Her mind lurched back to that kiss on the hospital floor, and the tender, comforting feel of it.

It had been the kind of kiss that soothed away her fears, acknowledged her anxieties and offered her a place to rest and refuel her tired soul.

This was not that kind of kiss. It was raw and lusty. It sent shock waves of pleasure down her spine and into her shoes, waves so intense she didn’t dare open her eyes. It sent a web of tingles across the surface of her skin, a hundred fiery darts of excitement and sensation. It was the kind of kiss where the sun could have dropped out of the sky and she wouldn’t have noticed.

With one arm around her waist, he slipped the other under her legs and carried her over to the couch. He fell onto it with her on top of him. She swung her legs across his and straddled him, while he cradled her head with one hand.

She looked down at him before he pulled her forward and kissed her again, even harder. Even longer.

Dear Reader,

Thanks for picking up Intimate Exposure. I hope you enjoy it—I especially hope you got a kick out of Shani and Elliot’s getaway to romantic Martinique. You might know I’m West Indian—I live in sunny Trinidad, in the southern Caribbean. Like most West Indians, I like to show off my islands every chance I get, so you’ll often see me squeezing in a reference whenever I get the opportunity. I’m especially happy when the plot allows my characters to travel, because then I can play hostess and show you around some of my favorite places.

Even if you can’t hop on a plane and come visit for yourself, you can pass by my website, www.scribble-scribble. com. There’s always a breath of fresh Caribbean air waiting there for you.

I’d love it if you dropped me a line and let me know what you think about my books. You can reach me at roslyn@scribble-scribble.com. While you’re at it, feel free to friend me on Facebook, MySpace or Shelfari. I also have an author page on www.Harlequin.com and www.Amazon.com.

If you prefer good old snail mail, you can reach me at: Roslyn Carrington (or Simona Taylor, either one will reach me), P.O. Bag #528, Maloney Post Office, Maloney, Trinidad and Tobago.

Till then, as we say in Trinidad, hold it down.

Simona

Intimate

EXPOSURE

SIMONA TAYLOR

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated to my father, Trevor Carrington, who died by accident while I was working on this novel. I think it’s significant that a primary theme of Intimate Exposure is fatherhood, and the many ways in which the relationship between fathers and their children shape their lives. My father was prouder than anyone when I became a writer, and that meant a lot to me.

Daddy, I miss you terribly every day.

Chapter 1

It was all Yvan’s fault. Yvan the Terrible, Shani called him. The world’s only half Irish, half Russian, all chauvinist soul food caterer. Yvan thought his waitresses looked better in low-cut French maid uniforms, except that instead of severe black fabric under their white lace aprons, they wore dresses made of kente cloth. He insisted it made them look “more ethnic.” Which was bad enough, except that even if you let the hems down (which Shani had) the skirts were all of ten inches long.

Yvan said it would bring them more tips. He was probably right, and Lord knew Shani needed them. But the scant piece of fabric that barely covered her well-shaped butt also brought more male attention—and that was the very last thing she needed right now.

So if there was anyone to blame for her current situation, it was Yvan. Backed up against a kitchen counter, clutching a silver tray loaded with Louisiana crab cakes, trying to squeeze past the inebriated owner of the sumptuous house in which she was working tonight, all she could think was: there’s really got to be a better way to make ends meet.

She’d been working for Yvan for almost a year, so she was used to handling octopus-armed partygoers, but putting an overfamiliar man back in his place with a swiftly delivered slap would be an express ticket to the breadline. Yvan was ruthless if he felt his staff weren’t playing by his many rules. Matter of fact, if you survived more than eighteen months on his payroll, you deserved a medal.

So her best course of action was diplomacy. “I really ought to …” she began.

“Don’t worry, honey. There’re four more lovely ladies working the party. My guests are being well fed and watered. Don’t they sound happy?”

They did, indeed. It was a quarter of twelve, and the party had been going on since seven. It had started out as a sedate business affair, with some of the city’s better-known corporate raiders, city officials and politicians politely nibbling at their butterflied shrimp in Creole sauce and cocktail-size yam balls on toothpicks. But after a few hours, with expensive liquor flowing, most of these upright citizens were well on their way to being plastered. Past the man’s shoulder, the crowd swayed, hands in the air, booties swinging to the hip-hop beat.

But that was no excuse. She was paid to do a job. She filled her lungs with sweet, smoky air, calmed herself and insisted, “Mr. Bookman, I have to get back to work.”

“Stack.”

“Excuse me?”

“Stack. My first name’s Elliot, but you can call me Stack.” His teeth were white against skin that was the color of warm sand, and his black eyes mirrored his seductive smile.

“I’d prefer not to—”

“Relax,” he cajoled. “Yvan works you girls too hard.” He held up the wineglass that had been his opening gambit in the current conversational impasse. “Come on, try it. Italian wines are very good—some of the best.”

“You don’t say.” She tried to hide her irritation. Just who did he think she was? Some little dimwit who couldn’t recognize a good wine? She’d have him know she was a grown woman, a married woman—technically—who’d had her share of good red wines. But in the interest of keeping her job, she bit back the retort and instead trotted out the standard response. “Sorry, but we aren’t allowed to drink on the job.”

His response was loaded with suggestion: “I’m sure there’re lots of things you aren’t allowed to do on the job.” He waved the glass of red liquid under her nose. The bouquet of the wine rivaled the scent of stronger alcohol on his breath. “But I’m not gonna tell anyone if you don’t.”

His mouth was intimately close to her ear. She could see his lips move as though he was speaking in slow motion. “I like ‘em dark, you know,” Stack confided. “Beautiful girls, dark as berries.” He moistened his lips. “Black men in my position, they go for white women, you know? Or light-skinned girls. Because they can afford it, understand?”

Shani’s jaw became unhinged, but Stack went on.

“But not me, I still love you dark-skinned sisters. Sweet and round in all the right places. Know what I’m saying?”

Did this man actually think that was a compliment? Enough was enough, Shani decided. She got a tighter grip on her plate of crab cakes and pushed aside the glass of wine, which he was still holding up before her like bait. “Mr. Bookman, if you’ll excuse me …”

Before she could make it past the kitchen door, he grasped her wrist and spun her around. “Wait just one damn second here!”

Pop, pop, pop. Something blew in her head. A fuse, a gasket, whatever was holding her back. Crack went the tray of crab cakes as they impacted with Bookman’s face. Squish went the tamarind sauce as she dumped the silver bowl down the front of his shirt. And thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk went the cakes as they rained down on the slate tiles.

At least, she thought she heard those sounds, although it was possible they were only in her irate imagination, given the volume of the music and Bookman’s bellow of fury. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

The white apron constricting her breasts heaved, half a beat ahead of the thudding bass of the music. “Don’t you ever—”

“You’re finished, lady.” Bookman reached past her and grabbed a dish towel off the marble-topped kitchen island and tried to sop up the sticky brown sauce trickling down his chest. “I’m going to tell Yvan just what I think of the way he manages his staff.”

Shani was beyond caring. She could feel her hand coming up, rising on its own, drawing back and preparing to deliver the much-deserved slap that had been tingling in her palm since Bookman’s first off-color remark.

