and Fire

by Marie Ferrarella

  And the bum had been there, ready and able to make the catch. He’d been there, willing to take advantage of her vulnerable state.

  Now that she was thinking clearly again, she knew that Pierce had gotten what he wanted. She wouldn’t have to be worried about looking over her shoulder and seeing him anymore. For all intents and purposes, he was out of her life.

  The thought, as she lay there staring at the ceiling, dawn slowly lightening the room, was supposed to comfort her. It didn’t. Knowing he was out of her life gave her precious little solace.

  She’d found, to her surprise, that they had something very important in common. They had both felt very alone as children. Alone and almost stranded. The only difference was that she was isolated in a sea of plenty and he in a whirlpool of nothing. They’d both learned to depend on themselves, she with some help from Whitney and he totally through his own resources.

  They had deviated after that. She’d mellowed and he’d hardened. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for Whitney, she thought with a cryptic smile on her lips, she would have turned out to be more like Pierce.

  Now there was a thought.

  Amanda rolled over onto her side. God, but she felt so unsettled. It was as if she were descending, headfirst, into a chasm with no bottom.

  Resigning herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get any more sleep, Amanda sat up in her bed. With a deep sigh, she dragged both hands through her hair and attempted to pull herself together. Her eyes drifted to the heap on the floor.

  The dress she’d worn last night was lying there, crumpled. Right next to his light blue briefs.

  Oh, God!

  She had to get rid of Pierce’s undershorts before Carla discovered them and plied her with a dozen smirking questions. Carla would like nothing better than to be propelled into a real-life soap opera.

  Not if she could help it.

  Scrambling out of bed, Amanda had only had enough time to snatch up the undershorts when she heard someone pounding on her front door. She looked at her watch. It was six-thirty.

  Who—?

  The pounding came again.

  Amanda grabbed her robe from the edge of her bed and shoved her arms through the sleeves, unconsciously holding on to the scrap of blue material.

  She hurried to the front door, the open robe flapping around her legs, and looked through the peephole. Her heart froze.

  Pierce filled the entire concave space, his image crammed into the tiny, half-inch circle like an action figure that had been shrunken down.

  Her first impulse was to run to her room and lock the door behind her. But she wasn’t a child anymore, cowering and hiding until the adult storms had passed. She had to face things, even Pierce. She had to clear the air between them before it became too polluted for either one of them to breathe. After all, indirectly, she did work with the man.

  You play, you pay, she thought bitterly. Except that for her, it hadn’t been a game. However much of a mistake it had been, it had been for real.

  “God damn it, Amanda, open up!” Pierce demanded, his voice loud enough to be heard up and down both sides of the block.

  Terrific. Now the neighbors knew.

  She took a cleansing breath and pulled the door open, telling herself that she could face anything, even an overly cocky male.

  Pierce strode into the house like a panther laying claim to his domain. He had on a pair of faded jeans. He was bare-chested and his bare feet were jammed into worn sneakers that were partially unlaced. He looked rumpled and angry. Very, very angry.

  He was carrying a carton of eggs.

  When he’d woken up fifteen minutes ago, he’d had the strangest sensation. It had taken him a hazy moment to realize that this alien emotion he was feeling was contentment.

  At least that’s what he assumed it was. He’d only experienced it before when it had pertained to getting the edge on a particularly elusive story, or getting out of Iraq with his skin intact.

  It had never remotely involved waking up on the morning after a sexual conquest. Though he always enjoyed having sex, once it was over, it was over. There was no mythical afterglow that he’d heard women gush about, no feeling of peace. He’d be drained, his appetite satisfied and his job—which was what he’d viewed his part of the bargain in bedding a woman to be—well done. He’d never heard any complaints about his performance.

  But the feeling of well-being had never before curled through him like early morning fog along the heath.

  The feeling had dissolved immediately when he’d found the space next to him empty and there had been no answer when he’d called out her name.

  It had taken him only a moment to ascertain that Amanda was gone.

  Cursing her vehemently, as well as himself for not having the good sense just to roll over and go back to sleep, he’d pulled on only his jeans and his sneakers. He’d probably have left the latter behind if his feet weren’t so damn sensitive to bare ground.

  Taking his wallet and his keys, and stuffing her torn underwear into his pocket like a talisman, he’d been out the door in less than five minutes. The eggs had been an afterthought.

  As he walked in, Pierce forced himself to curb his anger. He didn’t want Amanda believing that she meant more to him than just an intriguing interlude, because she didn’t.

  “I brought you something.” He held up the egg carton casually, his voice giving absolutely no hint of the anger he still felt inside, of the odd sense of betrayal that she had left in her wake.

  It was stupid to feel that way and he knew it. Hell, he was only here because she had turned out to be such a great lay and he didn’t want to end it yet. When it was over, he’d let her know. And it would be, soon.

  But not yet.

  The decision appeased the edginess he felt bubbling inside.

  Amanda stared at the offering incredulously. “Eggs?”

  He flipped open the carton, exposing two rows of six medium-sized eggs for her perusal.

