Red Alert (12 page)

Again, he was tempted to take her up on the offer. Tempted to believe he could lose himself in the
physical without making the emotional mistake he once had.

He leaned closer, until he could smell the faintest hint of her scent, more organic than the touch of perfume in the master bedroom, somehow changed by a day on her skin.

She didn’t lean into him, didn’t lean away, not even when he shifted to align their faces, their bodies. They weren’t touching, but neither were they separated. The heat in the air bound them together.

Her lips shaped a word. Two syllables. His name. “Erik?”

It was barely a puff of breath. An acknowledgment. An invitation. An almost impossible temptation.

He cursed and pulled away. “I thought so. Excuse me.” He pushed past her, leaning harder on his cane than necessary, until the force sang up his shoulder and echoed in his hip as he stalked out into the hall and spun back, nearly vibrating with an emotion he couldn’t name. “For the record, I’m interested, but I’m not an idiot. You want me? Then tell Cage to go forward with the sale tomorrow. Once that’s out of the way, we can get as horizontal as you want.”

Her expression blanked with shock for an instant, then flushed with fury. He half expected her to slap him, half wished she would. Instead she straightened away from the door frame, so the light from the brass bedroom lamps gleamed around her like a halo. “I won’t prostitute my work, and I won’t prostitute myself. I think it’s a shame that you would, Erik. A damned shame.”

With that, she disappeared into the bedroom. Her voice carried out into the hall. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Blankets and pillows are in the hallway closet, the sofa’s on the middle floor, guest bed on the lower level. Take your pick. And, Erik?”

“Yeah?” he said, though he almost said,
I’m sorry for being a jerk, sorry I’m damaged, sorry for everything.
But he couldn’t say any of those things because they weren’t really true. He wasn’t sorry. He was smart.

“I don’t want to see your face until morning.”

THOUGH SHE WAS TREMBLING as much from rage as emotional backlash, Meg held it together until she heard his uneven steps move down the hall. She crossed the room and stayed quiet while the hallway closet door opened, then shut, and the stairs creaked beneath his weight.

Then she yanked a pillow off the bed and hurled it against the door. She would’ve thrown something more satisfyingly solid, something that would’ve made a glorious crash, but the noise would only bring him running, and that was the last thing she needed.

Ignoring the part of her that said it was
exactly
what she needed, she stalked into the master bath, shedding her clothes as she went. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she’d be damned if she faced him again that night.

Two rejections per day was her limit.

Instead she leaned over the Jacuzzi tub and twisted the knobs. She was tired, achy and sore, and she was going to indulge herself, damn it. She’d learned over the past few years that if she didn’t take the time, nobody was going to take it for her.

Tears prickling at the thought, at the accumulated stress of the past week, she added bath beads to the filling tub, which was a deep triangle with power nozzles, big enough for two.

When it was full, she grabbed the cordless handset from the bedroom, returned to the bathroom and climbed into the tub. Warmth surrounded her immediately, caressing her with scented bath oils and the low-grade pulse of the jets.

It was almost, but not quite, like being held.

Her eyelids burned as she hit number six on the speed dial and tried not to notice that four of the top five numbers were local take-out restaurants with free delivery.

The line connected halfway through the third ring. “Hello?”

Meg sighed and eased lower in the tub, keeping her phone barely above the surface. “I’ve decided to become a lesbian. I’m terrible with men.” She paused. “Then again, I’m not so good with women, either, so the lesbian thing might not work. What if I bought a little cabin in the Vermont woods and talked to bears, instead?”

There was a startled pause, then a tentative, “Meg? Is that you? Is something wrong at the lab?”

Embarrassment was a hot rush when she realized
that her closest female friend didn’t know her phone voice, couldn’t conceive of her calling outside of work. “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry, Jemma. I shouldn’t have bothered you at home.”

“No, that’s…” Rustling carried down the line, and the click of a lamp, then her assistant’s voice returned, stronger and more awake now. “No. I’m glad you called. What was that about lesbians?”

“Oh, heck. It’s late, isn’t it?” Meg glanced around, but even
she
wasn’t compulsive enough to have a clock in the bathroom. “I’m sorry. I’ll hang up now. Please forget I called.”

