Rebecca York (10 page)

The action was deliberate, yet she had the sense that both her hand and Jordan's had become magnetized—that some invisible force was pulling her toward him. And him toward her.

As if they had made a secret pact, they both stopped millimeters from touching. This time she was more tuned to what was happening, and she had the strange sensation of energy leaping back and forth between them, like a spark jumping a gap between electrodes.

Her gaze shot to Jordan, and she knew from the shocked expression on his face that he felt it, too.

He made a low sound and closed the space, pressing the side of his hand to hers. Only that. Only that small but significant point of skin-to-skin contact.

Thoughts flickered in her brain. None of them was clear.

When she'd read the letter in the folder, she'd noted that it was written by a man named Herb. Now she got a quick image of what she thought was his face.

Herb Goldman?

She felt Jordan's hand jump, the contact wavering for an instant before the pressure of flesh on flesh settled down again.

Yeah.

Another image flickered in his mind. An old man's face. But she couldn't bring it into sharp focus. He was important.

Don't go there.

She sensed his anxiety and did as he asked. Unfortunately, the next thing she thought of was Sid's visit to her.

He asked you about a chemical weapons accident?

I can't talk about it.

* * *

"You were in my head," she gasped. "Talking in my head."

"Yeah, well, you were in mine. It happens when we touch, in case you haven't figured that out."

"Of course I figured it out," she snapped, hating the sensation and at the same time craving it. "I don't like it," she whispered.

"Now who's lying? It made you feel... complete." Her gaze shot to him. "How do you know?"

"Because I feel the same thing. I mean—inside myself."

"Why is this happening?" she murmured.

"I don't know." As he spoke, he reached toward her with deliberate purpose.

She might have scrambled away; instead she swayed forward as he gathered her into his arms. She gasped at the sudden intensity of emotions sweeping through her. Fear. Lust. Hope. Need. Not just for sexual gratification. For something so much more that she wanted to run and hide—from herself. From him.

"Don't!" she gasped.

"We have to see how far we can take this."

"I don't think so," she managed to say, then made a low, needy sound as he turned her in his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest.

She clung to him because his body was her only anchor in a wildly tilting ocean, where a large wave could sweep her under, choke off her breath.

Before she could speak, he brought his lips down on hers, and a jolt of hot sensation went through her.

It was like stepping from the real world into a blast furnace with flames licking at her skin and searing her nerve endings, yet the fire didn't turn her to ash.

She became one with the fire. One with the man who held her in his arms, his lips moving over hers.

She knew that if she didn't make love with him, she would die. Yet at the same time she understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that if his body joined with hers in the most intimate man-woman embrace, the contact might be the death of her. The death of them both.

Fear should have sent her running from the room. But if Jordan Walker was her downfall, he was her savior as well.

His mouth moved over hers, sending heat blazing through her. Heat she had never felt with any other man. She tried to tell herself it was only pure lust. But that was a lie. It was so much more. And not just on the physical level.

From deep in her mind a memory surfaced—a memory of terror from her childhood, when she'd awakened in a strange bedroom and had no idea where she was.

She'd cried out, but no one had come. And she'd lain there whimpering.

She whimpered now, and Jordan spoke against her mouth, his hands soothing over her back and down her arms.

She still felt the scorching heat of the physical contact. Now it was overlaid with another level of communication.

"'You were so scared. But it was a long time ago."

"Yes."

What happened?

He didn't speak that part. But she heard the question in her mind, as she had moments earlier.

We had gone to my aunt's. Well, not my real aunt's. She was my stepfather's sister.

You have a stepfather?

Yes. I had never been to his sister's house before. I fell asleep in the car. So I didn't know where I was when I woke up.

He lifted his head and stared down at her. 'They should have stayed with you."

She looked at him, blinked. "We were .. ."

"Yeah. Talking in our heads again."

"How?"

I don't know, he answered, then lowered his mouth once more. This time his lips were gentle, exploring, coaxing— calling forth a response that was no less sexual. Yet at the same time she felt the tender side of him. The side he kept hidden from the world. The side that had begged his father to let him bury his dead dog. But his father had put Digger into a plastic trash bag and left him for the garbage pickup.

She felt that small boy's emotion. Wept for them. As Jordan had wept, alone in his bed at night.

She barely knew this man, but she felt a connection between them that was stronger than she had to any other human being. Parents, friends, lovers.

She had come alive in his arms, every sense sharp and crystal clear.

She drank in the taste of him—new and yet familiar. The unique scent of his body. The pounding of his heart against her breasts. The low, satisfied sound that came from him—no, from both of them.

"I want to feel your weight on top of me," he growled, then eased back, stretching out on the sofa and taking her with him. She kicked off her shoes as she came down on top of him, ending up sprawled with his erection like an exclamation mark against her middle.

He adjusted her position, moving her body along his until that hard shaft nestled in the cleft at the top of her legs.

"Oh!"

His arms came around her, holding her to him, his ragged breathing mingling with hers.

When she moved against him, he stilled her. "Don't." His voice was low and urgent, and she obeyed.

"Why are you doing this?"

"To find out." His hands stroked up and down her back, pressing her breasts against his chest.

To find out what?

How far this goes. His lips teased hers, gently, erotically, as he reached to tangle his fingers in her hair.

As he stroked his fingers through the dark strands, the sense of connection strengthened. And this time she deliberately reached out, diving into his memories—finding the time when he'd saved up to buy a used dirt bike. His father had said it was dangerous and forbade him to ride it.

She felt his sadness. His anger. His resignation. He hadn't defied the old man because he'd been smart enough to know that would only lead to further conflict.

"You had the sense to back down."

"I hated doing it. But I was always pragmatic."