  “You can either use them to fix us breakfast, or you can throw them to release whatever inner frustrations had you slinking out of my apartment in the middle of the night like a cat burglar.” He presented them to her. “Just as long as you don’t throw them at me.”

  When she reached for the carton, he smiled. “Souvenir?”

  “What?’

  Pierce nodded at die light blue material that she was still clutching. “You’re holding my underwear in your hand.”

  Amanda stared at the briefs as if she hadn’t seen them before.

  “I—I didn’t have any to put on,” she stammered, hating herself for it. “You tore mine off.”

  She could feel the blush rising to her cheeks. After they’d made love in every conceivable place in his house, she was blushing in front of him like some idiotic schoolgirl.

  But now that the glow of passion had faded, she was embarrassed. Acutely so.

  “Trade you.” Pierce stuck his hand into his jeans and pulled out the torn scrap she’d left behind in her flight from his apartment. “It’s not exactly a glass slipper, but I’d be more than happy to see if it fits you, Mandy.”

  “It fits, it fits!” Amanda said between clenched teeth.

  Amanda thrust his underwear into his hand, taking hers with as much dignity as she could manage, given the situation.

  Pierce tucked the undergarment into his pocket. “So,” he said, indicating the carton, “what’ll it be, Mandy? Are the eggs going to be meals, or missiles? If I have a vote, I cast mine for meals.”

  His eyes slid over her. Beneath the opened robe, she was wearing an old jersey that had long since lost its color and shape from too many washings. Why the hell did that look sexy to him?

  “I’m starving.”

  Amanda blew out a breath and put her hand out for the carton again. “I might as well fix us breakfast.”

  He draped an arm around her shoulders as he turned her around toward the kitchen. “Good choice.”

  She let him guide her. “You
can’t just take over like this, you know,” she informed him, trying desperately for some foothold before she lost it all.

  “I know.” But he made absolutely no move to withdraw his arm.

  She laid the carton on the counter. “Last night didn’t mean anything,” she insisted doggedly, more to convince herself than him.

  He was more than willing to agree to that. He didn’t want last night to mean anything even more than she didn’t. Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t get some mileage out of teasing her.

  “I think we singed the carpet.” He grinned at her obvious embarrassment. Pierce didn’t think women blushed anymore in this day and age. Certainly none of the women he’d ever had did. “I might not get back my cleaning deposit.”

  Amanda sighed. She didn’t like being the source of his amusement.

  “You’re not taking this seriously, Pierce.”

  He noticed that she’d stopped calling him by his last name and didn’t know if he liked it or not. He didn’t want her getting hung up on him. The last thing in the world he needed was to have a woman hung up on him, even one like Amanda who behaved like a wildcat in bed and a lady out of it.

  “The only thing that’s serious, Mandy, is death. Everything else . . .”

  His voice trailed off as he shrugged indifferently.

  Amanda sighed again and shook her head as she took out the large frying pan. For a second, she tested its weight in her hand. She rested it on the burner, though her first inclination was to put the metal pan to better use. Her eyes flickered over his face.

  “You’re very transparent.” Pierce grinned as he slid onto the bar stool.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Amanda took a stick of margarine from the refrigerator. She cut a pat of it for the pan, then watched it sizzle before raising her eyes to Pierce. “What do you want with your eggs?”

  You.

  Pierce pushed the urge away. Lovemaking with the same woman had never been habit-forming before. Why this time? He chalked up his rekindled desire to the novelty of having someone like Amanda.

  “How about another installment of the Amanda Foster story?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Why’d you leave?”

  His eyes seemed to pin her in place. Amanda deliberately turned her back on him to avoid them and reached into the refrigerator for bread. She maintained an intentionally disinterested voice.

  “I didn’t know that there was a code of ethics to follow. Emily Post doesn’t cover the morning after in her etiquette book, and I haven’t had any practice at it.” She tossed the loaf onto the counter. “Sorry if I didn’t follow the rules.”

  He picked up on something that she hadn’t had any intention of telling him. “There’s been no one since your ignoble ex-husband?”

  “No.” Amanda bit off the word. Dropping four slices of bread into the toaster slots, she slapped down the levers.

  “That would explain the explosion,” Pierce observed mildly, his eyes teasing her. She wasn’t taking this well, he noted, enjoying himself. “How about before?”

  Why did he have to be so persistent about quizzing her? And why did she feel honor-bound to tell the truth? “I said I didn’t sleep around.”

  He stared at her, trying to comprehend what she was telling him. As far as Pierce was concerned, sex was just as natural as breathing. He had taken her participation in the activity for granted.

  “Let me get this straight.” He leaned forward, watching her expression. “To put this delicately, you mean to tell me that I’ve just ridden in the seat of a Mercedes that’s only had one previous owner?”

  “Yes.” Amanda ground out the admission between clenched teeth.

  He tried not to think about the responsibility this information shifted to his shoulders. Right now, Pierce was attempting to fathom the idea that a man would turn his back on someone like Amanda if he was legally bound to her.

  “And pursuing that same analogy, your husband was out test-driving Volkswagens with a Mercedes parked in his garage?”

