meantime . . . The clinic stocked phenobarbital, but surely there were newer drugs with fewer side effects? Frowning, she
pulled up the research online.
She was making notes when she heard a scrape on the porch, a rattle at the door. Her head rose. Her heart constricted with
hope.
“Zack?” She uncurled her legs, sliding the laptop to the floor.
The front door opened.
Zack. Thank God. Relief crashed over her in a wave.
Her son loomed in the opening to the living room, shoulders hunched, watching her from under his thick, fair lashes. She
jumped to her feet, barely registering Morgan coming in behind him.
Her son didn‟t want her touching him anymore. She didn‟t care. She grabbed him hard and hugged him tight. So tall, she
thought, with a man‟s big bones and a boy‟s lean chest. When did he get so tall? His T-shirt smelled of young male sweat and
grass.
He patted her awkwardly on the back with one arm. “Sorry, Mom.”
Foolish tears, angry, grateful tears, filled her eyes. “Where were you?”
Zack‟s arm dropped.
She stepped back and saw him exchange a look with Morgan over her head. Unease brushed her spine like a cold hand in
the dark.
He cleared his throat. “I went to Stephanie‟s. Stephanie Wiley? Her family owns the grocery store. She thinks her dad can
maybe give me a job.” Another quick glance at Morgan. “Stocking shelves and shit.”
The fist in her chest loosened. “Zack, that‟s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” He shuffled his feet. “I should turn in. Got to be rested for my big day tomorrow.”
“What time do you need to be there? Do you have clean—”
“ ‟ Night, Mom. Good night, um . . .”
Morgan‟s gaze met Zack‟s. Their eyes were the same, exactly the same, gleaming gold with thick, pale lashes. “Good
night.”
Zack practically bounded up the stairs, moving with more energy than he‟d exhibited in months.
Liz faced Morgan. “Who are you and what did you do to my son?”
The gleam spread to a smile. “Perhaps he is simply growing up.”
“You think?” Liz asked doubtfully.
“And perhaps it is the girl‟s influence.”
“Stephanie,” Liz said, committing the name to memory. “He must have met her at the grocery store. I didn‟t know he had
any friends on World‟s End.”
“You are surprised.”
“Thrilled, actually. And grateful.” She reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Thank you. This whole thing turned out
better than I expected.”
His muscles were rigid under her touch. His gaze dropped to her fingers, pale against the black cashmere; lifted to her face.
Her heart stuttered.
“Much better,” he murmured and dipped his head.
Her bare toes curled on the hard floor. His voice was so cool, his body so warm. His heat infected her, spreading from her
hand on his arm to the pit of her belly and the soles of her feet. She felt his swift inhale against her lips and then his mouth
covered hers.
Hot. His kiss was hot and urgent. He didn‟t seduce, he devoured, licking at the seam of her lips, thrusting his tongue inside,
blanketing her brain with heat.
This was wrong. Her children were upstairs. She should stop him. She would stop him.
In a minute.
For now she gave herself up to gratitude, relief, and lust, gave herself over to him. He bit, licked, sucked at her mouth,
devastating her with liquid fire until she was soft and open, until her body was wet and clamoring for his. His hands found and
claimed her breasts. His fingers plucked the tight little points.
“I want to taste you. Here.” His breath seared her lips. His touch glided over the curve of her belly, along the crease of her