to be the most powerful affair he'd ever had. She stared at him, searched deep in his eyes for God knew what. And then, finally, she shook her head. "It's tempting," she whispered regretfully, lifting her hand to gently touch his mouth. "But no. I don't want to know." For a long moment he didn't move, hoping, wishing she'd change her mind, but then the moment passed and he forced a smile. "I like to be prepared," he said, directing the flashlight ahead of them. And please, God, let me be "prepared" with a condom in my shaving kit. "Prepared." She let out a little laugh, again a slightly rusty sound, as if she didn't do it often, and he smiled back. Make that a box of condoms, he thought. They started up the stairs. At the top of the first flight, Mike paused. "Need a rest?" "After one flight of stairs?" She shook her head. "Tell me I don't look that fragile to you." She was petite but not frail, not with all those wonderful curves and a face so full of life. "You don't look fragile to me," he said after a good long look that stirred his body. "Smart answer." They climbed another flight, and when Mike again paused at the top, she lifted a brow. "Do you need to rest?" He smiled and they started on the next flight, but at a burst of wild laughter ahead of them, he once again slowed to a stop. Sprawled across the stairs, two men were sharing a flask of what had to be pretty potent stuff, given their wide, slack, idiotic grins. "Looksy there," one said, slurring his words as he nudged the man next to him. "Now that's the way to pass the time, matey." The drunk leered at Mike and gave an exaggerated wink. "Don't need to tell you to keep warm, huh? You've got your heating blankie right there with you." Both men laughed uproariously, and as they did, slipped down a few stairs, to fall together in a heap. It made them laugh even harder. "Feeling no pain, I see." Mike stepped over them and helped her do the same. The next flight of stairs began the same way, but then they heard a strange, heated moaning, then rapid panting. Mike didn't know what he expected to find. A fight, maybe. Someone stabbed or shot, someone in labor...he couldn't tell from the frightening sounds. He was prepared for anything, though, and tried to keep the woman behind him to protect her. But she refused to be kept there, even for her own good. She evaded his hands and stayed stubbornly by his side. The sounds came from a couple, and it wasn't a fight or severe wounds, as he'd feared, but a wild mating. Clothes were half torn off both of them. They were writhing together against the wall, and given the scream of pleasure that tore from the woman's lips, they were also deep in the throes of orgasm. Mike looked at "Lola," but she didn't close her eyes or seem embarrassed. She just stared at the couple in front of them, as if mesmerized. They had a perfect view. The woman was wedged up against the wal; the man could touch and grab at wil, which he was doing. Her breasts were bare, and bouncing wildly in the man's face, which elicited plenty of encouraging groans from both of them. His hands snaked up her skirt, where he held her hips so that he could thrust into her, time and time again. "Now! Now!" she shrieked. "Oh, Bily, now!" "Yeah," said Billy as he pounded into her. "Yeah, baby." "Ohh." Breasts jiggled. Her bottom bounced. Skin slapped against skin. "Oh, Billy, I'm going to come again!" "Yeah, baby. Me, too." Together they let out more shrieks and cries, and then moaning gutturally, they slumped together. The woman standing next to Mike let out a strangled sound of her own. "Can we get past them, do you think?" She sounded...breathless, and her palm in his had gotten warm. Almost sweaty. Mike knew the feeling. He had never considered himself voyeuristic, but witnessing this couple, with Lola beside him, his desire kicked up a degree. He was so hot, so hard and so unbelievably ready he could hardly nod. "Game on," he muttered, and together the two of them started running. Up the fifth flight, then the sixth. At the top, Mike stopped, certain he'd gone too fast this time. "If you ask me if I need to rest," she said seriously, "I will smack you." She wasn't even winded. Neither was he, but hell, they'd come a long way up. "And if you marvel about what good shape I'm in," she continued, "when you're obviously in just as good a shape, I'll—" "I know," he said. "Smack me. Don't worry, I'll restrain myself and admire your strength later. Come on." They made it to his door. No one was around, and the hallway was pitch-black except for the light from his trusty flashlight. Taking out his key card, he looked down into her face. She was watching him with an unreadable expression. Slowly he reached out and stroked a finger over her cheek, her jaw. "Are you sure?" "Already sorry you asked me?" "Are you kidding?" "Well then, I'm not sorry I'm here." She lifted a hand, too, and touched his face, ran her finger over his lower lip, over his jaw so