by Mindy Neff
“You better spend an obscene amount of money tonight,” she muttered.
ADAM DID SPEND an obscene amount of money. His checkbook ought to be smoldering by now. But what the hell, he couldn’t take it with him. Where his life was headed, money had no purpose.
He saw Molly across the room. She’d been keeping her distance. She obviously figured the farther apart they were, the less likely he was to hear her thoughts.
He could have told her it didn’t do any good. The connection was too strong. His feelings too deep. None of the blocking techniques he’d learned in the hospital worked.
It was sweet, horrible torture.
It was also torture to watch Molly. Her shoulders were bare, her skin creamy and smooth, unmarred by freckles that most redheads had.
She had a habit of touching and of giving each person she talked to her full attention, young or old. There was nothing phony about Molly. She was pure and good and sweet, with a fiery, determined streak that he both admired and lamented.
He saw her hips and shoulders sway to the gentle rhythm of the music playing. Her innate sensuality was something he doubted she even realized she possessed.
But Adam realized it, and he had a hell of a time not responding to it. She made him want to just pick her up and run with her, to some place private, intimate, a place where the world couldn’t intrude, where faulty government experiments didn’t exist and where no one mourned and life was guaranteed to last forever.
But there wasn’t such a place. His own life wasn’t worth a plug nickel—a fact that had been reinforced just yesterday morning.
The damned mice are dropping off right and left. Their bodies simply wearing out at an alarming rate under the constant surge of adrenaline.
As his would.
Malcolm had cautioned against stress, against heightened emotions. With the way Adam felt about Molly, that piece of advice was worthless.
He’d thought he’d grown used to the inevitability of death, talked himself into believing he was comfortably numb, that he had enough willpower to just look but never touch, never allow himself to dream.
Then Molly Kincade had yanked him right back into her life and out of his stupor, bringing his emotions alive in a way that hurt like hell.
He told himself to stay across the room from her, yet his feet moved of their own will, carrying him to her side as the group of people she’d been talking to wandered away.
“Looks like you’re doing some pretty good networking,” he said.
She turned and smiled, her hips still swaying ever so slightly to the music. “I think the evening’s been a success. A lot of money is flowing.” The perfect arch of her eyebrow rose. “I got a peek at your contribution. You’ve been very, generous, Adam.”
He shrugged. “It’s just money. And as you keep telling me, the kids are worth it.”
“Oh, come on and admit it. You feel darned good about helping.”
“Okay, maybe I do.”
“See there, that wasn’t so hard.” Her grin was like a brilliant sunrise. “There are some great people here, Adam. Instead of standing in the corner scowling, you ought to be mixing. There’s even a couple of Hollywood directors here. Any aspirations to be in movies?”
“None.” Even though Frank Branigan had teased that he’d had a hand in remaking this face, that it now resembled the face of one of those pretty-boy soap stars.
Molly glanced away, scanning the dance floor. He didn’t have to check out her thoughts to know that she was itching to join the lively group. It was obvious.
“Do you want to dance?” Hell, he shouldn’t have asked that, knew it would be dangerous to hold her in his arms.
Her head whipped back to his. “Uh, it’s getting kind of late….” A dimple peeked out of her cheek when she grinned. “Actually I’d love to.”
“I’m a little rusty, but I could probably manage to keep up.” The song had a fairly fast tempo. He wouldn’t touch her, he told himself, following her across the room to the square of floor where elegantly dressed couples were either stepping in time to the beat solo or paired up doing several versions of the swing.
Molly’s enthusiasm preceded her. Her hips were already driving him crazy from the enticing rear view she presented. She almost skipped the last few steps, then turned toward him, moving in perfect time to the beat.
He loved her verve, her lack of self-consciousness, her ability to jump into any situation and turn it into a memorable experience.
“You do a lot better than just keeping up. Do you swing?” she shouted over the volume of the music.
He could have said no, saved himself the agony of touching her, of increasing his yearning for something he couldn’t allow himself to have.
Instead, he grabbed her hand and swung her into an outside double turn.
She followed his lead as if they’d been dance partners for years, laughing, enjoying, making him hard and hot and in danger of losing control.
The exertion pumped his blood and fired his senses, scaring the hell out of him. God Almighty, he could crush the bones in her tiny hand if he wasn’t careful. This was a mistake. A big mistake.
She seemed to read his discomfort, and that floored him. He was the one with the freaky mind-reading abilities.
“You look tired,” she said, slowing her pace and smoothing her hands over the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. “Are you okay?” She reached up and traced a finger across the scar at his eyebrow, then the one at his chin. It was hell to stand there and let her do it.
Her gentle touch and compassion did nothing to cool his ardor or the surge of emotions that teetered on the edge of madness, threatening his control. With Herculean will, he managed to corral the fight-or-flight impulses.
The female singer compounded his discomfort by segueing into a slow ballad, a song of inspiration and strength and love, of two people so suited to one another their love could transcend the bonds of time into eternity.
He heard Molly’s thoughts, felt her respond to the bittersweet words of the song.
