"Deanna." He wished he could find some spark of tenderness within the furnace that roared inside him. "Let me…" He lifted his head, struggling to clear his vision. He'd barely looked at her, he realized. The moment she'd opened the door and said his name, his control had snapped.
Now she was vibrating like a plucked string beneath him, her eyes huge and dark, her mouth swollen. And her skin… He brought his fingertips to her cheek, stroking over the flushed, damp flesh.
Tears. He'd always considered them a woman's greatest weapon. Shaken, he brushed them away and cleared his throat. "Did I knock you down?"
"I don't know." She felt like a jumble of nerve ends and sparks. "I don't care." Slowly, beautifully, her smile bloomed. She framed his face in her hands. "Welcome home." She let their slow, quiet kiss soothe them both.
"I've been told I have considerable finesse with women." Taking her hand, he closed it into a loose fist and pressed it to his lips. "Though it might be hard for you to believe at the moment."
"I'd rather not ask for corroboration." His grin flashed. "Look, why don't we…" He trailed off as he stroked a hand over her hair. Confused, he pulled back, eyes narrowed, and studied her. "What in the hell did you do to your hair?"
In automatic defense, she combed her fingers through it. "I cut it. New Year's Eve." Her smile wavered. "The viewers like it — three to one. We did a poll."
"It's shorter than mine." With a half laugh, he moved back to squat on his haunches. "Come here, let me get a good look." Without waiting for assent, he hauled her to a sitting position.
She sat, pouting a little, her eyes daring him, and the lamplight glowing over the glistening cap. "I was tired of dealing with it," she muttered when he only continued his silent study. "This saves me hours a week, and it suits the shape of my face. It looks good on camera."
"Um-hmm." Fascinated, he reached out to toy with her earlobe, then skimmed his finger down the side of her throat. "Either several months of celibacy is playing hell with my libido, or you're the sexiest woman alive." Delighted, flustered, she hugged her knees. "You look pretty good yourself. You know they're calling you the Desert Hunk."
He winced. After the ribbing he'd taken from his associates, he was hard-pressed to find the humor in it. "It'll pass."
"I don't know. There's already a fan club here in Chicago." Seeing that he could be embarrassed only amused her. "You did look pretty hunky with Scuds flying in the sky behind you, or with tanks rolling across the sand at your back. Especially since you didn't shave for a couple of days."
"Once the ground war started, water was at a premium."
Her amusement faded. "Was it bad?" "Bad enough." He took her hand, gently now, remembering to appreciate the elegance. That was what he needed, the warm reality of her. Maybe, in a day or two, the things he'd seen, the things he'd heard would fade a little.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"You look tired." She could see now how drawn he was beneath the desert tan. "When did you get back?"
"About an hour ago. I came straight here." Even as her heart picked up rhythm, she responded to the weariness in his eyes. "Why don't I fix you something to eat? You can get your bearings."
He kept her hand in his, wishing he could explain to her, to himself, how much steadier he felt being here. Being close. "I wouldn't turn down a sandwich, especially if it came with a beer."
"I can probably handle that." She got to her feet, gave his hand a tug. "Come on, stretch out on the couch, relax with Carson. While you're eating, I'll fill you in on all the news and gossip from CBC."
He rose, waiting until she'd punched the remote. "Are you going to let me stay tonight, Deanna?"
She looked back at him, her eyes huge, but steady. "Yes."
Turning quickly, she walked into the kitchen. Her hands were trembling, she realized. And it was wonderful. Her whole body was quivering in response to that long, last look he'd given her before she'd rushed away. She didn't know what it would be like, but she knew that she'd never wanted anyone more. The months of separation hadn't stunted the emotions that had begun growing inside her.
And that first greedy kiss as they'd tumbled heedless to the floor had been more stunning, more erotic than any fantasy she'd woven while she'd waited for him to come back.
He'd come to her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Nerves were jittering, she thought. But they were good nerves, hot and strong, not cold, cowardly ones.
Tonight, she would take the step. She would reclaim herself. Because she wanted, Deanna thought. Because she chose.
Putting a sandwich of cold ham and cheese on a platter, she added a pilsner of beer. She lifted the tray and smiled to herself. Desire was as basic and human as hunger. Once they had satisfied the latter, she would take him to her bed, into her body.
"I could put together something hot," she said as she carried the tray back into the living room. "There's a can of soup in the—" Deanna broke off and stared.
Carnac the Magnificent was on a roll. Ed was hooting in response. And Finn Riley, the Desert Hunk, was sleeping like a baby.
He'd pried off his battered hightops, but hadn't bothered to remove his jacket. Unrelenting work, travel and jet lag had finally taken their toll. He lay flat on his stomach, his face smashed into one of Deanna's satin pillows, his arm dangling limply over the edge of the couch.
"Finn?" Deanna set the tray aside and put a hand on his shoulder. When she shook him, he didn't stir, a hundred and sixty pounds of exhausted male.
Resigned, she went for a spare blanket and tucked it around him. She locked the front door, secured the chain. Switching the lamp to low, she sat down on the floor in front of him. "Our timing," she said quietly and kissed his cheek, "continues to suck." With a sigh, she picked up the sandwich and tried to fill the void of sexual frustration with food and television.
Finn pulled out of the dream, chilled with sweat. The fading vision behind his eyes was horrid — the body riddled with bullets at his feet, blood and gore staining the pink silk and sequins of the tattered evening gown. In the quiet light of morning, he struggled to sit up, rubbing his hands over his face.
Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings. Hotel room? What city? What country? A plane? A taxi?
Deanna. Remembering, Finn let his head fall back against the cushions and moaned. First he'd tossed her to the floor, then he'd passed out. A rousing segment in the frustrating journal of their romance.
He was surprised she hadn't dragged him out of the apartment by the feet and left him snoring in the hall. Fighting free of the blanket, he staggered up. He swayed a moment, his body still floating with fatigue. He'd have killed for coffee. He supposed that was why he thought he smelled some brewing. After months in the desert, he knew that mirages weren't only the result of heat, but of desperate human desires.
He rolled his stiff shoulders and swore. Christ, he didn't want to think about desires.
But maybe it wasn't too late. A quick injection of instant coffee, and he could slip into bed with Deanna and make up for his neglect the night before.
Bleary-eyed, he stumbled toward the kitchen. She was no mirage, standing there in a beam of sunlight, looking fresh and lovely in slacks and a sweater, pouring gloriously scented coffee into a red ceramic mug.
"Deanna."
"Oh!" She jolted, nearly upending the mug. "You startled me. I was concentrating on some mental notes for the show." She set the pot down, brushed suddenly damp hands down her hips. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a rock. I don't know whether to be embarrassed or apologetic, but if you share that coffee, I'll be anything you want."