“Oh, Patrick—I don’t know what to say.”
He grinned. “ ‘Yes’ would be a good answer.”
She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “Then yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
He laughed happily and stood, pulling her upright with him. There in the small, shadowed plaza, his mouth came down on hers in a sweet, slow kiss that warmed her like nothing else in the world could or ever would. Melissa responded without thinking, pressing her body against Patrick’s, her well-toned form molding to his in a way familiar but long denied. The pressure of his lips increased as he pulled her closer, hands slipping down and along her waist as her lips parted to admit his tongue. Heat coursed through her, riding on the hunger for him that she had controlled for nearly a year. His mouth broke free and found its way to her jaw, then down her neck.
“If we keep going,” she said breathlessly, “I’m going to say to hell with the quarantine—”
“Hey, Patrick!”
Startled, she and Patrick broke apart, turning their faces in the direction of the voice. The flash of a camera sent a spike of light into the plaza, then another; suddenly flashbulbs were popping all around the main entrance, nearly blinding them and utterly destroying any notion of privacy. A dozen reporters crowded through the wrought-iron archway and rushed toward them.
“Look this way, Patrick!”
“Smile for us, Melissa!”
“Right here, Patrick!”
Patrick grabbed her arm and pushed through the knot of paparazzi, guiding her back to the restaurant, where he knew the maitre d’ would cut off the photographers at the door. “Come on, sweetheart.”
Smiling despite the pesky cameras, Melissa hurried to keep up with Patrick’s longer stride. “Let’s go back inside and tell your father the news.”
But Patrick stopped just outside the door, ignoring the still-flashing cameras. “You go on.”
“By myself?”
“Go on—get Dad and have him take you home. I’m getting out of here.”
“Patrick, what’s wrong?” Melissa demanded. “Are you not feeling—”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. His hand on her elbow turned her toward the maitre d’, who was hurrying to meet them, an apologetic look on his face. “I just need to clear my head.”
Hurt, Melissa started to step away, but Patrick turned back and pulled her close. “I’ll call you later,” he whispered. “I promise.” He gave her a quick, sweet kiss, ignoring the camera flashes that increased to a frenzy when their faces came together.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Dennis said from behind them. “I have to fly—my date awaits.”
“For heaven’s sake, Dennis,” Melissa said. “Why didn’t you include her tonight?”
But Dennis shook his head. “Nah—this is too much like family. Takes a little more time to get to this level.”
“Later,” Patrick promised her again. “Come on, Dennis. You go one way and I’ll go the other. They can’t follow us both.”
“I hate to tell you how many famous people have thought that,” Dennis retorted. Nevertheless, he dashed in one direction while Patrick headed in the other.
And left Melissa standing there with the maitre d’, staring after him, feeling strangely frightened.
4
N o doubt there were people somewhere within the bright cluster of government buildings that made up the Goddard Flight Center in one quadrant of the NSEG grounds, but they were certainly few in number at this time of the night. On the most complicated matters, however, Dr. Ralph Orinsky worked best alone, and on those things he also worked best during the darkest of the night hours.
Or at least he’d once thought so.
Now the white-haired man walked back and forth in front of the specimen table in his laboratory, a cordless telephone held so tightly in one hand that his fingers hurt. “If I can’t speak to him, then I need to leave a message for Mr. Herman Cromwell,” he said urgently into the receiver. He jammed his bifocals up to his forehead
He grinned. “ ‘Yes’ would be a good answer.”
She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “Then yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
He laughed happily and stood, pulling her upright with him. There in the small, shadowed plaza, his mouth came down on hers in a sweet, slow kiss that warmed her like nothing else in the world could or ever would. Melissa responded without thinking, pressing her body against Patrick’s, her well-toned form molding to his in a way familiar but long denied. The pressure of his lips increased as he pulled her closer, hands slipping down and along her waist as her lips parted to admit his tongue. Heat coursed through her, riding on the hunger for him that she had controlled for nearly a year. His mouth broke free and found its way to her jaw, then down her neck.
“If we keep going,” she said breathlessly, “I’m going to say to hell with the quarantine—”
“Hey, Patrick!”
Startled, she and Patrick broke apart, turning their faces in the direction of the voice. The flash of a camera sent a spike of light into the plaza, then another; suddenly flashbulbs were popping all around the main entrance, nearly blinding them and utterly destroying any notion of privacy. A dozen reporters crowded through the wrought-iron archway and rushed toward them.
“Look this way, Patrick!”
“Smile for us, Melissa!”
“Right here, Patrick!”
Patrick grabbed her arm and pushed through the knot of paparazzi, guiding her back to the restaurant, where he knew the maitre d’ would cut off the photographers at the door. “Come on, sweetheart.”
Smiling despite the pesky cameras, Melissa hurried to keep up with Patrick’s longer stride. “Let’s go back inside and tell your father the news.”
But Patrick stopped just outside the door, ignoring the still-flashing cameras. “You go on.”
“By myself?”
“Go on—get Dad and have him take you home. I’m getting out of here.”
“Patrick, what’s wrong?” Melissa demanded. “Are you not feeling—”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. His hand on her elbow turned her toward the maitre d’, who was hurrying to meet them, an apologetic look on his face. “I just need to clear my head.”
Hurt, Melissa started to step away, but Patrick turned back and pulled her close. “I’ll call you later,” he whispered. “I promise.” He gave her a quick, sweet kiss, ignoring the camera flashes that increased to a frenzy when their faces came together.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Dennis said from behind them. “I have to fly—my date awaits.”
“For heaven’s sake, Dennis,” Melissa said. “Why didn’t you include her tonight?”
But Dennis shook his head. “Nah—this is too much like family. Takes a little more time to get to this level.”
“Later,” Patrick promised her again. “Come on, Dennis. You go one way and I’ll go the other. They can’t follow us both.”
“I hate to tell you how many famous people have thought that,” Dennis retorted. Nevertheless, he dashed in one direction while Patrick headed in the other.
And left Melissa standing there with the maitre d’, staring after him, feeling strangely frightened.
4
N o doubt there were people somewhere within the bright cluster of government buildings that made up the Goddard Flight Center in one quadrant of the NSEG grounds, but they were certainly few in number at this time of the night. On the most complicated matters, however, Dr. Ralph Orinsky worked best alone, and on those things he also worked best during the darkest of the night hours.
Or at least he’d once thought so.
Now the white-haired man walked back and forth in front of the specimen table in his laboratory, a cordless telephone held so tightly in one hand that his fingers hurt. “If I can’t speak to him, then I need to leave a message for Mr. Herman Cromwell,” he said urgently into the receiver. He jammed his bifocals up to his forehead
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