MELTDOWN

Available 2008 from
The Wild Rose Press

MELTDOWN - Chapter One

Evan Jorgenson had been pretending to see ghosts since kindergarten, something his friends, family and teachers had found amusing. Then came the war, and he no longer pretended. He'd met the real thing. Actively searching for one meant he'd crossed the line into certifiably insane territory. Then again, some risks were worth taking. As he ventured inside Roomers night club, the back of his neck chilled, but he wiped sweat from his brow, a sensation he'd lived with since returning from Iraq, ten months earlier. Memories of the last tour clawed at his conscious like an Adirondack black bear defending her young. Anxious to put the war behind him, he'd resumed his position with the New York State Police, specializing in search and rescue training. The current exercise had brought him from his home base in Syracuse, New York, to the cool, rugged mountain ranges of Lake Placid, where his trainees had practiced six weeks of grueling mountain-range rescues. Now with their training completed, his men were ready for a different kind of action, and Roomers was the place to pick up hot chicks. Having avoided the bar scene since his return from duty, he'd made tonight an exception and joined his men.

Tonight, he searched for a ghost from his past.

Surveying the crowd, he apologized to the men that trailed behind him. "Crowded," he said gruffly, wanting to add, "the unseasonably warm weather had brought tons of tourists to view the changing leaves," but his throat had constricted.

The trainees shrugged and headed for the bar. After six weeks, his men had picked up his habit of minimal talk. Hiding inside four sweltering, bombed out stonewalls, the silence broken only by hovering insects, made a man talk more to himself. It had taken him weeks to form sentences in order to discuss his final raid with his commanding officers in Qatar. At least his operation had succeeded, requiring fewer answers, unlike other groups unfairly scrutinized by superiors or the media.

Hanging behind, he slumped into an open chair, his back against the wall, with a view of the entire room. Measuring the space, he stretched out his legs, marking his territory. An overhead speaker cranked music so loud it thumped uncomfortably in his gut--the only part of his insides that could beat--but he held his position. A stream of people entered, their whispering voices mimicking static discharge in the air. A deep breath shuddered out of him. Feigning normalcy, he scoped the room.

He began by counting heads of his men, until all were accounted for. Then he watched one of his young trainees make a move on a sexy brunette. She laughed at something he said, tapped his chin, toying with him. After she'd teased him good, she wandered away. The guy trailed behind her like an obedient leashed puppy. Aams knows all about mountain rescues, but is green about women, he thought. The way they could tie up your insides tighter than a tourniquet, or leave you to bleed out until nothing human remained inside.

All but one woman.

The one he thought he'd seen on the summit of Mount Jo this morning. 'Course, it couldn't have been her. He'd heard she'd made a new life for herself in California. A hallucination, probably from heatstroke, must have caused him to envision her checking the view from Lake Placid's smallest mountain's summit. Mirage or hallucination, another habit leftover from the war, but regardless, one he hadn't wanted to change. Dreaming about touching her all over had kept him sane on those black, bone-chilling desert nights. Imagining her drifting across the hot desert sands had saved him from running into a Taliban patrol. On the longest day of his life, while burning with fever, he recalled her cool touch and came out of his coma.

If she were in Lake Placid, she'd check out her favorite hangout.

"Did you see that?" someone barked from the bar.

A row of guys, mostly his men, swiveled on their barstools to gawk at a petite redhead in a short, tight skirt, approaching the pool table. The woman jiggled her breasts to emphasizing she was braless. Rolling his eyes, he turned to talk to his top young trainee, Tony Garibaldi, who held a draft beer to his open mouth, starring slack-jawed. After a slap on the back of the head, Tony unfroze and pointed with both hands. "What? The chick's advertising, Ev."

He humored Tony and assessed the action at the pool table.

