"Right now I'd take the risks. Gladly."

The doors slid open, and Tom stepped aside, letting Kelly into the empty elevator first.

"Of course, the point is moot," she said.

"Right." Discouraged, he rubbed his forehead as the elevator took them to the lobby.

"I was a little surprised you didn't go into more detail about your . . ." She wasn't sure what to call it. "Your suspected paranoid episodes."

Tom looked at her and smiled ruefully. "Tactfully put." He shrugged. "I just didn't feel as if I wanted him to know."

And yet he'd told her, in complete detail.

"Do you think I'm nuts if I continue to act as if my seeing the Merchant was anything besides a paranoid delusion?" He laughed again. "Okay, let's see you answer that one tactfully."

That wasn't so hard. "I think you should do whatever you need to do in order to feel most comfortable with this situation-make it as stress free as possible. I think you should follow Gary's advice and relax."

Tom was leaning back against the elevator wall, just watching her. She could see his unhappiness in his eyes, his frustration at this "wait and see" advice. She tried to imagine what it might be like. What if she were told there was a chance that she couldn't be a doctor anymore? That everything she'd worked for, everything she'd strived to become would be gone? And, oh, she had to wait a month to find out her fate.

Her anxiety and stress levels would be pretty high, too.

"Maybe you should go to some tropical island for a few weeks, just drink strawberry daiquiris on the beach all day," she said, knowing as the words left her lips that even if Tom could walk away from this ghostly terrorist he'd thought he'd seen, her own father's failing health made the option impossible. Tom wouldn't leave Joe until his convalescent leave was up. "I'd give just about anything to go with you."

There it was. She'd just served him a nice, fat, slow pitch. If he wanted to, he could step up to the plate and hit the ball clear out of the park.

He didn't pretend to misinterpret or misunderstand. He just smiled that little half smile that always made her knees feel weak. "What am I going to do about you? You should be running away from me."

"Why should I run away," she said, her heart pounding, "when what I really want is for you to kiss me again?"

He pushed himself up and off the wall, and Kelly knew that he was going to do just that. She'd seen that same look in his eyes last night, and in Joe's car, all those years ago. Her pulse kicked into quadruple time, and her mouth went dry, and . . .

The elevator doors opened.

A half-dozen people were standing there, staring at them, waiting to get on. Tom stepped back to let her off first, ever the gentleman.

"Come on," she said, leading the way through the crowded lobby, trying her hardest not to be embarrassed. He had been about to kiss her, hadn't he? "I'll take you to the train." When they got into her car, dammit, she'd kiss him.

But Tom caught her hand, stopping her before she pushed open the door that led to the parking garage. "I can get myself to the train. It doesn't make sense for you to drive me to North Station and then drive all the way back here to the hospital to see Betsy."

"Oh," she said. "No. I don't mind. In fact, I'd feel much better if I could actually take you into the station and get you onto the right train."

"That's ridiculous. I don't need you to do that. I'm not a child."

"What if you get dizzy again?" she worried.

He laughed. "I'll sit down. I'll wait for it to pass. If I do get dizzy, I promise I won't run several miles at top speed, like I did last night, all right?"

She gazed at him, unconvinced, and the amusement in his eyes changed to something softer, something warmer as he laced their fingers together and pulled her toward him.

"I like that you care about me, Kelly," he said. "It makes me feel good. But you know what?"

She shook her head, aware that he was moving even closer, aware that she wanted him even closer-their legs touching, their stomachs, her breasts against his chest.

"I'm a highly trained professional," he told her. "I think I can probably get from the hospital to the train station and back to Baldwin's Bridge on my own, even if I get a little dizzy on the way."

His mouth was now mere inches from hers. He paused, though, gazing down at her before he closed the gap and kissed her, sweetly covering her lips with his own.

It was a see-you-later kiss, but it was unlike any other see-you-later kiss she'd ever received in the middle of a crowded hospital lobby.

He took his time with it, making a point to nestle her body against his, to slowly drink her in. He was all solid muscles, and yet, somehow, his arms managed to feel so soft.

His mouth was soft, too, and beautifully gentle. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, like everything that was good and right with the world.

