Deadline (Sandra Brown)

far cry from a war zone, but damn near as nerve-racking for a man like me.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    Because it was too late now for him to pull back without feeling that he was abandoning them. He should have kept them at arm’s length. He hadn’t. He was sunk in deep, good and involved, and there was no backing out without looking like a heel. Besides, he didn’t want to leave them. He couldn’t explain it to her, because he had no explanation for it himself. Except that he wanted her.
    There was that. But to become romantically involved would bugger up both their lives. Hers was already in upheaval, and his was a mess. It was neither wise nor honorable even to fantasize about making love to her.
    But he did. Constantly.
    He cleared his throat. “You need a friend right now. It’s as simple as that.” He was lying, because it wasn’t simple at all.
    She studied him for several seconds, then lowered her gaze. “I need a friend, and you need a story.”
    “That’s not why I’m here.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “No. Hell, no.” When she raised her head, he saw the misgiving still in her eyes. “Amelia, my objectivity took a nosedive the instant I met you. You know it.”
    After a moment of shared staring, she busied herself with removing the tea bag from the mug and taking a sip. Then she observed him polishing off his portion of the candy bar and washing it down with a sip of cocoa. “That’s a lot of chocolate. Won’t the caffeine keep you awake?”
    “If I’m lucky. You know what happens when I sleep.”
    The reminder of his nightmare brought back memories of what had come after: the kiss. It wavered there between them, as real as the steam rising from their beverage mugs. The atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to pressurize, but they didn’t look away from each other.
    He said, “I never properly thanked you for being there when I came out of the nightmare.”
    She made a dismissive movement that was so slight, anyone not eating her up with his eyes would have missed it.
    He wanted to tell her how many times since then he had thought about that kiss and how badly he wanted to repeat it, how much he wanted to touch her again, now . To hold her, stroke her soft skin, feel her breath against his face, have her naked and warm and shifting beneath him, to be inside her.
    If she knew the prurient drift of his thoughts and how difficult it was for him not to act on them, she wouldn’t be nearly so comfortable sharing tea and cocoa. She’d doubt that he was here only as a friend. But he couldn’t help thinking about it and wishing it were otherwise. He felt it only fair that she know that.
    “If I could have you after every nightmare, I’d have ten a night.”
    They were still staring into each other’s eyes when his cell phone jangled, which was probably just as well, since his resolve not to touch her again had all but evaporated.
    Dawson answered his phone on speaker. “I’m coming in,” Headly said. “Don’t shoot.” Without replying, Dawson clicked off. “That reminds me,” he said to her, “maybe you should rethink carrying the pepper spray at all times. And, for God’s sake, your phone.”
    “Not having my phone was a terrible oversight. I didn’t hear your calls. It and the pepper spray were in my handbag at the bottom of the stairs. But if I’d had the spray, you might have got it in the face. Why didn’t you identify yourself immediately?”
    “In case Jeremy was in here with you, Headly didn’t want to tip him off to our presence.”
    She sighed. “I almost wish it had played out that way.”
    “No,” he said emphatically. “You don’t.”
    “At least it would be over now.”
    “True. But you would probably be dead.”

 
    Diary of Flora Stimel—April 16, 1984
     
     
We killed three people yesterday. Last night we celebrated to the point that everybody except me is still unconscious.
It was a great day for us, not only because the robbery was successful (over $60,000), but it also took place on income tax day. Which was symbolic. That was Carl’s way of thumbing his nose at the federal government.
I don’t feel so bad about the two guys guarding the armored truck. They were careless and—when you think about it—let down the people they work for. As Carl said, if they’d been doing their job the way they should have been, they’d be alive, the money would still be there, and we’d be the ones dead. None of us got hurt, except that I broke a