Free White Heat by Cherry Adair Page B

and socially irresponsible player was currently putting out enough pheromones to render her incapable of rational speech. She didn’t need speech. She needed one word—no.
    N.O.
    Her body needed a long walk in the rain to cool off as she repeated the word over and over. And over. Until it sank in.
    N.O.
    Not to Max. But to herself.
    It wasn’t a smart move to look at him, she decided, and she looked down at her hands gripping the table. Her hands were, to her, her most attractive feature. Her nails were short, usually grubby, and the closest they got to polish was oil paint. Her fingers seemed to have a creativity all their own, and even she was frequently astounded at what and how she painted. But that was her secret. Her vanity.
    She wanted to put her hands creatively all over Max.
    Crazy. Dangerous. Tempting.
    But really, really, really stupid.
    Draining the last of her now tepid coffee, she placed the mug on the table holding Daniel’s state-of-the-art Di Longhi coffee- maker, a microwave, and a small refrigerator. When Daniel had been working he’d frequently camped out up here. Her heart felt heavy. That hadn’t been for a long time. Yet she knew he’d come up here every day anyway. Not to work, although knowing Daniel, he was sure to have tried.
    How sad to be unable to do the thing one loved the most.
    Which was worse? Daniel killing himself because he couldn’t bear to no longer paint? Or some stranger taking his life? Both were unthinkable.
    Emily leaned her hip on the table. Since Max was low on social graces she figured she might as well cut right to the chase. There was still plenty of time to go home, get her stuff, then hit the airport to make her six P.M. flight. “Did you talk to whoever you’re supposed to talk to about us getting out of here this morning?”
    Her pulse jumped as he turned, one elbow over the back of the chair. Unshaven but bright-eyed, he leveled her with a dark look that melted her insides into a pool of liquid without an ounce of effort.
    No.
    “They haven’t figured out what was in the vial. Yet. We stay put for another twelve hours.”
    Emily pressed her palm hard against the table on either side of her hips to dispel the ridiculous, uncalled for, unwanted attraction. He was just a man.
    Been there, done that, she thought crossly. On the other hand, as scared as she was by her visceral response to Max, she’d rather deal with that than the pee-in-your-pants thought of being eaten alive by some god-awful bacteria that could make her eyeballs bleed and turn her inside out. She’d seen one too many horror movies.
    “If they don’t know what was in it, how can they know we need to stay quarantined for another twelve hours? Why not five hours? Why not a week?”
    A slight crinkle appeared beside his left eye. The start of a smile? An impending scowl? Who knew?
    “They know things.”
    She waited for the punch line. Of course there wasn’t one. Sighing, she said, “That is totally ridiculous, Max.” She wasn’t happy that they had to remain in quarantine for another twelve minutes, let alone twelve more freaking hours. The intensity of his eyes, very green this morning, made her edgy. She reminded herself to breathe. That was good. Do it again.
    “If we’re not dead by now, if we haven’t already broken out in oozing green pustules, chances are we’re fine and dandy. I want to make my flight tonight.”
    “Let’s say the incubation period is under twelve hours, and not, say, twenty-four. Let’s say neither of us shows any sign of infection. The odds of two unrelated people having immunity and carrying a disease/virus while staying asymptomatic doesn’t follow the biological reality of disease transmission.”
    Emily rubbed the bone deep chill from her arms. “Let’s say not.” Her mouth was dry. She picked up her mug and brought it to her lips. It was empty. She clutched the mug in a white-knuckled grip.
    “They’re more concerned that we could be dealing with