turned around
to face her, a jubilant smile on his face. He's beautiful.She tried to
squelch the thought, to pretend it had never entered her mind. Page 52
"Feels better already. Way to go, team," he said, holding his hand up
in the classic high-five position. She slapped his open palm, all the
while trying to forget the feel of his hands on her thighs. And his
hands sliding up her legs. And his face against her breasts.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
This had to be caused by some weird combination of claustrophobia and
lack of oxygen. That's all this hyperawareness of him was. Hell, they
probably did laboratory experiments like this all the time. At NASA or
something. The Effects of Enforced Intimacy on Hardworking Female
Executives. Or something like that.
Find something else to think about.Her frazzled brain sought
desperately for a diversion as they both returned to their opposite
sides of the elevator. She found her eyes tracking to the scar that
slashed across his abdomen, and before she knew it the words had popped
out. "That's a pretty decent scar you've got there."
She wished the words back the moment they were uttered. How rude! How invasive and nosy and rude! Wondering what sort of a kisser he was was better than being nosy. She
could tell by the way his eyes dropped to the floor that he was
thinking of some way to palm her off—which she deserved—and she rushed
into speech again.
"Ignore me. I didn't mean
to say that. I think I'm oxygen deprived," she blathered. She could
feel him watching her, assessing her, and then he shook his head
minutely as though shaking something off.
"It's okay. It's pretty noticeable. Someone once told me it looked like
a shark had attacked me." She made a disbelieving noise.
"Hardly. Unless sharks are getting medical training these days." He
smiled a little, just a quirk of one side of his mouth. Then he said,
"I donated a kidney to someone. My brother."
She could tell it had cost him a lot to say it. And she could feel the
weight of a long and sad story dragging the words down. This was not a
story with a happy ending, she sensed.
"That's pretty incredible. And scary. Your brother was lucky you were a
match," she offered, deeply uncertain about what to say.
He'd crossed his arms across his chest, the classic "locked off" signal
in body language. She didn't need it to know she was deep in territory
he normally kept very private.
"Yeah. Well, not really. We were twins. Perfect match." His face was so
carefully blank, but she could tell. There was a lot of anger and pain
pent up in this man, and she guessed why.
"He died?" There was no other explanation for Jack referring to his brother in the past tense. Page 53
"Yeah."
"What was his name?"
"Robbie. Or Robert, according to Mom."
She was totally at sea. And she just knew she was going to say the
wrong thing any second now. But she also knew she was being given a
very privileged insight into Jack's life. No one at work had ever
gossiped about this stuff, and she knew absolutely that he didn't talk
about it. Normally. But this wasn't a normal situation, as she was
beginning to appreciate more and more with each passing moment.
"I don't have any brothers or sisters," she volunteered. "I can't
imagine what it would be like to lose someone so close you. Especially
a twin. Was he a writer like you?" He barked out a bitter little laugh,
and she could see so clearly the anger inside him. I bet you blame the
world for Robbie being gone. I bet you blame God, Buddha, modern
medicine and anyone else who comes to mind. But most of all, I bet you
blame yourself.
"He was a doctor. A pediatrician. He just loved kids, and even though
it cut him up when he couldn't help someone, he always stayed in there,
fighting away. But them's the breaks, right? Fate, luck, destiny.
Whatever. The doctor dies, the writer lives."
The words could have peeled paint. She just let the anger wash over
her. It wasn't for her, anyway. He ran a hand over his
to face her, a jubilant smile on his face. He's beautiful.She tried to
squelch the thought, to pretend it had never entered her mind. Page 52
"Feels better already. Way to go, team," he said, holding his hand up
in the classic high-five position. She slapped his open palm, all the
while trying to forget the feel of his hands on her thighs. And his
hands sliding up her legs. And his face against her breasts.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
This had to be caused by some weird combination of claustrophobia and
lack of oxygen. That's all this hyperawareness of him was. Hell, they
probably did laboratory experiments like this all the time. At NASA or
something. The Effects of Enforced Intimacy on Hardworking Female
Executives. Or something like that.
Find something else to think about.Her frazzled brain sought
desperately for a diversion as they both returned to their opposite
sides of the elevator. She found her eyes tracking to the scar that
slashed across his abdomen, and before she knew it the words had popped
out. "That's a pretty decent scar you've got there."
She wished the words back the moment they were uttered. How rude! How invasive and nosy and rude! Wondering what sort of a kisser he was was better than being nosy. She
could tell by the way his eyes dropped to the floor that he was
thinking of some way to palm her off—which she deserved—and she rushed
into speech again.
"Ignore me. I didn't mean
to say that. I think I'm oxygen deprived," she blathered. She could
feel him watching her, assessing her, and then he shook his head
minutely as though shaking something off.
"It's okay. It's pretty noticeable. Someone once told me it looked like
a shark had attacked me." She made a disbelieving noise.
"Hardly. Unless sharks are getting medical training these days." He
smiled a little, just a quirk of one side of his mouth. Then he said,
"I donated a kidney to someone. My brother."
She could tell it had cost him a lot to say it. And she could feel the
weight of a long and sad story dragging the words down. This was not a
story with a happy ending, she sensed.
"That's pretty incredible. And scary. Your brother was lucky you were a
match," she offered, deeply uncertain about what to say.
He'd crossed his arms across his chest, the classic "locked off" signal
in body language. She didn't need it to know she was deep in territory
he normally kept very private.
"Yeah. Well, not really. We were twins. Perfect match." His face was so
carefully blank, but she could tell. There was a lot of anger and pain
pent up in this man, and she guessed why.
"He died?" There was no other explanation for Jack referring to his brother in the past tense. Page 53
"Yeah."
"What was his name?"
"Robbie. Or Robert, according to Mom."
She was totally at sea. And she just knew she was going to say the
wrong thing any second now. But she also knew she was being given a
very privileged insight into Jack's life. No one at work had ever
gossiped about this stuff, and she knew absolutely that he didn't talk
about it. Normally. But this wasn't a normal situation, as she was
beginning to appreciate more and more with each passing moment.
"I don't have any brothers or sisters," she volunteered. "I can't
imagine what it would be like to lose someone so close you. Especially
a twin. Was he a writer like you?" He barked out a bitter little laugh,
and she could see so clearly the anger inside him. I bet you blame the
world for Robbie being gone. I bet you blame God, Buddha, modern
medicine and anyone else who comes to mind. But most of all, I bet you
blame yourself.
"He was a doctor. A pediatrician. He just loved kids, and even though
it cut him up when he couldn't help someone, he always stayed in there,
fighting away. But them's the breaks, right? Fate, luck, destiny.
Whatever. The doctor dies, the writer lives."
The words could have peeled paint. She just let the anger wash over
her. It wasn't for her, anyway. He ran a hand over his
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