Authors: Sandra Brown
She sat on the floor of the boat, Johnny’s head cradled in her lap. He was too pale. His skin was too cool. And she was scared to death because he had not yet regained consciousness.
“How bad?” She had to yell to be heard above the roar of the twin outboards.
Doc shot Gabe a grim look over the top of her head before he met Crystal’s eyes. “Bad,” he said, knowing he had to level with her. “He needs blood.”
“Then he’s going to get it.” She quickly rolled up her sleeve as the wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar of the outboards tried to drown out her words.
Doc shook his head. “Crystal—”
“He’s going to get it!” she shouted, cutting Doc off midprotest. “I’m O negative. Universal donor.”
“Darlin’, a direct donor to recipient doesn’t always—”
“I’m not going to let him die!” Tears welled up as she frantically reached for Doc’s kit then shoved it into his hands. “
You
are not going to let him die,” she said, pleading, demanding, bargaining for the life of the man she loved.
After a long, hard look, Doc assembled what he needed to attempt the transfusion.
“No promises.” He inserted the needle into her vein and started the process.
“No promises,” she agreed on a whisper that was swept down river by the wind.
She refused, though, absolutely refused to let her hope be swept away, as well.
* * *
Reed awoke to silence. The kind of silence that magnified every little sound and told him he wasn’t alone. The minute scrape of a chair leg on a tile floor. The rustle of clothes. A soft breath close by. The scent of the woman he loved.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes. Closed them against the sharp glare of a white-on-white ceiling, walls and window shades. A monitor blipped softly away beside his bed.
No. Not
his
bed. A hospital bed, he decided, picking up the scent of antiseptic and flowers as he sifted through his memory banks. Oh, right. He remembered. Just to make certain, he tried to move his shoulder.
Very. Bad. Idea.
Lots of pain. Lots of muzzled, distant pain ached and burned and dug into his flesh like a rusty knife. Hurt like hell…but not as bad as when Gabe had hauled him through the jungle then dumped him into the bottom of the boat.
Safe.
Hot damn.
He’d dodged another bullet—figuratively speaking.
A small, warm hand covered his, squeezed. He let out a deep, contented breath.
He’d know her touch anywhere.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to see his wife’s beautiful face. Her soft green eyes were misted with tears.
“Hey, Tink,” he croaked and smiled for her because she looked so fragile he was afraid she might break.
“Hey,” she whispered back, her own smile tremulous. “You had me worried, cowboy,” she confessed.
“I need your mouth,” he said, suddenly consumed by a deep, demanding need to touch and taste and assure them both that he was alive.
He watched her eyes warm as she stood up on tiptoe then leaned in and kissed him.
Better. So much better.
He lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek. “You remember what you said to me the first time we met?”
“Get lost?” Her grin held as much relief as it did amusement.
“Okay, I think that was the
second
time. The
first
time, you said, ‘I’m getting a little tired of you dogging my tail, cowboy.’��
She smiled, lowered the side rail then climbed carefully into the bed beside him. “And you said something to the tune of, ‘You’re not one of those girl-on-girl types, are you?’”
He lifted his good arm and made room for her to snuggle up close—right where she belonged. “Well, you
did
find me awfully easy to resist. What else was I supposed to think?”
“The fact that I said I didn’t like you?
That
didn’t do it for you? Or that I told you, you were too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”
“And yet—” contented, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head “—I got you where I wanted you, didn’t I?”
She slid her leg across his thighs and careful of his IV, wrapped her arm around his waist. “Yeah. In bed.”
He breathed deep, loving the scent of her and the lush softness of her body pressed against his. “You saved my bacon, Tink.” He swallowed a knot of emotion that suddenly clogged his throat. “Thought I was done for back there.”
“Done?” Her voice was barely a whisper as she snuggled even closer. “Not a chance. I’m so not through with you yet.”
“Even though I’m too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”
“Yeah. Even though,” she said and he could hear the hours of worry slowly leach out of her voice right along with the tension that eased from her body. “Besides, you’ve got my blood in your veins now. I have high hopes it’ll straighten you out.”