He punished you—for not being the son he wanted.

Yeah. His lips nibbled at hers.

I couldn't do it, either. Be the daughter they wanted, I mean. Lucky for me, my family was different from yours. I guess my mom and my stepfather would have been embarrassed to admit that I disappointed them. So they put up a good front to their friends—and me.

But you couldn't explain that the way you were wasn 't your fault. It was just the way you were made, and you didn't know how to communicate what you felt.

Yes!

His understanding was like a balm. But that was only part of the experience. His hand moved over her back, stroking her through her suit jacket and blouse, increasing her arousal but not the special sense of connection.

"The fabric makes a difference," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"Touching you through your blouse makes us both hot—but it doesn't increase the ..." He grinned.

"The Vulcan mind meld."

"I think you're right," she answered, astonished that they could still hold a coherent conversation when they were both as hot as molten lava.

He clasped the back of her head, bringing her mouth back to his, kissing her with lips and teeth and tongue, making her head swim with desire—and at the same time with an overload of thoughts and memories.

She struggled to blot out the thoughts and enjoy the sensations of arousal.

She knew he was doing the same thing as he reached under her suit jacket and tugged her blouse from the waistband of her skirt so that he could slip his hands under the fabric and press them against her hot flesh.

They both made a greedy sound as his hands stroked over her skin. When he played with the sides of her breasts, she knew she would go up in flames if she didn't move against him.

The motion of her hips didn't quench the fire—it only increased her need.

The layers of clothing separating their lower bodies were intolerable. She wanted to feel his naked flesh pressed to hers. His wonderful erection where it belonged—inside her. Yet she felt another pressure—within her own head—like blood vessels threatening to burst.

The pain was almost as powerful as the arousal. Too much too soon.

No.

Ignoring his protest, she wrenched herself away, out of his arms, off the couch, then reached out to steady herself against the sofa arm as she swayed on unsteady feet, her temples pounding.

They were both gasping for breath as he sat up and ran a shaky hand through his dark hair.

"Christ!" he growled.

"We can't... make love," she managed. "Not yet. Not until we understand this better."

"Does your head feel like it's going to explode?" he asked.

"Yes."

"We'll take it slow."

"Not tonight. I have to go," she said, "before we do something ... impulsive."

"You don't know how much I want to lock you in the bedroom ... so you can't leave."

"Yes, I do know."

"Are you picking up my wicked thoughts?" he asked, managing a suggestive grin.

"No. I want to stay. Badly." She swallowed. "I want to get as close to you as... as two people can get."

"Jesus. Don't say that and walk away."

"I have to. For now. We have to take some time to cool off."

"Are you going to tell me about your friend, Sid?"

"He's worried about his cousin Mark. He's a guard at a secure facility called Maple Creek. Sid hasn't heard from him in over a week. He thinks there could have been a chemical or biological accident."

"Jesus," he said again. "Like that Stephen King novel, The Stand."

Suddenly the air inside the apartment felt thick. "We'd know if anything like that had happened," she argued.

"Would we?" he countered.

"You can't hide an epidemic from the press. Not in this country."

"But you can hide a few deaths."

They stared at each other in silence.

"I'll get back to you if I find out anything." Before she did something she knew was foolish, she scuffed into her shoes. "I'm going down to the lobby to call a cab."

"I can drive you home."

"Not a good idea," she said as she pictured the two of them locked in an embrace in the front seat.

"Yeah," he answered, and she was pretty sure the vivid picture had come from his mind.

He stood, stretched out a hand toward her, then let it fall back, again.

"If you don't call me, you may find me climbing in your window."

"I live on the second floor of a garden apartment."

"Maybe you've turned me into Spider Man."

She answered with a shaky laugh. "Maybe we can work up a mind reading act."

"If we learn to control... whatever it is we've got."

"Why do we have it?" she asked.

"I'd like to know."

She felt herself wavering—aching to try another experiment—more dangerous than the first. Before she could change her mind, she walked out of the apartment and closed the door behind her.

DRESSED NEATLY IN a tweed sports coat, dark slacks, and a button-down shirt, Jim Swift waited in his rental car outside the Wilmington General Hospital parking lot. He'd paid with the credit card of one of his aliases, and he was planning to be out of the vehicle twenty minutes after he left the hospital.

When he saw a woman hurry to the employee entrance, he felt an inward surge of satisfaction.

But his own movements were slow and deliberate as he picked up his carry bag, climbed out of the car, and closed the door. Keeping his head down and away from the security camera on the wall above him, he ambled toward the building like a weary employee who wished he didn't have to go back on shift.

Even if a camera caught him, he wasn't worried about being recognized. Before coming to the hospital, he'd altered his face with his actor's kit.

His nose was more bulbous. His cheeks were fuller. Contact lenses lightened the color of his eyes. His brown hair was hidden by a gray wig. And nearly invisible, thin rubber gloves covered his hands.

Keeping his distance from the woman, he strained his ears and heard the sound of the lock clicking open.

As soon as she had stepped into the building, he picked up his pace. Standing close to the door, he pulled a small computer from his carry bag. Attached to the machine was a rubberized paddle, which he pressed over the keypad.

The paddle sent information from the keypad to the computer, analyzing the recent heat signatures left by the woman's fingers—telling him not only which keys the woman had pressed but in what order.

When he saw a sequence of five numbers appear on the screen, he duplicated them, then heard the lock click again. Seconds later he stepped into a dimly lit hall.

The woman had already disappeared. Probably she was a nurse, heading for the patient care areas of the hospital.

His destination was another location—the office of Dr. Charles Lucas, the man who had performed those tests on Todd Hamilton. The wimp had died of fright—keeled over before Jim could get any useful information out of him.