AFTERSHOCK Page 2

  Again, she pushed away.

  He heard her struggle to her feet. "Hey, careful," he urged.

  "I'm not going to faint."

  The disdain in her voice told him what she thought of that particular weakness.

  "I'm not," she added to his silence. "I had a flashlight. I want it now."

  At that queen-to-peasant voice, he had to laugh. "Well, then. By all means, let me help you find it." Stretching out, he felt his way along the floor, painstakingly searching for the light with his fingers. "You're a hell of a cool cucumber, you know."

  "It was just an earthquake."

  "Yeah well, that was one hell of an earthquake."

  "Do you always swear?"

  "Yes, but I'll try to control myself." His back to her, he closed his fingers over the flashlight. Though the bulb flickered and was nearly dead, it came on.

  Looking at the situation before him, he let out a slow breath and swore again.

  Coming up behind him, she made a sound of impatience. "I thought you were going to control yourself— Oh." She paused. "This isn't good."

  "No." Grim reality settled on his shoulders like a solid weight as he surveyed the situation in the faint light before him. "Not good at all."

  The stairway was completely destroyed, lying in useless piles around them. There was no other entry into the basement where they stood, except the hole far above them. On the ground, directly beneath that opening, was a huge mountain of fallen brick and steel.

  The pile previously known as the staircase.

  There was no way out. They were literally buried alive.

  "The entire building … it's gone, isn't it?" she asked softly, still behind him.

  Dax thought about lying. It would protect her and his first instinct was always to protect and shelter, at any cost. But he already knew she wasn't a woman to be coddled. "Looks that way."

  "We're going to die."

  So calm, so matter-of-fact, even when he knew she had to be terrified. "We still have oxygen," he said positively. "And the flashlight."

  That was when the damn light died.

  In stunned silence, she drew an audible deep breath.

  Reaching behind him, he groped for her hand. Surprisingly, she took it and held on.

  "If the quake hadn't slid us across the floor, away from the opening," she said, her voice very sober, very small, "We'd be toast right now."

  Burnt toast, Dax thought, gently squeezing her fingers.

  "Well, we're not dead yet."

  Maybe not, but they would be soon enough. Tons of brick lay on top of the thin ceiling of the basement above their heads. They'd been saved only by the dubious strength of that protection. Dax had no idea how long the floor would hold. He didn't imagine it could withstand the inevitable aftershock.

  "Does someone know where you are?" he asked, carefully keeping his growing shock and dismay to himself.

  "No." Through their joined hands, he felt her shiver again.

  He'd been in some hairy situations before, it was the nature of his job. He was good at saving his own behind, even better at saving others, but he thought maybe his luck had just run out.

  Regret and rage threatened to consume him, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. He drew in a ragged breath and nearly gagged on the lingering dust. "Come on, this is the hallway, there must be more rooms. They'll be far cleaner than this, it'll be easier to breathe." And maybe there would be some sort of steel-lined safe they could crowd into for protection when the ceiling over their head collapsed, assuming they had enough oxygen to wait for rescue.

  "There's two offices, a bathroom and a small kitchenette," she intoned. "Furnished." She shrugged, her shoulder bumping against his. "I have the listing in my pocket."

  Dax wished the flashlight hadn't gone out, wished that he'd gotten a look at the woman next to him before it had, wished that he'd eaten more for breakfast that morning than a bowl of Double Chocolate Sugary O's.

  "We'll be fine." She sounded secure, confident, despite her constant shivers. "We'll just wait to be rescued. Right?"

  Dax decided to let her have that little fantasy since he wasn't ready to face the alternative, though he held no illusions—when the weight of the crumbled two stories above them came through the ceiling, they were as good as dead.

  Feeling their way through the inky darkness, climbing and struggling, they left the hallway. It wasn't fast or easy, and Dax kept waiting for the woman to falter or complain, or fall apart.

  But to his amazement, she never did.

  They decided they were in one of the offices, which after a bit of fumbling around, they discovered had a couch, a desk, two chairs and some other unidentifiable equipment. The second office was smaller, and from what they could tell, void of furniture. The kitchenette seemed dangerous, the floor was littered with fallen appliances and a tipped-over refrigerator.

  There was no safe place to hide except back in the first office. Like a trooper, the woman stoically kept up with him as they made their way. He couldn't help but wonder at her incredible control, and what had made her that way.

  * * *

  A distant rumbling was their only warning, but it was enough for Amber, who reacted without thinking by throwing herself at the stranger who'd become her entire world. Later she'd be mortified by her lack of control, but at the moment control was the last thing on her mind.

  As the earth once again pitched and rolled beneath their feet, the man snatched her closer and sank with her to the floor.

  "Hurry," he demanded, pushing her under what felt like a huge, wooden desk. He crawled in after her.

  She had time to think the earth's movement was slight compared to the other quake before he hauled her beneath him, sprawling his big and—oh my—very tough body over hers, protecting her head by crushing it to his chest.