that his day-old growth of beard rasped loudly in the silent hall. When she rimmed his ear, he sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle tight and tense. "Are we going to stand out here all night?" she asked. "Or go in and..." "And?" he pressed, stepping closer and running his fingers down her neck now, delighting in the shiver that wracked her. He stroked his thumb over the pulse dancing wildly at the base of her throat. "And finish this," she whispered, her eyes closing, her head falling back slightly to give him more room. "Let's finish what we started the moment we looked into each other's eyes. Okay?" "Oh yeah. It's more than okay." And with his body—and heart—buzzing, he put his key card in the slot. 3 THE ROOM SEEMED DARKER than the hallway. Dark but warm, and somehow inviting. Definitely their safe haven from the storm. Corrine stepped into the room and moved silently to the window. Pulling back the shades didn't let more light into the room. The blurry window was streaming with rain and sleet, but this high up, with the windows sealed, the night and the storm were eerily silent. She could barely make out the city below, and it was easy to believe they were anywhere, anywhere in the world, all alone. He came up behind her, not touching, just...there. "I'm not married," he said. "Or attached." When she craned her neck and looked at him, he gave a little smile. "I know, you don't want to talk about yourself, and you don't want to talk about me, either, but I just wanted you to know that." She had a hard time imagining this man without companionship. "You're unattached?" He shrugged. "I see women. Nothing serious has come my way. Not yet, anyway." She was selfishly relieved. She'd never been married, and hadn't been attached in so long she'd almost forgotten what it was like. Oddly enough, given such a lack of romance, Corrine's life was made up of men. But even being with men on a daily basis, she'd never been more aware of one in her life than she was right now. She felt surrounded by him, her perfect stranger, and she shivered again, though it had nothing to do with fear or intimidation or cold, everything to do with stark, demanding need. If that need hadn't been so strong, so undeniable, so utterly reciprocated, she would have died of embarrassment, because Corrine Atkinson didn't need anyone, never had. But it was strong, it was undeniable and it was most definitely reciprocated. "I'm not married or attached, either," she said, turning toward him. "If nothing else, you deserve to know that." His smile was slow and nearly stopped her heart. "Good," he said. More lightning flashed, but the thunder was muted, almost as if it was happening in another time and place. "I love to watch a storm," she said, suddenly nervous enough to let him in, just a little. "Especially at night." "It's different at night," he agreed. "More intense. When you can't see, the other senses kick in, so you feel it more." Exactly. He understood. Which caused even more nervousness. "My mother hates this weather. It messes with her hair." Where had that come from? Corrine never shared herself, any part, including her family. To share meant opening up, and that wasn't her way. Before she could cover up that slip with a light joke, he stroked her hair. "It only makes yours all the more beautiful." Uncomfortable with compliments, she lifted a hand to the long, tangled mess, which had gone wild the moment she'd stepped out of the cab. "I love the curls," he said, and stroked it again. She felt the touch to the tips of her toes. "I usually keep it confined." Another personal fact, damn it. Her hair was one of those things about herself that she'd change if she could, like webbed feet or short, fat fingers. "I leave it long because I can pin it back. If I cut it short I look like a mop." He laughed. Good Lord, who'd given her tongue permission to run off with her mouth? "It's so soft." He tucked a particularly wayward curl behind her ear, his fingers tracing down along her jaw. She could no longer breathe. His hand danced down her throat to the lapels of his jacket, which he drew more tightly together. He thought she was cold. The gentleness of this man floored her, along with his size and shape and his utterly confident masculine air. "I can sleep on the floor," he said quietly, and the tenderness in his voice, combined with the careful way he was touching her, nearly did her in. "No, I—" He put a hand to his chest. "I wanted you here more than I wanted my next breath, but now that you are here, I don't want to rush you." She stared at his hand, but that wasn't what drew her eyes, not really. It was his chest, which was broad, muscled and calling for her hands. She tried to remember the last time she'd been drawn to a man, but couldn't. She saw attractive men all the time, and not one of them had ever sparked an interest in her. This man wasn't causing just a spark, he'd started a full-blown wildfire, and it