by Anne Stuart
He shuddered, unable to help himself. He was too damned vulnerable, and he hated it. He needed to get rid of them, as soon as he could. And maybe then he’d return to normal.
Wait Morrissey had already done his part. It was three in the morning when Reilly approached Hobby Airport, and all it required to get landing clearance was Morrissey’s name. Everything was taken care of, Major Reilly. Even hotel rooms.
Carlie barely roused when they landed. She took her return to her native soil with an odd diffidence, following silently behind him, the baby clasped in her arms.
Morrissey had booked them into a two-bedroom suite with all the amenities. It was past five and already growing light when Carlie settled the baby down in the portable crib. And then she looked over at Reilly, standing in the bedroom door.
“You need to get that shoulder looked at,” she said.
“Why? You did a good enough job. I’ll have someone take a glance at it when I get back to Colorado.”
“Is that where you live?”
“Yes.”
The silence was taut, nervous. “Do you want anything to eat?” he asked suddenly. “I was going to call room service.”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll just take a shower and sleep. When are we taking Timothy to his grandparents?”
“Wait Morrissey is coming here to get him. I have no doubt that someone informed him the moment our plane landed. We’ll see him late this afternoon, I believe.”
Her face looked stricken. “What about his grandmother? I wanted to see where he’d be living, I wanted…”
“He’ll be fine, Carlie.”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Of course he will.”
He didn’t move. “Are you all right?” he asked abruptly.
She jerked her head up, and there was a faint wash of color on her pale face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It was a challenge, but cowardice was one crime he had yet to commit. “You lost your virginity a few hours ago,” he said calmly. “I wondered if you were feeling all right.”
“Just peachy.”
There was nothing he could say. She’d pulled a wall around herself, a brittle defense he could probably smash if he cared to. He didn’t. She needed all the protection she could get. Particularly since he was about to withdraw his own.
“All right,” he said, backing out of the room. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes,” she said. But it sounded like goodbye.
IT HAD BEEN SO LONG, Carlie thought. She wasn’t used to this place. To the cleanliness, the elegance, the sheer size of everything. The bathroom was larger than some houses in San Pablo, and it came equipped with enough towels for a family of four, and a basket full of little bottles of sweet-smelling soaps and unguents.
The shower had endless hot water. A good thing, because she stood in there letting the years, the pain, the sorrow wash away from her, she stood until she almost fell asleep, with the water sluicing over her, washing San Pablo, washing the blood, washing the sex away.
She had sinned. In so many, many ways. She had hit a man, twice, instead of turning the other cheek. For all she knew he might be dead, and even worse than committing that crime, she didn’t regret it.
She was awash with covetousness. She didn’t want this luxury surrounding her, but she wanted warm showers and shampoo. She wanted a comfortable bed and enough food.
She had lied, to Reilly, and to herself. She had lied about who she was, she had lied about what she wanted.
She had sinned. She had lain with a man, she had kissed him and she had made love with him, and she wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t shamed, or repentant. She was defiantly, gloriously glad she had done it, and she was half-crazy with the burning desire to do it again. And again. And again.
It would be a mistake, she reminded herself when she finally turned off the still-warm shower. He didn’t care about her, and he was about to abandon her. Most likely he would make love to her if she demanded, but it would mean nothing to him. And it would only tie her heart more closely to him.
She was going to have to release them, both the baby and the man. The two creatures she loved far too much, and she had no claim to. It was time she started letting go.
The hotel room came equipped with thick terry-cloth robes. She pulled one around her, then went and lay down on the bed in the twilight gloom, listening to the deep, even breathing of the sleeping child.
There was no noise from the adjoining room. Reilly must be sound asleep. Superhuman he might seem, but the past few days of running, little sleep, topped off with being shot, had to have taken their toll on him. He was probably dead to the world.
Whereas she had slept too much—on the plane, in the back of the truck. She’d slept enough to last her for quite a while—she wasn’t going to sleep away the last few hours she had with Reilly and the baby.
It took her a moment to realize the odd feelings shimmering beneath her breastbone. She was happy. For the first time in nine years she was free, of the guilt, the horror, the memory. She was free of the past, with its pain and despair. She was free of the present, with its rules and repressions.
She was free of the future. It would be lonely, empty, without Reilly and the baby. But she’d survive. She’d survived so much already.
But for this brief moment she was blissfully, gloriously free.
And even if it hurt her more, made it even harder to get on with life, she wasn’t going to waste this moment.
She’d made love with Reilly in despair and pain and panic, rough and quick in the back of a truck with death all around them. She was going to make love to Reilly in a huge bed, with clean white sheets and all the time in the world. The sin was committed, and she didn’t regret it. Now she needed something to help her through the long empty years.
There would be no other man for her, she knew it with absolute certainty. There would be no other babies for her.
What she would have would be a perfect memory. And it would have to be enough.