He knew where her thoughts had gone, and the strength of her feelings for the man he used to be humbled him.
Knowing he should step back and doing it were two different things. Before he even realized it, she was nestled in his arms, her hands clasped gently at his neck, her cinnamon eyes gazing directly into his. So easy. So right. Yet so very wrong.
He felt the heat from her body, smelled the hint of vanilla that clung to her skin, agonized over the way the fronts of their bodies brushed, tantalized.
Her moist, slightly parted lips were more temptation than any man should be asked to withstand. And so was the gentle, heartbreaking yearning in her almond-shaped eyes. With a death sentence hanging over his head, would it be so wrong to taste her just once more? Could he take just that much, or that little and walk away? Could he continue the masquerade?
He wasn’t sure.
But it was no longer up to him. He had to taste her, needed it more than he needed breath in his lungs. He forgot all about the other dancers on the floor, the public setting. Every molecule in his body was focused on Molly. His Molly.
Molly saw his eyes shift to her mouth and trembled in anticipation, wondering, wanting when she knew she shouldn’t. It didn’t seem to matter that there were a couple hundred people in the room. Her world suddenly narrowed to just the two of them, to a longing that was bigger than either of them.
His dark head lowered. Their lips touched.
And just that simply, her entire system jolted, went on alert, eased into the familiar, the achingly sweet familiarity of his kiss, a kiss she’d experienced before, thought she’d never feel again.
She felt Adam’s body jerk the instant her thought registered, felt her own breath become trapped in her lungs. Her throat ached and her eyes stung. Oh… my…God!
Stunned, she drew back, her body a frozen mass of confusion.
“Jason?” she whispered.
Chapter Six
&nbs
p; Adam jerked back as if he’d been jolted by a cattle prod. His emotions were all over the place. Pain, swift and acute, rushed through him like scalding lava, speeding his heart, distorting his senses, sucking away his breath. He was afraid to touch her, afraid not to, afraid the adrenaline surging through his veins would overpower his will, prevent him from tempering this unexplainable strength, cause him to harm her.
Hadn’t he already done enough to hurt her?
She looked shell-shocked, like a former POW grappling with the debilitating effects of a torturous flashback.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell her the truth.
“You’re confusing me with somebody else, princess.”
“No.” Softly. “No.” More strongly this time. “You felt it, too. You read my mind and you reacted.”
“Of course I reacted. What man wants a beautiful woman fantasizing about somebody else while he’s kissing her?”
She winced as if he’d struck her. People were starting to stare. This wasn’t the time or the place. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he prompted.
She followed him without argument. In silence she gathered her purse and her wrap and stood, her shoulder touching his, as they waited for the valet to retrieve the Porsche.
The silence in the car wasn’t a peaceful one. Adam was forced to listen to her confusion, her memories, her thoughts—sorting, discarding, hypothesizing, jumping from one possible explanation to the next. He couldn’t keep up, couldn’t give her the answers or explanations she so desperately wanted.
He couldn’t offer her a future.
He wasn’t normal.
She deserved children and a man she could share a normal life with, a man she could grow old with.
His altered state prevented him from being any part of that fairy tale, reinforcing his silence.
Like a powder keg on the verge of exploding, he could see Molly’s emotions were equally explosive. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t stand that he was the cause…that his selfishness had inflicted an even deeper wound.
He counted streetlights, trees, license plates, tried every trick he knew to block her thoughts. For once he held on to the disgusting surge that fired his body. If he let go, the weakness would invade. He didn’t want Molly to witness that. She was torn up enough already.
When he pulled up in front of her apartment complex, he left the engine running. He needed out. Now. Needed distance. Didn’t know how much more of her hurt and her hope he could stand.
She didn’t make a move to get out, so Adam opened his door and came around the hood, easing the passenger door open. He didn’t dare give her his hand to help her out.
She stood slowly, searching his eyes, his hair, her trembling fingertips reaching out, brushing the tips of the studs that fastened his tuxedo shirt.
It took every ounce of strength he possessed to step back.
“I wasn’t thinking about somebody else,” she whispered. “It was you.”
He shook his head and broke his own vow, lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek, her trembling lips, hating that he had to lie.
“No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Molly. I wish I was him, but I’m not.”
Her gaze clung to his, begging him to take back the words, begging him to be her dream.
“You better go inside before I forget you’re still hung up on some other guy and take what those cinnamon eyes are offering.”
She still stood there, staring, making his heart bleed.
“Go, Molly.”
At last she nodded and turned. He watched until she closed and locked the sliding glass door.
Sweat trickled from his hairline, running in rivulets down his temples. He let out a breath, felt the shift, the nausea, felt the jaws of weakness battering at him, snapping, waiting to trap him.
If he had any sense, a shred of backbone, he’d get in this Porsche and just drive…never look back.
Because looking back, wanting, had put them both in a very bad place.
MOLLY STUMBLED into the bedroom, her eyes dry, her throat aching. She picked up the framed picture of Jason, touched her finger to the glass that protected his beloved image, traced the craggy features that were more rugged than handsome. There were no scars marring Jason’s brow or chin, no dimple. This man had smiled freely, as he did in the photo.