  Time once again ceased to exist as she closed her eyes and lived through the aftershock. Huddled in the pitch dark, Amber knew what the man holding her so tightly feared—as she feared—death. It could easily happen, right this second, and she waited breathlessly for the ceiling above them to give and crush them.

  Unwilling to die, she held on, reacting instinctively by burrowing closer to the stranger's warmth, his strength. He had both in spades and shared it freely.

  After what seemed like years—she'd lost all sense of time—the rocking stopped.

  She became aware of how close they were. How big a man he was, how every inch of her was plastered to every inch of him. A stranger.

  She'd thrown herself at a stranger.

  Mortified, she pushed at him. Immediately, he rolled off her and they lay there beneath the desk, separated by inches. Holding their breath.

  Nothing crushed them. In fact, the silence was so complete it was nothing short of eerie.

  "It held," she whispered.

  "Yeah." In the dark he shifted, and she got the feeling he was staring at her. "You're incredible, you know that?"

  No one had ever called her such a thing before. "Why?"

  "You're so calm. No panic."

  "You didn't panic," she pointed out.

  "Yeah, but…"

  "But I'm a woman?"

  "I'm sorry." There was a reluctant smile in his voice. "But yes, because you're a woman I guess I expected you to wig out over that one."

  With hard won habit and sheer will, she never wigged out. Not Amber Riggs. She had too much control for that. The master himself had taught her the art. Her father had demanded perfection from her, and total submission.

  He'd gotten it.

  The fact that her cold, hard, exacting military parent could still intrude on her life, especially at a time like this, where every last moment counted, really infuriated her. She shoved the unhappy memories aside.

  "I like control," she said, and if her voice was tinged with steely determination, she couldn't help it. She was proud of her cool, sophisticated front. It certainly hadn't come easily. How many times had she been told she mustn't be like th
e mother she'd never known? The mother who'd been wild and uncontrollable before she'd taken off after Amber's birth?

  A slut, her father liked to remind his daughter. No, Amber must never be like her.

  Little chance of that when she'd grown up with no maternal influence to soften her strict, unbending father. Once upon a time, she'd done everything in her power to earn his approval, but it had never come. She'd learned to live without it.

  She didn't need his, or anyone's, approval.

  As a result, her life was quiet, and okay, maybe a bit sterile, but she'd convinced herself that was how she wanted it. She didn't need anyone or anything, and she especially didn't need what she secretly felt unworthy of—love.

  Instead, she buried herself in the one thing that would never hurt or disappoint her—her work—and she liked it that way.

  So what was that stab of regret she felt now, while she lay waiting to die? What was this terrible sadness coursing through her, this certainty that by ignoring all emotion and passion in order to succeed at her work, she'd somehow let life pass her by?

  She was single; no husband, no children. Not even a boyfriend or a casual date. A barren woman with a barren life.

  What would it be like to have a man waiting for her right now, worrying over her? Loving her with all his heart and soul?

  She'd never know now.

  Another rumbling came.

  Before she could react, the stranger was there, again yanking her close into the heat and safety of his arms. He had big, warm hands and they settled at her back, soothing and protective.

  This quake felt much slighter, a huge relief. But it allowed other things to crowd Amber's brain besides fear.

  Things like the man she was glued to.

  She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart, feel his large hands gently cup her head, feel the tough sinew of his hard body as it surrounded hers. The weirdest sensation flooded her.

  Arousal, she realized in shock.

  Good Lord, one little emergency and she started acting like her mother!

  She couldn't believe it, and promptly blamed the circumstances for her shocking lack of control. But the connection between her and this man felt like ice and fire at once, and it baffled her. Danger, she told herself. It was just the danger, the sense of impending death making her feel like this, all liquidy and … well, hot.

  "It's okay," he whispered in that incredible voice, the one that made her feel like melted butter.

  She couldn't have it, wouldn't have it, and yet she couldn't seem to let go of him. A whimper sounded, and she was horrified to realize it was her own.

  Needing to be free, she fought him.

  "Shh, you're all right," he told her when she struggled against both him and the unaccustomed feelings swimming through her. With frightening ease, he lay her back on the ground, easily subduing her.

  Above them came the booming sound of more falling brick, and it was louder, more terrifying than Amber could imagine. The falling debris hit the top of the desk that was protecting them, nearly startling her right out of her own skin.

  They were going to die now.

  She had to get out. But she couldn't budge, he held her too close, protecting her body with his.

  "Don't fight me," he coaxed in her ear. "We've got to stay right here."

  "No," she gasped, wrestling, listening to the noise of the building crumbling to dust around them, feeling the heat of him as he held her safe no matter how she fought him.

  Didn't he understand? She'd lost it, her prized control was gone, and the greater danger lay right here, in his warm, strong arms. "I need out!" she cried.

  "You can't." Regret made his voice harsh, but so did determination as he leaned over her, cuffing her hands over her head, restraining her with his superior strength.

  "Listen," he demanded as she silently fought him with everything she had. "Listen to me!" He gave her a little shake. "The building has collapsed on top of us. If you leave the safety of the desk now, when the ceiling of this basement gives…"

  Not if the ceiling collapses, but when. He didn't have to finish his sentence, but God, oh God, she couldn't bear it, this enforced contact between them. She was plastered to him from head to toe and the opaque blackness only added to the sense of intimacy.

