by Rebecca York
He felt the man hesitating behind him, apparently torn between escaping from a burning building and doing his job. The smoke wafting down the hall made the decision for him. After several seconds, he turned and dashed from the room.
Hunter bent over the keyboard, working rapidly. The smoke had begun to sting his eyes. Then he started to cough.
The spasm passed, and he peered at the screen through watery eyes. He had used the computer system many times. It was a simple matter for him to work his way into the personnel records. Quickly he typed in several names, along with records requests. As he waited for the information to download, he started to cough again.
Outside he could hear the wail of sirens. Fire engines. He hoped everyone else had gotten out of the building all right.
He didn’t have much time left, he thought, as he saved the personnel files onto a thumb drive. The smoke was getting thicker, and every breath made his lungs burn. It seemed like he was hardly getting any oxygen. He should leave now that he had the personnel information he had promised to bring. Yet something made him stay in front of the computer and switch back to the Internet search engine.
Long seconds passed during which he fought to not pass out. Then he was into the Olympics Web site. Trying not to breathe, he zeroed in on decathlon champions.
The smoke was so thick he could barely see the screen. Why was he doing this? he wondered. He didn’t even want the information. Yet he stayed where he was, blinking to clear his vision as he downloaded the stats onto the thumb drive. When he had them, he exited the Web site, then forced himself to shut down the program so that he’d have the right answer when they asked why he’d refused to leave a burning building.
He had stayed too long, he realized, as he ejected the thumb drive. Every breath he took now was agony, and his mind was enveloped in a gray haze, as if the cells of his brain were filling with smoke. With shaky hands, he stuffed the drive into his pocket. As he staggered across the room, he remembered a line from a survival manual—that smoke was supposed to be thinner near the floor. Barely able to control his movements, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to drag himself toward the door.
When he reached it, he made a low sound. His trick had worked too well. The hall was filled with black, choking smoke that billowed from the direction of the men’s room and made it impossible to see where he was going. Head bent, he began to lurch forward, hoping that he didn’t crawl past the door at the bottom of the stairs.
Chapter Eight
Kathryn was on her way back from the shopping center when the sound of sirens shattered the afternoon quiet. Two fire engines and an ambulance sped past as she waited at the next cross street. She’d never thought of herself as an ambulance chaser, but some sixth sense made her turn in the opposite direction from the guest cottage and follow the emergency vehicles.
When she caught up, they had pulled to a stop in front of the administration building. On the sidewalk and lawn, displaced office workers were milling around.
Craning her neck, she spotted Bill Emerson, who was conferring with an emergency medical technician. Another medic leaned over a man who lay on a stretcher on the ground. When the man moved, she felt a shiver cross her skin. It was Hunter. Or her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her heart began to pound as she tried to get a better view.
Then someone in the crowd blocked her line of sight. Unconsciously murmuring a little prayer under her breath, she maneuvered to the curb. The only place to park was a handicapped space. After a moment’s guilty hesitation, she pulled into it and leaped out of the car.
As she drew near the building, a man in a fireman’s hat tried to block her path.
“I’m sorry. You have to stay back,” he said.
“I have to talk to Mr. Emerson.” Ducking past the man, she made for the stretcher and saw with a sick feeling that she’d been correct. It was Hunter lying there, gray-faced, eyes closed. When she called his name in a high, strangled voice, he turned instantly toward the sound, his gaze searching for her in the crowd and zeroing in on her face.
She wanted to rush to his side, clutch his hand, hear his voice. She knew scores of eyes were watching her, so she remained standing where she was.
“What happened?” she asked, directing her question to one of the medics.
“Smoke inhalation,” the man answered.
“Is he all right?”
“He crawled out of the building under his own power. But we’re taking him to the hospital to check him out.”
“I am fine,” Hunter insisted. Although his voice was raspy, it sounded strong, and that reassured her.
He tried to sit up, but the medic put a hand on his shoulder.
Emerson came up behind her.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
“Some idiot started a fire in a trash can in the men’s room,” he clipped out. “Smoking. It’s against regulations to light up inside, of course. When I find out who it was, they’re going to be damn sorry,” he added.
She noted the intensity with which Hunter took in the conversation. Near him, a stoop-shouldered little man in a gray sweater was also listening and looking sick.
“Who’s that?” she asked in a low voice.
“Hertz. From computer support,” Emerson said, making no attempt to lower his volume or hide his annoyance. “He was supposed to oversee John. . . Hunter. He was supposed to stay with him at all times. He came running out of the building alone.”
“He wouldn’t leave the computer,” the man said. “I wasn’t going to stay in there and get turned into toast.”
“The computer?” Kathryn asked, her gaze shooting back to Hunter.
“I had to shut down the program properly,” he said in a flat voice, avoiding direct eye contact with her. She was pretty sure that it wasn’t the whole story.
“What was I supposed to do—carry him?” Hertz whined.