Tapping a long pink fingernail on the end of the pool stick, she circled the balls on the table, ready to spring into action at her command. Meanwhile, guys were adding quarters to the rail, stacking a pile higher than Whiteface. There was a time when he'd have been the first in line to teach her how to play pocket-ball, but nowadays, feeling everyone of his thirty-three years multiplied by two, he'd rather be settled in front of a banked cabin-fire, finishing Dean Koontz's latest suspense. Deciding her shot, and satisfied every guy was watching, she bent over the table.

As expected, she'd gone commando.

Tony groaned and turned to Evan. "Jeez. Ya know it wouldn't kill ya to smile. We've been dragging hundred-pound dummies across these mountains for weeks. About time we had some fun."

"You don't call rappelling one-hundred feet fun?" Evan said, tipping the waitress for his Molson's.

"Falling down mountainsides is your kinda fun, not mine. You nearly killed us on Wolf's Head Pass. I can barely lift up my arms after yesterday's final drill." Tony had no problem lifting his arm and slapping him on his sore shoulder. "I can't wait to get back to Syracuse, where black flies aren't trying to eat me to the bone."

Evan had bit back a yelp, and fought the urge to rub the pain. He slouched further into his chair before answering. "A hundred pounds is nothing. Wait until you get a hundred-and-eighty pound hiker." Or have to carry a fellow wounded soldier miles for help ... that kid was barely out of high school. The kid's distorted face still haunted his dreams.

Moans from the spectators--especially Tony--followed, but Evan ignored them and closed his eyes, wanting to forget the pain of war. The image of another woman appeared, with bright green eyes, the color of Adirondack ferns that lined every forest trail, and hair as yellow as the mountain butterflies that played tag around them. Recalling her sultry tone and vibrant laugh had soothed his soul after a long day eating powdered sand in temperatures hotter than a blast furnace. He'd replayed that voice so many times he'd imagined conversations with her.

For three years he'd fought for his life, waiting for the day he'd see her again. Hear her say his name. Touch her soft skin. Feel her body surrendering beneath his.

One ambush, and an IED had changed everything.

Easy, he told himself. Bitterness never had been part of his code. He ordered his shoulders to relax, lessening some of the twisting pain. A restless trigger finger absently scratched off his beer label. The other hand twitched, still lost without a rifle belly to hold.

Quiet times had meant trouble.

Sitting up straighter, he rescanned the room, creating a mental map. More people crammed into the bar, and the long rectangular room had become hazy. Headless bodies emerged.

He rechecked the area. The barroom chatter had changed to a persistent hum. He listened for the sound of truck engines or commands in Arabic, held his breath and strained to hear footsteps scuffing over stones. After years of practice, he'd learned to dampen the roar of blood rushing in his ears. The enemy seemed psychic, knowing the exact moment you let down your guard. Some of his men were missing.

Black and white spots exploded before his eyes. Forgetting to breath, he gasped for air, then more. His breathing sped up past the point of catching it. He had to talk himself down before cramps made him immobile, easier prey for the enemy. Under the table, trembling hands barely opened and closed. He needed to focus on something to slow his breathing, had to hurry. He spied the something silver on the table. Focusing on it, he concentrated on each breath until his breathing slowed.

After a few more deep breaths, he'd be ready to fire a few rounds and escape to higher ground. His finger squeezed a phantom trigger. He thought he heard the ping of a rifle shot, only to discover his beer bottle rolling across the wooden table. Peeled silver pieces from the label floated on top of the spilled beer, winking like diamonds ready to set in an engagement ring. On the bottle, the remaining label resembled a jagged, silver heart.

Low whistles and chuckles all around him brought him back to the present. The redhead had retrieved the cue ball from a nearby garbage pail, and queerly eyed Tony. Leaning on his pool stick, Tony hunched his shoulders, in obvious embarrassment.