“No. Don’t go,” Jemma said quickly. “What’s wrong? Has there been another attack? Has Raine taken a downturn? No,” she answered her own question, “you called to talk about lesbian bears. You’ve got man trouble?” She gasped. “You went out with Otto?”

Meg remembered her fledgling crush on her climbing instructor with a faint sense of nostalgia. “Nothing that simple. It’s Falco.”

There was dead silence for a moment before Jemma said, “What was that you were saying about a cabin in the Vermont woods?”

Ouch. Meg sank lower in the bath and told herself the sudden chill was a sign that the bath water was cooling. “You don’t like him.”

“It’s not that,” Jemma said quickly, “I like him fine, except for the parts where he tried to strong-arm the administration into selling your life’s work, pretended he and Raine were married, put you in the
crosshairs of someone who wants you dead, and still manages to act like it’s everyone else’s fault.”

“I thought you said you liked him fine,” Meg said, hating that her voice sounded so small, and hating that every one of Jemma’s words resonated with inescapable logic.

“I do. Just not for you.” After a pause, Jemma sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be mean, but you’ve been out of the dating scene for a few years, right? Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t suggest breaking the drought with someone like Falco. He’s got too much attitude. Too much baggage. Cut your teeth on someone easier. Please.”

There was a sharp thread of emotion in Jemma’s voice that told Meg she spoke from experience, but the logic rang true. Erik wasn’t easy. He was work.

And he’d already turned her down. Twice.

Meg sighed. “How old are you again? You sound like somebody’s mother.” Not hers, though. And her father had managed to turn the birds and the bees into a two-month lecture series.

“Sorry.” Jemma laughed, but the sound carried a thin quality that made Meg wonder. She hadn’t asked her assistant many personal questions. She knew Jemma was divorced and childless, and sometimes dated a radiation safety officer named Chet, but beyond that, nothing. Yet her first instinct had been to call Jemma. What did that mean? That she was so socially cut off that she had to turn an employee into an unwilling friend? Or that she was finally breaking out of the academic mold?

Meg decided she preferred the latter option, but feared it might be too little, too late when it came to her relationship with Erik.

Or lack thereof.

“It’s just that I don’t get him. His reactions don’t make sense. One minute I could swear he’s going to kiss me—”
Or he
is
kissing me,
she thought but didn’t say, because she wasn’t sure she was ready to share the details “—and the next minute he’s angry about it. Or maybe angry at me. I’m not sure anymore.”

“That’s my point,” Jemma said. “He’s not a bad guy, but—never mind the fact that he’s trying to take over your life’s work, which can’t be a good start for a relationship—he seems like he’s got a bunch of layers, and not all of them are good ones. I’d be afraid that if you dug your way through a few of them, you might not like what you find underneath.”

“And that’s a good enough reason not to bother trying?” Meg asked, hearing the petulance in her own voice and wondering why she was arguing when she knew Jemma was right.

“Maybe, maybe not. But are you willing to invest the time and energy in a project that might not pay off?”

“What if we called him a side project?” Meg said, referring to the smaller, riskier experiments they occasionally attempted. Side projects weren’t the main focus of the lab’s efforts and they failed ninety percent of the time. But when they succeeded, the payoff was usually huge.

Hell, the technique that eventually became NPT
had evolved from her grad school side project, and NPT was an unqualified success.

“I’ve worked for you how long?” Jemma asked. “Three years? I think I know you well enough to say there’s no way you could make a man like Falco into a side project. Otto, maybe. But Falco? No way. He’d become your primary investment way too quickly.”

“Yet you’d rather see me with Otto than Erik,” Meg said, beginning to think she would’ve been better off calling speed dials one through four and ordering take-out.

“I don’t think either of them is right for you, but I’d rather see you
practice
on Otto, yes. Much less potential for bloodshed.”

Meg shivered faintly at how true those words had already proven. “You’re right. I don’t like it, but I know you’re right.” On the heels of the shiver came an ear-popping yawn that she didn’t even bother to cover.

Jemma laughed. “Falling asleep on me? Or are you faking to get out of this conversation?”

