by Gayle Wilson
He pushed the mute button on the remote, and the anchorman who had been reporting the next story became only a handsome, mouthing face. Jared leaned back, resting his head against the top of the sofa and letting his eyes focus on the ceiling.
The images that floated through his mind had nothing to do with the plaster that stretched above him. Those pictures were private. And painful. Which is why he didn’t often take them out and examine them. Especially not the more recent ones.
The last time he and Robin had made love had been right here in this apartment. It had been a long time since they had seen each other, and the desire that had always flared between them had caused an explosion that night. There was no other word for what had happened.
Neither of them had attempted to make explanations. They had simply come together with a hunger that defied convention or wisdom. Or any of the reasons that had pushed them apart.
She hadn’t said again that she didn’t intend to be around when he got blown up. His job hadn’t been mentioned. Or their broken engagement. Or her father’s or Jeff Matthews’ death. It hadn’t been a night for talking.
It had been, instead, a night for making love. All through the long dark hours. A night of letting their bodies say once more all the things they had each vowed they would never again say aloud. And it had been an acknowledgment that nothing had changed about the way either of them felt. That was so obvious it, too, had been left unspoken.
There had been no need for any words. Everything had already been said. All the ultimatums issued. And denied. Their terms rejected.
Those ultimatums had not been repeated that night. And when Jared woke up the following morning, Robin had been gone. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her since. Until now. Until tonight. When her image had moved across his television set.
And all the memories had moved through his heart. Jared put his fists against his forehead, pressing them against his skin as if he could push those images out. Destroy them. But he couldn’t, of course. He had discovered that agonizing truth a long time ago.
Eventually, he turned off the lamp so that the only light in the room was the glow of the TV. He sat in the noiseless darkness, watching the figures come and go across it. Once he reached for the telephone, but stopped his hand, leaving it hovering in midair over the receiver for long seconds before he brought it back to lie limply in his lap.
This was no time to go off half-cocked. He needed to have prepared in his mind exactly what he was going to say before he confronted her. Of course, a lot of what was said would be up to Robin. Dependent on how she reacted to seeing him again. More of it than he wanted to admit.
Nearly four months ago she had come to him, and they had said nothing. Now it was his turn to go to her. Perhaps even his turn to admit that she had been right about some of the things she had said all along.
Maybe right, he hedged. Just...maybe.
Chapter Two
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death...”
The deep voice of Reverend Larry Avamore, who was standing at the other end of the block, cut through the cold air like one of those swords he was always preaching about. At least the media hadn’t shown up this morning, despite the presence of the colorful minister.
Robin knew now that Whitt had arranged that impromptu briefing she had had to give last night. A little more spin on the Nam thing, he had said over breakfast. Courtesy of Robin, who was the one who had gotten ambushed.
She should probably resent that Emory hadn’t warned her, but he was right about the need to take every opportunity to get their side of the story out. None of the other potential candidates had done a lot with the incident from McCord’s past. Not yet, at any rate. They were watching the polls, just as the McCord camp was, to see how it played with the public.
As the cab pulled up, the doorman began to lead the way across the crimson carpet. When Robin started to follow, however, the catcalls from the crowds moving along the sidewalk on either side of the hotel’s entrance became a chorus. Obviously, someone had recognized her, either from last night or from one of her other appearances on her uncle’s behalf.
“Stay here until I get the door open,” the doorman ordered.
“You tell McCord it isn’t going to work,” a protester yelled. “We’re ready for him. We’re not going to let him take this country down that path to war and destruction again. We’ve been there once, and we damn well aren’t going back!”
The man who had issued that warning was standing behind one of the hotel employees who were trying to keep the mob away from the hotel entrance. Dressed in faded battle fatigues, the protester was leaning forward, body straining around the bellhop’s spread-eagled arms. Above a ragged gray beard, his face was flushed, from the cold or emotion.
“We know what he’s got planned,” he shouted at her. “You tell the senator we’re ready to stop his drummed-up Armageddon.”
The doorman was frantically gesturing her forward, the sweeping movements of his arm finally catching her eye. He had the door open, and all she had to do was cross the space between them and slip into the safe isolation of the taxi. She had taken two or three steps toward the street when the protesters surged in from both sides, crowding what had been open space and separating her from the inviting safety of the cab.
She didn’t know what had set off that tidal wave of movement until she spotted the news network’s camera, which was pointed at the hotel entrance, apparently prepared to film her departure. By the time she noticed the cameraman, however, she was surrounded by what seemed to be an incoherently howling mob. Whatever messages they had been determined to get on his tape were almost certainly lost in the resulting uproar. This was exactly the kind of mindless melee that could get someone hurt, Robin realized, as people continued to crowd around her. If anyone fell in the midst of this stampede—
Just as that thought formed, a hand in the small of her back propelled her sharply toward the street. She staggered, one of her heels catching on the sidewalk. She regained her balance by grabbing on to the nearest shoulder, which was covered by a fatigue jacket.
