Chapter Four
"Let's get those snack machines raided," she muttered, grabbing up her ditty bag of goodies and heading for
the door. Quinlan had been standing there, staring at her for what seemed like several minutes but had
probably been less than thirty seconds. There was a hooded, predatory expression in his gleaming blue eyes,
and she just couldn't stand there, like a tethered goat, for another second.
He sauntered out in her wake, and she relocked the office door, then looked up and down the dim hallway.
"Just where are these snack machines?" she finally asked. "I'm not a junk food junkie, so I've never used
them."
"There's a soft drink machine at this end of the hallway," he said, pointing, "but there are snack ma-
chines in the insurance offices. They have a break room for their employees, but they let us use them." He
set off down the long hallway, away from the bank of elevators, and Elizabeth trailed after him.
"How are we going to get in?" she asked caustically. "Shoot the lock off?"
"If I have to," he replied, lazy good humor in his voice. "But I don't think it will come to that."
She hoped not. From what she could tell, insurance companies tended to be rather humorless about such
things. She could well imagine receiving a bill for damages, which she could certainly do without.
Quinlan knelt in front of the insurance company's locked door and unzipped the leather bag, taking from it a
small case resembling the one in which she kept her makeup brushes. He flipped it open, though, and the
resemblance ended. Instead of plush brushes, there was an assortment of oddly shaped metal tools. He took
two of them out, inserted the long, thin, bent one into the keyhole, then slid the other instrument in
beside it and jiggled it with small, delicate movements.
Elizabeth sidled closer, bending down to get a better look. "Can you teach me how to do that?" she asked in
an absent tone, fascinated with the process.
The corners of his mouth twitched as he continued to gingerly work at the lock. "Why? Have you just
discovered a larcenous streak?"
"Do you have one?" she shot back. "It just seems like a handy skill to have, since you never know when
you'll accidentally lock yourself out."
"And you're going to start carrying a set of locksmith's tools in your purse?"
"Why not?" She nudged the black leather bag with her toe. "Evidently you carry one in yours."
"That isn't a purse. Ah," he said with satisfaction, as he felt the lock open. He withdrew the slender
tools, stored them in their proper places in the case and replaced the case in the bag. Then he calmly
opened the door.
"Explain the difference between my purse and yours," she said as she entered the dim, silent insurance
office.
"It isn't a purse. The difference is the things that are in them."
"I see. So if I emptied the contents of my purse into your leather bag, it would then become a purse?"
"I give up," he said mildly. "Okay, it's a purse. Only men don't call them purses. We call them satchels or
just plain leather bags." "A rose by any other name," she murmured with gentle triumph.
He chuckled. "That's one of the things I like best about you. You're such a gracious winner. You never
hesitate at all to gloat."
"Some people just ask for it more than others." She looked around, seeing nothing but empty desks and blank
computer screens. "Where's the break room?"
"This way." He led her down a dark interior hallway and opened the last door on the right.
The room had two windows, so it wasn't dark. A variety of vending machines lined one wall, offering soft
drinks, coffee, juice and snacks. A microwave oven sat on a counter, and a silent refrigerator stood at
another wall. There was a vinyl sofa with splits in the cushions that allowed the stuffing to show, and a
number of folding chairs shoved haphazardly around two cafeteria tables.
"Check the refrigerator while I open the machines," Quinlan said. "See if there's any ice. We don't need it
now, but it would be nice to know that it's there just in case. Do it as fast as you can, to keep the cold
air in."
"I do know about refrigerators and power failures," she said pointedly. Swiftly she opened the freezer
compartment, and vapor poured out as cold air met warm. There were six ice trays there, all of them full.
She shut the door just as fast as she had opened it. "We have ice."
"Good." He had the snack machine open and was removing packs of crackers.
Elizabeth opened the main refrigerator door but was disappointed with the contents. A brown paper bag sat in
lone splendor, with several translucent greasy spots decorating it. She had no interest in investigating its
contents. There was an apple, though, and she took it. The shelves in the door were lined with various
condiments, nothing that tempted her. The thought of putting ketchup on the honey bun was revolting.
"Just an apple here," she said.
He finished loading his booty into the leather bag. "Okay, we have cakes, crackers and candy bars, plus the
stuff you got from Chickie's desk. My best guess is we'll get out of here sometime tomorrow morning, so this
should be more than enough. Do you want a soft drink, or juice? There's water downstairs, so we don't need
to raid the drink machines. It's strictly a matter of preference."
She thought about it, then shook her head. "Water will be enough."
He zipped the bag. "That's it, then. Let's make ourselves comfy downstairs."
"Should we leave a note?" she asked.
"No need. I'll take care of things when the power comes on and everything gets back to normal."
The trip downstairs was considerably easier with the aid of one of the flashlights, and soon they reentered
the lobby, which was noticeably cooler because of the two-story ceiling. She looked out through the dark
glass of the double entrance; the street was oddly deserted, with only the occasional car passing by. A
patrol car crawled past as she watched. "It looks weird," she murmured. "As if everyone has been evacuated."
"If the power doesn't come back on," Quinlan said in a grim tone, "it will probably get a lot busier once
the sun goes down and things cool off a little. By the way, I tried to call out from my office, just to see
what was going on and let someone know where we were, but I couldn't get a call to go through. If there's a
citywide blackout, which I suspect, the circuits will be jammed with calls. But I did find a battery-
operated radio, so we'll be able to listen to the news."