“I made him go without me,” Hunter wheezed.
“That was. . . foolish,” the Chief of Operations growled.
“I could not disobey orders.”
“Your orders. Yes, I understand,” Emerson agreed.
Hunter’s eyes flicked to Hertz. “I do not wish to cause trouble for him. He is a good computer instructor. . .. He did his job every moment until the smoke began to fill the room,” he said.
The man looked relieved, and his head bobbed vigorously in agreement.
A fireman came up to Emerson, and they conferred briefly. Then the Chief of Operations raised his voice and spoke to the group of people who had turned toward him. “The fire’s out,” he announced. “And the damage is confined to the men’s room where the blaze started and the hall immediately outside.”
The crowd gave the firemen a round of applause. When they finished, the medics moved into position on either side of the stretcher, raised it to waist height, and began to roll it toward the ambulance. Kathryn wanted to follow. She wanted to ride with Hunter and stay with him. Yet she understood that showing too much concern wasn’t prudent.
“I’ll wait back at the house,” she said.
“Good idea.”
The last observation was made by Chip McCourt, who had come out of the crowd.
She gave him a little nod.
“We’ve been going along for months just fine,” he said as they left the crowd and headed toward her car. “Then you showed up and our incident rate suddenly went through the roof.”
“Off the roof?” she muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“What incident rate?” she said more loudly.
“A fight in the gym. A missing weapon. Now we have a mysterious fire.”
“Well, I think there are a number of witnesses who will swear that I was at the commissary when somebody tried to burn up the men’s room.”
“You think it was deliberate?” McCourt asked.
“I have no idea.”
“It’s interesting that you showed up so quickly.”
“
I heard the sirens. I was curious.”
“I’ll bet.”
She raised her chin, gave him a direct look. “What are you getting at?” she inquired.
To his credit, he kept his gaze steady. “Nothing.”
“Good.” Turning on her heel, she left, feeling several sets of eyes drilling into her back.
###
The moment Kathryn walked into the dining room of the guest cottage, she knew something was wrong. Some of the knickknacks in the shelves had been moved, and the sweater she’d left on a chair was dangling on the floor. Setting down the bag of groceries with a thump, she looked around, a feeling of dread overwhelming her.
Was the gun still in the kitchen?
Maybe. Maybe not. But she had to assume the recorder was still waiting to pick up sounds from its place behind the access panel. Suppose it was sensitive enough to tell the listeners that she’d made a beeline for the kitchen cabinet where the weapon was hidden?
She’d never had a devious mind. Now she forced herself to take a breath and consider how she would really act if she came in and thought her house had been searched.
Probably she’d check her personal belongings. With a grimace, she started down the hall to the bedrooms. Drawers had been opened and the contents moved about. Someone had poked through hers and Hunter’s things and hadn’t bothered to hide the search. With shaky steps, she returned to the kitchen, opened the cabinet to the right of the sink and moved the bag of flour. After seeing the rest of the plundering, she wasn’t surprised that the gun and silencer had both vanished. Still, she stood for long moments, staring at the empty place before moving other supplies, hoping that she might have been mistaken about the location of the weapon.
But the gun and silencer were definitely missing. Leaning against the counter, she cupped her head in her hands. Had McCourt waited for her to leave and come back for a more thorough search? Or had someone else done it? She couldn’t discuss the possibilities with anyone but Hunter. And she wouldn’t be discussing them with him, either, she reminded herself, barely managing to suppress a little sound of anguish. He was in the hospital, and she didn’t know when he was coming back. When he did—if he did—they couldn’t have a normal conversation because the house was bugged.
Crushing her fist against her mouth, she struggled for composure. After a long time, she straightened and automatically began to put away the groceries. More time passed. The house remained quiet except for the sound of her own breathing. She ached to call the hospital and make sure Hunter was all right. She told herself firmly that he was, and that he’d come home when they released him.
Yet what if they didn’t let him come back to the guest cottage? What if Emerson had changed his mind about the living arrangements? Fighting the clogged feeling in her throat, she sprinted across the room toward the telephone but didn’t make the call—knowing that speaking to the Chief of Operations in her present state was a dead giveaway to her feelings. If Emerson knew she’d lost her objectivity, that would be the end of her access to Hunter.
She would have to wait for official word, she told herself firmly. Still, as the minutes turned into hours and then centuries, she thought she would go crazy. Crazy with frustration. Crazy with worry.
Dragging herself into the bedroom, she slipped off her shoes and flopped down in her clothes, prepared to jump up the minute she heard the front door open.
It didn’t, and she lay rigid, staring into the growing darkness, telling herself over and over that Hunter would surely be back soon, and everything would be all right. But she couldn’t stay still, and she couldn’t stop her mind from churning.