The bearded man, she realized when he jerked around in response. The one who had been shouting at her. Suddenly he was again, face contorted, spittle flying from his mouth. With all the noise, she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Something about McCord and Armageddon. It was obvious by his expression that none of the words were pleasant.
Robin tried to retreat toward the hotel, but a forest of placards and shouting faces surrounded her, Avamore’s voice booming above the throng, still quoting from Revelation. In response either to the growing noise or to the presence of the press, more and more people from what had been orderly picket lines along the block rushed toward the entrance to the hotel. Apparently they felt some of the others were succeeding in getting their placards before the camera, and they weren’t going to be left out
Again Robin was pushed from behind. She didn’t stumble, but was thrown against one of the people wearing first-century robes and sandals. The man slammed his elbow back into her midsection, pushing her away from him. When he turned, his features reflected surprise and then recognition.
One of Avamore’s robed followers, she realized. His face changed, even as she watched, into a mask of hatred. Robin put up her hands, attempting to ward off a blow if it came. And for the first time, she really began to be afraid.
The people crowding around her, who had once seemed like harmless kooks, had suddenly become something else. Something dangerous. A mindless, seething throng who had lost all sense of their own, or anyone else’s, humanity.
When the man she had bumped into disappeared into the ebb and flow of the crowd, she lowered her arms, crossing them protectively over her stomach. The baby was well cushioned from outside shocks, she reminded herself. Too small to be damaged by that elbow, which hadn’t even knocked the breath out of her.
She knew all that logically, but somehow, lo
st as she was in the swirl of close-packed, screaming bodies, logic didn’t help. If this turned into a stampede... Or if she stumbled again...
All the possible horrors of how this situation could progress were clamoring in her head, screaming at her to get away. A flood of adrenaline rushed into her bloodstream, its primitive force demanding that she get out of here. More importantly, that she get her baby out of here. Suddenly frantic to do just that, she began to push her way past the people that blocked her path.
Something of her panic must have communicated itself. She thrust her arm and then her shoulder between two protesters, putting her weight behind them. She succeeded in squeezing into the narrow space, but then the throng seemed to swell forward, crushing her. Her frenzy made it hard to breathe. It felt as if these screaming people were sucking the oxygen out of her lungs. She was breathing in shallow gasps, almost panting, trying to pull in the humid coldness of the December air.
Then suddenly, due to another lemminglike movement of the crowd, a break appeared right in front of her. An opening. A miraculous parting of the sea of bodies. Through it she could see the lobby. And the glass doors. She tried pushing her way forward again, one hand cupped protectively over the small, unborn life she carried. The other arm, elbow bent, palm turned outward, she held in front of her face.
The threat, when it came, however, was from behind. Someone grabbed her upper arm, fingers digging painfully into the flesh, despite the layers of winter clothing she wore. Their hold was strong enough to stop her forward progress, although she struggled, twisting and turning, to pull free.
She glanced over her shoulder, but couldn’t find the rest of whoever was connected to that hand. She turned to pry at the hard fingers, losing sight of her goal, the glass doors and safety.
The bearded man, she realized, his face materializing between two End of the Worlders behind her. His lips were almost snarling, but whatever venom he had been spewing before was silenced. His hand, however, was inexorably pulling her back into the heart of the maelstrom she had almost managed to escape.
It was a battle of sheer strength, and she was losing. The throng seemed more violent than it had been only seconds before. The level of noise had increased exponentially. Even Avamore’s shouting had been lost in the tumult. No one would be able to hear her if she screamed for help.
She made one last frenzied attempt to jerk her arm out of the man’s grasp, and incredibly, she succeeded. She stumbled forward, bumping into someone else just as one of the waving placards descended. The thick stick it had been stapled to struck nearby, the sound of wood hitting flesh and bone very close. And terrifying.
She ducked, her forehead buried against the chest of the man she had been thrown into by the surge of the crowd. A broad shoulder was raised between her head and the direction from which the sign had come plummeting down. With one arm wrapped around her waist, the man lifted, pulling her almost off her feet, and half carried, half led her through the mob. He pushed forward with power and determination, strong-arming people out of his way.
It was only now, her head still pressed into the muscles of his chest, that she became aware of the sirens. And of police whistles. And of his heart thundering just beneath her ear, beating almost as rapidly as hers.
In seconds they were out of the tumult. He pushed her against the wall of the hotel and put his body over hers, shielding her from the mob. His arms were stretched above their heads, palms flattened against the stone facade of the building. She couldn’t see anything but his jacket. Something hit the wall nearby, and she burrowed more closely into his sheltering body.
It smelled of damp wool. Of the cold, snow-touched air. And of an evocative hint of aftershave or cologne. Vaguely comforting. Masculine and familiar. Familiar, she realized, her mind beginning to work past the panic. The fragrance was comforting because it was familiar.