"Turn it on now," she suggested, walking over to a sofa to dump her load on it. "Let's find out what's going
on."
He opened the leather bag and took out a small radio, not even as big as her hand. After switching it on and
getting only static, he began running through the frequencies, looking for a station. Abruptly a voice
jumped out at them, astonishingly clear for such a small radio, "--the National Guard has been called out in
several states to help prevent looting--"
"Damn," Quinlan muttered. "This sounds bad."
"Information is sketchy," the announcer continued, "but more reports are coming in, and it looks as if there
has been a massive loss of electrical power across the Southeast and most of Texas."
"I'm not an expert," a second voice said, "but the southern tier of the country has been suffering under
this heat wave for two weeks, and I imagine the demands for electricity overloaded the system. Have we had
any word yet from the governor?"
"Nothing yet, but the phone lines are tied up. Please, people, don't use the telephones unless it's an
emergency. Folks can't get through to 911 if you're on the phone to your friends telling them that your
power's out, too. Believe me, they know."
The second announcer chimed in, "Remember the safety precautions the Health Department has been telling us
for two weeks. It's especially critical without electricity for air conditioning and fans. Stay out of the
sun if possible. With the power off, open your windows for ventilation, and drink plenty of liquids. Don't
move around any more than you have to. Conserve your energy."
"We'll be on the air all night long," said the first announcer, "operating on emergency power. If anything
happens you'll hear it first here on--"
Quinlan switched off the radio. "Well, now we know what happened," he said calmly. "We'll save the batteries
as much as we can."
She gave him a mock incredulous look. "What? You mean you don't have replacement batteries?"
"It isn't my radio."
It wasn't necessary for him to add that if it had been, of course he would have had extra batteries. She
wished it were his radio. And while she was wishing, she wished she had left the building on time, though
she wasn't certain she wouldn't be in a worse situation at her condo. Certainly she was safer here, inside a
sealed building. The magnitude of the problem was stunning. This wasn't something that was going to be
corrected in a couple of hours. It was possible they would still be locked in at this time tomorrow.
She looked at Quinlan. "Are you sure it won't get dangerously hot in here?"
"Not absolutely positive, but reasonably sure. We'll be okay. We have water, and that's the most important
thing. Actually, we're probably as comfortable as anyone in this city is, except for those places that have
emergency generators. If we start getting too warm, we'll just take off some clothes."
Her heart literally jumped, sending her pulse rate soaring, and immediately she began to feel uncomfortably
warm. Her stomach muscles clenched at the thought of lying naked in the darkness with him, but it was the
tightness of desire. While her mind was wary, her body remembered the intense pleasure of his lovemaking.
She turned back to the windows to keep him from reading her expression. Staring at the glass made her think
of something else, and gratefully she seized on it.
"When it gets dark, will anyone on the outside be able to see us in here when we turn on a flashlight? Does
the privacy glazing work at night?"
"Anyone who looked closely would be able to tell that there's a light in here, I suppose," he said
thoughtfully. "But no one will be able to actually see us."
Just the possibility was enough. She had been about to arrange their supplies in the seating area closest to
the entrance, but now she moved farther away. The lobby had several comfortable seating areas, and she chose
one that was close to the middle. It was at least semiprivate, with a long, waist-high planter that created
the sense of a small alcove. It was also closer to the bathrooms, making it a better choice all the way
around.
She arranged their food supplies on a low table, while Quinlan shoved the chairs around to make more room.
Then he collected cushions from the other chairs and stacked them close to hand, ready to make into beds
when they decided to sleep. Elizabeth gave the cushions a sidelong glance. She wasn't sure she would be able
to close her eyes with Quinlan so close by, or that it would be smart to sleep, even if she could.
She looked at him and started when she found him watching her. He didn't look away as he unknotted his tie
and stripped it off, then unbuttoned his shirt down to his waist and rolled up his sleeves. His actions were
practical, but the sight of his muscled, hairy chest and hard belly aroused a reaction in her that had
nothing to do with common sense.
"Why don't you take off those panty hose?" he suggested in a low, silky voice. "They have to be damn hot."
They were. She hesitated, then decided wryly that it wasn't the thin nylon that would protect her from him.
Only she could do that. Quinlan wasn't a rapist; if she said no, he wouldn't force himself on her. She had
never been afraid of that; her only fear was that she wouldn't be able to say no. That was one reason why
she had avoided him for the past six months. So leaving her panty hose on wouldn't keep him from making love
to her if she couldn't say no, and taking them off wouldn't put her at risk if she did keep herself under
control. It was, simply, a matter of comfort. She got a flashlight and carried it into the public rest room,
where she propped it on one of the basins. The small room felt stuffy and airless, so she hurriedly removed
her panty hose and immediately felt much cooler. She turned on the cold water and held her wrists under the
stream, using the time-proven method of cooling down, then dampened one of the paper towels and blotted her
face. There. That was much better.
A few deep breaths, a silent pep talk and she felt ready to hold Tom Quinlan at arm's length for the
duration. With her panty hose in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she returned to the lobby.
He was waiting for her, sprawled negligently in one of the chairs, but those blue eyes watched her as
intently as a tiger watches its chosen prey. "Now," he said, "let's have our little talk."