Overload

Chapter Nine
The doorbell rang just before five on Sunday morning. Elizabeth stumbled groggily out of bed, staring at the

clock in bewilderment. She had finally set the thing, but surely she had gotten it wrong. Who would be

leaning on her doorbell at 4:54 in the morning?

"Quinlan," she muttered, moving unsteadily down the hall.

She looked through the peephole to make certain, though she really hadn't doubted it. Yawning, she released

the chain and locks and opened the door. "Couldn't it have waited another few hours?" she asked grouchily,

heading toward the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. If she had to deal with him at this hour, she needed

to be more alert than she was right now.

"No," he said. "I haven't slept, and I want to get this over with."

She hadn't slept all that much herself; after he'd left the morning before, she had wandered around the

apartment, feeling restless and unable to settle on anything to do. It had taken her a while to identify it,

but at last she had realized that she was lonely. He had been with her for thirty-six hours straight,

holding her while they slept, making love, talking, arguing, laughing. The blackout had forced them into a

hot-house intimacy, leading her to explore old nightmares and maybe even come to terms with them.

The bed had seemed too big, too cold, too empty. For the first time she began to question whether or not she

had been right in breaking off with him. Quinlan definitely was not Eric Landers. Physically, she felt

infinitely safe and cherished with him; on that level, at least, she didn't think he would ever hurt her.

It was the other facet of his personality that worried her the most, his secrecy and insistence on being in

control. She had some sympathy with the control thing; after all, she was a bit fanatic on the subject

herself. The problem was that she had had to fight so hard to get herself back, how could she risk her

identity again? Quinlan was as relentless as the tides; lesser personalities crumbled before him. She didn't

know anything about huge chunks of his life, what had made him the man he was. What if he were hiding

something from her that she absolutely couldn't live with? What if there was a darkness to his soul that he

could keep under control until it was too late for her to protect herself?

She was under no illusions about marriage. Even in this day and age, it gave a man a certain autonomy over

his wife. People weren't inclined to get involved in domestic "disputes," even when the dispute involved a

man beating the hell out of his smaller, weaker wife. Some police departments were starting to view it more

seriously, but they were so inundated with street crime, drug and highway carnage that, objectively, she

could see how a woman's swollen face or broken arm didn't seem as critical when weighed in that balance.

And marriage was what Quinlan wanted. If she resumed a relationship with him, he might not mention it for a

while--she gave him a week, at the outside-- but he would be as relentless in his pursuit of that goal as he

was in everything else. She loved him so much that she knew he would eventually wear her down, which was why

she had to make a final decision now. And she could do it now--if the answer was no. She still had enough

strength to walk away from him, in her own best interests. If she waited, every day would weaken that

resolve a little more.

He had been silent while she moved around the kitchen, preparing the coffeemaker and turning it on. Hisses

and gurgles filled the air as the water heated; then came the soft tinkle of water into the pot and the

delicious aroma of fresh coffee filled the room. "Let's sit down," he said, and placed his briefcase on the

table. It was the first time she had noticed it.

She shook her head. "If this requires thinking, at least wait until I've had a cup of coffee."

His mouth quirked. "I don't know. Somehow I think I'd stand a better chance if your brain stayed in neutral

and you just went with your instincts."

"Hormones, you mean."

"I have nothing against those, either." He rubbed his beard and sighed wearily. "But I guess I could use a

cup of coffee, too."

He had taken the time to change clothes, she saw; he was wearing jeans that looked to be at least ten years

old, and a soft, white, cotton shirt. But his eyes were circled with dark rings and were bloodshot from lack

of sleep, and he obviously hadn't shaved since the morning before the blackout. The blackness of his heavy

beard made him look like a ruffian; actually, he looked exactly like the type of people he hired.

When the coffee stopped dripping, she filled two mugs and slid one in front of him as she took a seat at the

table. Cautiously sipping the hot brew, she wondered how long it would take to hit the bloodstream.

He opened the briefcase and took out two files, one very thin and the other over an inch thick. He slid the

thin one toward her. "Okay, read this one first."

She opened it and lifted her eyebrows when she saw that it was basically the same type of file that he'd had

on her, though this one was on himself. Only it seemed to be rather sketchy. Bare bones was more like it,

and even then, part of the skeleton was missing. It gave his name, birthdate, birthplace, social security

number, physical description, education and present employment, as well as the sketchy facts of his brief

marriage, so many years ago. Other than that, he seemed not to have existed between the years of his divorce

and when he had started his security business.