She raised her head, able to see little more than a dark, smoothly shaved cheek and jawline that were as familiar as the cologne. A trickle of blood ran down his face, right beside his ear.
Blood? From something one of the protesters had thrown? Or because he had stepped between her and that descending sign? Had his been the flesh that wooden pole had struck?
She turned her face against the rough fabric of his jacket and closed her eyes in gratitude. She had no idea how Jared had found her. And right now she didn’t really care.
He had put his body between hers and the madness that had erupted so unexpectedly. Protecting her. And protecting their baby. A baby he didn’t even know about.
For some reason the thought brought tears that seeped out between her tightly closed lids. She felt the heat of one track over the iciness of her cheek. She sniffed, her breath sucking inward in tiny, nearly soundless inhalations.
As close as they were, however, Jared must have felt the movement. He leaned back, away from her upper body. Unable to resist, despite the revealing tears, she lifted her face to look up into his. The rough-hewn features were hard, set like stone with the force of his anger. And with his fear.
Not for himself. Jared Donovan was the most fearless person she had ever known. That was the problem. That was exactly what had driven her away from the arms that were holding her now.
“You’re all right,” he said comfortingly.
Throat tight, she nodded, her chin brushing his jacket.
“They’ve about got it under control,” he said.
He had made that assessment by the sounds coming from behind him, she supposed. He certainly hadn’t looked over his shoulder to visually judge how the cops were doing. He hadn’t looked anywhere but at her face. Holding her eyes. Holding her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.
Because she was crying. That was a rare occurrence, and he knew it. Robin thought she had probably cried out her lifetime store of tears after her father had been killed.
Then, when she had gone to live with Uncle Jim, she had realized that he didn’t like to see her cry. He always wanted his girls to be happy. Her and Levi.
“No,” she whispered, but despite her denial another tear traced downward. “I’m not hurt,” she said. “You are.”
He probably hadn’t even felt the blow that had opened that gash on his temple. Adrenaline pumping, he wouldn’t have been aware of the pain or of the blood running down his cheek.
He removed one hand from the wall behind her and touched the cut, wincing involuntarily when he did. He glanced at the smear of blood on his fingers, dismissed it as unimportant and put his palm back against the stones above her head.
There was a little more space between them now. As the sounds of resistance began to fade, Jared relaxed the tension against her body. Only his hips were still pressed tightly against hers. At the same moment that she became aware of the intimacy of their position, which was as familiar as his scent, she became aware of his arousal. And then of his reaction to it. He eased his hips from hers, covering the intent of that movement by half turning to look back at the protesters. Her eyes followed his.
He was right, she realized. It was almost over. The riot squad had driven everyone away from the front of the hotel, although there were placards and trash scattered over the carpet that the staff laid out every morning to welcome hotel guests.
“Why in the world would they send you?” she asked.
Jared was a member of the city’s bomb disposal squad. They shouldn’t have been called out for something like this. He turned his head, looking down on her from the advantage of the five-inch difference in their heights. His mouth tightened, the movement small enough that if she hadn’t known him so well, she might have missed it.
“They didn’t,” he said simply. “I came to see you.”
She could read nothing in his eyes. Nothing beyond what had been there all along. Caution. A little fear. But there was still that telltale tension around his lips. Her eyes focused on them again, remembering how they felt moving against hers. Wanting them there. Espec
ially now.
“What about?” she asked. Stupid question, she supposed, but her first thought had been the baby. Wondering if somehow...
That was ridiculous, of course. No one knew. And although Jared might know her better than anyone else on earth, he couldn’t read her mind. Especially not long distance.
“About us,” he said.
Her heart began to race, almost as it had in the midst of the danger. About us. She wondered if that meant he had changed his mind. If he were finally willing to give up his job. To stop putting his life on the line every time some madman wanted to make a point by blowing something up. Finally ready to stop saving lives and concentrate on making one.
They had already done that, she realized, although the baby they had created together wasn’t really what she had meant by the unthinking phrase. She had meant what she had told him before. They could have no life together as long as when Jared walked out the front door, she could never be certain he would walk back in.
Other wives did it, he had argued. Her mother had, she remembered. And after her mother died, Robin had, too. And every time she got to that point, she could go no further. There was no other argument to be made. Because one day her father hadn’t come home. And no matter what anyone else was able to do, Robin knew she couldn’t go through that kind of loss again.
Jared had just said he wanted to talk “about us.” The fact that he had come to talk to her again must mean something new had been added to the equation. They had been over the old often enough that surely he wouldn’t have sought her out if that was all he wanted to talk about. And they needed to talk, she admitted. Especially now.
“I have a room,” she said. “In the hotel.”
His eyes held on hers, and she could almost see the memories moving behind them. Or maybe she only thought she could because they were all moving inside her head. Finally he broke the spell by looking over his shoulder again, gauging the activity in front of the hotel. Or perhaps he was gathering control. Jared was good at that—at being in control. He always had been.
