by Anne Stuart
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to think. If you expect to convince me you’re a bootlegger who returns from the dead every Valentine’s Day then you’re expecting a lot.”
“Call your family. I’ll drive you there.”
She laughed then, but the sound was almost without humor. “I thought you wanted to save my life, not kill me. Your driving is the closest to death I’ve come in years.”
“Helen…”
“Don’t worry about it, Rafferty. I won’t make any more demands on you.” She turned and sank into the corner of the sofa, staring at her knees. “You should have made it clear sooner that you were here under duress. I suppose it was only logical to pretend you were attracted to me in order to keep an eye on me, but really, you should have told me the truth. I’m a big girl, I can take it. I would have called the State’s Attorney and—” She halted. “I don’t know what I would have told him.”
“Stop it, Helen.”
She shrugged, and he could see the effort it was taking, to appear cool and collected. He despised himself, more than he ever had hated himself before, and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to soothe her, to comfort her, to kiss her, to make love to her, and yet any act of kindness, or desire, would be the worst possible thing he could do.
“He probably wouldn’t have believed me,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t believe it, either. You know, Rafferty, I think you’d better leave. You don’t want to be here, and if you have to leave Chicago by tomorrow morning I imagine you have better things to do than baby-sit me.”
“There’s only one thing I hate more than babysitting,” Rafferty snapped. “And that’s self-pity.”
“Go away, Rafferty. You’ve made it more than clear you don’t want me. Let me sulk in peace.”
“The hell I will!” It was the last straw. He’d wasted almost his entire stay, blown it on an impractical, self-centered, abysmally untried girl, and now she was sitting there feeling sorry for herself. He was the one who’d been suffering, and all for the most noble of reasons. Suddenly he’d had enough.
He crossed the room, reached down and hauled her to her feet. She was so startled she tripped against the coffee table, falling against him, which suited him just fine. “I’m sick of this,” he said in a furious voice. “I’ve been going through the most miserable time of my life, all in some stupid, misguided effort to spare you, and all you can think about is that I don’t want you. How damned stupid can you be? What do you think this is?” He took her hand, yanked it down and pressed it to his groin.
She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn’t let her. “I’ve been going crazy, trying to do the decent thing,” he went on, his voice bitter. “I’m trying to save your life, I’m trying to leave you in the state I found you, no matter how damned much it’s killing me. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman in my life, but I don’t want you wasting your innocence on a man like me, a man who can’t offer you anything more than a night.”
For a moment she didn’t move. “Maybe a night is worth it,” she said in a rough voice. And her fingers pressed against him.
He shuddered. “Damn it, Helen.”
“Stop saying damn it,” she said, “and kiss me.”
He couldn’t, wouldn’t fight it any longer. When he finally emerged from the bathroom earlier that afternoon, marginally cooled down, his lacerated hand roughly bandaged, only to find her missing, panic had swept through him. He’d raced out into the street after her, just in time to see her taking off into the darkening afternoon, and it had been sheer instinct that had led him to Clark Street. Instinct, and a car it had taken him approximately four minutes to hot-wire and steal. There were certain talents that never grew rusty, even after sixty-four years.
He’d seen Drago from a distance, and he’d learned one thing. He might not be able to pull a trigger, but he could slam a car into another one. Drago had been knocked to the ground, his gun went flying and by the time Rafferty had disentangled Helen from the furious dog owner he’d taken off. And Rafferty’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking until he’d gotten her back to the apartment.
They were shaking again, this time with longing. He was going to take her, and to hell with scruples, and her future, deserving husband. To hell with everything but the need that had been burning a hole inside him.
“Sir Galahad, eh?” he said, scooping her up into his arms, holding her high against his chest. “Knight in shining armor?” He started through the apartment, kicking open the door to her bedroom. The sight of that unmade, pristine white bed made him harder than ever, something he wouldn’t have thought possible.
He set her down on the rumpled sheets, disentangling her clinging arms as he stood back to watch her. And then he began stripping off his tie, kicking off his shoes.
She didn’t move, her eyes wide and still in the shadows. “What happened to your hand?”
“It collided with your bathroom mirror.” He stripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto a chair. “It’s better known as acute sexual frustration.”
“You really want me?” The notion still seemed to amaze her, and he wondered what she’d gone through in her life, to be so unsure of her powerful attractions.
“I’m about to demonstrate just how much,” he said, reaching for his belt buckle.
She closed her eyes when he shucked off his trousers, and he almost called her bluff. But he didn’t. Instead he climbed onto the bed, taking her face between his hands, gently, and kissed her lips. Slowly, delicately, tasting the softness, the tremulous dampness, as her eyes opened in the darkness. “You can change your mind,” he said in a soft voice. “Anytime you want, I won’t force you.”
“You don’t want me that much?”
“Damn it,” he said, and then managed a wry smile. “Okay, no more damn its. I want you. I thought I made it clear how much. But there’s one thing more important than how much I want you. And that’s you.”
