Standoff (23 page)

But it wasn't very flattering that he ascribed their attraction solely to trauma, or that he could mitigate carnal desire with such a pragmatic, scientific explanation.

What if they'd met at a cocktail party last night? There

would have been no sparks, no heat, and they wouldn't be in bed together now. Essentially that's what he was saying.

If this meant nothing more to him than illustrating a psychological phenomenon, there was no sense in prolonging the inevitable goodbye.

Congratulations, Doc. You're my first—and probably last one-night stand. One-morning stand.

She moved to get up, but he used her motion to pull her fully atop him, so that they were belly to belly and her legs were lying between his.

"In spite of the danger to us—to everyone inside the store—I had periodic and incredibly vivid fantasies of this."

She found enough voice to say, "Of this?"

His hands smoothed down her back, over her ass, and as far as they could reach along the backs of her thighs.

"Of you."

He levered up his shoulders in order to kiss her. At first the kiss was slow and methodical, his tongue leisurely stroking her mouth while his hands continued sliding up and down her back from shoulders to thighs.

She felt like purring. In fact she did. When he felt the vibration of it, the kiss intensified. His hands covered her bottom and held her tightly against his erection. Provocatively, she rocked against it. He hissed a swear word, making it sound erotic. He slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and separated them.

Then he was inside her again, a full, heavy, desired pressure.

Filling more than her body. Filling an unacknowledged need she'd had for a very long time. Giving her more than immense pleasure. Giving her a sense of fulfillment and purpose that even her finest work had failed to provide.

They moved in perfect rhythm. She couldn't get as

deeply into him as she wanted, and he must have felt the same. Because when he came, he held her possessively in place, his fingers making deep impressions in her flesh.

She burrowed her face in the hollow beneath his shoulder and pinched the flesh there between her teeth.

It was a long, slow, sweet climax. The aftermath was as long, slow, and sweet.

Tiel was so totally relaxed, replete, that it felt as though she had melted and become a part of him. She couldn't distinguish her skin from his. She didn't want to. She didn't even move when he pulled the sheet and blanket up over them. She fell asleep there, with him still sheathed in her softness, her ear resting on his heart.

"Tiel?"

"Hmm?"

"It's your alarm."

She muttered grumpily and pushed her hands deeper into the warmth of his armpits.

"You've got to get up. The chopper's coming back for you, remember?"

She did. But she didn't want to. She wanted to stay exactly where she was for at least the next ten years. It would take her that long to catch up on the sleep she had lost last night. It would take her that long to get enough of

Doc.

"Come on. Up." He gave her fanny an affectionate smack. "Make yourself presentable before Sheriff Montez gets here."

Groaning, she rolled off him. Around a huge yawn, she asked, "How'd you know our arrangements?"

"He told me. That's how I knew where to find you." She gave him a misty look and he said, "Yes, he knew I wanted to know. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yes."

"He and I are buddies. Play poker occasionally. He knows my story, why I moved out here, but he's good at keeping confidences."

"Even from the FBI."

"He asked if he could take my statement, and Galloway agreed. He had his hands full." He threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Mind if I use the bathroom first? I'll be quick."

"Be my guest."

In the process of bending down to pick up his boxers, he caught her with her hands far above her head, back arched, stretching lazily. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her breasts. He fondled the raised tip. "Maybe I don't want you to get in that chopper."

"Ask me not to and maybe I won't."

"You would."

"I have to," she said ruefully.

Sighing, he withdrew his hands. "Yeah." He got up and went into the bathroom.

"Maybe," Tiel whispered to herself, "I could convince you to come with me."

She removed a bra and panties set from her suitcase, put them on, and was just about to step into a pair of slacks when she sensed Doc watching her.

She turned, ready with a suggestive smile and a saucy remark about peeping Toms. But his expression didn't invite either. In fact, he was practically bristling with rage.

Mystified, her lips parted to ask what the matter was when he held out his hand. Lying in his palm was the audio tape recorder. It had been in the pocket of her slacks, which she'd left along with her other dirty clothes in a pile on the commode lid. He'd moved them, found the recorder.

Her expression must have been a dead giveaway of her guilt because with a vicious punch of his thumb, he depressed the Play button and his voice cut across the silence. "For instance, the hospital buckled beneath the weight of bad publicity. Bad publicity generated and nurtured by people like you."

In a like manner, he stopped the tape and threw the recorder down onto the bed. "Take it." Looking scornfully at the tangled bed linens, he added, "You earned it."

"Doc, listen. I—"

"You got what you were after. A good story." Pushing her aside, he picked up his jeans and angrily thrust his legs into them.

"Will you stop with the righteous indignation and listen?"

He flung his hand toward the incriminating recorder.

"I've heard enough. Did you get everything? All the juicy details of my personal life? I'm surprised you've tarried this long. I'd've thought you'd jog back to Dallas if necessary just so you could start assembling all the good material you've got on me."

He buttoned the fly of his jeans and yanked his shirt off the floor. "Oh, no, wait. You wanted to get fucked first.

After Joe what's-his-name turned out to be a dud, your ego needed reinforcing."

The insult smarted and she reacted to it by striking back. "Who came to whose room? I didn't track you down.

You came here, remember?"

He cursed when he couldn't find but one sock. He shoved his foot into his boot without it.

"Nor is it my fault that you're a good story," she shouted.

"I don't want to be a story. I never did."

"Too bad, Doc. You are. You simply are. Once notori

ous, you're now a hero. You saved lives last night. Do you think that'll go unnoticed? Those kids and their parents are going to talk about 'Doc.' So are the other hostages.

Any reporter worth his paycheck is going to be clamoring for the lowdown. Even your friend Montez won't be able to shield you from the publicity. You would've made news no matter what. But since 'Doc' is the reclusive Dr.