Her heart cried out as she stared at the photo of the man she still longed for with every fiber of her being. A man with whom she’d shared a love so deep and so open she’d never had to worry where she stood with him.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her with that perpetual spark of amusement in his eyes, as if he were mentally shaking his head at her words, her actions.
That same spark she’d seen in Adam Walsh’s eyes.
“Jason,” she whispered. “I don’t understand. Where have you been? It’s you, isn’t it? Why? I’ve got to know!” She closed her eyes, hugged the picture to her breasts.
What had happened to him? Why the new face? The telepathy? The snatches of strength she’d seen that he’d tried to deny?
It was like something out of “The Twilight Zone.” But how could she be wrong about a kiss that felt so right?
“He called me half pint,” she said aloud even though there was no one to hear her anguish, her hope. “He knew right where I lived. He reacted when I thought about Jason.”
What man wants a beautiful woman fantasizing about somebody else while he’s kissing her?
She placed the picture back on the nightstand, touched the wedding-ring quilt that still bore the stain of coffee—a spill from a breakfast in bed that had turned playful, then oh, so sensual.
She reached for the light switch, plunging the room into deep shadows, needing the cloak of darkness…to remember, to sort through the similarities, to pick up the fragile thread of a dream she’d never believed she’d dream again, never believed she’d physically hold in her hands again.
And she was certain she’d held that dream in her arms tonight. He called himself Adam Walsh now, and he had the face of a stranger. But a heart didn’t lie.
And neither did Adam’s kiss.
MONDAY MORNING Molly had a hard time resisting the urge to search the office and hallways for Adam. All weekend she’d vacillated between uncertainty and the cold, biting shock of rage. How could a man she’d thought she’d known so well let her believe he was dead? She’d told herself he had his reasons. Good reasons.
And she’d told herself she wasn’t losing her mind.
She rubbed her tired eyes and focused her attention on the students, waiting for the classroom to settle down.
Her brows snapped down. “Eddie, where did you get that projection machine?”
“Chill out, Miss Kincade. I just borrowed it. Word of honor, I’ll take it back.”
His grin was so darned cute Molly just shook her head.
“And the camera?” she asked. “I suppose you borrowed that, too?”
“Hey, you want me to do the homework assignment, don’t you?”
“I’m almost afraid to answer that.”
He grinned again. “I’m figuring you’re gonna give me extra credit points. I wrote a paper and did this.” He pointed to the projector. “Somebody want to kill the lights?”
Serita hopped up to do his bidding.
Images flashed on the darkened chalkboard: a group of girls smoking out in the quad; Jorge Cruz sleeping at his desk; cops busting a kid outside the school gates; a toilet blown off the wall in the boys’ bathroom.
She’d told the students to do an assignment on what was wrong with the school. Eddie had gone one better and given them a pictorial record.
The last photo that flashed on the chalkboard sucked the breath right out of Molly’s lungs.
Adam. Obviously in the boys’ bathroom. Hands on hips, lips cocked ever so slightly, light brown eyes filled with a hint of amusement that still couldn’t quite overshadow the loneliness. A loner, so like the majority of these kids in her class.
Where had he been? What had he seen? Who did he miss so desperately to put that loneliness in his eyes?
Me, she thought, her heart thudding deep in her chest, wings of confusion and elation taking flight in her stomach.
Unconsciously she reached up, placed her fingers against her lips…and replayed the files of her mind, both recent and distant.
Adam’s kiss. So vivid. So uniquely memorable—a kiss that had burned in her memory for an agonizingly long year.
“Miss Kincade?”
Molly blinked. The students were alternately staring at her and at the principal, who stood in the doorway, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.
“My office,” Larry Reese said. “Right after class.” With those terse words, he disappeared.
“Ooh,” several students chorused. “Miss Kincade’s been sent to the principal’s office.”
What in the world? Molly wondered. Larry Reese rarely came out of his office—rarely was even in his office, for that matter. The bulk of his job usually fell on Jody Nance’s shoulders.
She looked at Eddie. He met her eyes for a second, then glanced away, his shoulders hunched, as if he expected—and was resigned—to being let down.
Molly would have none of it. She marched over to him just as the bell rang and snagged him by the jacket before he could dash out the door.
“I said no reprisals, Eddie, and I meant it.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t think. I don’t want you to take the rap for me or nothing.”
“There won’t be any rap to take. I’ll see to it. And Eddie?” She gave his neck a friendly squeeze. “You did a great job with the presentation. You’ve just earned an A in my class. Now I expect you to work hard to keep that A.“
SHE REACHED the principal’s office the same time Adam did. Everything within her stilled at the sight of him. He was casually dressed in sweatshirt and jeans.
She searched his stance, his features, looking for signs of the familiar, looking for that lost chapter of her life she longed to find again.
His expression gave nothing away. It was as if the kiss had never happened, as if they were just two acquaintances, faculty members who’d only met a week ago. She felt like hitting him, knocking him right out of his complacency, his evasions.
