Breaking Point (8 page)

It had been the first time since . . . that other first time, back months ago, before Max had been shot. That it had happened again—here at the rehab facility, no less—had been almost as surprising to her as it obviously had been to him. She didn’t want to debate the issue, although she was prepared to go into battle, if need be.

Because, God, the way he looked at her when he didn’t think she was watching . . .

It didn’t happen very often. Mostly when he was exhausted, or just waking up.

But Max wanted her, and Gina knew it. She was as sure of that as she was that the sky was blue, and the earth was round.

That knowledge had given her the courage to play out her little seduction scene, day before last. That, and the realization she’d come to during those endless days and nights in the hospital, as Max had hovered close to death.

She loved this man with all of her heart and soul.

And all of those reasons she’d been so ready to walk away from him, to go to Kenya and move on with her life—they so didn’t matter anymore.

So he’d asked someone else—Alyssa Locke, a gorgeous, perfect woman who’d worked with him at the Bureau—to marry him. So what? Alyssa didn’t want him. She’d foolishly turned him down. Her loss.

And Gina’s gain.

Because so what if that meant Gina was getting him on the rebound? She no longer cared that she was Max’s second choice. She wouldn’t care if she was his
fifth
choice.

Max’s nearly dying had brought it all down to the bottom line for her. Which was that she just wanted to be with him.

And two days ago, she’d proven her theory that sex was the chink in his armor. She now knew that their mutual attraction was going to be her way in. And she was going to use it shamelessly to get what she wanted—a chance to be a part of this man’s life.

And if rebound relationships tended to end because the reboundee bounced away—well, that wasn’t going to happen here. Gina was going to hold on to Max with all of her might.

Across the room, he turned a page of his book.

It was nice to be able to look at him without him looking back at her.

Without him going to DEFCON 1.

He was wearing faded jeans and a subdued second cousin to a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops on his feet. The shirt and sandals were fashion by necessity—his still healing collarbone made it impossible to pull a T-shirt over his head. And he’d actually admitted that tying his sneakers was painful for him.

He had on his reading glasses, and Gina knew if she approached, he’d quickly take them off. It might’ve been because he couldn’t see her with them on. Or it might’ve been vanity.

A fear of appearing old, perhaps?

She had to figure out exactly why their age difference was such a big problem for him. Of course, talking about it with him would be nice.

Ha. As if he’d ever volunteer to do that.

What was that expression she’d recently heard? Not until snow falls on the hills of hell.

She used to think that Max was good at talking. God knows they’d spent hours on the phone, back when she was struggling to put her life back together, after the hijacking. But it wasn’t until recently that she realized—it wasn’t talking he was good at. He was good at
listening.

She’d opened herself up to him, told him her secrets, her dreams, her hopes—and he’d told her very little in return. He loved Jimi Hendrix. His parents had divorced while he was in college. He had a sister with mental health issues. He was too much of a nerd to have had a girlfriend in high school, but while at Princeton, he’d been hot and heavy for three years with a girl named Beverly. They’d split up when he graduated early. She’d married someone else a year later, and had two kids.

Gina was pretty sure he hadn’t told her all of
that
story, although he
had
made a point to tell her those kids were both close to Gina’s age.

She now leaned against the door frame, watching as Max used a highlighter to mark a passage in his book. So much for her theory about the romance novel, unless he was taking notes for the next time they were together and naked.

A clatter and raised voice over by the pool table made him look up and she shrank further back.

“Yes!
Yes
!”

There was a young boy in a special, funky, extra-tall wheelchair, working with one of the female staff members, playing the game. He looked about twelve years old, but Gina suspected he was just small for his age.

He’d dropped his pool cue onto the tile floor and was taking victory laps around the table as he continued to whoop and chant. “Who won? I did! Who won? I did!”

His face was angelic—big brown eyes, rich, dark brown skin. But his arms and hands looked as if he’d done some serious time in hell. He’d been so badly burned, his hands weren’t really hands anymore. What was left of his fingers were twisted and claw-like from thick scar tissue.

“Ajay, Ajay!” the staff member said, laughing. “Shhh! The gentleman is trying to read.”