Chapter Sixteen
He lay stretched out on the huge bed, his strong, tanned arms outflung, the white sheet covering his hips. She had no doubt he was naked underneath it. She moved to the bed, silent, unsure of herself, knowing this was foolish and wrong and terribly, terribly right.
He was lying on his stomach, his face turned away from her, covered with a long fall of dark hair. But as she stood there his hand lifted and caught hers, and he turned to gaze at her, his eyes dark and gleaming in the murky light.
He looked absolutely beautiful lying there, tanned skin against the white sheets, staring up at her. He’d shaved the rough stubble of beard, and it made him look oddly civilized, elegant, despite the long hair and the scarred, wounded body. “Are you sure, Carlie?” he said, his voice a low promise of desire. “There are no excuses this time.”
“No excuses,” she said, turning her hand to catch his, palm to palm.
He rolled onto his back, reaching up to unfasten the loose belted tie of the robe, so that it fell open. And then he tugged her, gently, down onto the bed, pushing the terry cloth off her shoulders, holding her against him, carefully, tenderly, as he kissed her mouth.
It was a wonder of a kiss, sweet and searing, a promise of long dark nights and lazy afternoons. A false promise, she knew that, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was now.
He rolled her over onto her back, leaning above her. “We’ll take it slow this time,” he murmured against her mouth. “We need to find out what you like. What you don’t like. What frightens you.” He bit her earlobe, gently.
“I don’t know much about men’s bodies,” she said, feeling awkward and shy.
He smiled a gentle smile, free from mockery. “You can learn,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want you,” she said, breathless, honest.
“You have me,” he replied, the solemn words a kind of vow. “You can do anything you want. Nothing is forbidden.” He leaned back, watching her, waitin
g.
She came up on her knees beside him, wondering where to start. She put her hands on his chest, on the smooth, warm skin, tracing the line of his ribs, the old scars, the definition of his musculature. She leaned over and kissed his throat, her tongue flicking out to taste the clean, soapy taste of him. He made a quiet growl that sounded like approval, and she moved her mouth downward, across his chest, kissing, tasting, biting.
His hands were on her shoulders, gentle, encouraging but not forcing, his long fingers kneading her pliant flesh, as she reached his flat belly, and the barrier of the white sheet.
She hesitated for only a moment. And then she pulled the sheet away, tossing it toward the end of the bed.
He wanted her, though she’d had no real doubt of that. He wanted her very badly indeed. And yet he made no move to take her, to force her, to hurry and control her, simply giving her free access to his big, strong body that had protected her so well, loved her so well.
She touched him, letting her fingers curl gently around the silken length of him. Once more it astonished her that she could accommodate him, but he’d already proved that she could. She would again.
He seemed to swell and grow beneath her touch, even though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. She skimmed her fingers down the shaft, and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, almost like the purr of a man-eating tiger.
She slid her fingers down, to cup him, and his muffled word was more a prayer than a curse.
She stroked him, gently, amazed at the pleasure it gave her, as well. She was growing hotter, shakier, as she touched him, learned him.
The purr turned to a growl as he reached up and caught her hand, pressing it down over him, increasing the pressure, showing her the rhythm and force he wanted, until he arched his head back with a groan.
Nothing is forbidden, he’d told her. And with pure instinct she leaned down and put her mouth where her hand had been.
He gasped her name and caught her head between his hands. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body as he tried to control his reaction, the strength in his hands as he tried to gentle his touch.
It astonished her—his powerful response to her experimental caresses. But what amazed her even more were her own emotions. She was trembling with arousal, needing him, lost in a dark maze of delight and desire until she no longer knew what she was doing.
She was barely aware of him moving. He lifted her off him gently, turning her to lie on the bed. She was shivering with longing, and she tried to pull him over, onto her, but he resisted easily.
“Your turn now,” he said in a rough voice, but his hands and mouth were gentle as they danced across her skin.
She heard her quiet whimper from a distance, and she reached for him blindly, frightened, needing him. It was so strange and distant, this fear and trust, entwined around her like a vine, capturing her, so that all she could do was lie back and revel in the terrifying wonder of his hands on her body as he brought her to the screaming edge of completion.
He came to her then, stretching over her, resting between her legs. She braced herself, but she was slick and damp, and his thrust filled her, deep and full and glorious.
She arched against him, lifting her hips to draw him deeper still. “Hold on,” he whispered in her ear. And then he flipped over, taking her with him, so that she was on top of him, his body still tight within hers.
For a moment she panicked. But he simply arched his hips, thrusting up into her, showing her the rhythm, his big hands holding her hips, moving her in delicious counterpoint.
“That’s right,” he murmured, his voice a tight whisper of sound. “Take me, angel. Any way you want me.”
She learned it, so quickly. She arched, flinging her head back, as she sank down on him, and she felt powerful, splendid, magical. She moved with perfect, erotic grace, reveling in the tension of his body beneath hers, the sweat-slick skin, the fierce, glazed look in his eyes.