Evan's arms fell limply by his sides. Heat poured off his face and neck. His hands trembled, and he had the urge to throw up. He glanced around the room. Fortunately, no one stared at him. The back of his shirt felt damp, and perspiration clung to his forehead. His lips were parched, but no beverage would quench this thirst. Months ago, these bouts had ceased, at least in public. Alone at night, sometimes it had taken hours to fall asleep. Other nights, he'd lain awake. Remembering.

He'd been in the mountain too long, that's all. He'd feel better once he was back in Syracuse, where the populated terrain hadn't reminded him of combat.

"Good shot, man," Winger, one of the other trainees, shouted to Tony.

Unused muscles tugged the corners of his mouth, but a smile never formed. His hands still shook. Restless eyes continued their inspection of the room, crammed with people who were certain of what continent they were on.

No sign of his ghost, he thought, gazing across the dance floor. Time to call it a night, until his gaze stopped on a pair of long, tanned legs. Shapely, with the right amount of muscle tone in the calves and thighs, and the perfect length to hug around a man's waist. He absently scratched the back of his hand.

"Got an itch? This place is filled with beautiful women, Ev. Pick one." Tony had come back for his abandoned beer, all smiles for someone who lost a pool game to a girl. "I'm out. Want another brew?"

Evan pulled a bill from his wallet, but his gaze never left the legs. They moved slowly, swayed and turned, as if she modeled for him. Other females out prowling tonight wore either high heels or some trendy boot. Not her. Flip-flops.

When the legs stopped moving, his eyes traveled up their length to a tiny waist and generous breasts, where he paused to look his fill. Arms that were crossed underneath her breast came apart and fell fisted at her sides, as if frustrated about something. He'd spied other details, the color of her top, length of her skirt, that she didn't wear a watch. Attention to details had kept him alive more than once. The tingly sensation that had begun on his hands raced up his arms. It had been a long time since he had this itch.

His teeth grated together as the sound of metal sliding over metal kicked above his head. The veil of haze began to lift, revealing her. He knew that lithesome body; had memorized it upon first sight.

She looked in his direction. Another dream? Or was he lying in some Iraqi prison, awaiting torture, or strapped to a gurney in hospital, left for dead?

When those gorgeous eyes widened in recognition, a fist of lust punched him squarely in the gut.

Cassie.

No ghost. The real woman stood several paces away. Their gazes merged for several heartbeats. Sparks from her eyes torched the air between them. Angry he'd left her? Definitely. Because she still cared? God, he hoped so.

He stood up, feeling a pull stronger than any whitewater current, but his feet were immovable, like he'd sunk in quicksand. Prickles roamed his arms in warning, partly because four years ago after her divorce from Jake, he'd convinced himself she'd be happier if he'd kept his distance. The war had started. As an officer in the National Guard, he'd be re-commissioned to Iraq. All he longed to tell her no longer mattered. Odds favored he'd return in a flag-draped coffin.

He had nothing to offer her.

But she came to him the night before deployment, full of fears, arguing he'd gone crazy, ordering him to be safe. Wanting to make love.

For once, he had a reason for living.

When he'd returned to Syracuse, he'd learned she'd gone to L.A. with her daughter to sell real estate. Maybe become a movie star. She didn't resemble a starlet in those flip-flops, unless the word stretched across her T-shirt, Juicy, advertised a movie.

His itchy skin intensified. Hopefully he packed Benadryl in the first-aid kit. But, what had brought her to Lake Placid?

Engrossed in a conversation with another woman, she paused to glance his way again.

His skin burned like toast.

Damn. He wiped his brows and cleared the itch from his throat. The walls of the room shrank the longer he stared at her. Soon, darkness would arrive.

Time to greet his ghost.

Before he could step in Cassie's direction, the horny redhead hit on him. A full-body attack. She pressed her fake breasts up against him, rubbed his forearms, squeezed his biceps like she owned him, and whispered the usual in his ear. She smelled lemony, like furniture polish, but he didn't have the heart to turn her down in front of a bar full of guys, so he put her number in his wallet to toss away later.