wasn't simply his physical beauty, though that was nothing to sneeze at. It wasn't his smile, though that alone had been enough to set her hormones raging. There was just something about him, so big and tough, yet so... gentle. He'd probably laugh at that, or maybe get embarrassed. And yet again, maybe not; he seemed to be a man embarrassed by very little. "You're not rushing me," she finally said. He flashed his smile, then set his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from him again. In what started out as a light, sexy touch, he kneaded, then found the knot of tension at the base of her neck that she was rarely without these days. With a rough sound of empathy, he dug in. She nearly melted to the floor, unable to contain her soft moan of pleasure as his fingers unerringly zeroed in on the place she needed them most. "Mmm, you're so tight. Try to relax a bit." He smoothed the muscles al the way down her arms and out toward her fingertips, then started again at her neck. He did that, over and over, with infinite patience, until she had to grip the windowsil to keep from sliding to the floor in a boneless heap of massive gratification. "Better?" "If it gets any better," she said, "I just might explode." "Promise?" As if rendering a woman completely out of control was an everyday occurrence for him, he laughed huskily when she let out another helpless little moan. And it well might be for him, but not for her. Certainly not for her. When was the last time she'd had sex? She tried to remember, but his fingers were working their magic and now she could feel his chest, his thighs, brushing her back and legs, making her even weaker. "It's very late," she said. His fingers stilled, then he carefully stepped back. "Yes, it is. You'l want to go to sleep." She turned to him, her heart in her throat. "I think maybe this is worth being tired for." He'd been wearing a solemn expression, but now she saw what he'd been hiding behind that in case she turned him down. Stark desire and need, even fear—everything she was feeling was in his gaze, and there was no way she could resist it, no way she wanted to. She'd given herself this night, and she wasn't going to take it back now. But even in their anonymity, there was something they had to discuss. "I don't have any protection." She actually blushed; she hadn't done that since grade school. "I wasn't., .expecting this." His smile was sweet and self-deprecatory. "Neither was I. I'm just hoping that in my shaving kit I still have... Hold on." He vanished into the bathroom, and she saw the quick small flash of his penlight. Then he was back, relief shining in his strong features as he held up two condoms. "Two." She went a little weak in the knees. "Well..." She was actually breathless. "It's rumored two of anything is better than one, right?" He let out a low laugh, then his mouth brushed her cheek. She turned toward him. Their lips connected once, then again, making her sigh. "You taste just the way you smel," she murmured, not realy meaning to say it out loud. "Like heaven." A sound escaped him, one that might have been humor mixed in with hunger, and slowly, slowly, he eased his jacket off her shoulders before drawing her close and moving her against him. She nearly died of delight right then and there, because his body was large and hard and so thriling she tipped her head back and wordlessly asked him to kiss her again. He did, but she needed more. She had since she'd first set eyes on him, and it wasn't entirely loneliness now, but a hunger she'd never experienced before. Cupping her face, he continued to kiss her, more deeply now, touching her as if she were special, precious. Feminine. She wanted to be al those things to a man, this man, if only for a night. He fascinated her. He was beautiful and physical. He was dangerous, ifonly to her mental health. And he was hard and aroused, for her. Perfect. She wrapped her arms around his neck at the same time he caught her up against him. His mouth was firm, demanding in a quiet way that reminded her of his voice. But he didn't press her for more than that simple connection of their mouths, and she realized that he wouldn't. If she wanted more, which she most definitely did, she would have to take it. It wasn't that he didn't want her in turn; she could feel that he did, could feel the satisfying bulge between his powerful thighs. And his restraint made her want him all the more. Later she would wonder what had come over her during that dark, stormy night, but for now, safe in his warm, strong, giving arms, there seemed no better way to satisfy the emptiness deep inside her. "More," she said, sinking her fingers into his hair, lifting his head to look deeply into his melting brown eyes. "More," he promised. Still holding her, he turned toward the bed. She felt a moment's hesitation when he laid her on the sheets, but then he pulled off his clothes. Oh, how she wished there was light. But when he set a knee on the bed,