When he finally stopped kissing her, when he lifted his head, she was the one who was dizzy. But it was okay, because he still held her tightly.

More tightly than she'd ever been held before in a hospital lobby.

But Tom didn't seem worried about the fact that they were standing there in public. He didn't seem to care that there were dozens of people around them. He surely saw them, but from the way he was looking at her, he didn't give a damn about anyone else. Gary and her father both would've frowned at such a display of affection, but to Kelly, it was as good as she'd always dreamed it would feel. And if this was the way he'd kiss her in public, how would he kiss her when they were alone? The thought was heart stopping.

"You trust me, remember?" he said softly.

Kelly nodded. Oh, yes.

"Then trust me to be able to take the T to North Station. Trust me to get to Baldwin's Bridge. I'll see you back there. Believe me, I wouldn't miss having dinner with you tonight for anything in the world."

He kissed her again, but just briefly. Just long enough to make her lips tingle and her pulse surge.

And then, with a wave, he went out through the revolving doors and onto the street.

Kelly watched him from the window as he crossed to the aboveground T stop that ran down the center of the city street. Although the platform was crowded, he stood out, unique and splendid in his uniform.

Tom Paoletti.

Tonight.

Oh, my God.

When David got home from work, Mallory Paoletti was sitting on the wooden stairs that led up to his apartment.

She closed her book and stood as he climbed out of his car. "Hey, I thought your shift ended at ten-thirty."

She was wearing low-riding shorts today with her trademark black tank top, probably because of the heat. The ring in her belly button glittered with a red stone instead of her usual blue. Both that and her long pale legs worked nicely with the shorts. Very nicely.

"Hey, Nightshade." He shouldered his backpack and started up the stairs. "My boss asked me to stay and work part of the lunch shift. What time is it, anyway?"

"It's after one. You must be exhausted."

Had she been sitting here since 10:30?

The thought was absurd. She couldn't possibly have been.

And yet there it was, a pile of gum wrappers-her substitute these days for cigarettes-on the steps next to not one but two soda cans and an empty coffee hot-cup.

David had been tired. Coming home, he'd wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the entire afternoon. But now he felt energized. He felt terrific. Mallory had been sitting here, waiting for him for hours.

"I'm doing okay," he told her. "Hardly even tired at all."

She was wearing sunglasses and he couldn't see her eyes as she gazed at him. "You're kidding, right? You couldn't have gotten to bed before one-thirty. And you said you had to be at work at four-thirty. That was less than three hours-"

"I'm fine." He unlocked his door. "Come on in. Did you have lunch? What time do you have to be back at work?"

"I'm not on today." She picked up her things and followed him inside, closing the door behind her. "I don't have to work until tomorrow at noon."

Oh heartache, oh pain. David was working pretty much nonstop until tomorrow at noon. He was going back in just a few hours, at six, to help with an evening party. The money was all overtime, which was good, but money meant nothing when Mallory Paoletti was standing in his apartment and telling him she had the next twenty-four hours off.

"I sort of had a liquid lunch," she told him, wandering toward his computer setup. She touched the mouse, waking the computer out of standby mode. It came on with a series of beeps and a blast of music from his speakers, making her jump back. "Oh, my God, what did I do?"

David put his backpack on the table by the door, in the kitchen area of his studio apartment. "It's all right." He crossed the room and turned down the speakers. "I've set it up to go right on-line, check my email first thing."

"Isn't that an Internet camera?" she asked, pointing carefully, clearly afraid to touch anything else. "Pretty kinky, David Sullivan. What do you do, dance naked in cyberspace?"

"Oh, God, no! I use it to show stuff-artwork-to Ren Shimoda, my former partner in California," he quickly explained. "When I draw, particularly for a graphic novel, the paper's too big to put in the scanner and . . ."

Mallory was laughing at him. "Chill, I was kidding. I figured it was something like that. You're definitely the type to do your naked dancing off-line."

David was standing close enough to smell her perfume. It was tangy and sweet and not at all subtle. He loved it. He loved the different flecks of color he could see in her eyes at close range, too. He loved the sheer perfection of her skin, the delicate shape of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, her overabundance of earrings.

He cleared his throat. "So. I was just going to make myself a sandwich. Want one? I've got some sliced chicken and rye bread."