Tony charged through the crowd. Evan expected him to ask for the redhead's number. Instead, Tony gawked at Cassie. "Hey, will you look at that? Where'd she come from? I saw her on Mount Jo today. She's hot!" Tony's voice had gone up an octave.

"She's been here."

He added a shrug, trying to act cool while burning at the stake. The same intense heat he'd experienced on Mount Jo that morning. Reaching the summit, his eyes had flitted across a familiar scene: treetops that looked like wads of orange and yellow paper carelessly thrown on a floor, purple mountain ranges framing the colors, and that odd little lake, considered heart-shaped. People looked for romance in the oddest places. A puddle of water compared to Lake Champlain, the little, misshaped, Heart Lake, had received more attention. Cassie's image had appeared in a beam of sunlight, more mirage than real.

Tony wolf-whistled. "Now, she's worth meeting. I got some great pictures of her this morning. Ya think she's a supermodel? Picture her in a teddy."

He stepped in front of Tony. Undaunted, Tony craned his neck. "Here's your brew, Ev. See ya tomorrow."

Biting back a growl, Evan clamped a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Wait." Tony's head snapped around. With lips pursed to whistle again, Tony's puzzled squint looked comical.

"Listen, I know her." Evan grimaced as he spoke the next words. "She's Jake's ex."

"Great. Gimme an intro, then get lost," Tony replied.

"She's not like that."

Tony's smile read like a Vegas ad. Arguing with Tony never worked.

No matter. Cassie could handle Tony.

* * * * *

After finding every stray tree root and slippery stone hiking up Mount Jo this morning, maneuvering through the crowded bar worsened Cassie Hamilton's sore ankle. "I think I'll head back to the motel room."

"Relax. I've been watching three kids and their friends twenty-four seven, and I deserve a little fun. I may not go back to the motel until sunup," proclaimed Karen Walters. She flashed a huge, toothy smile while munching on a lime twist.

Pains pinched Cassie's chest. It hurt to hear Karen talk about her three children. She swallowed a moan and forced her voice to sound normal. "You can stay and have fun. I have to get off this ankle."

Karen took a sip of her gin and tonic, tilted her head and studied her over the rim of the glass. "If you'd stopped pacing, it wouldn't hurt so much. What are you so nervous about?"

Cassie halted. She'd been jittery all week, but hadn't told Karen. At work, her spine had felt tingly, like something possessed it. She couldn't shake the creepy feeling that she was being watched, even while hiking up Mount Jo. Certain someone watched her now, she checked around the room. "I'm not nervous. I don't know how you talked me into climbing a mountain to view turning leaves that I can see in my own backyard," she declared while shifting to hide behind Karen.

Karen set her drink on a table. "It's the smallest mountain in Lake Placid, only two-thousand feet. The view at the top was breathtaking today, wasn't it?" As Karen sighed, she eyed a row of guys standing at the bar. One waved to her. She giggled and waved back.

"Remember, you're happily married," said Cassie. An unnecessary warning. Unlike hers, Karen's marriage had that rare chemistry that would last forever.

"I'm having a little fun. You're the one who is free to do more than flirt. Take your pick. A lot of mountain men are here, like my Karl. You know they make the best husbands."

Karen's wink made Cassie more anxious. "I don't want a mountain man, or any man right now." Karen rolled her eyes, linked their elbows. "There's a bunch of cute guys at the bar that claim they're here for rescue training. We can get them to buy us drinks. You can tell them about your sweet shop, and make them drool with talk of your sinful chocolates."

"No." Cassie dug her flip-flops into the floor, abruptly halting both of them.

Karen's forehead folded with concern. "No harm in talking. Call it drumming up business."

Although she'd enjoyed seeing Lake Placid in the fall, she regretted closing her business for the getaway weekend. If it weren't for the catering contract with the large deposit, she'd never have accepted Karen's offer to escape her troubles for one weekend.