His response was snake-swift. He caught her by the wrist, holding her fast in spite of the sticky sauce. Shani yelped as his short nails raked furrows into her skin. “Let me go!”

“What’s that?”

“You heard me. I said let me—” “Couldn’t hear you, girl. Too busy listening for an apology.”

She was supposed to apologize to him? She twisted, spinning around so his arm was bent at an awkward angle, and leaned her weight into it. “Let go of my hand—” Stack winced, but his nails cut deeper. “Don’t think so.”

They were entangled like a snake and a mongoose. Shani could feel the effort in her arms and back, but she wasn’t letting up. If he wouldn’t release her, she’d make sure he’d have a sprained wrist to remind him of his mistake. She put more pressure on, the effort showing in her gritted teeth.

Stack hissed a curse. The balance of power shifted. He was male and had all the advantages that came with it: greater height and strength, backed up by pure ill will. Instead of breaking their hold, he pushed back, and it was her turn to curse. Then she found something better to do with her mouth.

Her teeth closed over the base of his thumb, sank in and held fast. She tasted tamarind sauce and pure, blind rage. Stack bellowed, and the nails digging into her skin let up. He called her a name he shouldn’t have.

She would have opened her mouth to answer if she wasn’t enjoying her revenge, hanging on like a pit bull with PMS. Then something weird happened. There was another hand in her line of vision, and it wasn’t her tormentor’s. It closed around the expensive watch on Stack’s wrist and wrenched the two of them apart.

Shani staggered back, confused. There’d been two of them in the kitchen, and now.

“What’s the matter, Stack? Things so bad with you these days you have to wrassle your heifers to the ground before you can climb on?”

“What?” The crudeness of the comment was like a smack across the face. Shani reeled in disbelief toward the man who’d spat it out. He was an inch or two taller than Stack, but anger made it seem like more. His body was taut, as if poised for a brawl, unkempt hair bristling with electricity and outrage. He ignored her shocked explosion, fixing his black eyes on Stack, who was angrily rubbing the half-moon wounds on his hand and glaring from her to the interloper and back.

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I walk in the kitchen and see you near-raping the hired help, that becomes my business.”

Hired help? Where’d he get off.? “Look,” she began.

Both men ignored her. “Fine time for you to turn up, too. The invitation said seven.”

The man shrugged. “I had a few things to do.”

“I also recall the invitation said formal.”

The man looked down at himself as if only now noticing what he was wearing: a casual, open-necked shirt and dark, relaxed-fit jeans. His smile was dry and mocking. “Hard to straddle a Triumph in a tux.”

Stack snorted. “If you had a lick of respect, you’d have come in your car, rather than on that thing.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Realizing he was losing the battle, Stack turned sourly to Shani. He held up his bitten hand meaningfully. “I wonder what Yvan will say when I let him know his waitress has been chewing on something, and it ain’t the hors d’oeuvres.” His handsome face glittered with malice.

That was enough to sober Shani up immediately, her pleasure at her small victory evaporating like spilled booze. Getting back at this pig was one thing, but her job was another. It wasn’t as though she had only herself to maintain. There was Bee to think of. She grimaced and swallowed her pride. “Mr. Bookman, please …” But Stack was already turning away.

She was left with the handsome intruder, as alone as it was possible to be, given the proximity of the liquor-fueled crowd in the next room. His sharp black eyes were slowly going her over as if looking for injury. “You okay?”

“Great.” As okay as it was possible to be with her job hanging in the balance. If Bookman ratted her out, there wasn’t much she could do. It would be better if, at the very least, Yvan found her working. She smoothed her hair, dropped to her knees and began picking the ruined crab cakes up off the floor.

To her surprise, the tall, lithe man squatted next to her and began to help. “Pity,” he murmured as he let a few tumble onto the tray. “These look delicious. You cook them?”

Too weary for conversation, she answered shortly, “I’m a waitress, not a cook.” She couldn’t help adding, “For now.”

“Sorry about the job,” he sympathized. “But I saw what went down. If Stack’s vindictive enough to squeal on you, and I can assure you he is, I can vouch for you.”

Tempting, but pride made her a fool. This member of the “hired help” didn’t need a stranger’s intervention. “I didn’t need you rescuing me then, and I don’t need it now.”

His face was level with hers, and for the first time it truly registered how handsome he was, in a careless, I-get-up-looking-like-this-in-the-morning kind of way. Skin like sand, eyes dark as eternity. Long nose, full lips and pointed chin.

He was saying something. “Rescue you? What, when you had your teeth sunk into his hand like a squirrel with the mother of all walnuts?” He smiled, and in the darkness of his eyes the moon came out from behind the clouds. “I wasn’t rescuing you, I was rescuing Stack!”

It figured. Men knew how to stick together. “He deserved it,” she pointed out.

“I bet he did,” he said, and then, as if explaining the hazards of crossing the road to a toddler, he added, “Maybe next time you’ll be more careful about who you flirt with.”

You could have tossed a beanbag into her gaping mouth from across the room, and won a teddy bear. “Who I flirt with?”

The man went purposefully on. “He’s an eyeful, I’ll give you that, and a charmer. But I think you just learned how fast he can turn on you.”

She shot to her feet and dumped the crab cakes into the garbage, trying to bring her indignation under control. It didn’t work. When she rounded on him, he was standing right behind her. “You think I was flirting with him?“

The heat of her outrage could have singed the unruly lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead. “I assumed …”

“I don’t want to know what you assumed …” She stopped. She really needed to get back to work. She bit off her tirade and cut around him, heading for the doorway.

He kept pace, apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Stack has a way with the ladies …”

“What, manhandling them into submission?”

“He’s very charming when he’s sober. Give him five minutes, and he can turn any woman into Jell-O.”

“Any woman but me,” she snapped.

He gave her another long, slow look and said softly, “Looks like you’re different.”

“Different from what? The kind of woman who’d fall for a glass of wine and an invitation to slow dance in the kitchen? I should hope so.” She squinted at him suspiciously. “You seem to know that pig well enough, by the way.”

She couldn’t tell whether the smile he gave her was rueful or mocking. “I should. That pig’s my father.”

Chapter 2

Low blow, Elliot thought as the look of horror spread across the woman’s dark, pretty face. She began to babble, “Oh, I … I … I had no idea.” The irritation she’d shown since he’d put his foot in his mouth with that remark about flirting dissipated.

She didn’t deserve such discomfort, so he hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’ve called him worse—and so have a few dozen women, I bet.” To put an end to the issue, he held out his hand. “I’m Elliot Bookman Jr.”

She looked at his hand as if she thought he’d palmed a joy buzzer, but she shook it anyway. Her hand was warm and smooth, the hand of a woman who took care of herself. He liked that. He had to remind himself to release it within the time limit set by good manners, rather than indulge for just a few more seconds in its warm softness.

“Shani Matthieu.” She was frowning, half embarrassed, half anxious to get out of there. “Mr. Bookman—”

“Elliot,” he cut across with the standard joke. “My father’s Mr.—”

“I need to get back to work.” She brushed away a floppy lock of dark brown hair, pushing it up and over her ear in a gesture that made her seem girlish. Those hands again.

