Private Scandals

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