by Anne Stuart
He could see the tension in her shoulders relax slightly. “I almost thought so, too,” she said. “It…it frightened me.”
“Hell, it frightened me, too. I bet it was Greg’s idea. He’s enough of an idiot to think it might be entertaining.”
“You’re right,” Helen said, breathing more evenly now. “A couple of years ago he had four men come in with machine guns loaded with blanks. Two men dressed as policemen and two in period clothes. We knew it was all part of the act, but when they pretended to fire on us it felt…real.”
Rafferty closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them in time to miss a fire hydrant. “I know what you mean,” he said roughly. He glanced out the rearview mirror, but there was no sign of Drago, at least for now. “What the hell would you want to go to a party like that for? Apart from the sheer bad taste of it, they didn’t seem like your kind of people.”
“And what are my kind of people?” she asked, her voice cool and brisk. “From our long-standing and intimate acquaintance I gather that you’re more than ready to come up with a pronouncement. What kind of people do you think I belong with?”
“Not saps like them.”
“That’s the problem, Rafferty. I don’t know where I belong. I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve felt at home, really at home, with only a few people. My family, even though they drive me crazy. And as crazy as it sounds, Crystal Latour. I only knew her for a few short months, but we had a kind of understanding, a rapport, that you don’t usually find. She told me I was born eighty years too late.”
Rafferty drove up over the curve, swore and pulled back into the street. “She did, did she?”
Helen turned to look at him, and her brown eyes were very clear and certain. “I feel at home with you, Rafferty,” she said, her voice soft.
“Don’t!” He pushed his foot down on the gas pedal, hard, but it was already floored. “I thought I warned you. I’m no good for you. Here today, gone tomorrow, and there’s no way I can change it.”
“Maybe it would be worth it,” she said meditatively. “Maybe half a loaf is better than none.”
Rafferty saw the outline of her apartment building with a sense of profound relief. He aimed the car for a narrow space near the front, zipped into it and slammed on the brakes.
Helen put out a hand to stop herself from hurtling toward the windshield. “Do you always have to drive like a maniac?” she asked mildly enough.
“Do you always have to behave like a maniac?” he countered. “I’ve warned you, and I’ll warn you again. I’m no good. You can believe what you want, but even if you won’t believe I’m a small-time gangster from sixty years ago, believe that I’m not the kind of man you want. I’ve lied to you…”
“If you were the Rafferty that died in the shoot-out then you weren’t small-time,” Helen pointed out, unfastening her seat belt.
Rafferty growled, “You’re making me crazy.”
Her smile was brilliant and absolutely devastating. “I’m doing my best.”
He slammed out of the car, starting up the wide front steps. She caught up with him as he unlocked the door, putting her hand on his arm.
It was the last straw. He turned, to look down at her, at her wide, lost eyes, at her soft, vulnerable mouth, at the dress his own bride should have worn, and something inside him snapped. He’d stared death in the face too many times, not his own death, which no longer mattered, but hers. And suddenly he wanted to affirm life in the most basic possible way.
He pulled her into the hallway, slamming the door on the bright winter sunshine, cocooning them in warmth and darkness. Pushing her up against the wall, he slid his hands under the heavy fur coat, around her body and pulled her tight against him, against his own hard, aching body, wanting to scare her away, wanting to take her, wanting a thousand conflicting things.
She stared up at him, wordlessly. And since he made no move to kiss her, she reached up on her tiptoes and put her mouth against his, sweet and shy and very brave. “Come on, tiger,” she whispered against his mouth. “What are you afraid of?”
“You, Helen. Just you.”
Chapter Ten
Rafferty frightened her. There was no other word for it. As he stared down at her in the darkened hallway, his body pressed up tight against her, she could feel the tension, the need in his tall, wiry body. She could see the desperation and anger in his face. She was afraid of that intensity, that emotion. And the fact that she was mirroring those feelings.
But she was even more afraid of his leaving, disappearing, before she discovered just what it felt like. Afraid that once he was gone, as inevitably he would be, that she’d never experience those emotions again. And she was brave enough to take the risk.
“Rafferty,” she said, but he put his hand over her mouth, his long fingers hard against her lips.
“Don’t,” he said, and there was no mistaking the desperation in his voice. “There’s just so much I can take, Helen. I’m only human.”
“I thought you were a ghost,” she said, her voice deliberately taunting. “Or a zombie.”
“Damn it.” He moved his hand from her mouth, cupping the back of her neck beneath the heavy fall of hair and kissed her then, his mouth hard against hers.
She closed her eyes, sinking back against the wall, reveling in the feel of him, of his hard, taut body, of his hungry mouth, pushing her lips apart, tasting, devouring, as if a man obsessed. She wanted to kiss him back, but he was too forceful, allowing her no choice but to accept, passively, when she wanted more and more and more.
When he broke the kiss he was breathing heavily, and she could feel him against the soft cradle of her hips, feel how much he must want her. He couldn’t turn her down this time, could he? She’d waited so long for someone she really wanted. She was tired of waiting.
“Helen,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp of longing.