She rushed through the doorway—and careened into a shadow that had sidled in without either of them noticing.

The man was about Elliot’s height, but long-limbed and thin. He was so pale as to be almost transparent, save for the ferociously glowing freckles. His eyes were the color of brackish Florida swamp water, the kind that hid lurking gators. A black tuxedo draped over his thin frame made him look like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. The kente-cloth cummerbund looped around his waist immediately identified him as the aforementioned Yvan.

“Shani!” His voice was a Yoda-like rasp. “What’s this about you biting my client? And hitting him with a tray?”

She hit Stack with a tray? Elliot regretted having missed that part. Then he noticed his father standing behind him, glowering, and decided the situation was too grim—for Shani at least—to merit a chuckle.

Shani drew in her lip, her beautifully shaped teeth working at the full, wine-tinted flesh. For a second he thought she mightn’t answer, but she squared herself and said resolutely. “He was getting fresh with me.”

“How fresh does a guy got to get for you to bite him? “

“Fresh enough. He put his hand on me and I asked him to stop …”

“That’s a lie!” Stack swayed a little, and Elliot knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. “The crazy chick bit me for no reason!”

“Why would I bite you for no reason?”

Another waitress arrived on the scene and hesitated before snatching up a tray of tidbits and scurrying off as if afraid Yvan’s anger would spill over in her direction.

Fat chance. Yvan was totally focused on his current victim. “Little lady, jobs are hard to come by, especially with bosses as patient as me.”

Elliot was surprised Shani didn’t snort.

“This is your only warning. I want you to apologize to Mr. Bookman.”

“What?”

Yvan confirmed his demand with an insistent nod. “You apologize, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll still have a job by the end of the night.”

The tortured look on Shani’s face was too much for Elliot. He could practically hear the scales shifting back and forth as she tried to determine which was worth more: her job or her pride? Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue appeared. The gesture was jarringly erotic, which was an odd response to have, given that the situation was so serious. She inhaled, looked about to speak and stopped again. Facing her, Yvan frowned like an old schoolmaster about to administer a whippin'. Behind him, Stack looked victorious.

She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Mr. Bookman.” she began.

This was wrong. Elliot stepped forward, shielding her from the ire of her employer and his father’s unfounded self-righteousness. “The lady has nothing to apologize for. I saw what happened. My father was getting out of line, and she defended herself.”

Shani gave a small squeak. “I told you I don’t need help!”

“I know, but right is right. You don’t need to apologize.” He speared his father with a look. “Does she, Stack?”

Stack shifted, looking guilty. “Well, maybe I misunderstood …”

“She’ll apologize because I tell her to,” Yvan ground out. “Shani …” He pointed at Stack as if he was showing a naughty dog the way out.

She lifted her head like an innocent woman facing a firing squad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bookman. Please …” She swallowed hard; Elliot could see movement at the base of her throat, and that movement drew his eyes downward to the cleavage that swelled out the top of her plunging neckline. She didn’t need the push-up bra she was wearing. He dragged his eyes to her face again as she begged, “Please, forgive …” Then she stopped, and another look crossed her face. Not outrage, not embarrassment, not discomfort. Something else, and it scared him.

She slipped her hand into her pocket. Yvan saw the movement, reptilian eyes swiveling down. “Don’t tell me.” he began.

What the hell?

She withdrew a small cell phone and looked at it as if it was the detonator for a nuclear weapon. It must have been on silent, because nobody had heard it ring.

“I’ve explicitly told you, all of you, you are not allowed to carry your phones on the job!” Yvan was in a fine lather. Something told Elliot that this was his usual state of being.

Shani gave him half a second’s glance. “You know my situation, Yvan.”

“I don’t give a pickled monkey’s butt about your situation.”

“Hello?” Shani’s voice was a whisper. Elliot’s eyes were riveted to her face, beyond curiosity. Under the plum-dark skin, the blood drained. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked the phone shut. “It’s Bee,” she said to Yvan.

Bee? What bee? He half expected to see one buzzing around their heads.

If you’d set a spirit level along Yvan’s mouth, the bubble would have been dead center. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I need to go. Now.”

Yvan lifted his hand and checked his watch. “Your tail is mine for another hour and forty minutes.”

“Bee’s sick, and I’m going to her.”

“You do that, and …” He didn’t finish the threat.

Shani ripped off the silly apron she was wearing and threw it down. “You want to fire me? Consider me fired. But please, Yvan, ask Ralph to give me a lift to the other side of Ventura. Maybe I could catch a late bus. There’s nothing running here in Belmont tonight.”

“Ralph drives a catering truck, not a taxi. Besides, we’re busy tonight.” He added meaningfully, “We’re one hand short.” The scarecrow of a man swooped down and scooped up the apron, tucking it under his arm, then stalked off.

That left three of them. The events of the last minute and a half seemed to have gotten through to Stack. Instead of basking in his petty triumph, he looked abashed, but Elliot knew his father wasn’t man enough to say he was sorry unless it suited him. Stack’s eyes took in Shani’s stricken face and then he, too, slunk away.

And then there were two. Elliot put his hands on his hips and took in the pain on Shani’s face. He’d known this woman only ten minutes, but inexplicably he was hurting for her. “You okay?”

She looked at him as though he’d asked the world’s most asinine question. “No.”

“What’s the problem? What bee are you talking about?”

“My daughter,” she answered irritably, as if he should have known. “Béatrice.”

“Ah.” Now he understood. “She’s sick?”

Shani nodded wearily. “She had a fever when I left home this evening.” She found her purse next to the broom cupboard. As she shouldered it, he noticed a thin wedding band on her finger. For some reason, that disappointed him.

“Was that your husband on the phone?”

She turned and wrenched open the kitchen door, which gave side access to his father’s garage and, beyond it, the broad driveway. “That was my sitter. My baby’s worse. Her fever’s a hundred and four.” She slipped through the doorway and into the darkened garage.

He hurried to keep up with her. “Where’re you going?”

Her look made him feel as if his IQ didn’t graze eighty. “I’m taking her to the hospital.” She twisted, looking for the garage light, the better to see her way out. He found it easily and clicked it on.

“Let me rephrase that. How are you getting there? Yvan said—”

“I heard what Yvan said. I’m walking to the bus stop.” “But there aren’t any—”

“Night buses that pass through Belmont. I know.” He could see her legs flash in the floodlights, hear her heels click on the driveway. “I’m walking to Ventura.”

“That’s two miles away!”

She didn’t even glance in his direction. Her determined mouth barely moved as she told him, “Then I better get to walking.” A stiff, late-September wind stirred her hair. She didn’t have a coat on, and that dress of hers, what passed for a dress, barely brushed the tops of her thighs.

Elliot watched as she hurried away, her hips rolling in her haste, legs moving swiftly past each other. Seeing a mother so concerned for her child’s well-being that she was willing to trot across town on heels too high for waitressing stirred something in him. “Shani, wait!”

She half turned, frowning at him for interrupting her pace.

He ran down the path, grasping her by the arms.

“Wait.”