“Rafferty, I love…” she said, but he covered her mouth with his long fingers, afraid to hear the words again. The more she said it, the more real it became. And he couldn’t afford to believe she loved him. It would make it too hard to leave.
So he simply kissed her again, teasing her mouth open, using his tongue, feeling the tremulous response as he deepened it. He kissed her with slow, deliberate thoroughness, leaving no part of her lips, her mouth, her teeth untouched, kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, and neither of them cared.
The baggy sweatshirt came off easily enough, followed by the thin scrap of bra. That was one improvement in modern times—underwear was far less cumbersome and a great deal easier to dispose of. The same for clothes in general, even though he felt damned funny unfastening the pair of men’s jeans she wore. But there was nothing masculine about the pristine white cotton panties, nothing masculine about the soft mound of flesh that he put his hand on, feeling her arch against him.
His mouth left hers, to trace a path down her body. He wanted to kiss her breasts again. How could he have ever thought they were too small? They were perfect, in his hands, in his mouth, and he let his tongue swirl around each small, tight nub, reveling in the shiver of reaction in her slender body, reveling in his own fierce pleasure.
Her stomach was flat, white and smooth. He kissed her navel, he kissed her hips, he kissed the white cotton covered core of her. He kissed her long thighs, that writhed beneath him, he kissed her knees and her calves, he kissed the delicate arch of her feet.
“Rafferty,” she said, and her voice was strangled, distorted with need.
“Not yet.” He slid his long fingers underneath the panties and pulled them down her legs, tossing them across the room so that she lay there, naked, aroused and frightened. He didn’t want to scare her further, but he already knew what he wanted, and nothing short of mass hysteria could stop him.
He leaned forward and put his mouth on her. She jerked, and he heard her quiet little shriek
of shock and protest, but he ignored her, cupping her hips with his big hands, spreading her legs, kissing her, tasting her, loving her, ignoring her shock and shyness and uncertainty, ignoring everything but the flowing response he was eliciting, a response that flowered and built, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her heels dug into the mattress, and her whole body convulsed against him.
She was shivering, sobbing, gasping for breath, but he wasn’t finished with her. He knew how to prolong it for her, how to make her cry out in the darkness, and he did so, drinking in her pleasure with such intensity that he almost came, too.
“Jamey,” she said, her voice raw and weak. His mouth left her, and he moved up her body, to lie on top of her, careful not to crush her, his desperate, massive hardness in the cradle of her thighs as his hands framed her shocked face.
He kissed her lips, knowing she could taste herself on his mouth. He kissed her eyelids, her throat, tasting the rapid, erratic pulse beneath his tongue, as he spread her legs apart beneath him. She was still too weak and trembling from the aftermath of her climax to help him, but he didn’t mind. He needed all his strength to control himself, to control his mindless need to surge into her damp heat, to push and thrust and burst.
He could feel the sweat cover him as he poised himself at the untried entrance. His muscles were clamped with the effort to slow himself, control himself, as he began to push inside. She was wet, and sleek, and very tight, and her eyes flew open, meeting his as he reached the inevitable barrier.
Rafferty thought he might just possibly die. It was too hard, too good, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. He looked down at her, the flowing veil of hair spread out around the white pillow, the wide dark eyes, the soft bee-stung lips, and he pressed, slowly, feeling her pain, feeling her pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, and her hands were digging into the sheet. “Please, Jamey, don’t stop.”
“I couldn’t,” he said simply. And with a short, sharp thrust of his hips he broke through, sinking fully into her tight, milking warmth.
Her arms came around him, holding tight, and he could feel the tremors rocketing through her body, and he didn’t know if they were tremors of pain or desire.
He tried to pull away, but her arms were tight around him, holding him against her. He reached up and cupped her face, his thumbs gentle on the soft planes. “This doesn’t work if we don’t move,” he whispered.
She opened her eyes. “I know,” she whispered back. “I’ve read books.”
“Naughty girl. Did I hurt you?”
“Not much.” It was a lie, he knew it, but only a little one.
“I’ll make it feel better,” he promised, pulling away from her, just slightly, and then thrusting back in. She lay passively enough beneath him, and he let her, doing all the work, content to prolong it, intent on taking every last ounce of delayed pleasure from her, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her hips began to meet his measured thrusts, and he could feel the tremors of response begin to ripple and build within her.
He wanted, needed to come in her lithe young body so badly he was shaking with it. But he needed her there, too, more. It didn’t matter that he’d already given her pleasure, it didn’t matter that he deserved his own. He couldn’t find it without her, and even as he felt his body shake apart he knew he had to bring her with him.
Her fingernails dug into his shoulders. Her hips arched beneath him, milking him, calling to him, and her breath was sobbing in his ear. Even through the swirling mists of his own fierce need he could taste and feel the nuances of her response, could feel her balance at the very precipice, ready, trembling, terrified.
He put his hand between their bodies, touching her, as he surged into her, pushing her hard against the soft white mattress. He felt her explode around him, gripping him with a thousand tiny tremors, and he lost himself, filling her with his body, his soul, drowning them both in a vast storm of helpless, hopeless love.