  Amanda took out two plates from the cupboard. Swinging around, she laid them on the counter with a small thud. “Are you quite through? What are you, some kind of a car freak? I already told you—“

  He cut through the mounting impatience he heard in her voice. “What does he do, this mindless ex-husband of yours?”

  What did that have to do with anything? “He’s a lawyer. A tax lawyer.”

  Pierce snorted. It figured. A drab, bloodsucking vocation. “Remind me not to ever let him represent me if the IRS comes knocking. The man’s an ass.”

  Pierce slid off the stool and circumvented the counter. Opening the refrigerator, he rummaged around as if he lived here.

  She didn’t like the way he just made himself at home.

  Amanda blew out a breath, impatient with the conversation and with him. “I already established that fact long before last night.”

  Pierce took out a carton of orange juice and reached for a glass.

  “So,” he said, pouring half a glass, then tucking the carton away on the bottom shelf behind the milk, “can I see you tonight?”

  She wanted to say yes, but she knew it was the wrong answer. “We both have work to do.”

  She was hedging, but there was very little spirit behind it. He decided to blow away the flimsy barriers. “I can come by after the broadcast—“

  Amanda cracked an egg on the side of the pan and dropped the contents in. “No.”

  “All right, then before.”

  She cracked another, then tossed both empty shells down. She missed the garbage. “No.”

  Pierce stooped to pick up the shells. He dropped them into the pail. Standing next to her, he trailed his hand along the side of her neck, wishing he knew just what the hell he was doing here, in the middle of all this.

  “It’s too late to play hard to get, Mandy.”

  With effort, she moved aside. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Wasn’t he satisfied yet? Did he want all of her pride?

  “I’m not playing. Don’t you understand?” It was almost bordering on a plea.

  His voice softened. “Yeah, I do.” And for some reason, neither was he.

  His intrinsic pride urged him to retreat, to tell her the hell with her, he didn’t need or want her.

  But something had been stirred by her presence last night and it made him remain where he was. Not because he wanted or needed her, he told himself, but because it was his nature to explore things until he had an answer.

  And right now, everything was just one great big question mark.

  She was beating the eggs in the pan furiously with her spatula. No doubt picturing him in the pan in place of the eggs, he thought, amused. He slid back onto the stool and nodded toward the pan, though it was too late.

  “I like my eggs over easy.”

  He was lucky she wasn’t throwing them at him instead. “Tough, you’re getting them scrambled.”

  Just like I am right now, she thought.

  He shrugged. “I’m not difficult.”

  She spared him a mocking look. “Ha!”

  It was much too still, even for this hour of the morning. Christopher struck him as a child who needed very little sleep. ‘Where’s the rest of the household?”

  “Sleeping, I guess.” As an afterthought, she added her two eggs into the pan. “Although how they can sleep with all the noise you made, I don’t know.”

  He drained his glass and set it on the counter. “If they sleep that soundly, we won’t have to go to my place next time.”

  The toast popped and she turned her back on him. She made a mess of buttering the bread. “Pierce, I don’t want there to be a next time.” No, she amended silently, she couldn’t let there be a next time.

  He was behind her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his bare chest as he lightly ran his hands along her arms.

  “Why, was it so bad?”

  She turned and only succeeded in brushing up against him. �
��You want a rating?”

  “I want an answer.”

  She saw just the smallest strain of vulnerability in his eyes. It made her think of the boy he’d been. The one who’d never been wanted or accepted. The one who had probably been hungry for approval.

  “It was wonderful,” she admitted quietly, then her voice rose, gaining in volume and strength. “That’s not the point. I don’t want my emotions all tangled up. My life’s complicated enough as it is. Grimsley’s going to be after my scalp with a vengeance now. Whitney might need me. I’ve got a career and a hyperactive two-year-old to tend to. I don’t have any space in my life for anything more.” She ran out of breath.

  “Too bad.”

  With his eyes laughing at her, Pierce brushed a hand softly across her cheek. How could a woman evoke such passion from him and yet stir such tenderness at the same time? It was a complete mystery to him. A complete, frightening mystery. He was better off just walking away, the way she wanted.

  “Everyone needs a hobby, Mandy. You could think of what we did as recreational relaxation.”

  Amanda felt laughter bubbling up within her for the first time since she’d entered his apartment last night. “Not hardly.”

  Relaxing was the absolute last way she would have described what had transpired between them last night.

  Pierce backed off, not because Amanda asked him to, but because he needed to. Something was going on and he didn’t like it. It was holding him and he wanted to be free. Freedom was of tantamount importance to him. It always had been.

  “So, what are you going to do? About Grimsley,” he added.

  She shrugged, feeling a little helpless on that score. It was like knowing that the Indians were going to attack but not knowing which direction they were coming from.

  “Nothing, I guess, until I know what he has up his sleeve.” Amanda divided the eggs between the two plates, then surrounded each portion with toast.

  He nodded as she set his plate in front of him. “I’ll see what I can pick up.”

  It was a temporary truce between them, and she appreciated it.

  “Thank you.” Pushing her plate over, Amanda circled the counter and took the stool next to his. “Paul told me you were married,” she said abruptly. Pierce raised a brow. “Paul Rodriquez, the cameraman,” Amanda explained.