She looked down at the hands he’d placed on her, brows together, and when he read on her face the indignation at being restrained by a second Bookman in one night, he let go. The lady had already proved she didn’t mind biting—and not in a good way.

“I have … to get … to my daughter,” she explained carefully. “Fast.”

The fear in her eyes made his heart constrict. “It’s too late. Too cold.”

“I don’t have a choice.” She resumed walking as though her pace had never been interrupted.

He wasn’t explaining himself right, dammit! “Wait!” As he stopped her again, she sucked in a breath. He was sure she was about to scream, so he talked fast. “Just give me ten seconds, all right?”

“Why?”

“I’ll take you.”

“What?”

He left her standing there and sprinted back to the kitchen. The Triumph wasn’t the best mode of transport for what he had in mind. He snagged his father’s car keys without a second thought and darted back outside.

The burgundy Lexus chirped a friendly welcome as he unlocked it. He rammed the keys into the ignition with less respect than such a machine deserved and, not even bothering to let it warm up, slammed it into gear and nosed it down to where she was waiting. As he drew alongside, her already-arched brows lifted just so much higher. He leaped out, opened the passenger door and bundled her in. She complied, more bewildered than anything else, letting him click her seat belt into place before he leaped back into his seat again and hit the gas.

She was staring at his face, still puzzled. “Why’re you doing this?”

Why, indeed? “Just trying to help,” he explained lamely. “I’d hate to know a child was sick and I didn’t do anything about it.”

“Oh.” She was still examining his face, but whether she was looking for an ulterior motive or asking herself what she’d done to deserve the random kindness of a stranger, he couldn’t tell. “Thank you.”

Again, that strange ache inside him, for her. What kind of sad creature was this, so unaccustomed to receiving kindness that it took her by surprise when she found it? And where was her husband, anyway? Shouldn’t he be doing this? “Besides,” he added, joking to relieve his tension, and hers, “I need brownie points in heaven. God knows I’ve racked up enough for the other team.”

She smiled weakly and relaxed into her seat. “Thank you,” she said again. It came from somewhere deep inside her.

“So, where to?” “Catarina.”

He nodded. They were already approaching Ventura, a pleasant neighborhood that formed a buffer between the genteel suburbs and the busy city. From there it was just a minute or two to the highway on-ramp. On an ordinary day, it would take maybe forty minutes to get to the heart of Santa Amata. But it was well after midnight on a Saturday, and, after all, this was a Lexus, not a station wagon. They made it in twenty.

He looked covertly over at her. Her eyes were taking in every detail of the custom interior of the vehicle, the lovingly polished wood finishing, the muted glow of the array of dials and screens that illuminated her face. He saw her extend one finger and slowly stroke the leather on which she was sitting, and he smiled. It gave him an irrational, childish pleasure to share this little luxury with her. He had a feeling her life wasn’t filled with much of that.

She spoke only to give directions, and he was grateful. Sometimes when you offered a person a ride, they felt obligated to make conversation, to fill the air with irrelevant chatter. She wasn’t the type to indulge in that nonsense, and he liked her for that.

Catarina was on the other side of Santa Amata, a slightly … more lived-in side of town. A few blocks beyond Independence Avenue, the city’s main artery, the streets grew narrower, the buildings just a shade shabbier. It was chilly—which reminded Elliot he didn’t have his coat on, either—but many of the bars had their doors thrown open, and he could hear music spilling out. Trees were beginning to shed their leaves; the wind danced with them in the street as cars swooshed past.

“Left on Bagley,” she told him, and he turned onto the street without a word. It was lined with brownstones and shop fronts. Most of the houses had small family businesses downstairs, with living quarters upstairs. The occasional building that rose past three or four floors looked out of place next to the squat two-story houses beside them.

“Here.” She pointed, and he pulled smoothly to the curb in front of one of the older buildings on the street. The bottom floor was occupied by a restaurant that was still open. A flickering sign above the door said Old Seoul in English, and, presumably, the same thing in Korean. The clinking of glasses and the sound of laughter spilled through the doors and open windows, and the scents of hot oil, fish and spicy meat reminded him that he’d turned up five hours late for dinner, more out of a desire to get on his father’s nerves than anything else. He was beginning to regret that decision.

Shani took out a bunch of large, cumbersome metal keys and unlocked a gate that was barely visible at the side of the restaurant. She let herself through it without a word to him, but he followed closely, up a flight of stairs that would have been better lit, if he’d had anything to say about it. They’d barely reached the first landing when there was a shout from below.

She stopped so fast he almost stumbled into her from behind.

“Shani!” The voice was below them but coming up fast. Elliot stopped shoulder to shoulder with Shani as she leaned over the rusting banister to see a small Asian man taking the stairs two by two. He was dressed in a colorful embroidered tunic with long square sleeves, way too elaborate for someone who was just kicking it on a Saturday night, so he guessed the man worked in, or more likely owned, the restaurant downstairs. “Special Delivery letter for you!”

She looked puzzled, and for a few moments she didn’t hold out her hand to take the proffered letter. She eventually did, turning it over so she could see the return address … and then the night went quiet. He knew that, logically, the music, laughter and chatter were still rising from downstairs. He knew the night owls were still hooting and cars were still rumbling past, but he couldn’t hear them. Because for the second time in less than an hour, he was seeing the blood leech out from under this sad woman’s dusky skin, and he didn’t like it.

The middle-aged man standing two steps below squinted at her through thick glasses. “You well?”

She nodded, but just barely. “I’m fine, Mr. Pak. Thank you.”

The man waited, Elliot waited, for her to tear open the envelope, to do something, but she held it in both hands and stared at it, weighed it, ran her fingers along the address label as if they were sensitive enough to feel the indentations of the printed letters, but she didn’t open it.

Eventually, Mr. Pak nodded and returned downstairs. After he was long gone … it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes … Shani still hadn’t made any move. Elliot watched her, not even pretending not to stare, taking full advantage of the fact that she was barely aware of his presence. Her dark skin had that mellow smoothness that came from good genes, although he could tell, too, that she groomed herself carefully. He was sure she did everything carefully.

She’d nervously licked off most of the frosty lipstick she’d been wearing, leaving her lips bare. The lower one was full, almost pouty, making him think of moist fruit. Her dark, straight hair had been neatly pinned up at the start of the evening, he guessed. Now it fell in wisps about her face. He found himself wanting to reach out, wind it up at the crown of her head and pin it back into place for her. He had to put his hands into his pockets to quell the impulse.

He brought his head close, stifling his curiosity to read the envelope that so mesmerized her, more interested in reading her eyes. But in them, he could see nothing. Gently, he called her name.

She looked up, startled to find him still there. “Huh?”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Open what?”

He tapped the heavy paper object in her hands. “Your letter.”

She looked down at it again, contemplatively, and then shook her head. “I don’t have to. It’s from my attorney. I know what it says.”

Why was it that letters from attorneys never bore good news? How come nobody ever got a letter from an attorney saying congratulations, you just inherited three million dollars from an uncle you never knew you had?

He asked with a chill of anticipation, “What’s it say, then?”

Her eyes held his, and the agony in them kept him riveted. “It says I.” She tried again. “It says my divorce is final. My marriage is over.”