"I'd rather go back to the room, where it's safe." She tried to march around Karen, but her flip-flops had found a sticky spot on the floor, preventing a quick retreat.

"Safe? What are you afraid of? There may be some worry lines around your eyes, sweetie, but you still look eighteen." Worry lines formed brackets around Karen's eyes. Karen had been the only person she could turn to when she'd returned from L.A.

"I feel eighty after Mount Jo," she joked, trying to ease Karen's alarm. No matter how traditional, she wished she had ignored Karen's suggestion of a quick drink at Roomers after dinner at Charlie's Restaurant. These day, when not experimenting on a new chocolate recipe, her favorite way to spend an evening had been soaking in a scented-oil bath. Lord knew her sore ankle needed soaking badly.

Cassie unlinked their arms. "I'm heading back."

Rummaging through her purse for her room key, her knuckles scrapped the edge of her keychain. Fingers hugged the rectangular plastic photo, but offered little comfort. What was Heather doing now? Maybe playing with S'mores, her new calico kitten? Or reading one of the dozens of Beatrix Potter's books she'd bought her?

"Suit yourself." Karen lifted her hands to shoo her away, then stopped mid-wave. "Oh, my God!" Karen's eyes popped out of her head.

Cassie looked over her shoulder. "What? What is it?" She bit back a groan. Turning too quickly on her bad ankle shot pains up her leg.

"I think I see Evan. Over there, by the pool table." Karen pointed to a light beaming through the smoky haze.

A large man rose from his chair. "Evan Jorgenson?" She whispered. With that telltale gilded blond hair and height, it could be him.

"You remember Evan!" Karen exclaimed. "I wonder what he's doing here?" Cassie peeked again.

Evan.

He stared boldly at her. Her traitorous heart tripped, the way it always had when he stared at her. He looked great. Thank God the war hadn't marred him.

Shamefully, after four years, she still wanted to run to him. When she'd closed her eyes at night, she'd easily summoned his face. Butterflies danced in her stomach every time she thought about him touching her intimately. Imagining dragons swallowing those butterflies helped get her through those long, lonely nights in L.A., and eventually dried her tears.

Without her dragons, she turned away. "I don't see him."

Karen swung her head from side-to-side, trying to see around, then gave up and nudged her gently aside. A huge, satisfied smile formed on her face. "Oh yeah. It's him. Wow. They don't make 'em like that anymore."

"Yeah. It's him," she admitted, peering over her shoulder. God, he looked so good. Where are those lizards?

"He's staring at you." Karen still whispered like they were in front of their high school lockers, sharing secrets. "Why don't you go over and say hi?"

Soon as a dragon or two wakes up, she wanted to reply. Like an unquenchable thirst she drank in the sight of him. By now, she'd expected to run into him in Syracuse. Jake would've told him she was back. Deciding to make the first move, she took a step in his direction.

A scantily dressed redhead approached him. Pain stabbed her chest so hard she trembled from the force. Her hands fisted. "He looks busy. Besides, he's a player."

Karen pinched her arm. "So, go play."

"Get whatever you're thinking out of your mind," Cassie growled, and rubbed the pinch, although it hadn't hurt.

Karen stared at her until she squirmed. "Divorced doesn't mean you're dead, honey." "Karen—"

"You can't pass up this opportunity. Wasn't he always nice to you?" This time Karen cuffed her on the backside in Evan's direction.

Luckily, her flip-flops had permanently fused to the sticky floor. She'd never confided to Karen her momentary lapse of reason that night. Some secrets were better off not shared with a best friend.

The bimbo still engaged Evan, smoothing her hands all over his muscular chest as she talked. Cassie knew how that chest looked under his shirt, muscular and tanned, with soft golden hair, a shade darker than on his head. She knew his legs and taut abs, and the feel of those strong arms clutching her as if the world were ending.

Her breath hitched and burned in the back of her throat. A ventilation unit roared to life overhead. It sucked up the air surrounding her. She feigned a cough in order to wipe the beads of moisture from above her lip, and pathetically continued to watch.