“Sorry. Long day. Hell, long year.” Meg shifted in the tub, pleasantly surprised to realize the jets had done their work, easing the sore spots and loosening the tight muscles. She yawned again and longed for oblivion, for the opportunity to shut her mind off for a few hours. “I’ll let you go. Thanks for talking. And I’m sorry I woke you.”

“No. I’m glad you called. Maybe…” Jemma
paused, then said, “Maybe once things are settled with the NPT, we could hang out some time. I’d like to buy you dinner. Maybe pick your brain about grad schools?”

The warmth that spread through Meg at the hesitant question had little to do with the bathwater and everything to do with taking a baby step on the journey from boring scientist to the woman she wanted to be. She smiled. “I’d like that.”

“It’s a date, then. In a non-lesbian bear sort of way.” Jemma was laughing when she hung up.

Meg lay back in the tub a moment longer, feeling relaxed and boneless, and like she’d just run a marathon wearing high heels and a push-up bra. She was tired, but it was a better tired than it had been a half hour earlier.

She had a friend. Or maybe the promise of one. Either way, it was more than she’d started the day with.

She rose from the tub and hit the drain, then indulged herself by crossing the big bathroom and stepping into the shower stall, where she sluiced off the last of the bath oil and scrubbed her hair. It was a waste of water, but if she didn’t indulge herself after an awful day, who would?

Erik might,
an insidious tendril of thought said, reminding her of the heat in his eyes when he’d stood beside her bed, and again when they’d stood chest-to-chest and she’d been sure he was going to kiss her. Sure she was going to let him.

“Jemma’s right,” she said out loud. “Bad idea. Too much work. Too much risk for too little reward.”

Are you sure about the little reward?
a tiny voice whispered. She remembered the kiss in the conference room, and her face flamed hotter than the shower steam as she emerged and toweled off a body that was suddenly tingling with desire.

“I’m sure,” she answered her own question. To prove it, she didn’t head back down the stairs and scrounge food. Instead, she pulled on the oversize T-shirt and soft gym shorts that formed her sleeping attire, killed the lights and slipped beneath the sheets of the wide, indulgent bed she’d bought a few months earlier, on the theory of “if you buy it, he will come.”

At the time,
he
had been nameless and faceless, a mental amalgam of past lovers from her pre-Boston General days, along with Otto and a few choice movie stars.

Now, she closed her eyes and found that sleep wasn’t quite as close as she’d thought. Worse, she feared that when her dreams came, they would have a face. And a name. Erik.

She shivered at the thought, and again when she heard a car roll by on the street outside, pause, and then continue on. The sound reminded her too acutely of the attacks, of the danger. She thought briefly about calling the night shift to see how Raine was doing, but knew they would have paged her if there was a problem. Besides, she was in bed. Safe. Protected by a reluctant hero, asleep somewhere downstairs.

She closed her eyes, unwisely comforted by the thought of him sprawled out on the soft, feminine chintz couch she’d bought last month. Imagining Erik lying there, she used the warm wash of safety—and attraction—to guide her into sleep.

WHEN SHE WOKE, she couldn’t breathe.

Her lungs seized up, burning without heat.

She tried to suck in a breath, tried to scream for help. Pain slashed through her, folding her double on the bed. Some part of her was aware that it was light outside, that it was morning and she was alone in her bedroom. But the larger part of her begged for air, for life.

Help me!
She struggled to cry out, but no sound emerged. Her ribs ached with the effort as her body fought to scream and her lungs remained closed.
Erik, help me!

He was downstairs. She could get to him. She had to.

Heart pounding in her ears, in her suddenly empty chest, she struggled from the bed and fell, taking one of the brass bedside lamps with her in a crash of metal and broken bulb.

Her eyes misted, though there was no smoke. The room was clear. Then the smell hit her, acrid and burning though she hadn’t drawn a breath through her nose. Hadn’t drawn a breath at all.

It smelled like bleach, only stronger. More acrid.

Got. To. Get. Down. Stairs.

Her head spun with the lack of oxygen, but she forced herself onto her hands and knees, forced herself across the room. Forced herself to grab the doorknob.