She cupped his face with her hands, his dear, tormented face. “I want you, Rafferty. I’ve been waiting all my life for you. Don’t turn me away.”
He groaned, sinking his head against the wall beside hers, and she could feel the shudder dance through his body, as he fought it, fought her, fought himself. And then with a muttered curse he dropped his hands to her shoulders, shoving the heavy fur coat off and onto the floor at their feet. He slid his fingers under the straps of the velvet dress and pulled them down, abruptly, baring her to the waist, and in the darkened hall she almost panicked.
“Trying to scare me off, Rafferty?” she whispered, stilling her reaction, keeping her hands from covering herself. “You can’t do it.”
“Can’t I?” he muttered. And he pulled the dress down over her narrow hips, so that it fell at her ankles, and she was standing there in the hallway, dressed only in a pair of serviceable white cotton panties and white silk stockings rolled to her knees.
He scooped her up then, wrapping her around his body, her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders, pressing her against the wall as he kissed her again, his mouth hot and wet and seeking, his long fingers cupping her hips, squeezing, pressing her against him, and she could feel his heat and hardness at the very center of her.
She knew she should be frightened, and she was. She knew she should be turned off, and she wasn’t. She wanted to feel his flesh against hers, his bare skin against her breasts. She wanted to lie on the big, empty bed in her room and have him show her what she’d been waiting twenty-nine years to discover. He was the right man in the right place at the right time, even if he didn’t believe it.
She clutched him tightly, her fingers kneading his shoulders beneath the wool jacket. And then he broke the kiss, swinging her around dizzily, carrying her into the apartment, and she closed her eyes, expecting to see the bedroom.
Instead he dropped her on the couch, unceremoniously, making no move to follow her down onto the spacious cushions.
She was completely vulnerable, half-naked as she’d never been before with a man. She lay there
, staring up at him, waiting.
He stood over her, his tie still in place, his face tense and dark, his breathing rapid. “This is no good, Helen,” he said in a tight, angry voice. “You know it and I know it.”
She didn’t move. “You don’t want me?” she asked in a forlorn voice.
He cursed then. Not a polite curse, not a gentlemanly curse, but with words that might have even shocked her hard-boiled brothers. “Damn it, Helen, don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?” he said finally.
“Not where you’re concerned. I’m in love with you.”
The words horrified him almost as much as they shocked her. She hadn’t realized it until she spoke it aloud, and the thought was astonishingly right.
“Helen, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, running a desperate hand through his hair. “You don’t even know me.”
There was a limit to her bravery after all, she discovered. A limit to how much she could offer, how much she could be rejected. Heat flushed through her body, and she struggled off the sofa as she tried to cover herself. “Sorry,” she muttered in a miserable little voice. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He caught her as she tried to move past him, caught her in hard, strong hands. “I’m trying to do what’s best for both of us,” he said. “For once in my life I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Bully for you,” she said, hating the burning of tears in her eyes. “Let me get some clothes on.” She tried to pull away from him, furious now, furious and ashamed. She’d allowed her first real taste of passion to blind her, but now her eyes were opened, and she wanted nothing more than to hide. From him and from herself.
He didn’t release her. A thousand emotions crossed his usually impassive face, and then he was very still, that threatening, enticing stillness. “I tried,” he said, more to himself than to her, an excuse, an apology, a defiance. “Damn it, I tried.” And he pulled her into his arms.
She fought him this time, pushing against him. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I don’t want you after all.”
“Fickle, aren’t you?” he said wryly, kissing the side of her mouth, letting his lips trail down the line of her jaw, her throat, concentrating on the rapid pulse at the base of her neck. “I thought you were in love with me.”
“What the hell do I know about love?” she said bitterly.
“Maybe I can teach you.”
She stopped her struggles abruptly, standing very still. He released her, and she slowly brought her hands up to his tie. She unfastened it more deftly this time, even though her hands were trembling, even though she was doing her best to avoid his intent gaze. She began to work on the pearl buttons of his white shirt, unfastening them slowly, one by one, until she reached the belt of his trousers. And then she leaned forward and put her mouth against his chest, against the hair-roughened flesh.
He sucked in his breath, and for a moment she wondered if she’d been too bold. And then his hands cupped her head, gently, as she tasted him, her tongue tracing tiny patterns on his flat stomach, as her hands reached for his thin leather belt.
He pulled her up then, into his arms, and somehow they made it over to the sofa as his mouth met hers. He pushed her back on the cushions, kneeling over her, still fully dressed, and his hands cupped her breasts, the first time she’d felt a man touch her, and his thumbs danced across the tight peaks, sending a shaft of desire streaking through her, arching her hips against his imprisoning legs. His mouth followed, wet and hungry, suckling her, and she moaned, a soft sound of pleasure and frustration.
They hadn’t turned on any lights, and the February afternoon was gray and shadowed, but inside on the overstuffed old sofa there was heat and light, as Rafferty slid his hands underneath her panties and pulled them down, over her long legs, leaving the stockings in place.