His hands stayed in his pockets as he grinned at something the bimbo said. Her fake breasts jiggled across his chest and stubby hands clung to his biceps, like she had the right. Then on tiptoes, the skank whispered something in his ear, and handed him a piece of paper.

Cassie's breath tasted hot, and she felt a bit seasick. "Did you see that? That's probably her phone number that he's putting in his wallet," she remarked to Karen between her heated lips. To his credit, Evan remained statue-still.

"Oh, what do you care? Once he sees you, he'll forget all about that slut," said Karen.

"Evan's the last person I'd encourage. I'm not going to be a number on someone's list." The lie set her cheeks on fire.

"I'd kill to be on his list, if I weren't already married to the greatest husband in the world." Karen looked regretful as she retrieved her purse and jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"To the bar to get a drink. I see Aaron and Gayle Lucas waving. You're on your own, sweetie. I'll see you later ... much later."

"Wait--" Cassie yelped.

She tried to follow, but only one flip-flop snapped off the floor. The other seemed nailed. She pivoted around on her good foot. Halfway across the room, the crowd shifted and Evan disappeared. She sighed, feeling a moment of relief--until he broke free. Dark eyes, sharper than any laser-sight, found and marked her. A tingle of excitement neutralized the seasick feeling. Thankfully, Karen encountered him next, buying her time to calm down. He grinned at something Karen said. Not about her. Karen knew how to play it cool. She even had Evan whispering something in her ear. She'd be bragging later.

Cassie glanced at the muck around her feet and remembered what she wore. Why had she let Karen talk her into this horrible outfit? Instead of her comfy shorts and loose top, the Juicy purple T-shirt was too tight, and the denim skirt with the tacky sequined belt, too short. Karen insisted she looked great. Cassie drew the line at the sexy heels Karen offered. The blue flip-flops stayed.

Evan gaze never left her as he chatted with Karen. The way he always looked at her. Intense. What she'd mistakenly interpreted as something more than lust.

Not one word in four years. Not one response from all my letters.

She squeezed her toes with all her might and snapped the other flip-flop off the floor, loud enough for a gangly young man playing darts to notice. He winked at her. If she didn't move, she'd be re-glued to the spot with dart man looking like he'd be happy to un-stick her, and Evan zooming in. She could run out of the bar barefoot.

At last, the muck turned slippery from her movement, and she managed to shift from the spot. She tried a few steps. Ouch! She stopped to lean against a barstool, taking pressure off her ankle. Behind her, someone giggled. It sounded like Heather's laugh. Tears pinched the backs of her eyes. She had to get out of there. She tested the ankle, but it ached so much that she doubted it would hold her weight. The pain was nothing compared to the permanent one in her heart.

The girl laughed again. When was the last time she'd laughed so boldly, or smiled so easily? Evan rarely smiled, but from the distance, she felt the heat of his stare. The first time he gave her a sexy half-smile, it felt like she'd spent hours in the sun. She used to pity the poor women who tried to resist his unforced charm. She closed her eyes to catch her breath. All she had to do was make it to the door, one step at a time.

Karen scooted aside. Evan resumed his march. Someone trailed him, a dark-haired man, at least a head shorter, deeply tanned, with shoulders almost as wide as Evan's.

Evan's gaze never left his prey. Her. At least the chill up her spine had disappeared. Swinging her hair over her shoulder, she exhaled through her nose, and then licked her lips. The absence of letters or phone calls from Iraq reminded her that night four years ago had meant little more than a hook-up. He probably never thought of her again.

Schooling her face, she thought of frozen chocolate Haagen-Dazs. She could handle Evan Jorgenson.