Finally, desperate, she staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, trying to shock herself into steadiness. Feeling a little more in control, she called the medical facility. The woman who answered didn’t know who Hunter was. When Kathryn switched to his old name—John Doe—she was told the information was classified. Now more upset than ever, she carefully replaced the receiver and stood rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Maybe Hunter was already out of the hospital, she told herself. Maybe he was already back in his old quarters. Maybe McCourt was supposed to give her the news, and he’d conveniently forgotten. A mirthless sound bubbled up in her throat. That would give him the last laugh, all right.
She was saved from hysteria by the sound of the front door opening. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered into overtime as she barreled down the hall.
Relief flooded her when she saw Hunter standing there in clean clothes, the effects of the fire scrubbed away. Yet she came to an abrupt halt in the face of the two security guards flanking him. One was the guy named Reid—who probably didn’t like her any better than she liked him.
“Here’s your wayward boy,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
A sharp retort leaped to her lips. She bit it back and managed a simple “Thank you.”
“Do you want us to stay?”
“No. I’d like the arrangement to be the same as last night,” she answered in a cool, dismissive voice.
Reid nodded and the duo departed, leaving Hunter standing in the hall staring at her with his arms stiffly at his sides and a strained expression on his face.
She felt almost dizzy as she faced him. “Are you all right?” she gasped.
He gave a little nod.
“Thank God.” Seeing him after the long hours of worry was like getting struck by a tidal wave. Struck from the back, so that she was propelled toward him. With a little cry, she flung herself across the space between them.
He took the impact of her weight, his arms coming up to catch her as she held on to him for dear life. Her hands slid possessively across his broad shoulders, up and down his back, as she assured herself that he was well and whole.
“I wanted to go to the hospital with you,” she choked out. “I wanted to be there. It was hard to come back here and wait.”
“They wouldn’t have let you be with me there. But I’m here—now,”
“Yes.” She reached up, tunneling her fingers though his dark hair so that she could bring his face within reach.
“Oh,” was all he had time to exclaim before his mouth melted against hers. She gave a little sob as her lips moved frantically against his. There was so much she wanted to say to him. So much she couldn’t say with the tape recorder ruling their lives.
But she could show him what she was feeling. Closing her eyes, she shut out everything but him, the taste of him, the feel of him. Each thing registered separately on her senses—the slightly coarse texture of his hair, the hard muscles of his shoulders as her hands came back to them, the clean smell of soap and water.
“Kathryn.” Her name sighed out of him like a plea—like a prayer of thanks.
“I’m here. Right here,” she answered.
His mouth opened, perhaps in surprise, as she eased his lips apart so that she could taste him more fully. And as she drank from him, she taught him the ways that two people could express their deepest feelings to each other—without words. Soon his mouth was moving hungrily over hers, tasting, sipping, nibbling at her tender flesh until she was shaking with the strength of her response.
His strong hands were under her blouse, burning the skin of her back, and then her front where he cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric of her bra.
He made a rough sound, half pleasure, half frustration.
“This thing is in the way,” he said thickly.
“Yes.” Reaching around, she unhooked the catch, and he pushed the fabric up, taking her breasts in his hands.
She heard him suck in a strangled breath, as he moved his fingers over her heated flesh.
“So soft.” The words were almost a moan.
She was just as inarticulate. She could only gasp at the pleasure of his unschooled touch, a touch that made up in ardor and tenderness what it lacked in sophistication.
His hips moved against hers, instinctive
ly, insistently. “I . . . want. . .to. . . “The sentence ended with a choking sound in his throat. In the next moment, he wrenched himself away from her, his hands balled into fists in front of him, his chest heaving.
She reached for him, but he stepped farther away.
“No,” he ordered, his eyes fierce.
They both stood, sucking in drafts of air.
“Friends can’t do—” he bit out, then stopped abruptly, looking over her shoulder.
She wanted to say he was wrong. Then with a start, she realized he was looking toward the recorder.
Oh God, how bad did his homecoming sound?
All she could do was shake her head in despair. What she had told him about the two of them was wrong. What she felt for him was a lot more powerful than friendship. She had tried to deny her feelings. Denial had become impossible when she’d seen him lying on the stretcher and then during the long anguished hours while she’d waited for him to come home.
When she felt a little more in control, she turned away and rehooked her bra.
She waited for the heat to fade a little from her cheeks before reaching for his hand and leading him into the dining room where the light was better.
The stark look on his face made it difficult not to clasp him to her again. That would only make things worse. After several shaky breaths, she touched her finger to her mouth. His eyes followed.
“Can you understand what I’m saying?” she asked, moving her lips slowly.
He nodded.
“You and I are more than friends,” she said silently, knowing that she wasn’t exactly helping the situation. But she’d vowed not to lie to him. And what had just happened between them had certainly passed beyond the bounds of friendship.
“What are we?” he spoke, but in a barely audible whisper.
“A man and woman who . . . care deeply about each other,” she told him silently.
When his face contorted, she realized she could only speak for herself. “At least I do,” she said, forgetting not to vocalize the words.