Chapter 3

No job. Sick daughter. And now … this. Shani read and reread the names and addresses on the envelope, both hers on the front and her attorney’s on the back. Inside it were the shredded, tattered, decomposing remnants of the past five years of her life. Knowing it was coming didn’t soften the blow any.

And a blow it was; a sucker punch to the gut that obliterated any fancified notions she might still be holding about Christophe and the love she’d had for him. Where was he anyway? Back home in Martinique, most likely. And, if she knew him—and she did—out celebrating his freedom in a Fort-de-France bar, or in the bed of some young Martiniquaise with more libido than sense.

She felt the cold rails of the balcony under her fingers, steadying her as she swayed. Aching so deep inside she wished she could reach in and tear out the organ that was causing her so much hurt. Her wedding band, a little loose these days since she’d lost a few pounds, constricted. If the vein in the fourth finger led directly to the heart, as the ancients believed, she wouldn’t need to rip her heart out. It would shrivel and die all on its own for lack of blood flow.

There was a movement next to her, a light hand on her forearm and a voice in her ear. “Shani.”

Elliot. She knew he was there, but his touch and voice startled her anyway. She tried to focus on his face.

“Yes?”

“Maybe you should go inside. Have a glass of water. Sit for a minute.”

Her rattling thoughts aligned themselves in some semblance of order. Inside. Right. She nodded. She patted herself down for her keys before she remembered they were clutched in her hand. She tried to fit the key in the lock, but it wouldn’t go. Wrong one. She tried again, the soft scratching sound of metal against metal amplified ten times.

“Let me.” Elliot’s cool hands pried the keys from her incompetent fingers and he slid them into the lock. Easily. As though he was used to it.

The tumblers rolled over inside the lock, but he didn’t have the chance to open the door. It was snatched from his hand, startling them both. Gina Pak was standing there in the minuscule hallway, panting a little. She was even tinier than her father, glossy hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a red T-shirt and jeans, both of which were damp.

“Shani!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the door right away. I was giving Béatrice a sponge bath. She’s up to a hundred and five. And she threw up, twice.”

Bee! Panic and shame. For a full five minutes, Christophe had managed to shove her poor baby from the forefront of her mind. Did he still exert such a power over her, that on a night as awful as this, she could forget she was on a rescue mission?

“Where’s she?” she asked, even though she knew.

Gina pointed. Without looking at the wretched envelope again, she threw it to the floor and hastened to the bedroom, which she shared with her daughter. The room was decorated more like a child’s nursery than a room in which an adult slept. It was bright yellow, her daughter’s favorite color, and strewn with enough bee motifs to make Sting himself gag. A bee mobile swayed over the bed, cartoon bees smiled down from the walls and bee suncatchers dangled behind drawn curtains. Bee lived up to her name.

She was lying on her back. Her thick hair, which usually sprang up all over in a cheery mop, was damp from the bath. She had nothing on but a pair of panties and a yellow cotton Winnie the Pooh T-shirt. Her limp limbs were carelessly sprawled, her small, dark, pointed face slack. Eyes fire-bright. Bee spotted her and managed a smile. “Mama!”

Shani reached to smooth the hair from Bee’s brow, but Elliot was in the way, on his knees at the child’s bedside, lifting each eyelid with his thumbs and examining her eyes, then her nostrils and mouth, tilting her head to each side to look into her ears, too.

Shani was too stunned and confused to move.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“How old is she?”

Not wanting to be left out of the conversation, Bee piped up. “I’m three and a half!”

“You are? You’re a really big girl!” Elliot was soft-voiced, indulgent, his hands still working on her.

Bee watched him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her bleary eyes trying to focus. “You a doctor?”

“No, I’m not, but I’m just gonna check you out, if you let me.” He tenderly ran his fingers along her throat then lifted her shirt and carefully looked over her torso.

“No blotches,” he murmured. “That’s good.” Strong fingers encircled the tiny wrist, and he fixed his eyes on his watch, counting pulse beats.

A scary thought crossed Bee’s mind, and she gave him a panicked look. “No shots! No shots!” She lifted her eyes to her mother, pleading for her intervention if a needle should appear.

For Shani, that was too much. Elliot looked as though he knew what he was doing; she certainly hadn’t a clue what to do herself, but her territorial instincts were aroused, her hackles up. “Elliot, I asked you a question.”

He turned to Gina, who was as puzzled as she was. “Has she eaten anything this evening?”

“Not much.”

“Drinking okay? Thirsty?”

Bee pouted, as if she suspected that any second now, one of the grown-ups was going to try to force something into her. “No! Not thirsty!”

Elliot mumbled something and patted the damp hair. Bee relaxed a little, sinking back into the pillows, but still frowned suspiciously at the adults surrounding her.

Gina shook her head. “She didn’t want her juice, or water. I made her take a few sips, but—”

That was enough. Shani shouldered Elliot aside and threw her arms around her daughter. The child’s skin was on fire. He didn’t resist, didn’t look the least bit offended.

“You said you aren’t a doctor …”

“No, but I know what I’m doing.”

“How, exactly?”

He shrugged. “Peace Corps. Two years in Haiti after college.”

She was momentarily stunned. A member of the wealthy Bookman clan, in the Peace Corps?

Without offering any further explanation, he extricated a blanket from the pile of rumpled bedding and seemed about to reach for Bee again, but then he thought better of it and held it out to Shani. “Wrap her up. It’s cold out.”

Shani did as she was told. Bee didn’t resist, which was scary in itself. Usually, getting any article of clothing onto her daughter required a chase around the bed, three or four laps at least, and maybe a foray into the living room. But Bee was as boneless and unresisting as a sleeping cat. As she lifted the hot little bundle into her arms, Bee wound her hands around her neck, face pressed against her breast.

Elliot followed her to the door. He turned to Gina, who was hovering, her expression a mixture of concern for Bee and frank curiosity over Elliot’s sudden appearance.

“This is Elliot,” Shani informed the teenager belatedly. And to Elliot, “This is Gina, Mr. Pak’s daughter. She’s seventeen. Her real name’s Jin, but, well, everyone calls her.” She was aware that she was babbling. She stopped herself. “She babysits for me.”

Elliot nodded, gravely extending a hand. Then he was all business, opening her front door and preceding her outside. “We’re going to Immaculate Heart Pediatric,” he informed Gina.

“She gonna be all right?” Gina asked.

Elliot’s eyes were on her, not Gina. “I think so. A high fever doesn’t mean anything awful on its own. It’s probably just an infection.”

Oh, thank you, Jesus. She let Elliot propel her into the backseat, allowing him to buckle the seat belt over her lap before she settled her daughter in her arms. In the absence of a car seat, it’d have to do.

He sensed her apprehension. “I’ll get you there safely,” he promised. “Both of you.”

They pulled to a screeching stop in the hospital parking lot. Elliot hopped out and looked in through the window at Shani as she struggled in the backseat with Bee’s deadweight. “How’s the baby?”

“Sleeping,” Shani answered. “Still hot.”

“Then we’d better get in there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the entrance to the E.R.

It was next to impossible to emerge from the car holding Bee, but Elliot opened the back door and gently, as if lifting something infinitely precious, eased her daughter from her lap.