* * * * *

Evan stopped walking when close enough to sees the ring of amber fire in those unforgettable green eyes. He wiped his mouth in time to hide the breath he sucked in. For so long he'd imagined her, wearing swimsuits, teddies, even in jeans and T-shirt, but mostly naked. No memory or fantasy matched the flesh and blood woman. He wanted to run up to her, press her body against his, and kiss her senseless. Instead he tucked his hands in his pockets. "What brings you here?" He said, relieved he got the words out before his breath caught.

"I came to see the Flaming Leaves Festival," she stated flatly.

Chilly welcome, but at least she still looked him in the eyes. One eyebrow had lifted, impatient for his reply. Little did she know he was waiting for her to vanish into thin air. "All the way from L.A.?"

Her arms crossed. "No. From Syracuse. I've moved back."

"Why'd you leave? Too much sun, or stars?"

"Neither." Her eyes blazed like twin green fires.

While he struggled for words, someone bumped into her, causing her elbows to poke his chest. He felt the hit clear to his toes. Not a ghost. Say something. "Are you working or taking it easy?" he said, wishing he had an ounce of charm.

"Working."

"Your old job?"

"No."

"Something new?"

"Yes."

Christ, he sounded like an interrogator. Six weeks barking orders at his recruits hadn't help. That, and he tiptoed around a minefield of emotions. Judging by the amount of sweat rolling down his back, in minutes he'd be in scorching the floor.

Some communication expert. He'd never had this much trouble talking to suspects. Or terrorists. Why hadn't he pumped Karen for information? Everything about Cassie, from board-straight posture, to clipped speech and fiery gaze, said she was angry, and with good reason. When he'd arrived in Baghdad, he learned his covert mission prevented contact of any sort, even with the only family he had left. Orders prohibited even a message explaining there would be no communication of any sort. But on the worse day of his life, he was allowed to compose a letter to her. By the frosty reception, she never received it. Now wasn't the time to go into it.

Switch to a safer topic. "So, how's Heather?"

"Heather's as good as she's always been."

Did she wince? The corners of her mouth trembled, like she wanted to add more, but what? And were those sparks in her eyes, tears?

Her reply hung in the room's stagnant air. He wanted to question her further, but something warned him not to go there. He searched her face for an answer, but came up empty. "Glad to hear that."

She swallowed and swiped the corner of her eye before looking away.

Christ. He wanted so badly to hold her, but instead, set his hands on his hips, and drank in her profile. She deserved so much better.

Tony's breath scalded his neck. A well-aimed elbow in his ribs forced him to grunt out an intro. "Ahh ... this is a buddy, Tony Garibaldi."

At the mention of his name, Tony slithered in front of Evan. "Nice to meet you, Cassie. Are you familiar with the MRT program?"

Her head tilted. "I'm not sure. Are you a doctor?"

Yeah right, Evan thought. He couldn't stop another grunt from escaping. Besides sweating profusely, his pulse raced like some middle school adolescent in puberty, and his skin itched. It was like he caught the, "Cassie-flu," whenever she was near.

"No. MRT stands for Mobile Response Team. I finished my training here this week. I work for Ev's Syracuse Unit."

"Oh. Congratulations, then."

He envied the small, shy smile she gave Tony, who danced from foot to foot, explaining something about MRT, and trying to "impress to undress." Cassie nodded politely, encouraging Tony to ramble. It was his opportunity to check her out.

She looked twenty, but he knew she was about thirty. She had a tan, probably from some California beach, definitely too golden-brown to come from a bottle. It looked real good on her, too. He wondered if she sunbathed naked.

He didn't notice any jewelry or rings. She'd used to wear lots of gold necklaces, bracelets and rings, like some kind of Egyptian princess. Her blonde hair still cascaded in a thick waterfall to her waist. He always liked her hair that way best, a silken cape ready to unveil the lady's charms.

She looked thinner than he remembered; dropped about twenty pounds on an already great body. Probably an L.A. requirement, he imagined. Diet to the point of anorexia. She crossed her arms under her Juicy breasts, nodding at something Tony said. He definitely recalled her breasts being larger.

