“No, sir,” Jules agreed. “You don’t. You do, however, need a friend.”
Max snorted his disgust. “We’re not friends, Cassidy.”
Jules pulled up to the garage’s automated machine, and he reached out through his window to punch the button and take a ticket as Max continued, “And if you really think I want your company—”
“I think you want Gina,” Jules said quietly. “And I think everyone else in the world is going to fall way short.”
Max wasn’t done. He gave Jules his most terrifyingly disdainful stare. “You must really want that promotion.”
Ouch.
“You know I do,” Jules answered, as the gate opened and he pulled through, leaning forward to peer through the still wet windshield, searching for the sign to long-term parking. There it was. Dead ahead. He kept his eyes on it, because Max’s scary face was known to make underlings crap their pants, and the overnight bag Jules kept in his car trunk contained only clean shirts and one neatly rolled pair of jeans.
He could feel Max’s melt-solid-rock stare as he passed a sign saying “Lot Full,” and went up a ramp to the next level.
“Although, you know, I think manhandling and shouting at Peggy Ryan already did the trick,” Jules told his boss. “Impressed the shit out of her, don’t you think? I’m in. Big time. This paying out of pocket for a last-minute airline ticket to Hamburg—this is just insurance. Because I figured, you know, that you probably wouldn’t want sexual favors.”
Max made that almost-laughter sound again, but Jules couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad sign. “I should fire you.”
“You could go that way,” Jules agreed. “But you know, Peggy would probably walk out, too. In solidarity, because she just likes me so much. And I’m still going to Hamburg with you, fired or not, so really what good does it do you?”
Jules found what might well have been the very last parking spot in the entire garage. It was about as far as possible from the walkway to the terminal. Still, as he pulled in he said a prayer of thanks to the patron saint of parking garages, along with his knighted brother—the hero who’d invented luggage with wheels.
Max had gone back to being silent. But now he gave it one last try as Jules took the key out of the ignition. “We’re not friends.”
Jules braced himself and met Max’s extremely evil eye. “You may not think of me as a friend,” he said, “but I think of you as one. You’ve always treated me with kindness and respect so I’m going to return the favor, whether you like it or not. I’m not going to pretend to know what you must be feeling right now, but Gina was my friend, too, and I do know how badly I’m hurting. So, go ahead, sweetie. Have at me. Be as rude to me as you need to be. Or you don’t even have to talk to me—I won’t take it personally. I’ll just sit next to you on the flight. I’ll handle all the arrangements. I’ll take care of the details about where we need to go and what we need to do, so you won’t have to. And whether you like it or not, I’m going with you to that morgue. Because no one should ever have to do something like that alone, especially when a friend who loves them is standing by.”
Max didn’t say a word for a very, very long time. He just sat there, trying to incinerate Jules with his eyes. “I should just kill you and stuff you into the trunk,” he said, when he finally spoke.
Shit. Jules worked hard not to react. He just nodded, and even managed to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, I guess you could certainly try . . .”
Max just sat there, glaring. But then he shook his head. He got out of the car and started the trek toward the terminal, not bothering to wait for Jules.
Who grabbed his raincoat and his bag and followed.
SHEFFIELD PHYSICAL REHAB CENTER, MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
NOVEMBER 11, 2003
NINETEEN MONTHS AGO
“Don’t,” Max said, closing his eyes to keep Gina from taking another picture with her new digital camera, recording for posterity just how much of a wimp he was—dressed in his jammies and tucked in his bed here at the Sheffield Physical Rehab Center at four in the afternoon, ready for a nap.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“It was fine,” he lied. In truth, the session had hurt. Like hell. He’d been discouraged, too, by how weak he was, how quickly he’d tired. How exhausted it had made him.
Gina crossed to the desk that was built into the wall beside his bed, and carefully put down her camera. She’d gotten the damn thing for her trip to Kenya. Max hoped the fact that she’d taken it out of the box and was learning how to use it didn’t mean she’d rescheduled her flight.
Kenya. God.
He’d been trying to talk her into embracing the excitement and adventure of law school. He had an in at NYU. Gina would be accepted there, based on Max’s recommendation, in a heartbeat.
“Kevin said he thought you were in some serious pain but that you just wouldn’t quit,” she told him as she nudged his legs over and sat down on the bed. “He was very impressed.”
Kevin was one of those touchy-feely physical therapists who had his cheerleading pompoms ready to wave for even the most insignificant events. Old Mrs. Klinger, recovering from a stroke, had lifted the index finger on her right hand a whole half an inch! Rah-rah-rah! Ajay Moseley held a pencil and wrote a note to his grandmother for the first time since the car accident! Whoo-hoo! Forget about the fact that the kid would never walk again. Forget about the fact that he’d suffered so much damage to his skinny little body that he needed a new kidney, that he was on dialysis just to stay alive.
Max gazed impassively at Gina. “If you already asked Kevin how it went, why bother asking me?”
