Wynter, her back lightly cushioned against Pearce's chest, tilted her head back against Pearce's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Terrific." Pearce steadied herself with a hand on either side of Wynter's hips when another person crowded onto the stair just behind her. As soon as she regained her balance, she quickly moved her hands.

"Sorry."

"No need to be." Wynter's face was very close to Pearce's. As the band started to play, she said, "I'm really glad you came tonight."

"Me too," Pearce shouted before all conversation became impossible.

Waitstaff, against all odds, managed to snake their way through the packed room holding aloft circular trays laden with bottles of beer.

Pearce snagged two, tossing what she hoped was a ten onto the tray before passing a bottle to Wynter. Unlike most openers, the first band was better than good, and forty-five minutes later the crowd was primed for the main attraction. When Patti Smith hit the stage growling, lean and hungry in leather pants and a faded Dylan T-shirt, the room was seething with the contagious energy of sex and booze and rebellion.

Wynter rocked against Pearce as she clapped and stomped, her body hot against Pearce's chest and stomach. The sounds were primal, the words prophetic, and Pearce was on fire. By the time Patti screamed that desire was the hunger, Wynter's hips pressed and rolled between Pearce's legs so hard that her mind filled with the red haze of arousal.

She had no conscious awareness of sliding her arms around Wynter's waist or of Wynter clasping her hands and tightening the embrace. When Patti proclaimed that the night was made for lovers, Pearce buried her face in the curve of Wynter's neck and breathed her scent, her mouth open against sweat-dampened skin. Moaning softly, she surrendered to sensation, content to have just this small, sweet surcease. But it was Wynter who wanted more.

At the first touch of Pearce's mouth against her neck, Wynter turned molten inside. Patti roared, the crowd raged, and Wynter soared to a place she'd never been. She arched her back and, without a single thought, pivoted and wrapped her arms around Pearce's neck. She fisted her hands in Pearce's hair and feasted on her mouth as if she'd been starving for years.

Pearce kissed her back, unable to do anything else. She'd wanted this for weeks. Wynter's mouth was hot, soft, and demanding at the same time. Wynter's tongue raced over the inside of her lips, and her stomach twisted with urgency. When she heard Wynter groan and felt the telltale rocking of Wynter's hips, some part of her mind separated itself from her wildly demanding body. She found herself looking down at them as if from a great distance, saw Wynter carried away on a wave of abandon, and she suddenly knew she had to stop. She had to stop it, because she understood the consequences.

"Hey," Pearce gasped, turning her head away from the kiss and brushing her lips over Wynter's ear. "I'm losing my grip here."

"Oh God, me too," Wynter moaned, nipping lightly at Pearce's neck. "I've been wanting to do that since Match Day."

Pearce fished in her pockets for her keys, and pressed them into Wynter's hand. "Take my car home. I need to take a walk."

Uncertain, Wynter searched her face. "Why? What is it?"

"This isn't Match Day anymore." Already slipping into the crowd, Pearce shook her head. "I gotta go, Wynter."

Wynter leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her body was in turmoil, her mind incapable of rational thought, but somewhere, deep inside, she knew Pearce was right.


CHAPTER TWENTY

Pearce cut across the small lobby, ignoring the curious stares of the staff, and shouldered through the door. She carried her jacket hooked over her shoulder, not slowing for even an extra second to shrug it on. The heat from the simmering crowd and the unrelenting arousal chased her, propelling her as if she were besieged. It was nearly 11:00 p.m., and the biting cold never even registered in her mind as she strode west, forcing her way through the teeming streets. Even now, in the dead of winter, the nightlife pulsed along the twelve-block stretch of South Street extending from Penn's Landing on the Delaware River.

Boutiques, bars, tattoo parlors, and fast food kiosks jammed every available inch of real estate. Packs of teenagers jostled and preened, taking their first steps in the age-old mating rituals. Curious out-of towners gawked and the locals strolled. And Pearce ran.

She had only one goal in mind, and that was to put distance between herself and Wynter. She needed some space to resurrect her shattered defenses. She'd known that going out with Wynter tonight was a risk. She'd known for days, weeks in fact, that she'd been pretending.