She waited for him to strip off his own clothes, but he made no move to do so. Instead he lay beside her, pulling her against him, and her hands slid inside his open shirt, reveling in the heat and strength of his muscled flesh, as his mouth teased hers open, his tongue dipping, tasting, arousing. She could feel herself sinking into a swirling mass of sensations, existing in the delight of his mouth playing with hers, her breasts pressed up against his warm, hard chest, wanting nothing more in this life but his mouth, his mouth….
She jerked in shock as his hand reached between her legs, cupping her. For a moment she stilled, not sure if she was ready, but his mouth kept coaxing, distracting, as he gently, deftly stroked her.
“Open your legs, Helen,” he whispered, moving his lips to trail a damp path along her cheekbones. “Come on, lady, don’t be shy. Open them. It’s not going to work with your knees together.” There was just a trace of laughter in his voice, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
But she couldn’t resist him. Not when his mouth was so enticing. Not when his hand was so deft. She relaxed, just slightly, and his fingers found her, sliding into the heat of her, moving with such instinctive wisdom that she whimpered.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered against her ear, nibbling on her earlobe. “Just relax, and you’ll be fine. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
A small part of her confused brain reminded her that it was supposed to hurt the first time. But she trusted him, believed him, as his fingers slid against her, deftly, insistently, and she was arching her hips against him, searching for something, she wasn’t sure what, aching, longing, dying for him, as his tongue thrust deep into her mouth, his fingers thrust deep inside her, his thumb pressing, caressing, pushing, until suddenly she shattered, her body going rigid, as wave after wave of starshot darkness poured over her.
She was crying when it began to fade away. She felt foolish, but the tears kept flowing, and she buried her face against his shoulder, against the white shirt he still wore, and he cupped the back of her head, holding her there, soothing her in a strained voice as his other hand stroked the taut line of her back.
She could feel the tension thrumming through his body, the sheen of perspiration on his skin, the rapid pulse of his heart against hers. She wanted to look up at him, to kiss him again, to find out what would happen next, but she was afraid. Besides, his hands felt too good on her, stroking her, soothing her, calming her. He was the one who knew what he was doing, not she. She could relax, and trust him. She could melt against the safety of his strong, hard body and know he would take care of things. She could rest…
IT WAS A LONG TIME before Rafferty dared disentangle himself from her sleeping form. Lying there with her damp, exhausted, deliciously naked body pressed up against his had been its own sort of hell. If this endless, unreasonable cycle ever ended, if heaven and hell existed, he no longer had to fear where he’d end up. He just had a taste of the worst of it. And the best.
She murmured something when he pulled away from her, a soft sound of distress that tore at his heart. Maybe she really did love him. He hoped not. He wasn’t worth loving. And there was nothing he could offer her, more than what he just gave her.
He draped the discarded afghan over her, but it didn’t help. He still knew in intimate detail the shape of the body beneath it. Round where it ought to be round, narrow and delicate, damp and hot, she was absolutely perfect. And he didn’t know if the iron hardness between his legs would ever go away, in this lifetime or any of the subsequent ones.
He’d done his good deed for the day, for the week, hell, for the whole century. He’d resisted everything she’d offered, giving, not taking. He’d tasted her, enough to know that she was everything he’d ever longed for, dreamed about, needed. He’d tasted her, treated her and left her intact, inviolate, still ready for the man who might deserve her.
He hated that mythical man. Hated him almost as much as he…cared for Helen. She deserved better than him, and he had made the supreme sacrifice for some ungrateful bastard who’d probably treat her like dirt….
Whoa, Rafferty. Slow down. Helen was too smart to fall for a jer
k, wasn’t she? Except that she’d fallen for him, when she should have known better.
Maybe he should teach her a lesson. Maybe he shouldn’t worry about breaking her heart—it would keep her from making the same mistake twice. Maybe he should strip off his clothes, pull back that afghan and finish what he’d started.
Then again, maybe not. He could always find justification for his most base desires. He’d come this far, resisted what he wanted most out of some noble whim. It would be stupid to blow it at this point.
He’d strip off his clothes all right. Take the coldest damned shower known to man, and if that didn’t do it, he’d open all the windows and the let the freezing February wind try to cool his passion. After all, he wasn’t going to worry about dying of pneumonia. That would be the easy way out, and he’d already learned that nothing was going to be easy for him.
He’d just spent the most erotic half hour of his life, and he hadn’t even come. God help him, what would it have been like if he’d done what she wanted?
The bathroom smelled of white roses. He shrugged out of his jacket, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a different man, no longer cool and mocking. He looked like a man caught in a torment beyond his bearing. And before he realized what he was doing, he’d shoved his fist into the mirror, into his reflection, shattering the glass around his hand.
THE SOUND of the telephone woke her. The apartment was dark—a light snow was falling outside the window, and she was alone on the sofa, her grandmother’s afghan wrapped around her.
She could hear the shower in the distance. Rolling on her back, she touched her body. A body that felt different, and yet not different enough. What had stopped him? Did he simply not want her enough? Was he angry that she’d fallen asleep?
The telephone was still ringing. She hadn’t set the answering machine—she seldom did on the weekend. Wrapping the cover around her, she struggled to her feet, catching the phone on its sixth ring.