Bradley Stanwick, you're big news. Huge news."

He gestured toward the recorder again. "But you've got them all beat, don't you? Is there another recorder under the bed? Were you hoping to get titillating pillow talk?"

"Go to hell."

"I wouldn't put anything past you."

"I was doing my job."

"And here I thought I was speaking confidentially. But you're going to use it, aren't you? The stuff I thought I was confiding to you?"

"You're damn right I am!"

His jaw flexed with rage. He glared at her for several seconds, then marched toward the door. Tiel barged after him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him around. "It could be the best thing that ever happened to you."

He yanked his arm free of her grasp. "I fail to see that."

"It could force you to face up to the fact that you were wrong to run away. Last… last night," she said, stuttering in her haste to make her point before he stormed out.

"You told Ronnie that he couldn't run away from his problems.

That running from them was no solution. But isn't that exactly what you did?

"You moved out here and buried your head in this West

Texas sand, refusing to accept what you know to be true.

That you're a gifted healer. That you could make a difference.

That you were making a difference. For patients and

families facing a death sentence, you were granting reprieves.

God knows what you could do in the future.

"But because of your pride, and anger, and disillusionment with your colleagues, you abandoned it. You threw out the baby with the bathwater. If this story draws you back into the limelight, if there's a chance it will motivate you to return to your practice, then I'll be damned before

I'll apologize for it."

He turned his back on her and opened the door.

"Doc?" she cried.

But all he said was, "Your ride is here."

CHAPTER 17

Tiel's cubicle in the newsroom was a disaster area. It usually was, but more so now than usual. She had received hundreds of notes, cards, and letters from colleagues and viewers, complimenting her excellent coverage of the

Davison-Dendy story and commending her for the heroic role she'd played in it. Many were yet to be opened. They had been piled into wobbly, uneven stacks.

There weren't enough surfaces to accommodate the number of floral arrangements delivered over the past week, so she had distributed them to offices and conference areas throughout the building.

Vern and Gladys had sent her a mail-order cheesecake that would have fed five thousand. The newsroom staff had gorged themselves, and there was still more than half left.

As anticipated, she had been the center of attention, and not only on a local level. She had been interviewed by reporters from global news operations, including CNN

and Bloomberg. Because of the compelling human ele

ment, the love story, the emergency birth of the baby, and the dramatic denouement, the story had piqued the interest of TV audiences all over the world.

She'd been asked by a local car dealership to do their commercials, an offer she declined. National women's magazines were proposing feature articles on everything from her secrets of success to the decor of her house. She was the undeclared Woman of the Week.

And she had never been more miserable.

She was making a futile stab at clearing off her desk when Gully joined her. "Hey, kid."

"I took the rest of the cheesecake to the cafeteria and left it there on a first come, first served basis."

"I got the last piece."

"Your arteries will never forgive me."

"Have I told you what a great job you did?"

"It's always nice to hear."

"Great job."

"Thanks. But it's left me drained. I'm tired."

"You look it. In fact you look like hammered shit." She tossed him a dirty glance over her shoulder. "Just calling it like I see it."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that some things are better left unsaid?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"I told you, Gully, I'm—"

"You're not just tired. I know tired, and this isn't tired.

You should be lit up like a Christmas tree. You're not your normal, hyperactive, supercharged self. Is it Linda

Harper? Are you sulking because she got the jump on you and stole some of your thunder?"

"No." She methodically ripped open another envelope and read the congratulatory note inside. I love your reports

on the TV. You're my roll [sic] model. I want to be just like you when I grow up. I like your hair too.

Gully said, "I can't believe you didn't recognize the Doc of standoff fame as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."

"Hmm."

Gully continued, undaunted in spite of her seeming disinterest. "Let me put it another way. I don't believe you didn't recognize him as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."

The change in Gully's tone of voice was unmistakable, and there was no way to avoid addressing it. She laid down the note from the girl who identified herself as Kimberly, a fifth-grader, and slowly swiveled her chair around to face

Gully.

He looked down at her for a long moment. Her eyes never wavered. Neither said anything.

Finally, he dragged his hand down his face, the sagging skin stretching like a rubber Halloween mask. "I suppose you had your reasons for protecting his identity."

"He asked me not to."

"Oh." He slapped his forehead with his palm. "Of course! What's wrong with me? The subject of the story said, `I don't want to be on TV,' so, naturally, you omitted an important element of the story."

"It didn't cost your news operation anything, Gully."

Her mood testy, she stood up and began tossing personal items into her bag in preparation of leaving. "Linda got it.

So what are you complaining about?"

"Was I complaining? Did you hear me complaining?"

"It sounded like complaining."

"I'm just curious as to why my ace reporter wimped out on me."

"I didn't—"

"You wimped! Big-time. I want to know why."

She spun around to confront him. "Because it got…"

She stopped shouting, drew herself up, took a deep breath, and ended on a much softer note. "Complicated."

"Complicated."

"Complicated." She reached around him for her suit jacket, lifted it off the wall hook, and pulled it on, avoiding his incisive eyes. "It's sort of like Deep Throat."

"It's nothing like Deep Throat, who was a source.

Bradley Stanwick was an active player. Subject matter. Fair game."

"That's a distinction we should debate sometime. Some other time. When I'm not about to leave for vacation."

"So you're still going?" He fell into step behind her as she left the cubicle and began wending her way through the newsroom toward the rear of the building.

"I need the time away more than ever. You approved my request for days off."

"I know," he said querulously. "But I've had second thoughts. You know what I was thinking? I was thinking that you should produce a pilot Nine Live show. This cancer-doctor-cum-cowboy would be a dynamite first guest. Get him to talk about the investigation into his wife's death. What's his viewpoint on euthanasia? Did he euthanize her?"