The Fall Of Shane Mackade

'Probably not.' Cautiously he set the glass aside. He wouldn't have been overly surprised if it simply marched away under its own power. 'We can dilute it. I've got a fifty-gallon drum outside.'

'I could make a sandwich.' When she rose, he held up a hand.

'Thanks anyway. I'll do it. No, don't come near me. I smell like the wrong side of a cow.'

Enjoying the little bubbles of anticipation bursting in her blood, she traced her tongue over her lips. 'You're awfully dirty,' she said. She liked it. 'And sweaty. Take off your shirt.'

A lightning bolt of desire flashed into his gut. 'You're very demanding. I like that in a woman.' Still, he backed up again. 'I don't want to touch you. You're all neat and tidy, and my hands are covered with things you wouldn't want on that pretty sweater.'

She looked down at them, then let out a little hum of concern. 'You're bleeding.'

'Just scraped a knuckle. Let me wash up.'

'I'll do it.' She took his hand before he could turn on the tap.

She bathed his hand herself, knitting her brows over the scrape. He had the pleasure of standing there while she soaped his hands, rubbed them gently between hers.

He began to fantasize about taking a shower with her. Wet bodies, slicked skin, rising steam.

'I guess you'll live. But you should be more careful.' She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. 'What have you been doing out there?'

He grinned. 'Spreading manure.'

Her eyes popped wide. 'With your hands?'

The intriguing little fantasy burst. He laughed so hard he thought his ribs would crack. 'No, darling, we've got technology now, even out here in the boonies.'

'Glad to hear it.' She turned away, intent on helping him with his lunch, and bumped solidly into the refrigerator. 'Damn it. I haven't done that in ages.' Feeling ridiculous, she snatched her glasses off. 'I used to forget I was wearing them and walk into things all the time.'

He sent her a curious look. 'I didn't think you forgot anything.'

'Only about myself. Ask me about anything else, and I'll give you chapter and verse.'

'Wool.'

She turned and straightened, a platter of ham in her hand from the refrigerator. 'Excuse me?'

'Maybe I'm thinking about buying some sheep. Tell me about wool.'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

He shrugged, reached for the bread. 'I guess I found something you don't know about.'

He didn't have to look to know her eyes had narrowed. He could hear it in her voice.

'An animal fiber forming the protective covering or fleece of sheep or other hairy mammals such as goats or camels. Wool is mainly obtained by shearing fleece from living animals. Cleaning removes the fatty substance, which is purified to make lanolin. Shall I go on?'

Amused, impressed, he studied her. 'That's very cool. Where were you when I was in high school?'

'In a snooty boarding school in Switzerland, if my calculations are accurate.'

'I imagine they always are,' he murmured. The tone, the cool defense in it, told him this was something to be explored later. She spoke of boarding school the way he had once spoken of liver—as something highly detested.

'It's not just remembering facts,' he said casually. 'You obviously apply them. So how did you decide what to study?'

It was making her uncomfortable; she couldn't help it. However shallow and politically incorrect it might be, she preferred his interest in her body over his interest in her brain. 'Initially, I was told what to study. My parents had a very specific blueprint for my education. Later, I concentrated on what held interest for me.'

Her voice was cool and clipped, but he wasn't quite ready to let the subject go. He turned to get out the mustard. 'You must have wowed your teachers.'

She remained where she was, still holding the platter. 'They were selected for their credentials in working with gifted children.'

'My parents were relieved if I didn't get hauled down to the principal's office for a full week. Yours must have been thrilled with you.'

'They're both very successful in their own right,' she said flatly. 'My father is one of the top vascular surgeons in the country, and my mother is a respected industrial chemist. They expected me to excel. Any other questions?'

Swampy ground again, he mused, sorry that he'd put that note of formality in her voice. He turned, looked at her, and was equally sorry he'd put that distant look in her eye. Just now, he wanted to see her smile again.

'Just one,' he said. 'What have you got on under that shirt?'

Relief loosened the muscles that had knotted her shoulders. 'The usual.'

'Oh, yeah?'

She did smile as she set the platter on the table. 'Maybe you'd like to see for yourself.'

'That's just what I had in mind.'

She nipped around the far side of the table as he came forward. 'After lunch.'

His lips curved; his eyes danced. He looked wonderfully dangerous. 'I don't want lunch.'

He circled; so did she. 'You have to keep your strength up, to spread that manure.'

'I had a big breakfast. A big, late breakfast.' He feinted, nearly snatched her, but she slipped away, laughing. 'You're quick.'

'I know.'

He faked again and, as she pivoted, snaked out an arm to wrap around her waist. When he lifted her off her feet, she squealed with laughter. 'I'm quicker.'

It was dizzying to realize he could hold her suspended with one arm. Dizzying and exciting. 'I let you catch me.'

'Bull.' He kissed her, hard, then tucked his other arm around her to swing her in three quick circles.

'You're making me drunk again.' Laughing, she clutched at his shoulders and enjoyed the ride.

'Good.' He swung her again, again, caught up in the joy of it, the joy of her. The sound of her laugh was thrilling, familiar. The feel of her body against his suddenly as vital as home...

'Put me down, you fool. John.' Her head rolled back; the room spun. 'Supper's burning.'

She could smell it. The bottom of the pot would be scorched for certain. She could smell him—sweat and smoke and animal. Beneath her apron, the baby she carried quickened….

Panic and something else clogged Shane's throat. He set her on her feet, still supporting her as he shook her. 'Rebecca. What is it?'

'It's happening again. Like last night.' Her face was sheet-white, and her voice became faint and

dreamy___'There's stew in the pot, burning in the

pot. Did you bring in more wood for the fire?' With her eyes unfocused, she pressed a hand to her stomach. 'This one's a girl. Johnnie's going to have a sister....'

Then, as if a light had been switched on, her eyes cleared, sharpened. 'My equipment.' She broke away and raced to the living room. 'Look at this! Just look. It's registering higher than last night. There's so much energy. I can feel it on my skin—like electric shocks.'

While he watched, saying nothing, she began to mutter to herself, checking dials, gauges, monitors. All business now, her movements brisk and precise, she turned to her recorder.

'Event commenced at 13:20 and five seconds. Sharp sensory stimuli. Visual, olfactory.' As if distracted, she ran a hand over her hair, then competently recounted everything that had happened.

'An overall sense of well-being,' she finished, 'of happiness. Love. It's possible sexual anticipation was caused by previous stimulation rather than the event, or was enhanced by previous stimulation.' She tapped her finger on her lips, thinking. 'End of event 13:24 and fifty-eight seconds, which at four minutes and fifty-three seconds makes it the longest to date.'

On a long breath, she set the recorder down. 'And the strongest,' she murmured.

'Previous stimulation?'

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned to Shane. 'I'm sorry, what?'

'Is that what you're calling it? Previous stimulation?'