"Yes." Wynter imagined she could feel Pearce's breath against her skin, although she knew that Pearce's mask prevented that. With effort, she cleared her mind of the feel of Pearce's hands on her back, the gentle pressure along her body that she knew came from Pearce's breasts and thighs just touching hers as the other woman leaned over her shoulder. Carefully, she massaged the adventurous loop of small intestine back into the abdominal cavity where it belonged. Holding the bowel firmly out of the way, she directed, "Now put your suture just above my fingers. You want to be careful...Ow...ow, damn it...

damn!"

"You get stuck?" Pearce asked briskly as Wynter reflexively jerked away from the table and slammed into her. She was already reaching for the bottle of alcohol from beneath the metal prep cart as Wynter swore again and jerked off her glove. Blood streamed from the pulp of her index finger onto the floor. "Here, hold out your hand."

"God, that hurts," Wynter said, gritting her teeth as she squeezed her finger to force the blood from the puncture site. At the same time, Pearce doused it with alcohol, adding to the pain but making her feel better, at least psychologically. She looked back at the operating table, where Liu was watching her with wide, panicked eyes. "It's okay. Just put a moist sponge on the field. I'll be back in a second."

Pearce grasped Wynter's hand when she tried to pull away, ignoring the blood that dripped into her palm. "Wait a minute while I pour some Betadine on it."

"Now I have to rescrub," Wynter protested halfheartedly. "And you're getting blood on you."

"I'm not worried." Pearce grabbed several gauze pads from a nearby stack and pressed them to Wynter's finger. "Looks deep."

"Deep enough," Wynter muttered, fighting a wave of nausea.

Surgical needles were razor-sharp, heavy steel. The puncture had struck bone.

"What's the story on your patient?" Pearce asked, dabbing at the still-bleeding site. She had an insane urge to kiss it. Like her chin. She chased the image away. "Anything we should worry about?"

"No. No history of drug abuse. No transfusions. Straight, as far as we know. Mr. Joe College." Wynter shook her head. "It's no big deal."

Pearce met Wynter's eyes. They both knew that needle sticks were par for the course in the operating room. Everyone got stuck at least once a month. Fortunately, the needles used for suturing were not hollow, so they were far less likely to transfer contagious viruses than syringe needles. Despite the deadly threat of HIV, the possibility of hepatitis was much more likely and often as debilitating. "After the case, stop by employee health and get baseline bloods drawn. I'll order an HIV and hepatitis screen on this guy just to be sure."

"It's not really necessary. I'm sure he's clea--"

"I'm sure too. But let's be safe. Get the baseline titers drawn."

Wynter sighed and nodded assent, realizing that Pearce was right, even though it was a nuisance. Now she'd have to have follow-up bloods drawn at six weeks and six months. They'd come back negative. She was sure of it. She glanced down and saw that Pearce's fingers shook as they cupped her hand. She'd never seen Pearce tremble the slightest bit, even after thirty-six hours of no sleep and gallons of coffee. Suddenly hyperaware of Pearce's touch, she pulled her hand away as her stomach cartwheeled. "I need to finish this case."

"Right," Pearce said hoarsely. "Go ahead and scrub. I'll watch Junior until you get back."

Wynter hurried out, anxious to complete the surgery and even more anxious to reclaim some semblance of control. Pearce had a way of making her do things she didn't want to do. She'd spent almost seven years with a man who'd manipulated and cajoled her into making choices she didn't want to make. Now, when she thought she'd left all that behind, it seemed that Pearce had only to ask and she was willing to comply. It was maddening and more than a little frightening.

When Wynter returned, ready to don new gloves and a clean gown, Pearce was leaning against the anesthesia machine, laughing at something Ken had just said. As Wynter stepped up to the table, Pearce said, "You okay?"

"Fine. Just a little bit swollen."

"I know how much that can hurt. If you want me to scrub the rest of the case--"

"Oh sure," Ken interjected teasingly, "I bet she's just trying to get out of moving furniture tomorrow. Seems like a cheap trick to me."

Pearce raised a questioning brow.

"Go ahead, Liu," Wynter said, redirecting the resident to the case.

"Put that suture in before the wound heals by itself...and try to miss my finger this time."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again." Wynter kept her tone light, but all business. Once the resident had safely placed the first suture, she glanced at Pearce. "I'm moving tomorrow."