Shani got out, feeling the sting of pins and needles run through her legs as blood rushed back into them. It had gotten colder. She stamped on the ground, found her land legs again and held her arms out for her daughter. But Elliot shook his head, cradling Bee as though he’d known her since the day she was born. “Keep your strength. You’ll need it.” She couldn’t decide whether to be grateful or outraged.

Of one accord, they moved toward the doors. “You didn’t have to do this,” she pointed out.

His mouth curved, and he shrugged it off.

Maybe it was nothing to him, a little lost sleep and a missed dinner, but she needed for him to know that to her, his small gesture meant everything. “My daughter.” As she walked, she searched for words. “Bee’s all I have, now.” She tried not to think of Christophe. He hadn’t been hers for a long time.

His expression was so compassionate, it hurt to look at him. “She’ll be okay, I promise you. And I don’t mind doing this. Really.”

Which was a good thing, because at that moment Bee was jolted out of her exhausted, fever-tormented sleep. She went rigid, threw open her startled brown eyes, flung out thin, stiff limbs and threw up down the front of his shirt.

Chapter 4

Shani reacted immediately, reaching out to help tilt Bee’s head so that most of the clear fluid spurted onto the ground.

“Elliot, I’m so—”

“It’s all right.”

She fumbled through her bag, cursing the clutter, and pulled out a packet of baby wipes. “At least let me … I’m so sorry!” She dabbed at the wet mark on his shirt, cringing at what he must be thinking. She was a mother, used to dealing with all manner of bodily fluids, but this was a single man. Baby upchuck was probably at the top of his gross-out list.

“Relax. She’s done now.”

She held out her arms, expecting him to hand Bee over as if she was an armload of contraband, but he was walking again. “Better get her inside.”

It was a choice between standing in the cold parking lot and following. She followed. “I’ll get your shirt cleaned,” she promised.

He threw her an amused, patient look over the fluffy blanket-covered bump in his arms. “The shirt’ll wash.” He stepped aside to let her get the door. She brushed past a security guard who was lightly dozing on his feet and heaved against the heavy glass door under a large sign that read EMERGENCY in white on red.

Elliot found them a space in the waiting room and let Shani sit, settling beside her with Bee on his lap. His face was beautiful in its tenderness. His faded shirt and loose jeans were an odd uniform for an angel of mercy, but Shani knew that when angels swooped to Earth, they sometimes left their wings at home. Grounded by their circumstances, they had no choice but to sit back and watch chaos unfurl. It was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno being put on by the local grade school. Children sobbed, babies wailed, worried parents held them close or paced, gulping coffee, guzzling high-caffeine sodas and rooting around in greasy packets of potato chips. Half an hour passed, then half an hour more. Heads lifted whenever a new group of names rang out over the sound system. As each sick child’s name was called, his or her parents left through the swinging doors leading into the guts of the building with a mixture of relief at finally making it inside and guilt at leaving fellow sufferers behind.

She needed to feel the warmth of her daughter against her skin and held out her arms wordlessly. Elliot handed Bee over and then stood to allow the blood to return to his legs. With a smooth movement, he pulled the damp, funky-smelling shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair. He stroked his chest absently, looking down at himself. “Probably wouldn’t pass dress code around here now,” he commented in amusement.

She opened her mouth again, not even sure what she was going to say, and then shut it as the sight of his sleek, bare chest hit her between the eyes. The body he had on him certainly didn’t belong on an angel; according to her understanding of the heavenly creatures, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. The well-defined lines that accentuated his pecs, the glimpses of rib as he turned and abdominal muscles that plunged downward to the sharp angles of hip bones visible above his low-slung jeans were like the long, sleek lines of a sports car. She tried not to stare, but she lost the battle.

He shrugged the cricks out of his shoulder and snagged the next nurse to pass close enough. She was a fine-boned young Asian woman, probably not more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with straight black hair that escaped her little bonnet willy-nilly. Her large eyes were an unusual shade of deep green. As he stepped out into her path, she gave him a distracted glance—and then that glorious, golden expanse of bare chest stopped her in her tracks.

“Nurse, please. The baby’s very sick, and her mother’s worried. How long do you think it’ll be?”

She swallowed, trying to keep her gaze above his neck. “We’re very busy tonight—”

His voice was low, beguiling, betraying neither anger nor frustration. “I know you’re all doing the best you can.” He smiled disarmingly, one hand on her elbow, the other idly resting over his heart, like someone taking the Pledge of Allegiance—or declaring his affections. “But you look like a kind person. I’m sure you’d be willing to spare me a few seconds of your time.”

Unconsciously, the young nurse lifted her fingers to her full, pink lips. Shani watched in amazement, feeling like Alice in some kind of soft-core Wonderland. She looks as if she’s willing to give a whole lot more time than a few seconds, she thought.

“What I want to know is why is it so busy? This isn’t normal, is it?”

The young woman lifted a stray strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. She leaned forward, tiptoeing to get her mouth close to his ear, as if revealing an intimate secret. “It’s not normal. Everything’s gone crazy since they cut the budget.”

“That so?”

“Mmm-hmm. They’ve reduced the staff on each shift.”

“Even in the E.R.?”

She nodded. “We’re two doctors and three nurses down tonight.”

Elliot frowned. The hand that was idly playing over his chest fell to his side. “Don’t they know the kind of suffering they’re causing?”

She rolled her gorgeous green eyes and shrugged. “Money talks, I guess. The administrators aren’t the ones here at two in the morning, having to deal with the mess they’ve created.” She paused, mouth parted in anticipation, waiting on him to commend her for being a good girl.

His eyes held hers for several seconds longer than necessary. “Thank you, Nurse. I was right—you are very kind.” “Elena.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Elena. I’m on the graveyard shift every night until Wednesday. If you need anything …” She trailed off, not needing to draw him a diagram.

He released his light grip on her arm and took her hand instead, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you, Elena. I mean that.”

“If I can slip you guys in a little earlier … well, I’ll see what I can do.” Elena gave her hair one final fluff and backed away, a little self-conscious, giving Shani one hard, curious look before turning and heading in the direction she’d come from.

“Surprised those scrubs didn’t hit the floor,” Shani murmured.

He sat next to her again. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

The smile he gave told her he’d heard exactly what she’d said.

But Elliot wasn’t satisfied with waiting on little Miss Flirty-pants to fulfill her promise. He fished his phone from his pocket and scrolled one-handed through the numbers. He hit Dial and waited for the other person to answer, giving her a comforting smile.

Shani watched, amazed. Did he know what time it was?

“David, it’s Elliot Bookman. Right. Junior. I’m guessing you’re still at my father’s party? Now breaking up, huh?” He waited. “How’s my father? Well, he’ll have a hell of a headache, that’s for sure. Glad you and Maggie had a good time.”

He cleared his throat. “Listen, David, I need a favor. I’m over at Immaculate Heart. In the E.R. No, it’s a favor for a friend. We’ve got a three-year-old who needs to be seen, right away. Yes, I heard about the budget cuts. But the place is a mess. Think you could make a few calls? Maybe shift some of your staff over from another department? I’m sure it’s quieter over in Medical tonight.”