  "It's stopped," he murmured, relieved, and she felt his cheek brush against hers. "It's over."

  She waited with what she considered admirable patience, but he didn't let her go. "Get off me."

  "Promise me you won't do something stupid."

  Stupid. Oh, that was good. They were going to die when she'd never really even lived. She had nothing to show for her life, nothing except for what would soon be a useless bank account. Now that was stupid. "Let me up."

  "Not until you promise you won't disturb the balance of things."

  Still helplessly stretched out beneath him, she shifted and discovered he had one powerful leg between hers. Every time she moved, the core of her came in contact with the juncture of his thighs. She'd been too busy trying to get free to pay much attention, but suddenly she realized she wasn't the only one who was affected by their closeness.

  He was aroused.

  He was actually hard, for her. It seemed so absolutely amazing. Surreal.

  Later she would blame age-old instincts, but whatever it was, it made her hips arch slightly.

  In response, he made a dark sound that shot an arrow of heat straight through her. This was life, came the insane thought. Go for it. Take it.

  She moved against him again, tentatively.

  He muttered something; a curse, a prayer, she had no idea which, and at the sound, blind desire overcame her. Before she could stifle the urge, she pressed even closer.

  "Your name," he demanded, letting go of her hands to slide his down her arms. "I need to know your name."

  "Amber."

  "Daxton McCall. Dax." His hands came up now to cup her face, and a callused thumb brushed over her lips, so lightly she wasn't sure if she imagined it, but it gave her a jolt of awareness that was almost painful.

  Suddenly her world was rocking and she was no longer certain if it was another earthquake or just reaction to the insane sexiness of his voice, his body.

  "You're shaking," he whispered.

  She couldn't stop.

  "Let me warm you." Gently, tenderly, he scooped her closer, running those big, sure hands over her spine to her hips, bringing her tight against his delicious heat … his incredible erection.

  It was wrong to sigh over it; so very, very wrong, snuggling up to a man she'd never even seen. A stranger for God's sake.

  But for the life of her, she couldn't pull away.

  She needed this, desperately. Needed this reaffirmation that they were indeed alive, at least for now.

  She was going to live life to the fullest, she promised herself. Every second she had left.

  But as a huge thundering crash echoed around them, she couldn't help but scream.

  The walls shook, the ceiling shuddered, and they clung together, holding their breath, waiting, waiting, each second an eternity.

  No more chances. This was it.

  They were going to die.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Terrified, Amber cried out for her stranger, her Dax McCall. She had no idea what she wanted to say, but in that moment, with their world coming apart, it didn't matter.

  He understood. "I'm here, right here," he told her, his body close so she couldn't forget.

  "It's so loud," she cried, horrified at how weak she sounded.

  "You're not alone."

  "I'm scared."

  "Me, too."

  "I need…"

  "I know. I do, too. Come here, come closer." And he enclosed her in a tight embrace that was so erotically charged, she could almost forget she lay huddled beneath a desk on cheap flannel carpeting in the basement of a building that had collapsed above them.

  Her face was
buried in his neck, and because it was so warm, so indelibly male, she left it there, inhaling deeply the very masculine scent of him. "We're going to die," she said against his skin.

  She felt him shake his head.

  His denial was sweet, but she didn't want to be protected, not from this. "Tell me the truth."

  "I don't want to believe it."

  "Neither do I." It was unlike her to talk to a stranger, much less cling to one. Even more unlike her to admit to her real feelings on anything. But the words poured from her lips before she could stop them. "I don't want it to end like this. It can't. I've never really lived, not once, it can't be too late!"

  He didn't say anything about the loss of her calm, cool sophistication, for which she thought she might be forever grateful. In fact, he didn't say anything at all, he just continued to touch her, maintaining the connection between them.

  "Dax, I think—"

  "Don't think.

  "But there's so much—"

  "Don't."

  "I can't stop. I can't turn it off."

  "You're shaking again." In his voice was a wealth of concern and compassion, two emotions sorely missing in her life. He worried. He didn't even know her, and he worried. Just thinking about it had her eyes misting.

  How was it that a stranger could care so much for her in such a short time, when no one else ever had?

  That was her own fault, and she knew it. Another regret. She didn't let people in, didn't let people care. Things had to change.

  Starting right now. "I want to live."

  "You're thinking again."

  "I can't stop."

  "Let me help."

  "Yes." Anything.

  "Try this…" He angled her head up and met her lips with his.

  Far above them, the ceiling groaned and strained under the weight of debris. The ominous, ever-present creaking got louder.

  In opposition to Amber's surging, very real fear, Dax's kiss was soft, gentle, sweet.

  "Stay with me," he whispered against her lips.

  His warm, giving mouth was heaven, such absolute heaven, that she gradually did just as he asked, she stayed with him, lost herself in him, drowning in the very new sensation of desire and passion.