For a second, Pearce had a vision of Wynter sharing an apartment with some unknown man. Sharing the moments of her day, her bed, her life. She searched for words and couldn't find any.

Wynter, her attention back on the field, continued, "My daughter and I've been staying with Ken and his wife since I moved here. I just got a sublet in the other half of their Victorian for six months. It's perfect while I look for a permanent place."

"That's good," Pearce finally managed.

"Yeah," Ken said. "We're glad she's not going far. You're welcome to come and help move furniture tomorrow, Pearce."

Neither Pearce nor Wynter said anything.

Ken continued, oblivious to the silence. "We're having pizza and beer after."

Pearce spoke before she could change her mind. "I never pass up free beer. I'll be there."

"Don't break that when you tie it down," Wynter instructed, suddenly looking forward to the next day's labor. Moving hadn't been her choice as to how to spend her first full weekend off, but now, it didn't seem quite so bad.


CHAPTER TWELVE

"You don't have to do this, you know," Wynter said when Pearce entered the locker room the next morning. She tucked in her blouse and tossed her scrubs into the nearby laundry basket.

"Hey, I already signed on for the detail." Pearce banged open the steel door of her locker and draped her white coat over the metal hook.

Then she stripped off her scrub top and exchanged it for a navy blue rugby shirt. "When is everyone getting together?"

"About eleven. That gives those of us who were on call last night time to go home and get cleaned up." Wynter resisted the urge to look down as Pearce stepped out of her pants and tugged on threadbare 501s. While Pearce buttoned up, Wynter shrugged into her knee-length woolen coat and eyed the brown leather bomber jacket that Pearce tugged out of her locker. "Don't you freeze in that?"

"This?" Pearce said, pulling on the jacket. "No way. It's the real deal. My grandfather was a Navy flight surgeon."

Wynter smoothed her hand down the sleeve, amazed at the suppleness of the leather. Pearce looked young and tough and outrageously attractive in it. Fleetingly, Wynter wondered just when it was that she'd begun to think of women that way, but she quickly pushed the question aside. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks." Pearce held her breath, watching Wynter's face soften with pleasure. At that moment, she'd have given anything she had if only that look were for her. Warning bells clanged, and she reminded herself why she wasn't going down that road. "It keeps me warm."

Wynter lifted her eyes to Pearce's, her fingers still resting on the jacket. "I bet it does."

"See you in a little while," Pearce murmured, sidestepping over the bench and out of touching range.

"Come hungry," Wynter called after her.

"Count on it." Pearce laughed as she shouldered out the door.

That's my problem.

v "Who are you waiting for?" Mina asked.

"No one," Wynter said.

"You've been watching that clock like an expectant father. So don't tell me no one."

Wynter blushed. "I was just checking..." She saw Mina's eyes narrow the way they did when one of the kids was telling a particularly clumsy fib. She sighed. "My senior resident is supposed to come over to help out. That's all."

"Dr. Hotty Pants?"

"Shh," Wynter admonished, stifling a laugh. "Someone will hear you."

"All the men are in the living room plotting strategy. You'd think they were going to war and not unloading a truck full of furniture.

Speaking of which, they're late."

"When have you ever known a delivery service to be on time? Everything about this move happened so quickly, I'm just grateful I don't have to leave everything in storage for the next year."

Ken walked into the kitchen and threw an arm around Mina's shoulders. "The truck is just pulling up out front. Is your sister with the kids?"

"They're all tucked away upstairs with Chloe and a roomful of toys. If anyone wants me, I'll be next door in Wynter's new kitchen telling her where to put everything. I just adore organizing kitchens."

"Yeah, and just about everything else," Ken said good-naturedly.

He kissed Mina and hurried outside to continue his supervisory role.

Wynter looked after him fondly. "I don't know what I'd do without you and all the rest of your family. I--"

"Just hush up. You and Ronnie are family. Now let's get going before those men put everything in the wrong place."

They made it as far as the front porch before Mina stopped so abruptly that Wynter nearly ran into her. The eighteen-foot delivery truck had backed up onto the sidewalk, and its tailgate now rested on the wooden steps that led up to the wide front porch of the other half of the Victorian twin. A small cluster of people congregated by the open truck bed, most of them gesticulating and talking at once. One person stood apart observing the conclave, legs spread and arms folded, sporting an amused expression.