then crawled toward her, she was able to catch sight of his incredible body and forgot everything else. His chest was broad, tapered down to a flat belly that she itched to touch. His thighs were long, taut with strength, and between them, he was hard and heavy. Fully aroused. He was a stranger, so that nothing about any part of him was familiar, yet she lifted her arms and welcomed him closer as if they'd known each other forever. His mouth took hers, more hungrily this time, and his hunger fueled hers. As if it needed fueling! The heat spread, and when he undid her blouse, and then her bra, gliding both off her shoulders, she found herself panting, her hips already pressing insistently toward his. He excited her beyond belief, and if she could think, which she definitely couldn't, she might have been horrified at her lack of control. And yet it never occurred to her to stop him, not then, and not when he slid the rest of her clothes off and his condom on. Not when he cupped her face in his big hands and kissed her, deep and wet and long. And certainly not when he touched her first with his eyes, then his fingers, then his mouth, and then finally, oh finally, sank into her. Outside, the storm continued to rage, while inside one of not such a different nature took its course, as well. Reality had little chance, between the flashes of lightning and the flashes of bare, naked hunger. The friction of his thrusts and the greed of her own body shattered her. It might have been terrifying, how far he lifted her out of herself, if he hadn't been right there with her. She was still in the throes of a shockingly powerful orgasm—her third!—when he buried his face in her hair and found his own release. MORNING WAS BOUND TO COME, Corrine knew, but damn it, did it have to arrive so soon? Bright orange-and-yellow rays of sunlight filtered through the crack in the curtains, casting an almost surreal light in the room, assuring her that the storm had passed. Definitely, morning. And with it, responsibilities. Damn. She lay in the embrace of her perfect stranger. They were both deliciously, gloriously naked, pressed skin to skin, heat to heat. For an indulgent moment she just looked at him as he slept on, at all his masculine beauty, wondering at the hard, leanly muscled body that had brought her to paradise and back so many times in the night. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed, his chest rising and falling evenly. His firm mouth brought back memories of what he could do with it, and made her body tingle all over. His lashes were dark, long and thick, resting against his strong cheekbone. His jaw had darkened with stubble, the same stubble that had rasped so satisfyingly over her skin all night long. He was curled around her, one arm gallantly being used as her pillow, the other tightly anchoring her to him. His fingers cradled her breast possessively. From this angle, she couldn't see much below his waist, but she could feel him pressed to her, every delicious, rock-hard inch of him. She sighed with pleasure. He was amazingly tough, strong, hard in all the right places, and so beautiful it almost hurt. Just looking at him made her heart contract. He was someone she could have allowed herself to care for, if she ever allowed such things. But she couldn't, at least not now, not with her all-consuming mission coming up. Some other time, perhaps... Though she knew that was a lie. She'd always told herself that someday she'd allow Prince Charming into her life, but the tuning was never right. But damn it, when? When would it be right? Her heart constricted again, but she ignored it. In her not-so-humble opinion, she had it all, the way her life was right at this moment. She had great parents who supported her incredibly busy lifestyle, and she had the best job in the world. True, she didn't have her own family, not a husband or children, but she didn't have time for that. She did have needs, like any other normal, red-blooded woman, but those needs were easilymet. When she felt the occasional itch, she went out and got it scratched. Carefuly, of course, but she wasn't shy. Just like last night. And now she would go on with her life. Content. Happy. Fulfilled. Just as she wanted to. So why, then, didn't she extract herself? Why did she lie there panting after a man who should have been out of her system by dawn's first light? She couldn't say for certain, but reflecting on the matter would have to come another time. She had to go. Slipping out from beneath his arm wasn't easy, but she was a master at stealth. Still, she couldn't help thinking If he wakes up now, it's fate. No way could she look into those warm, inviting eyes and walk away. Especially if he flashed that equally warm, inviting smile and reached for her, which she imagined him doing, then imagined her own open-armed response... He didn't budge. Tempting fate, she leaned in close, softly kissed his cheek. I'll never forget