"Were you in cold storage for about fifteen years?" she finally asked, shoving the file back toward him. "I

appreciate the gesture, but if this was supposed to tell me about you, it lacks a little something."

He eyed her warily, then grinned. "Not many people can manage to be sarcastic at five o'clock in the

morning."

"At five o'clock, that's about all I can manage."

"I'll remember that," he murmured, and slid the second file, the thick one, toward her. "This is the

information you wouldn't have gotten if you investigated me."

Her interest level immediately soared, and she flipped the manila folder open. The documents before her

weren't originals, but were a mixture of photostats and faxes. She looked at the top of one and then gave

him a startled look. "Government, huh?" "I had to get a buddy to pull up my file and send it to me. Nothing

in there is going to reveal state se- crets, but the information is protected, for my sake. I could have

hacked into the computer, but I'd just as soon not face a jail term, so it took some time to get it all put

together."

"Just exactly what did you do?" she asked, not at all certain that she wanted to know. After being so

frustrated by his lack of openness, now that his life lay open before her, she wasn't all that eager to know

the details. If he had been shot at, if he had been in danger in any way... that could give her a different

set of nightmares.

"No Hollywood stuff," he assured her, grinning.

"I'm disappointed. You mean you weren't a secret agent?" Relieved was more like it.

"That's a Hollywood term. In the business, it's called a field operative. And no, that isn't what I did. I

gathered information, set up surveillance and security systems, worked with antiterrorist squads. It wasn't

the kind of job that you talk over with your buddies in the bar after work."

"I can understand that. You got in the habit of not talking about yourself or what you did."

"It was more than just a habit, it could have meant people's lives. I still don't talk about it, because I

still know people in the business. Information is the greatest asset a government can have, and the most

dangerous."

She tapped the file. "So why are you showing me this?"

"Because I trust you," he said simply; then another grin spread across his face. "And because I didn't think

you'd believe me if I just said, 'I can't talk about myself, government stuff, very hush-hush.' You would

have laughed in my face. It's the kind of crap you hear in singles bars, hot-shot studs trying to impress

the airheads. You aren't an airhead."

After flipping a few pages and scanning them, she said, "You're right. I wouldn't have believed this. Most

people don't do this type of work."

He shrugged. "Like I said, I went to Cal Tech, and I was very good at what I did."

"Did?" she asked incredulously. "It's what you still do. It's just that now you do it for yourself instead

of the government." An idea struck her. "The people you hire. Are they--?"

"Some of them," he admitted.

"Like the biker?"

He laughed. "Like the biker. Hell, do you think I'd hire anyone who looked like that if I didn't personally

know him? He really was an operative, one mean son of a bitch."

"They come to you for jobs when they retire?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm not a halfway house for burned-out government employees. I keep track of people,

contact them to see if they're interested in working for me. Most of them are very normal, and it's just a

matter of moving from one computer job to another."

She closed the file and pushed it away from her. Quinlan eyed her with alarm. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"No. I don't need to know every detail of everything you've done. A brief overview is enough."

He drew a deep breath and sat back. "Okay. That's it, then. I've done all I can. I can't convince you, prove

it to you in any way, that I'll never treat you the way Landers did. I know I won't, but you're the one who

has to believe it. Elizabeth, sweetheart, will you marry me?"

She couldn't help it. She knew it wasn't the way a woman was supposed to respond to a marriage proposal, but

the relentlessness of it was so typical of Tom Quinlan that she couldn't stop the sharp crack of laughter

from exploding into sound. She would probably hear that question every day until she either gave him the

answer he wanted or went mad under the pressure. Instead of making her feel pressured, as it would have

before, there was a certain amount of comfort in knowing she could depend on him to that extent. Seeing that

file had meant more to her than he could know. It wasn't just that it filled in the gaps of his life, but

that he trusted her to know about him.

She managed to regain her composure and stared seriously at him. Somehow, what had happened during the

blackout had lessened the grip that Eric Landers had still had on her, even after so many years. During the

long hours of that hot night she had been forced to truly look at what had happened, to deal with it, and

for the first time she'd realized that Eric had still held her captive. Because of him, she had been afraid

to truly let herself live. She was still afraid, but all of a sudden she was more afraid of losing what she

had. If it were possible to lose Quinlan, she thought, looking at him with wry fondness. But, yes, she could

lose him, if she didn't start appreciating the value of what he was offering her. It was sink or swim time.

He had begun to fidget under her silent regard. She inhaled deeply. "Marriage, huh? No living together,

seeing how it works?"

"Nope. Marriage. The love and honor vows. Until death."