He knew he was heavy, but he didn’t want to get off her. He cradled her head in his arms, kissing the dampness from her face as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He wanted her arms and her legs wrapped around him, tightly. Maybe if they just stayed this way he wouldn’t have to leave her.
But he was a man who faced the unpleasant things in life, and clinging to Helen wouldn’t keep him here, and it wouldn’t keep her safe. He moved to one side, pulling her with him, wrapping her around him, and she came willingly, burying her head against his shoulder, her face hidden against his skin. He stroked her hair, gently, soothing her, listening to her shuddering breathing slow, listening to her thudding heart as it regained a normal rhythm. He waited until he thought she was ready, and then very carefully tilted her face up to his.
She didn’t want to meet his gaze, and he realized with heartbreaking amusement that she was shy. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
Even in the darkness of the bedroom he could see the blush that covered her face, and he wished he had enough time to spend with her to show her enough that she was well past blushing. But that would be up to someone else. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he echoed, not bothering to disguise his amusement. “That’s not much of a recommendation. Was it worth the wait?”
Her eyes flew up to meet his then, and there was such deep emotion in them that he almost wished she were still shy. “Don’t you know?” she asked.
The humor fled. “I know,” he said, brushing his lips against her, running his tongue over her swollen mouth. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t. Not much,” she added with characteristic honesty.
He kissed her then, a brief, hard kiss, before he pulled away from her, climbing off the high white bed. She watched him leave, not saying a word, and a moment later he was back with a cool, wet washcloth.
“What are you doing?” she demanded warily, her defenses already returning.
He pushed her gently down on the bed. “Taking care of you,” he said, pressing the cool cloth against her. She jerked against the touch of the cloth, the touch of his hands, but she quieted immediately, watching him out of dark, wondering eyes.
“You didn’t use anything,” she said after a moment.
“Use anything?”
“Protection,” she said, her voice low. “A condom. I should have thought…”
“It’s okay.”
“Okay for you, maybe.”
He pushed her hair out of her face. “Okay for you,” he said gently. “You won’t get pregnant. You won’t get any diseases.”
“What makes you so certain?” she asked in a disgruntled tone of voice, pushing her face against his hand like a kitten searching for affection.
For a moment he said nothing. He didn’t want to argue anymore, or try to convince her. He hadn’t wanted to make love to her for any number of reasons. He hadn’t wanted to steal her virginity from some man who’d treasure it and deserve it, though God knows no man could treasure it more than he had. He hadn’t wanted to love her, knowing he would have to abandon her without warning. And he hadn’t wanted to get so close, knowing that he was, in effect, living a lie, simply because the truth was so unbelievable.
“I can’t harm you,” he said wearily, knowing she wouldn’t believe him. “No pregnancies, no diseases.”
“Does my virginity magically return as well?” she asked tartly.
He found he could smile. “Counselor, I wish I could say you’d be the death of me, but it’s already too late for that.”
“You aren’t going to tell me the truth, are you?”
“You aren’t going to believe the truth,” he replied. He reached for his shorts, pulling them on with a spare movement, both to protect her uneasy modesty and to try to control his still lively reaction to her.
It was a mistake. She stared at him, her eyes wide with sudden shock. “What are you wearing?”
He looked down. They were common enough, baggy white linen shorts that came almost to his
knees. He had his custom-made in Ireland, with a row of tiny pearl buttons he was in the midst of fastening. He smiled wryly. “Men’s underwear. Made in 1929. They’ve worn well, haven’t they?”
“Rafferty…”
He wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Why don’t you take a long hot bath? I’ll see if I can find something for us to eat in your empty icebox.”
“It’s not an icebox,” she said mutinously, her dark eyes anxious, and he wished she hadn’t been a virgin and didn’t need time to recover, wished he could push her back down on the bed and start all over again.
He had to content himself with pressing his mouth against the corner of her eye, feeling her arch up against him, feeling her hands reach for him. “It is to me,” he said. “And you’re a mouthy dame.” He kissed her lips, for good measure, before he headed for the bedroom door.
“I just wish I knew what you were, Rafferty,” she said, her voice forlorn. And he closed the door behind him, trying to shut out temptation.
Chapter Twelve
By the time Helen emerged from the bathroom Rafferty had heated two cans of soup, eating one of them, made six pieces of toast and butter, and smoked three cigarettes. He sat at the café table in the corner of the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the plastic tabletop, his nerves on edge. He would have thought that finally making love to the recalcitrant Ms. Emerson would have taken some of the tension away. Instead, it only seemed to build.
He’d washed the dishes, more out of boredom than a need for order. He’d called Billy, only to find he’d already headed over to the hospital for nighttime visiting hours. He considered calling Helen’s family, then thought better of it. If he called, she’d be out of his hands, no longer his responsibility. He’d have maybe another six hours to enjoy himself.
But the fact of the matter was, he didn’t want to waste even five minutes of his remaining time away from Helen—not if he could help it. And he wasn’t ready to trust anyone, even Helen’s own family of police, to protect her from someone as devious and murderous as Ricky Drago.