She felt it start, a shimmering tension that threatened to shake her apart, and suddenly she lost the smooth rhythm she’d mastered and began to weep. Not knowing why, awash in emotions and feelings and fear she couldn’t begin to understand. “I can’t,” she cried, but he simply took over, turning her once more so that she lay back against the mattress, fingers clutching the sheets.
“You can,” he said, low in her ear. And he reached between their bodies and touched her.
It hit her with the force of a hurricane. Blackness clamped down over her as her body convulsed. She heard him, felt him come with her, and she clung to him as tightly as she could, riding the storm.
It seemed an eternity before she opened her eyes. She knew he was watching her. He lay beside her, holding her close, but there was no hiding from his searching gaze. She opened her eyes and met it.
He looked somber, troubled. His long hair fell loose about his face, and his eyes were haunted.
“Don’t look so guilty,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “I’m the one who came to you.”
“Carlie,” he said, but she reached up and covered his mouth with her hand, her fingers stroking the firm contour of his lips.
“It’s all right, Reilly,” she said. “The sin is mine, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though I expect you don’t even believe in sin. But it’s my sin, not yours. I just wanted to…wanted to…” Words failed her, and she dropped her head.
“Wanted to what?”
“To see what it could be like,” she said in an apologetic voice. “When it’s done out of love.”
“Carlie…” he began, his voice dangerous.
“Don’t worry about it, Reilly. I know you don’t love me. That’s perfectly understandable. I’m someone you were saddled with while you were trying to repay an old debt. But you see, like it or not, I love you. And I really believe that anything done in love isn’t a sin.”
Timothy set off a distant wail, and she slid out of bed instantly. Reilly grabbed for her, but she was already out of reach. “We haven’t finished talking,” he said, his voice rich with anger and frustration.
“Yes, we have.” She paused by the door. “There’s nothing more to say. I love you and the baby, and you don’t love me. Don’t make it harder for me, Reilly. I know how you feel. Just let me deal with losing both of you in my own way.”
And she ran from the room before he could stop her.
REILLY LAY BACK and began to curse. He knew curses in a dozen languages, though he usually preferred Anglo-Saxon words. His second favorite were Arabic curses, and he let go with a few choice ones, aimed directly at himself.
It was her damned fault as well, he thought furiously. She hadn’t given him a chance to say a word, to even think about things. The past few days had been so crazy, it was no wonder he was absolutely out of his mind. The worst thing he could do was make some stupid, impulsive gesture that he’d wind up regretting for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a place to go to. He could count on Wait Morrissey to see her safely back to wherever she wanted to be, and if Morrissey dropped the ball, then he’d damned well hand-deliver her to her precious Mother Superior.
Of course, she’d be in slightly shopworn condition. And the thought of facing some stern old nun scared him more than seeing Endor Morales on the empty streets of Puente del Norte.
But she’d made her decision, clearly. This was best for all of them. They’d all go their separate ways, and it would give him time to think. To consider. To plan.
Except that he wasn’t that kind of man. He made snap judgments, spur-of-the-moment decisions, and he lived with the consequences. His instincts were almost infallible, and they’d kept him alive for more than fifteen years in some of the world’s most dangerous places.
His instincts were telling him he’d be a fool to let her go.
He climbed out of bed, in a thoroughly bad mood that his satisfied body didn’t seem to share. He wanted to go after her, to grab her and shake some
sense into her. Why didn’t she make demands, demands he could give in to? Why was she making this so damned difficult?
He needed breathing space, and so did she. He’d give her time to think things through. A couple of hours for her to consider the alternatives. And then he’d go in search of her and inquire very politely whether she might be interested in spending a little time in Colorado. To see whether the climate might suit her.
He was just coming out into the living room of the suite when he heard the knocking. Maybe Carlie had ordered room service. Then again, maybe she hadn’t. The door to the other bedroom was still tightly shut, and there was no sign of her or the baby.
For a brief moment he wondered whether she’d run. Taking the kid with her. He wouldn’t blame her, but he didn’t think it was likely. Sister Maria Carlos had a bit too much honor to take that route. Even if her heart was breaking.
The pounding on the door continued, and he strode toward it, yanking it open. “Yeah?” he snarled.
“Reilly!” Wait Morrissey stood there, glowering at him, looking so damned much like Billy that Reilly wanted to punch him.
“Wait,” Reilly said in his most noncommittal voice, blocking the door. “We weren’t expecting you till later.”
“We have an important cocktail party tonight, so Gracie insisted I charter a plane and get here early. She would have come with me but there were too many last-minute details she had to take care of. She’s hired a lovely Mexican gal. Doesn’t speak a word of English, but then, neither will my grandson at this point. Where is he, Reilly?”
“Here.” Carlie’s voice came from directly behind him, and Reilly had no choice but to move out of the way and let the old man in. He didn’t want to. He wanted to tell Wait Morrissey to go to hell and take his wife with him, but he clamped his jaw down.
Wait was staring at Carlie with undisguised doubt. “You’re not Caterina Morrissey,” he said in an accusing voice. “What the hell’s going on here, Reilly?”