As Tony rambled, Cassie raised a hand to push back her bangs, and snuck a glance. Her vibrant eyes torpedoed him, right in the area where his heart used to be. Her eyes still had the power to paralyze a man. Full-lashed and exotic, they were the kind of eyes you could stare at for a lifetime and never grow tired of their beauty. He wanted to join the conversation, but the way his skin itched, he was certain he'd sprouted hives.

"Good seeing you. I've gotta go."

Without waiting for a reply, he'd angled his shoulders through the crowd. Outside, he let out a big phew, and then took several breaths of the crisp, fall-scented air. After all this time, he still appreciated that he no longer had to breathe air permeated with powdered sand. The first sign he'd made it home. The next sign, hot food and showers, and no bullets whizzing by his ears.

One by one, his muscles uncoiled, but the itchy skin persisted. Damn. After all these years, still condemned to the same old itch. It had started the first moment he'd laid eyes on her at the hospital's New Year's Eve party. From then on, he'd suffered an attack of hives whenever she was around, never figuring out why.

He looked at the closed door, and then at several blinking neon signs in the lone picture window next door. One sign had a yellow palm tree swaying back and forth, centered on a green island, advertising beer. There was a time when all he carried about was hiking these mountains and drinking drafts with Clay. Before the war, before the accident, before his life changed forever.

The door crashed open. A couple came out, hand-in-hand, eyes only for each other, and brushed past him. He stood still for a minute, listening to the laughter of the girl, until it was silenced by her lover's kiss.

He remembered their last kiss.

He needed to get back inside. One of the coffee shops stayed open all night. Over coffee, maybe they could discuss what had happened that night. How a kiss goodbye had led to more. How that night, forever etched in his mind, had comforted him when all seemed lost. Tell her about the letter. If he thanked her face to face for giving him a memory that kept him sane, maybe it would be easier to say goodbye, again. She needed more than a shell-shocked soldier.

Relieved to have a plan, he pulled open the door. A woman was trying to exit as he tried entering. Missing the door handle, her hands reached for air. Before tumbling backward down the stairs, he caught her. "Didn't see you coming. You okay?"

The face that looked up at him was two shades of red, but he'd know those eyes in the darkest cave. Cassie was in his arms, and looked relieved. His grasp tightened until he molded to every part of her body. Still fits like she was made for me. He bit back a curse.

She recovered first. "E-Evan? Ah, thanks."

He focused on those kissable lips, and squeezed her closer. One kiss, to make sure she's real.

She cleared her throat. "You can let go. I've got my footing."

On cue, he looked down her long legs to her perfect toes, exposed by the sexiest pair of blue flip-flops. At his downward gaze, she maneuvered away. His arms instantly cooled. "Leaving? I thought you were talking to Tony."

"He talked me into canoeing on Mirror Lake. I thought I'd turn in early. Get a good night's sleep." She took two awkward steps away, as if testing her chance at a clean getaway.

"Alone?" She gave him a petulant look, and he explained, "You can't walk around the streets this time of night by yourself."

Nearly knocked off his feet when she not only smiled, but also let out the sweetest sounding laugh, he barely heard her reply. "I don't have far to walk. My motel is a few blocks away. Goodnight."

He blocked the sidewalk. "You sure? Think of all the sex offenders running around."

She scowled at him like he was the FBI's Most Wanted.

No time for charm. He decided to be honest. "There's a coffee shop down the street. It's a good place to talk."

She held up both hands. "What's there to talk about? I'm glad to see you made it home safely. Truly." She hesitated, biting her lower lip. "But I'm tired." She pushed past him.

His chest tingled where her palms made contact. Her hips swayed as she walked away, making other parts of him throb.

You're not going anywhere without me, Mrs. Hamilton.

If she didn't want to talk tonight, fine, but he'd escort her to her motel room. And not go inside, even if it killed him.

Unless invited.

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