“Because I love it when you do that stoic he-man thing,” she said, leaning toward him, her mouth now dangerously close to his, her hand burning his thigh. “It makes me really hot.”
She was kidding. It was supposed to be funny. A joke. He knew that, but his mouth went dry anyway.
He found himself gazing into her eyes at a very close proximity.
And wanting her. Badly. Yup, Doctor Yao was right. He was definitely starting to feel far more like his old self again.
He had to use every ounce of self-control that he owned to keep himself from reaching for her.
Every ounce.
The good news was that she was as rattled as he was by the sudden, nearly palpable sexual energy that surrounded them.
She turned away. Stood up, moving to look out of the window.
Rattled and vulnerable.
They hadn’t so much as kissed since that night before he’d been shot, that night that he’d . . . that they’d . . .
Correction—Gina had kissed him frequently, back in the hospital, both in Florida and after he’d been moved up to D.C. But they were all “see you later” kisses. Nothing like the way they’d kissed that night.
Not that they’d had the opportunity to soul-kiss while he was hooked up to all those tubes and machines. Not with the high volume of traffic in and out of his hospital room, day and night.
Now, as he watched, she leaned her head against the windowpane. His room here—a single—was small, but the view of the surrounding countryside was nice. Nicer than that grungy back-alley dumpster that he could see from the bedroom window in his D.C. apartment.
“My brother called. Victor. Just out of the blue.” Gina glanced over her shoulder at Max. “He’s flying in this evening. He’s never been to Washington—he missed his seventh-grade class trip. Strep throat.”
“Make sure you take him to the World War Two Memorial,” Max said, glad that she’d changed the subject. He’d half expected her to go the other way. Confront. Ask, Were you thinking about kissing me just then, because I had the sense that you really wanted to.
And then what was he supposed to say? Honey, not a moment of the day goes by that I don’t think about kissing you . . . Yeah, that would help.
“It’s on the list,” Gina said, finally turning to face him, sitting on the windowsill, her skirt blowing in the b
reeze from the air conditioner’s fan. She had to hold it down. “We’ve got a whole day of sightseeing lined up. Vietnam Wall, Holocaust Museum, Korean War, Lincoln Memorial . . .” She ticked them off on her fingers. “But I’m pretty sure the real reason he’s coming is to check up on me. I think my entire family’s a little freaked. You know, because I’m staying with Jules.”
Imagine how freaked they would have been if Max had opted for outpatient therapy, if he’d moved back into his apartment instead of coming to live here. If he’d done that, Gina would have come along to make sure he had everything he needed, and ten minutes after they were alone together, they would have been back in bed. Ten minutes after that, she would’ve been unpacking her suitcase, hanging her clothes in his closet.
Because the truth was, Max had enough will power to keep his distance from her for only a very short time. If she’d persisted and tried to turn her “stoic men make me hot” thing into more than just a joke, he would have been cooked. He had zero resistance to her. He prayed she’d never figure that out. If she did . . .
Although, okay. This place wasn’t as public as the hospital, but he still had people knocking on his door at random times of the day. She wasn’t going to jump him here. She just wasn’t.
Which was the second reason he’d chosen inpatient physical rehab.
And so, instead of moving in with Max, Gina had gone to stay with Jules Cassidy. The younger agent’s condo was relatively close to this facility. Besides, there was no way Max would’ve ever agreed to let Gina stay in his place by herself. His neighborhood wasn’t safe. Not for a young woman living alone.
He’d been burgled twice in the past ten months.
Not that he had anything worth stealing.
“I don’t think they really believe that Jules is gay,” Gina continued now, coming back toward him. “Or maybe they’re afraid I’m so irresistible, I’ll turn him straight.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Vic isn’t exactly Mr. Politically Correct—I don’t even think he knows anyone who’s gay. Jules and I have a bet going—I give Vic twelve hours, tops, before he makes up some excuse and runs back home. Jules thinks he’ll stay longer.” She stopped at the end of his bed. “The nurse said you just had a massage, but you don’t look very relaxed.”
Man, she was beautiful. There was a Van Morrison song, “Brown-Eyed Girl.” It played in Max’s head whenever Gina smiled at him the way she was smiling now.
“You know what you need?” she asked. He braced himself because he knew that the words about to come out of her mouth could be damn near anything.
“I need a lot of things,” he said evenly. “World peace. A nonviolent society. The extinction of religious fanaticism—”
“A happy ending. You should have asked for one,” Gina cut him off, mischief and laughter in her eyes.
For about a half a second he didn’t get it. And then he did. And he laughed, too. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s on the massage menu here. Besides, the masseur—big guy, name of Pete?—not my type.”
“I’m your type,” she pointed out, and he stopped laughing.
Oh, hell.
