“Don’t even think about taking that cast off, doc.”

Irene’s head snapped up and she gave a relieved smile . . . seconds before she jumped out of the chair and charged into his arms.

Van held Irene tight against him, his relief at having her back in his arms nearly dropping him to his knees.

“I didn’t think you’d ever get home,” she said into his neck.

“Me?” he laughed. “You had me worried sick.”

“Blame the government. They wanted my formula.”

“Did they break you?”

Her sniff was arrogance personified. “Not in this lifetime. Although . . .”

“Although?”

“I wish I’d known your uncle was coming. They were really quite upset about the damage.”

Unwilling to release her, Van pulled back enough to see her face. “Damage?”

“From the explosion,” she answered simply.

“I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

“Probably not. Besides, your uncle said he’d take care of it.”

“Good enough.” Van lifted her and carried her back into their bedroom, slamming the door with his foot.

He laid her on the bed, stretching out beside her. “I missed you, doc.”

“I missed you, too.”

They stared at each other for several seconds, then they both sighed sadly.

“What have we done to ourselves?” Van asked.

“I don’t know. I was so happy not caring about anyone. Now I have all these . . . these . . . emotions. And it’s all your fault!”

“My fault?” Van began pulling off her clothes. “I’m Alpha Male of the Van Holtz Pack. That’s a female magnet, doc. I should be knee-deep in pussy. Instead I’m madly in love with you. Can’t imagine my life without you.”

“What about me?” she demanded, leaning up to let him get her T-shirt off her before she took hold of his sweatshirt and lifted it up. “My life was organized and controlled. I was controlled. Now all I can think about is having sex with you. The most irritating human being I’ve ever known.”

“Like you’re a ray of frickin’ sunshine? Uncle Verner is still trying to recover from that game of Risk.”

“If you can’t handle world domination, don’t pick up the die.”

Van stood at the end of the bed and dragged her jeans off. “Oh, that’s a very nice way of talking about your own family.”

“Family? When did they become family?”

“As soon as you agreed to marry me.”

“I never agreed to marry you.”

“Yes, you did. You just don’t remember.”

Irene got on her knees and undid his jeans. “Holtz, I have a memory computers dream about.”

“Don’t brag, baby. It’s tacky.” The fingers onher right hand wouldn’t cooperate, so he helped her get his jeans unzipped and pushed them down, kicking them, his shoes, and socks away. He shoved her back on the bed, pushing her into the mattress with his weight. “We’re getting married. Just deal with it.”

“Fine. But I’m not changing my name.”

“That’s fine. But we’re having a wedding.”

She made a clear sound of disgust.

“I don’t want to hear it, doc. I’ve got a lot of family. We’re having the wedding. A year from now, I’ve decided.”

“Well, I don’t have time to sit around worrying about napkins with our names on them and flowers or whatever.”

“I’ll handle all that.”

“Yes. You will.” She lifted her right arm with its cast above her head and wrapped her left around his neck. “Now. I’ve gone without sexual intercourse—”

“Fucking.”

“. . . fucking, for four days. Get to work. You have much to make up for.”

Since she’d had the printer going nonstop for forty minutes, she never heard a thing. Then Jackie slapped her shoulder.

Startled, she spun around in the chair. “What?” She stared thoughtfully at her friend. “What’s with the dress?”

Jackie looked at the white dress she held in her hand and back at Irene. “It’s for you.”

“Forget it. I’m not going to any dinners tonight.” She faced her computer. “Holtz will understand.”

“Not this time, he won’t.”

“Besides,” Irene added, “I would never wear white to a charity dinner.”

“Irene Danielle Conridge!”

Glancing over her shoulder, “What? What did I do?”

“Apparently you forgot your wedding.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “No way. That’s not for a year.”

“It has been a year.”

“Don’t even try it. The wedding isn’t until October.”

“It is October.”

“October 1985.”

“It is 1985.”

Irene’s fingers froze over the keyboard. “Not the 19th, though.”

“Yes, Irene. It’s Saturday, October 19th, 1985.”

“But it’s not eight o’clock.”

“No. It’s not.”

Irene let out a breath.

“It’s seven-forty-five . . . p.m.”

“Damn!” Irene stood up, rounding on her friend. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“We’ve been telling you. Didn’t you notice the decorations, the people coming in and out . . . the dress fittings? Or how about when I walked in an hour ago and told you that you needed to get dressed for the wedding?”