He tucked his chin and scowled down at her. “
Your
blood?”
She filled him in on the midriver transfusion that had ultimately saved his life.
He was stunned. And humbled. And…
damn,
he loved this woman.
“Well, I guess that explains why I woke up feeling this driving urge to dye my hair red, get my ears pierced and steal your latest Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
She laughed. “You
always
steal that catalog.”
“True, but I’ve never had a yen to order from it before.”
She levered herself up on an elbow and grinned down at him. “Shut up, Reed,” she whispered softly. “Just…shut up.”
And then she kissed him with all the love any man could hope for.
* * * * *
THE NUMBER OF MAN
J.T. Ellison
Eerie to the max. Hitchcock would have loved the creepy, delusional, manipulative character of Michael. ~SB
It began in a single moment, the briefest of connections. She, in pigtails, a miniature towheaded autocrat, ruling the playground as if it were her kingdom. He, sitting on the swings, the new boy, watching her cross the playground toward him, shoulders squared, prepared for battle. He was an outsider, an unknown, and therefore dangerous, and she needed to determine his loyalties. Only eight, he had been at the receiving end of this conversation several times; his mother wasn’t the most upright woman, had a tendency to follow her latest boyfriend when her previous love discarded her.
Imperious Caitlyn hadn’t stopped walking, just drove her shoulder into his and laughed as he lost his grip on the swing and toppled over backward.
“What’s your name?��
“Michael.”
Caitlyn had looked at him, and he squirmed. He knew he was dirty. It was inside him, and no amount of scrubbing would loosen its hold on his soul.
Her blue eyes pierced him, some ineffable movements behind the lashes as she decided his fate.
At long last, she nodded, curt as a judge.
“Fine. You can stay on the swings. We’re going to play kickball.” She turned, and her minions followed. He swore he heard Caitlyn whisper, “Keep away from me, Michael.”
He tried so very hard to listen.
* * *
Twenty years later, Michael stood in another lot, waiting for Caitlyn to notice him. He’d been waiting for a month, ever since he’d bumped into her accidentally. He, on his way to work. She, leaving hers after a hard day. Their footsteps tapped in time, echoing through the still night, sneakers and stilettos crossing the asphalt. Distracted by his earbuds, he’d nearly missed her. A flicker of a shadow caught his attention, he raised his head—and there she was. Their eyes met across the darkened parking lot, this same, perfect expanse. His breath came short. Panic, fear and love all mingled together in his thoughts. She was still perfect. He was lost again.
He waited for her every night after that, from the shadows, not wanting to frighten her. He was shy, so afraid to approach her. If she could only see him like she did when they were eight: just a scared young boy. She was too famous now, too important. She was always on her guard, would never let another being see inside her soul.
The Pixies screamed in his ears, words of numbers, of man and beast and heavens, and the death of all things, and he sang the chorus in his mind, knowing exactly what the song was telling him. The iPod was set to shuffle, and it was beyond fitting that this song, his anthem, had come on when he hit the power button.
Traffic had been a nightmare tonight, aggravated by the teasing rains. He never thought he’d make it, but he did. Breath catching in his chest, heart pounding from the sudden exercise, he waited in the usual spot. Rain trickled down his forehead, running into his mouth, pooling in the collar of his shirt. He removed the earbuds, listened to the staccato snapping grow closer.
She passed right by him, didn’t see him hovering in the gloom behind her car. He’d found that spot was ideal for watching.
Do it, Michael. Let her see you. Start your life together.
He stood, quietly. He didn’t want to startle her, send her crashing to her car in a panic. She stopped, realizing she wasn’t alone, and he froze. He was still deep in the shadows, unable to be seen, wanting so badly for her to know he was there.
Just talk to her, Michael. Just clear your throat and say hello.
He could see the thoughts run through her mind, could tell when she decided she’d been imagining things. But she covered the rest of the steps to her car quickly and locked the doors of her BMW.
He let her go. She’d be back tomorrow night. He would try again.