Shani tried not to shake her head. Even on the phone, he had a careless charm about him that appealed to both men and women. Did anyone ever tell him no?

He listened again, nodding. “That’d be great. Bless you, man. Have a good night now, and take care on the road.” He clicked off, smiling as though he’d won a game of chess.

She didn’t bother trying to stifle her curiosity. “Who was that?”

“David Carmichael. He’s on the board here. He and my father go way back. Anyhow, he’s going to have a few more staff sent over. The bottleneck will clear up in a while.”

He was right. In less than twenty minutes, Shani heard her name called. She rose with difficulty, Bee still deadweight in her arms, and turned to Elliot, preparing to thank him and wish him good-night. Already, a small shard of sadness pricked at her. All evening, he’d been as solid and reliable as a load-bearing wall. Now it was time to go in and face the thunder. What did you say to a stranger who helped you save the thing that means the most to you?

“Elliot, I … I don’t know how to say thanks. I—”

“Let’s go.” He grabbed her by the elbow and began guiding her past the uneven rows of benches.

“What? Where’re you—”

He gave her a surprised look. “Did you think I’d let you go in there alone?”

She protested. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but you really—”

He didn’t stop walking. “Come on. They’re waiting.” He grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder like a towel.

There was no sense in arguing. As he held open the swinging doors, she took one guilty look at the sad people still waiting, sending up a prayer that their troubles would end soon.

Inside, an older nurse took up most of the entryway. Her expression was standard hospital-issue harassed, hair scraped back into a bun, face like a hatchet. She glanced at the proffered papers and nodded at a gurney. Shani set her burden down carefully, and at once an attendant began to work on Bee.

“You the mother?” The nurse asked.

“Yes.”

“You can stay.”

Shani moved to her daughter’s side. Elliot moved in concert with her, only to be stopped by the nurse’s imperious, uplifted hand. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s Elliot—”

She frowned, noticing for the first time that his chest was bare. Her eyes popped ceilingward in a “you-see-all-types-in-here” gesture, then she clarified. “I mean, what’s your relationship to the patient? Only the parents of a minor are allowed in here.”

“Oh, I—”

“So who’re you?”

Shani found herself desperately wanting Elliot to stay with her in this awful place. “He’s … he’s …” She began and stopped.

The nurse, as intimidating as a mythical beast guarding treasure, folded her arms. What could she say to get this woman to understand? She half wondered if Elliot’s charm could work on her, too. Bizarrely, even though it would mean his eviction and her abandonment, that almost made her feel satisfied. At least it would mean someone was immune to him.

Elliot hardly missed a beat. “I’m her father.”

Shani choked on her own spit.

The nurse glanced at his face for half a second, then at Bee’s damp, sallow one, and dismissed him with disinterest, pointing the way with her pen. The doors swung open behind them, admitting someone else for her to intimidate.

Shani felt Elliot close to her, warm skin occasionally brushing her bare arm as they watched the doctor, an older black woman who reassuringly reminded her of Maya Angelou, fiddle with Bee. The woman gave her the first genuine smile she’d had since she got here.

“Don’t worry, doux-doux. She ees going to be just fine.” She spoke with an accent Shani couldn’t identify. West African? Caribbean? “Just a leetle infection—nothing to make a whole lot of fuss and bother about. We’ll start her on antibiotics right away. And just to be safe, we’ll keep her for a few days, okay?”

Shani felt tears of gratitude and relief prickle at the backs of her eyes. The doctor patted her gently on the cheek. “Chin up, sugarplum. Don’t you worry. She ees in good hands.”

The doctor directed her gaze at Elliot’s bare chest, and she asked humorously, “I know the cooling system needs fixing, but you don’t think you taking thees a leetle too far?”

Elliot surprised Shani by looking abashed. “Sorry, Doctor. I apologize if I’ve offended … we had a little accident.”

“Don’t fret. I’ve seen it all.” But Maya Angelou had the audacity to give him one last, evaluating glance. Elliot’s skin flushed, and Shani hid a grin. It was like discovering your grandma’s prayer-circle buddy was a flirt.

They followed Bee’s gurney out of the E.R. and into a pediatric ward with three other beds. Gently, the attendant settled her onto the bed farthest from the door. With that movement, Bee’s eyes shot open, startled, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. “Mama?”

Shani was immediately soothing, stroking her cheek and listening to the sound of the monitors until she fell back into a heavy sleep. Only then did she look around. There were two armchairs next to each bed, and a little cabinet for personal effects. That was pretty much it. Children in the other beds were sleeping, their monitors a soft, bipping chorus, with the exception of a small, still pile of blankets two beds over, which was surrounded by anxiously whispering staff. A woman, probably the child’s mother, hovered, trying to stand on tiptoe to see what they were doing. Shani sat in one of the chairs and closed her eyes briefly, not able to absorb anyone else’s pain tonight.

She looked outside past lopsided blinds. It was clear and dark out, but she could tell there were only a few hours till dawn. She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping.

“Hey.”

Elliot squatted before her. He reached out and stroked her cheek, jolting her thoughts away from the window and the outside world. “She’s a beautiful little girl,” he said, but he was looking at Shani, not at Bee.

“Yes,” she agreed, but her thoughts were not on Bee, either. Rather, they were focused on fighting the urge to lean her chin into his cupped hand. Where’d that come from?

Knowingly, he turned her face toward his. Look away, she told herself. Look away, or you’ll be turned to stone. She couldn’t, held fast by his dark stare. She heard machines around her whoop and beep, but she couldn’t hear herself breathe. “Hungry?”

“Wh … huh?” The banality of the question on the heels of such an intense connection left her flailing for a response.

To her disappointment, he rose. Easily, fluidly, like a snake uncoiling itself. “Gotta be a cafeteria in here somewhere. If I don’t eat something soon …” He turned to go. “Coffee or tea?”

After having had nothing to eat since lunch, she figured a meal would be worth not having him by her side for a bit. “Coffee, please.”

“Sweet and milky, right?”

How’d he know? She watched him walk confidently away, beautiful chest bare to the world and not giving a damn. Her eyes remained fixed on him until he walked into the lit corridor. The only thing she could do now was try to catch a few moments’ rest … and wait for him to come back.

Chapter 5

Shani’s heart did a happy little two-step when he returned with a cardboard box lid and two hot cups of coffee balanced inside. He handed her a cup. It was sweet and milky, as promised. Comforting. He settled next to her with a grin, pointing to his bare chest. “Scared a few people out there.”

“Uh-huh.” More likely set their salivary glands going, she thought. “You cold?”

“Nah.” He tilted the tray so she could see its contents. “Hot dogs. And pudding. They were out of chocolate—only butterscotch and banana left. Figured you’d like the butterscotch better.”

“You figured right.”

He handed her a hot dog, heavy on the ketchup and mustard, light on the relish, no onions. “They’ve been rolling around on that little carousel since the Jurassic, but I’m too hungry to complain.”

She bit in. “If we get food poisoning, at least we’re in the right place.”

He smiled. “First joke I’ve heard you make all night.”