you. For a moment she stood by the bed, yearning and longing for something she couldn't put a name to. But even if she could, it was no use. She was simply no good at matters of the heart. Dressing quickly and quietly, she hesitated one last time at the door. Then, picking up her bag, she finally left, knowing she had no choice. No choice at all. 4 AS ALWAYS, Mike slept like the dead and awoke by degrees. It was a great fault of his, being so slow to shake sleep. Over the years he'd gotten both ribbed about it and in real trouble, not the least of which was the time he'd slept through his first "SIM"—space shuttle simulation pilot test. He'd been in Russia, and had just battled a week-long flu, which he'd kept silent about so as not to have to give up the chance. The test had been agonizingly long, and his "landing" required a predawn wakeup. Thanks to his cold medications, he hadn't made it, and as a result, the autopilot had kicked in for the simulated event, "demolishing" the entire landing strip and center, "killing" over one hundred people. That particular mishap had caused him years of jokes at his expense, not to mention requiring some serious kissing up. He'd practically had to beg to be kept in the program. And now, when he finally managed to crack his eyes open, and saw the bright sunlight pouring in through the hotel window, he knew before reaching out that he was alone. Still he stretched, touching her side of the pillow they'd shared when they hadn't been rolling, tangled and heated and breathless, across the sheets. It was cold. She'd been gone for a while then, and he had no one to blame but himself for the odd mixture of real regret and not so real relief. As he rose and showered, Mike reminded himself that he had no time in his life for any serious entanglements. Having to fill in for this mission as pilot, when the mission had been in the planning stages for so long, meant he had months of catching up to do. He knew better than to think it would be a piece of cake. It was going to take every single second of every single day until launch to pull this off. First, he had to get through the initial process of inserting himself into an already established team. They were in Huntsville to immerse themselves in this critical project. In a week, they'd move on to Houston, where they would stay until launch time, with occasional trips back and forth to Kennedy Space Center in Florida. He was looking at a whirlwind of activity. Which meant this was not the time to be considering a personal attachment. That was actually a good thing, as he'd never wanted a personal attachment. But last night, what he'd shared with that woman.. .now that could have been the first time he might have actually paused and considered anything close to a relationship. But she was gone, and he had to work, so it was over. Which didn't explain why after his shower he stood staring down at the rumpled bed, yearning and burning for something just out of his reach. He dressed and ate as if it was just any other morning, and everything was normal. Same old, same old. But it wasn't. He wasn't. He knew he had last night to thank for that. He'd known from the moment she'd set foot in that bar, soaking wet, head high and eyes bright, that she was going to shake things up. She'd done that and more; she'd shaken him to the core. He tried not to think about that, and also about what he could have felt for her, under different circumstances. How could that happen, he wondered, after only a little conversation and some good sex? Okay, great sex. Regardless, it wasn't like him to be mooning on the morning after. He'd always been the one running. But she'd left him, without a word or note, and he would have sworn that's exactly what he wanted. So why was he entertaining other thoughts, about things like relationships and family and white picket fences? He had missions to fly and hopefully someday command. A wife and kids sounded nice, but for far, far, far down the road. Not now. At 0900 hours on the dot, he entered the Marshall Flight Center. He expected to leap right into work, expected to be whisked into the whole rush of it immediately. He didn't expect a conference room filled with smiling people and good food—usually an oxymoron when it came to government-provided meals. Though he'd spent very little time in the United States since his Air Force days, many of the people milling around were familiar to him. The space industry was like that—very incestuous. Even during the Cold War, when politicians from one country wouldn't speak to, or even recognize, politicians from another, science had managed to remain universal. As countries, Russia and the United States might have ignored each other for years, but their scientists hadn't. They'd been sharing the designing and planning of expeditions and experiments since the very beginning, and nothing had changed since. Few people on the outside realized how closely Russia, Japan, the