He turned away, ready to escape to the safety of his refrigerator, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. She had nice hands-long, slender, graceful fingers-but she bit her nails nearly to the quick. Her less than perfect nails ruined the effect created by her hair, her clothes, and her piercings, making her seem vulnerable, softer, human.

She pulled her hand away fast, as if she, too, had felt a jolt of electricity at the contact. No, couldn't be. That was his fantasy.

"Lookit, I came over because I wanted to thank you for helping me last night. I know that must've been really weird for you, dealing with my uncle and my great-uncle, and . . ." She shook her head. "It shook me up seeing Tom like that."

"I'm glad I could help you," he told her. "It was my pleasure." He realized she actually had tears in her eyes, and he tried to make it into a joke. "How often will I have the chance to come to Nightshade's rescue, anyway, right?"

But Mallory didn't laugh. "Brandon just walked away," she told him flatly. "We were still at the carnival, and he just left me there, with Tom practically unconscious on the ground."

Damn Bran. David wasn't surprised, but obviously Mal had expected more from his friend. She'd expected Bran to be as bright and shining inside as he was out. She'd probably even fallen more than half in love with the person she'd imagined him to be.

No wonder there were tears in her eyes. This had to hurt.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Why are you apologizing?" She wiped her eyes brusquely with the back of her hand. "You were great. If someone came waking me up in the middle of the night, I would've pulled the blanket over my head and told 'em to go to hell. You should be given a sainthood or something."

No, he very definitely didn't qualify for sainthood. Especially not when Mallory stood so close. "Well," he said, backing up a little. "Yeah. Sure. Hey, sandwich?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm not going to eat your food, too, on top of making you sleep deprived. I should go, let you do whatever you were planning to do today."

"Gee, I was going to make a couple sandwiches, then go over to the Ice Cream Shoppe, see if you wanted one."

She gave him her death look. "You were not."

He took the chicken and mustard out of the fridge and put it onto the table. "Saint David never lies."

Finally, finally she laughed. "Yeah, right."

The bread was still soft, the sell-by date several days in the future-always a good sign. He tossed it to Mallory. "Hey, you know, I got the pictures back from last night. I dropped 'em at the one-hour photo place-they should call themselves Photo Thieves. It's, like, three times as expensive as getting the pictures developed at the drugstore. But I didn't want to wait, so I dropped them off during my break this morning, picked 'em up on the way home."

Mallory brightened even more. "Are they any good?"

"Some of 'em, yeah." He got two paper plates from the cabinet, two plastic knives. "I'm out of mayo, but I've got some catsup."

"On chicken? Gross. Stick with mustard. Can I see the pictures?"

"Only if you stay and have a sandwich." He put the plates and knives on the table, unzipped his backpack. There were three packs of photos. He tossed them out onto the table, near the chicken.

But Mallory just stood there, still holding the bread. "David, Bran told me how you're trying to save money. I really don't need a sandwich."

"How about we trade? You eat one of my sandwiches, you treat me to a sandwich some other time."

She thought about that and nodded. "All right. But you've got to promise that you'll really let me buy you one. Maybe tonight?"

He had to promise that he would let her take him out for dinner. How twisted was this? Like he wouldn't sell his little brother into a life of slavery for just a chance to spend time with this girl. "I'd love to, but tonight might be a little tight. I'm doing an extra shift from six to close."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Actually, I was kind of hoping you'd agree to come over for another photo shoot tomorrow night. Some of the pictures are really good, but in some the lighting was wrong-they came out overexposed."

She was looking through the first packet of pictures, her nose wrinkled. "Oh, my God, I look-"

"You look great," he told her. "Anything bad is my fault."

She pulled out a picture in which her eyes were half-closed. "Your fault?"

"Well, yeah, obviously I waited right until you blinked. Definitely my fault."

She laughed again as she sat down at the table, flipping through the pictures.

"Do you want mustard on your sandwich?" he asked, sitting next to her and pulling the paper plates toward him.

"Yeah, thanks." She looked at him. "Man, that's service-you're gonna make it for me, too, huh?"

He shrugged. "I'm making one, I might as well make two."

"Most people don't think that way," she said. "Thanks."