* * *
“I’m Caitlyn Kennedy, Channel 9 News. Good night, Huntsville.”
“And you’re smiling, you’re smiling, now look at your notes, and…we’re out.”
Caitlyn Kennedy removed the IFB from her left ear and scratched, pulling on her earlobe, trying to get the underwater sensation to dissipate. Thirty-five minutes plugged into the brain of a disembodied voice was hell on her equilibrium. When her ear finally popped, she set the IFB down on the desk, stood and brushed imaginary lint off her white skirt. The disembodied voice became a series of steps, and a man materialized in front of her. Tom Stryc was their new news director, and she though he was great.
“Hey, Caitie, good job tonight! You’re gonna land the weekday anchor job if you’re not careful.”
“Thank you.” She dimpled a smile at him, and he patted her arm before scooting off to his office.
Tom was breathing life into the station, shaking things up, encouraging the anchors and reporters to stretch themselves, to inject a modicum of personality into their live shots and extended reports. It was Huntsville, after all. The focus was on NASA and anything space related. The rest of their stories relied on crime and human interest, typical hometown news.
The weekend crew bustled about, finishing their tasks. Caitlyn looked around, as content as she could be. Her station, her jumping-off point. This is where she’d make her mark. This was her very own launchpad.
“Caitlyn, phone!”
A tech was standing by the anchor desk, where they actually had a working phone for call-ins. He held the receiver, only mildly annoyed at being interrupted from his shutdown duties. Caitlyn smiled at him, took the phone and set it against her good ear.
“Yes?”
“Caitlyn Kennedy?”
The voice was male, deep, raspy.
“Who is this?” she asked.
The man chuckled. “I’m your biggest fan. I just wanted to let you know that I like the nude toenail polish better. That red is too garish for your coloring.”
And he was gone. Caitlyn looked at the receiver, as if she could see the caller on the other end. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She glanced down, looking at her feet. She had on red toenail polish. She thought back, yes, that was it. She’d gotten a pedicure last night, after she got off work.
Great. She’d better tell Tom there was a whack job out there. But first, she went to her tiny cubbyhole office to see what was on deck for tomorrow’s broadcast.
* * *
Twenty years, five months and thirteen days after Michael and Caitie met, they had their first date. It took Michael hours to get up the courage to call, to let Caitlyn know he was in town again, that he wanted to see her. He made a lovely dinner—roast pork tenderloin with a mango chutney, asparagus with a lemon butter reduction and garlic mashed potatoes. He was new to the wine scene, but with some help he’d chosen a Shiraz from Western Australia. The table was set with his grandmother’s china, a lovely bone with etched fleur-de-lis. He’d found them at a pawnshop in Austin, Texas. He’d remembered that etched fleur-de-lis and a small, gray woman who’d say, “This plate is fit for a king,” on those rare special occasions when they used the fine dishes. Before. Before his father died. Before his mother became a trollop. Before the acrid scent of vodka permeated his world.
Now the dishes were used to serve a queen.
When the table was set, the candles lit, the wine poured into brilliantly clear globes of crystal, the food served, steaming and succulent, they focused on reconnecting. It was as Michael always dreamed. Caitlyn faced him, back straight, legs demurely crossed at the ankle under the table, a starched white linen napkin laid gently across her lap. Her manners were perfection, graceful and composed. She was a dream woman, in every respect. She told him about her day at work, the long hours, her dreams and aspirations.
She confided in him. He could hardly believe his luck.
She left shortly after dinner that night. He plied her with a brandy and she decided she was getting a bit tipsy. Michael was charmed. Reluctantly, he saw her to the door, sad to see her go, but invigorated by the realization that he was well and truly in love.
* * *
“Caitlyn, phone.”
Caitlyn gritted her teeth. Every bloody night. Every time she anchored, he called. It had been nearly a month now. She was rarely alone in the studio; someone always walked her to her car. The police had been brought in four times, but they couldn’t seem to figure it out. Every time she changed her polish, he knew, and the studio phone would ring.
It was beyond an invasion of privacy. She was scared to death.