United States and many other countries were working together to build the International Space Station, and even now, just thinking about it made Mike's chest swell with pride at being a part of it. "Welcome, Mike!" He found his hand being energetically pumped by Tom Banks, an old astronaut training buddy who now worked in ground control. Mike was surprised to see Tom had lost some hair and gained some weight since those training days. "I heard the good news!" Tom was grinning. "You're back in the States, filling in for Patrick." His smile faded. "Poor guy. Can't believe he biffed it so badly parachuting. Sporting three pins in his leg, did you hear?" "Ouch." Mike wondered exactly how selfish it was of him to be grateful for the miracle of that mishap, and also the fact that the backup pilot had contracted hepatitis. Probably pretty damn selfish. But he'd been training for exactly this opportunity for years. He'd been in space twice before and couldn't wait to get back up there. So far, all he knew was that the mission would carry and install the third of eight sets of solar arrays that, at the completion of construction in 2006, would comprise the space station's electrical power system, converting sunlight to usable energy. It was a project he was intimately familiar with, as he'd been working on it in Russia for years. "How is it all going?" "It's going," Tom said, nodding. "They're thrilled to have you, as your reputation precedes you." That, Mike knew, could be good or bad. "Hey, heard about last year," Tom said. "How you limped back after the payload fire midflight." Limped. Kind word for nearly losing it, as in crashing back to earth, becoming fish food, biting the big one. Thanks to some quick thinking on Mike's part—and he was convinced anyone on that team could have done the same, he'd just gotten there first—he'd managed to contain the fire and put it out before it destroyed them beyond repair. "I don't care to repeat that experience," he said in grand understatement. "You were a lucky bastard, that's for certain. All of you." "Have you met your team?" Tom turned to the two men who'd just come up to them. "Mike Wright, meet Jimmy Westmoreland, Mission Specialist-One. And Frank Smothers, Mission Specialist-Two." As it turned out, Mike had met both men before. They'd come to Russia several years back to study some of the communications equipment for the space station in its planning stages, so it was more of a reunion than anything else. A few moments later he was introduced to Stephen Philips, the fifth member of the team and their payload specialist. "You've met everyone now," Tom said. "Not bad for your first ten minutes here." "I haven't met the commander." Oddly enough, Mike felt his first flash of...not apprehension; that was far too strong a word for a man who felt so utterly comfortable in his world. But just as the space industry was notorious for its smal population of overeducated overachievers, it was also notorious for its big egos, and no one, absolutely no one, made it to commander status without a significant sense of self-importance. Added to that was yet another problem. This commander was a woman. Everyone knew Mike loved women. He cherished them, dreamed about them, wanted them, enjoyed them. Take last night, for example. But working for a woman? As in, directly beneath one? He didn't want to think of himself as biased or sexist, but honest to God, he couldn't imagine why a woman would want to be commander of the space shuttle, he just couldn't. It took strength, a tough-as-nails demeanor and, well, balls. "Corrine Atkinson?" Stephen craned his neck, as did Tom and the others. Unlike Tom, Frank, Jimmy and Stephen were of average height or taller, and leanly muscular. They wore the short, short buzz cut that screamed military, and all of them had the look of tough, rigidly controlled, well-trained athletes. Unfortunately, astronauts on the whole were not nearly as serious-minded as their reputation might lead the general public to believe. In fact, for the most part they were great pranksters and troublemakers, not one of these guys being an exception. "The commander is here somewhere," Stephen assured Mike. "She just came in from Houston." "She flew in to meet you, in fact," Frank said, far too innocently. He ruined it by grinning. "Don't worry. We told her all about you." Jimmy joined in with his own evil grin. "Yeah. We started with that time we came to Russia and you brought us to that party, remember?" God help him, he did. "And those women jumped out of a cake," Jimmy added, though Mike already knew the rest. "They were some great lookers," Frank said. "But then we found out they were prostitutes. You tried to send them home, Mike, remember? They didn't have a ride, so we offered to give them one—" Mike groaned at the recounting of the bachelor party for one of his comrades. "Tell me you didn't tell her this." "Oh, yes. We did. She especially liked the next part."