And okay. Yeah. Max had had his share of healthy sexual fantasies, starting when he was around ten years old and saw Ann-Margret for the first time, when Viva Las Vegas played on channel eleven’s Million Dollar Movie. Then, as now, his fantasy usually involved a well-endowed, unbelievably gorgeous young woman locking the door to the—fill in the blank. Office, classroom, bathroom, conference room, bedroom—and approaching him with a knowing smile, as she stripped down to her unbelievably sexy underwear.
“Hey,” he said as Gina’s skirt hit the floor, but he sounded decidedly less than enthusiastic in his attempt to make her stop. “This isn’t—”
“Shhh,” she admonished, finger to her lips. “Don’t talk.”
Gina, apparently, still shopped at Victoria’s Secret. Today, as it turned out, she was wearing an extremely attractive sheer black bra and panties that were remarkably miniscule and . . . Thong. Yes. God. The late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window made her belly-button ring sparkle and her bare skin glow.
She had such beautiful skin. Max knew for a fact just how soft she would feel beneath his hands, his mouth . . .
“Gina,” he said, but it came out sounding like a sigh.
She smiled as she joined him on the bed, on her knees this time, and she leaned toward him again. This time, however, she didn’t stop.
This time, she kissed him.
First on the mouth, as she worked the bed controls, lowering him down into more of a prone position, as all that skin slid beneath his fingers.
“Gina,” he tried again, but she silenced him with another deep, searingly sweet kiss.
As she kept on kissing him, she pulled back the blankets, unfastened his pajamas, and then . . . She kissed him yet again.
Hoh yeah.
This was where—since his mouth was now free—he was supposed to tell her to stop, to put her clothes back on. They were friends.
Remember how they’d had that discussion—all two sentences of it—while he was in the hospital? He’d said, “I don’t want to mislead you. What happened between us that night—” and she’d cut him off, saying, “I’m here as a friend.”
But his “friend” was now . . .
Oh, man.
“Gina,” he managed again, but couldn’t quite find the air needed to tell her that he loved her dearly, he truly did, but this wasn’t the kind of relationship he wanted from her.
Liar. In truth he wanted her to live beneath his desk, so she could do exactly what she was doing, six, seven times a day and . . . Gohhhd . . .
Her underwear joined her other clothes on the floor. She’d covered him with a condom that she’d conjured out of nowhere and she straddled him now, the most beautiful, vibrant, magnificent, courageous, smart, funny, exciting woman he’d ever known—naked and gasping with pleasure because he was inside of her.
It was an unbelievable turn on.
She moved slowly on top of him, her eyes closed, face upturned, hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and Max felt himself start to sweat as he tried to hang on, as he watched her, memorized her, burning an indelible picture of this moment, this woman, into his brain. This woman that he lusted after with every cell in his body, with every single breath he took . . .
Her mouth, slightly open, lips soft and moist. Her throat, so elegantly, gracefully long. Her eyelashes dark against the smoothness of her cheeks. Her breasts so full, her body taut with desire, smooth and soft and welcoming. And his.
All his.
He came with a rush that caught him off-guard, ripping through him with an intensity and power that made him shout nonsense.
Yes.
Yes?
Yes, what? Yes, he was coming. Yes, it felt unbelievably great.
No fucking kidding.
He felt her release, too, and he opened his eyes and made himself focus as his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. He wanted to watch her, wanted to take the most from this stupidly bad mistake that he possibly could.
It was a mistake he couldn’t let happen again.
After she finished, she didn’t collapse against him, still considerately careful of the new scars on his chest, of the tenderness from his barely healed collarbone. She just sat atop him, arms wrapped around herself, clasping him tightly with her thighs, eyes still closed, face still upturned, as she struggled to regain her breath.
With the sunlight streaming in behind her, she looked like some pagan celebrant at worship.
And then she opened her eyes and looked down at him, frowning slightly. “Is that Spy Museum exhibit still open? I bet Vic would really like to go there.”
What?
“No, I think it closed,” she answered herself. “It was only a limited run exhibition. Right?”
“I don’t, um . . .” Max shook his head. “Remember.” One part of him was amazed that they were just continuing their co
nversation about her brother’s visit, as if they hadn’t just had sex, as if he wasn’t still inside of her. Another part of him—the part that always waited with amused excitement to see just what she’d say or do next, was already starting to get turned on again.
Naked women did that to him, and Gina was one of those women who managed to be naked with a capital N.
She was unbelievably beautiful.
“You mind if I use your laptop to Google it?” she asked.
As long as you don’t put on your clothes first. Max clenched his teeth over the words. Lighthearted banter would turn what they’d just done from a crazy mistake into the beginning of a real relationship.
Happy ending, his ass. Gina wasn’t looking for an end to anything.
And he opened his mouth to tell her that he couldn’t do this, that he wasn’t ready yet—that he might never be ready for what she wanted, when someone knocked loudly on his door.
“Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again.
“Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom.
“Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?”
Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door.
“It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release.
“Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.”
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