The boy sat in a position that looked as if he were unable to use his legs—knees over slightly to one side, feet together. But he motored swiftly and expertly over to Max, using a hand control on the right arm of the wheelchair. “I’m in training to be a pool hustler, you know, for when the insurance money runs out? You up for losing twenty bucks?”

Max smiled as he put his book down. “Not right now, thanks. I’ve got a friend coming to visit.”

Gina was that friend to whom he’d referred. Friend. Not girlfriend. Not lover.

But okay. As depressing as that news was, it was good to know where she stood.

As Gina continued to watch, Ajay held out his hand to Max. “I’m Ajay Moseley. Car accident.”

It was clearly a test, and Max passed with flying colors. He took the boy’s misshapen hand without hesitation and shook. “Max Bhagat. Gunshot.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re the big hero everyone’s buzzing about. Mr. FBI—who caught a terrorist bullet to the chest but still managed to take the scumbag down. Snaps.” Ajay sat back in his chair. “So what’s the word on me these days? ‘Poor little Ajay, gon’ die soon, he don’t find hisself a new kidney?’ ” He pretended to sniff and wipe a tear from his eye.

Max shook his head. “Nah. You’re like me. You’ve got yourself a solid Triple-T-K rating around here.”

Ajay sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed for several seconds. “Aiight, dawg,” he finally said. “I’ll bite. What’s a whatsis-K . . . ?”

“Too tough to kill,” Max told him.

Ajay laughed, clearly pleased. “That’s for damn sure.”

The staff member approached. “Ajay, it’s time to go see Kevin.”

“Kevin the torturer,” Ajay said. “Oh, happy day! You meet the Kevster yet, Mr. FBI?” He slipped effortlessly into a California surfer accent. “Dude! Way to go! Push it harder! We both know you’ll be so much happier tomorrow if it hurts so much today that you bleed from your ears, dude!”

Max laughed. “Yeah,” he told him. “I visit his torture chamber twice a day for physical therapy. And the name’s Max.”

“How about a friendly game of pool tomorrow morning?” Ajay said. “Around ten? No need to bring your wallet just yet. At least not until I find out if you’re better’n me.”

The nurse gently pulled his chair away. “I’m sure Mr. Bhagat has things he needs to—”

“Tomorrow morning sounds good,” Max interrupted. “But I’ve got Kevin until ten, and I’ll need a hosing down after. Want to make it ten-thirty? If I survive?”

“Ms. LeBlanc,” Ajay said to the staff member, in an exaggerated English accent. “Please check my schedule—” he pronounced it the British way: shed-dule “—and pencil in my morning engagement with my good friend Max.” He grinned. “Later, bro.”

Gina pulled even farther back into the hallway as the boy and the nurse left the room.

But it was too late—Max had spotted her.

“Victor head back to New York?” he asked.

“No, he’s here.” Gina pointed over her shoulder, down the hall to where she’d last seen her brother. “I think he’s flirting with the nurses.” She came into the room. “How
are
you?”

His eyes were guarded, his expression neutral. “Still sleeping too much.”

“Sleep is good,” she said. “You’ll heal faster.”

And there they were, face to face. Both obviously thinking about the last time they were together, about the way she’d pushed him back in his bed and climbed on top of him and . . .

Oh, yes, he was definitely thinking about that. He was trying to hide it, but she could tell.

Maybe bringing her brother along to play chaperone had been a bad idea. Maybe if she’d come here by herself, they wouldn’t have had the discussion she’d been dreading. Maybe all she had to do was let Max look into her eyes and see how badly she wanted to make love to him again and hold out her hand and . . .

“Excuse me.”

Both Gina and Max turned to see that same staff member who’d been playing pool with Ajay standing just inside the door.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman said. “I just . . . I’m Gail,” she said, coming over to shake their hands. “We haven’t been introduced yet. I work mostly with Ajay.” She had a sweet face, a warm smile. “I just wanted to . . . Well, it’s a favor and I hope you don’t mind too much, but Ajay has a brother—Rick—who’s always promising to come visit and he’s only shown up maybe once in the past year and a half, and . . . I just wanted to ask you not to make any plans with Ajay that you can’t keep. I’m sorry, that sounds so insulting. But the disappointment . . . He puts on such a positive face for the world and . . . I’m the one who hears him cry at night,” she finished apologetically.