She shrugged, concentrating on her hot dog. “Haven’t got much to joke about.”

She was disappointed when he didn’t contradict her. He finished his hot dog without saying anything more. Then there was no sound but the scraping of his plastic spoon in the pudding cup. When she was done with hers, too, he whisked away the debris.

He snagged a blanket and wrapped it around his bare chest Indian-style, to deflect any more disapproving glances, and sat again. Together they listened to the sounds of the night. Outside, an ambulance wailed. Inside, a child moaned in his sleep. All underscored by the incessant chorus of instruments, like the mournful chirping of crickets. Eerie. Disturbing. Sad.

Elliot was so quiet, she was sure he’d dozed off. She was afraid to look at him, in case her anxiety, her need for him to stay awake, and stay with her, showed. It was embarrassing. Had she sunk so low that the moral support of a kindhearted stranger was all she had?

She directed her frustration and anger away from herself and onto Christophe. Jerk. He was an ocean away, not knowing, not caring that his daughter had loops of wires curling into and out of her, making her one with a huge, ugly machine. With just the glow of a monitor and the glimmer of a night-light staving off the darkness poised above her like a stilled wave.

How could he leave her alone to face this? When had he stopped loving her? She snorted derisively. To hear him tell it, he did still love her. Sleeping around throughout their marriage hadn’t meant he didn’t; it just meant he was French. As far as he was concerned, she’d blown the whole thing out of proportion.

She exhaled, thinking of the envelope that lay on the floor in her apartment, waiting to be opened. She wondered if she’d ever have the strength. She’d certainly have the time, what with no longer being employed and all. She thought of how, not long ago, her dream job was hers, and money and status came with ease. She’d gone and made such a mess of things.

“It’ll get better, you know.” Elliot’s mouth was close to her ear.

She jumped. Wasn’t he asleep? She turned her startled eyes to him. “What?”

His voice was still soft, warm and gentle. “You sighed like something was breaking inside you. It hurt just to hear it. But it’ll get better.”

“How, Elliot? I lost my job—”

“—you’ll get a better one.”

“—my husband—”

“—if he deserved you, he’d be here instead of me—”

“And here alone, in this godawful place—”

“You’re not alone,” he pointed out.

She was too frustrated to acknowledge he was right. “—listening to my daughter breathe, depending on someone I’ve known four hours to be my savior!” Savior. His gaze was steady on hers, taking the appellation in stride, as though it belonged to him. She paused, panting. “Not that I’m ungrateful.”

“I know—”

“You’ve gone out of your way—” “Shani, stop—”

“No. You don’t know anything about my life. But you sit there with this light in your eyes and tell me it’s gonna get better? I’m sorry, Elliot. Forgive me if I don’t believe—”

His kiss cut her tirade short. Both hands came up around her face, pulling her forward. The arms of their heavy chairs, jammed up against each other, made the gesture awkward, so without breaking the kiss he shifted around to kneel before her again, slipping one hand around her shoulders so she had no choice but to slide down off her chair and find herself knee to knee with him. Her short black waitressing skirt rode up on her thighs.

The blanket around his shoulders fell open, and his bare chest was warm against hers. She discovered the softness of his rumpled hair under her fingers. It was an aching, urgent kiss. Coffee-sweet. Banana pudding-sweet.

And in her mind, a jumble of words. My God, I’m kissing this man. Someone warm under my hands after so long. Stubble under my fingers. He needs a shave … and a haircut. What’s wrong with me? Tired. Hungry. Aching. Feel like I could fall into him and go to sleep, and know I’d be safe.

She touched his face again. It was as warm as his chest, but wet. Wet? When he broke their kiss she heard and felt the air escape his lips, and then the sear of tears replaced the gentle pressure of his mouth. She put her hand up in shock, to rub off the smear on his face, knowing the tears were hers, not his. He was smiling. “I’ve had lots of reactions to a kiss, but I don’t think crying was ever one of them.”

“Oh, I.” She tried to wipe away the evidence with the back of her hand, but there was more where that came from. “Elliot, I’m so—”

“If I have to hear you say you’re sorry one more time …!” He found a crumpled paper napkin and tried to mop up her face, but she took it from him.

“I can do it.”

He didn’t fight her. Instead, he stayed kneeling before her, watching her soberly. When she was finished, he took the paper away, balled it up and sent it arcing into the wastepaper bin. “Better now?” “I don’t know.”

“Come here.” He pulled her head down against his chest. She complied without resistance. She could hear his heartbeat. She closed her eyes, listening to him breathe, and discovered to her surprise that his chest was rising and falling in tandem with the barely audible ins and outs of her daughter’s breaths. She knelt in the arms of her personal angel, taking all the solace and comfort he offered. Wondering when he’d pull away and tell her to get up again.

He didn’t. After a while, the silence was too much to bear. The holding, the warmth, were wonderful, but there was more she wanted. “Elliot?”

“Yes?” His voice was sonorous, muffled in her hair. Like a sound coming from far away.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“I was born on a Sunday. My mother said it was raining.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She looked up at him, seeing warmth and humor and awakening desire.

“How far back you want me to go?”

“Not that far. I just want to know something about you. This,” she indicated their proximity, the intimacy of their positions facing each other. “This is so unlike me. I feel—”

“What do you feel?” He looked as though the answer was important to him.

She answered carefully, not willing to reveal too much. “I feel that … that it’d be less … weird.”

Another rumble of laughter, deep in his chest. “This feels weird to you?”

She was hesitant, not wanting to goad him to anger. “Well, a little. It’s … unexpected.”

“But sweet. Nice. The most natural thing …”

“I guess.” She was a little doubtful. “But I feel. I think. It’d be a little less, you know …”

“Weird,” he supplied indulgently.

“Yeah. That. If I knew more about you. I just met you. And now, this …”

“This is good.”

Maybe. But it had been such a freaky night. She searched for a way to explain herself better.

She didn’t have to. “But I get where you’re coming from. What would you like to know?”

Now that the invitation was open, she pondered. What would she want to know? Ah, a question arose. The obvious question. “What’s this thing between you and your father?”

He moved back an inch, but to her it was a chasm. “Anything but that.”

So much for honesty. His reaction only piqued her curiosity more. What could be so bad that Elliot wouldn’t even talk about it? Reluctantly, she conceded.

“What do you do when you’re not rescuing sick little kids? And their mothers?” She glanced up at his windblown hair. “And riding a Triumph without a helmet?”

“Tech stuff. I’m an electronics engineer. My company designs information security systems.” Now that Stack was no longer at the center of the conversation, he relaxed again, inching closer. “It’s boring.”

Boring was the last word she’d use to describe him. “Tell me something else.”

“I can recite the alphabet backward. Want to hear it?”

She knew he was trying to make her smile. “Soon,” she promised.

He wrapped her in the circle of his arms without seeking further permission. “I have the uncanny ability to sense when someone’s hurting. When they need to be held.”

Her eyelids lowered. Maybe that was all she needed to know right now.

He settled her down with her head in his lap, letting her curl up on the hard, cold hospital floor. “It’ll be dawn in an hour or two. Get some rest. You’ll need it when your daughter gets up.”

She wasn’t aware of anything more.

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