Pretending that her attraction was controllable, her desire containable, and most dangerously of all, that Wynter was available. But she hadn't had the strength to walk away, and now she had to run. She wondered how far and how long it would take to run from the memory of Wynter's hungry kisses, the firm hot pressure of her body, the small sounds of pleasure that had cut through her with the deadly precision of surgical steel. Farther than she had yet, she knew that.

She weaved unseeing through the oncoming Friday night crowds, barely aware of crossing the streets with or without the lights. Her thin shirt stuck to her chest, drenched with the sweat of desire and despair.

She almost expected it to be blood.

The University Hospital was thirty blocks west, and she covered the distance in just over thirty minutes, arriving weak-limbed and panting.

She fumbled for ID in her wallet, although it wasn't necessary. All the guards knew her. If the two at the main entrance were surprised by her appearance, they didn't show it. She went directly to the elevators and rode up to the locker room. It was empty, as it usually was in the middle of the night. The residents were either busy on the floors or operating, and the only OR personnel around were occupied with the nonstop flow of emergency cases. Pearce opened her locker with trembling hands and methodically stripped off her boots and clothes. She pulled on clean, soft scrubs, stepped into her shabby, blood-spattered clogs, and went in search of forgetting.

Her first stop was the ER, where she perused the whiteboard that covered one wall. It was divided into a series of rows and columns with the cubicle numbers on the left-hand side, followed by the patient name, attending ER physician, and a shorthand chief complaint. She studied the list. Back pain, cough, earache, painful urination, abdominal pain.

Abdominal pain. Bingo.

"Hey, Henry," Pearce said when she found the ER attending putting on a cast in the treatment room. "What's the story with the abdominal pain?"

The heavyset African American didn't even look around as he smoothly rolled the three-inch strip of plaster of paris around the soft padding he had applied to an elderly woman's wrist. "Sixteen-year old basketball player who said he thought he pulled a groin muscle during practice two days ago, but today he lost his appetite and spiked a temp."

"White count?"

"22,000."

"Ouch. X-rays?"

Henry Watson straightened with a grimace but smiled at the white haired woman in the wheelchair. "All done. How does it feel?"

"Much better. How long will I have to wear this thing?"

"That's going to be up to your orthopedic doctor," he said, "but I imagine about six weeks."

"Oh my. That's going to make it difficult to shovel if it snows again."

He pressed his lips firmly together, apparently trying not to laugh, and nodded seriously. "You might need help with that." He patted her shoulder and motioned to Pearce to follow him back into the hall. When they moved a few feet down the corridor, he said, "I hope I'm worrying about shoveling when I'm eighty-seven."

"Yeah. Me too."

"So what are you doing down here? I called for a surgery consult, but I didn't expect to see you."

Pearce shrugged. "I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Uh-huh. Well, while you're passing through, why don't you go lay your sainted hands on that boy's belly so I can get him out of here.

We're backed up until next week."

"I'll take care of it."

Henry grunted his thanks and walked away, and Pearce went in search of the chart. When she found it, she skimmed it quickly to make sure there wasn't anything else she needed to know and then went to see the patient. She introduced herself to Rodney Owens and explained that she wanted to take a look at his abdomen.

All one hundred ninety pounds of Rodney Owens turned bright red as he clutched the thin hospital sheet to his chest. "I don't think there's anything wrong with my stomach."

"Really? Your chart says you came in complaining of abdominal pain."

"It's not exactly my abdomen. It's more...like...lower."

"Lower. Lower like in your groin?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes. My groin. That's it."

Pearce leaned her hip against the side of the stretcher and tucked the chart under her arm. "Groin as in the inside of your leg or groin as in your testicles?"

"Those," he said faintly.

"Ever had any problem there before? Like a hernia?"

He shook his head.

"Any recent trauma? Maybe during the workout a few days ago?"

Another headshake.

"Swelling?"

"No," he whispered.

"So is it one or both that hurt?"

"Just the right one."

"Okay. Let's have a look at your belly first."