She scowled a little at him. He was as yielding as rock when he made up his mind about something. "Yours

could come sooner than you think," she muttered.

"That's okay, if you're the one who does me in. I have an idea of the method you'd use," he replied, and a

look of startlingly intense carnal hunger crossed his face. He shivered a little, then gathered himself and

raised his right hand. "I swear I'll be an absolute p-ssycat of a husband. A woman like you needs room."

She had taken a sip of coffee, and at his words she swallowed wrong, choking on the liquid. She coughed and

wheezed, then stared at him incredulously. "Then why haven't you been giving me any?" she yelled.

"Because I was afraid to give you enough room to push me away," he said. He gave her a little half smile

that acknowledged his own vulnerability and held out his hand to her. "You scare me, too, babe. I'm scared

to death you'll decide you can get along without me." She crossed her arms and glared at him, refusing to

take his outstretched hand. "If you think you'll get a little slave, you'll be disappointed. I won't pick up

after you, I don't like cooking and I won't tolerate dirty clothes strewn all over the place."

A grin began to spread across his face as she talked, a look of almost blinding elation, but he only said

mildly, "I'm fairly neat, for a man."

"Not good enough. I heard that qualification."

He sighed. "All right. We'll write it into our wedding vows. I'll keep my clothes picked up, wash the

whiskers out of the sink and put the lid back down on the toilet. I'll get up with the kids--"

"Kids?" she asked delicately.

He lifted his brows at her. She stifled a smile. God, dealing with him was exhilarating! "Okay," she said,

relenting. "Kids. But not more than two."

"Two sounds about right. Deal?"

She pretended to consider, then said, "Deal," and they solemnly shook hands.

Quinlan sighed with satisfaction, then hauled her into his arms, literally dragging her across the table and

knocking her mug of coffee to the floor. Oblivious to the spreading brown puddle, he held her on his lap and

kissed her until her knees were weak. When he lifted his head, a big grin creased his face and he said, "By

the way, I always know how to bypass my own systems."

She put her hand on his rough jaw and kissed him again. "I know," she said smugly.

Over an hour later, he lifted his head from the pillow and scowled at her. "There's no way you could have

known."

"Not for certain, but I suspected." She stretched, feeling lazy and replete. Her entire body throbbed with a

pleasant, lingering heat.

He gathered her close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Six months," he grumbled. "And it took a

damn blackout to get you to talk to me."

"I feel rather fond of the blackout," she murmured. "Without it, I wouldn't have been forced to spend so

much time with you."

"Are you saying we never would have worked it out if it hadn't been for that?"

"I wouldn't have given you the chance to get that close to me," she said, her voice quiet with sincerity. "I

wasn't playing games, Tom. I was scared to death of you, and of losing myself again. You never would have

had the chance to convince me, if it hadn't been for the blackout."

"Then God bless overloaded power grids," he muttered. "But I'd have gotten to you, one way or another."

"Other than kidnapping, I can't think how," she replied caustically.

He went very still, and the silence made her lift her head to give him a suspicious glare. He tried to look

innocent, then gave it up when he saw she wasn't buying it.

"That was what I had planned for the weekend, if you refused to have dinner with me Thursday night," he

admitted a bit sheepishly.

"Ah-ha. I thought you waylaid me that afternoon."

"A man has to do something when his woman won't give him the time of day," he muttered. "I was desperate."

She said, "It's six-thirty."

A brief flicker of confusion crossed his face; then he glanced at the clock and grinned. "So it is," he said

with satisfaction. She had just given him the time of day--and a lot more. With a lithe twist of his

powerful body he tumbled her back into the twisted sheets and came down on top of her.

"I love you," he rumbled. "And I still haven't heard the 'yes' I've been waiting for."

"I agreed. We made a deal."

"I know, but I'm a little more traditional than that. Elizabeth Major, will you marry me?"

She hesitated for a second. Eric Landers had lost the power to keep her a victim. "Yes, Tom Quintan, I

certainly will."

He lowered his head to kiss her. When he surfaced, they were both breathing hard and knew it would be a

while yet before they got out of bed. He gave the clock another glance. "Around nine," he murmured, "remind

me to make a couple of phone calls. I need to cancel the kidnapping plans."

She laughed, and kept laughing until his strong thrust into her body changed the laughter into a soft cry of

pleasure, as he turned that relentless focus to the task of bringing them both to the intense ecstasy they

found only with each other. She had been so afraid of that part of him, but now she knew it was what made

him a man she could depend on for the rest of her life. As she clung to his shoulders, a dim echo of thought

floated through her brain: "God bless overloads!"