“How old is he?” Max asked.

“Fourteen,” Gail told him. “I’m not sure if it was the accident or the treatments that stunted his growth. All I know is it’s a miracle he’s alive. His entire family was killed—except for Rick, who wasn’t in the car. It’s been three years—he’s been in and out of here. Each time he has a new surgery, he’s back and . . . He’s had trouble with scarring, and now with his kidney . . .”

Max nodded. “You can tell him I’ll see him tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

Gail nodded, too, but she was obviously still worried.

“Max’ll be there,” Gina told her. “But I’m sure he won’t mind if you want to call his room, to remind him.”

“Absolutely,” Max said. “If it makes you feel better . . .”

“Thank you,” Gail said.

“Gee,” Gina said after the nurse had left the room. “This place has some seriously devoted staff. Should I be jealous?”

Stupid question. It opened up all kinds of doors.

“We need to talk about what happened the other day,” Max told her.

“Okay.” She sat down across from him. “Which part do you want to talk about first, Wild Thing? The part where you gave me what’s probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my entire life?”

He closed his eyes. “Gina—”

She leaned forward as she lowered her voice. “Or the part where I first pushed you all the way inside of me,
all
the way and God, it felt
so
amazingly—”

“Stop.”

“—good.” Not a chance. Gina reached for his hand. “Ever since I left here, I’ve been thinking about making love to you again. About how great it was. About how just sitting here like this makes me hot for you.”

He didn’t pull his hand away. And when he looked up to meet her gaze, there was heat in his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “And it’s . . .”

“Working?” she finished for him, laughing, because yes, her words were working. At least they were working for her. If they were in his room right now, she would lock his door.

And he would not argue. She knew it.

At least not very much.

So she pushed him harder. “You know, I thought maybe if we had sex again it would make me stop wanting you so much. But all it’s done is make me want you more.” She leaned closer. Spoke even more softly. “Day and night, Max. I’ve been thinking about you constantly. Sometimes I think even if we could make love every hour on the hour, it still wouldn’t be enough. I want to spend, like, two weeks with you inside me, nonstop.”

Ooh, yeah. Direct hit. Her point-blank approach was both making him uncomfortable and turning him on. Wasn’t
this
going to be fun?

“But then what?” he asked. “After those two weeks . . . ?”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “Why don’t we try it and find out? What can it hurt—”

“You,” he said, his voice rough. “It could hurt you, and I don’t want to do that. Gina—”

“Hey, there you are.”

Gina looked up to see her brother coming toward them, and Max took the opportunity to pull his hand away. Shoot, Victor had lousy timing. Or maybe it was good timing.

“Hey, Max,” Vic said.

Max stayed in his seat as he shook Victor’s hand. Of course, he still kept his cane nearby. He might have been feeling unsteady on his feet.

Or maybe he didn’t stand for a different reason.

Gina could only hope.

Vic, of course, clasped Max’s hand, obviously sizing him up, doing that macho squeeze thing that drove Gina nuts. “He’s younger than I remember,” he said to Gina. Perfect. Thank you
so
much, Victor. Then, back to Max, “We met—very briefly—a few years ago. Looks like being shot has agreed with you.”

“That is
the
stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Gina told the man who had just moved into first place as the most stupid of her three very stupid brothers.

“What?” Vic shrugged as he dragged over a chair. “I’m just saying—Max looks good. You know, for an older guy. What’d, ya lose weight while you were in the hospital?”

“Yes, Victor,” Gina said. “They call it the Almost Dying Diet.” She turned to Max. “My brother is an idiot.”

“It’s all right,” he said, flexing his fingers—no doubt checking to make sure Victor hadn’t broken his hand. “Still living in Manhattan, Vic?”

“Nah, the office moved to Jersey about a year after 9/11. The commute was killing me, so I finally loaded up the old U-Haul and crossed the river,” Victor said. “I’m in frickin’ Hackensack. I wake up most mornings and wonder how the hell did
this
happen?”