by Stuart, Anne
She would be in her room by now, and he would sit outside and wait, wait until her client showed up. He would be fast enough to stop him, and then he would give the girl such a backhand across her pretty little face that she would never consider lying to him again. And then he would kiss her. And Springheeled Jack would just have to look on and suffer.
There was a light on in her room when he reached the alleyway, but no sound came from within. She was still alone, then, waiting for her customer. James Killian pushed himself back into a corner, waiting. If it was someone he knew, he would just scare him away. If it was a stranger, he would wait and listen, the gun at the ready. By tomorrow morning, their future, his and Mary’s, would be bright.
He must have dozed off. When he awoke, it was morning, and his body felt damp, stiff and cramped. There was no light on in Mary’s room, and he cursed himself for distrusting her. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her. He crossed the empty alleyway and reached for her door, planning to knock and wake her up.
It wasn’t shut entirely. It opened at the slightest pressure, opened wide. Jack Killian stood in the doorway, staring into the interior of the room, and began to scream.
SHE WAS THERE. Lizzie, Mary, whoever she was, was there, her arms wrapped around him, her hands shaking, and she was holding him, kissing him. She was alive, and so was he, and the grisly nightmare was over. Damien pushed her down on the mattress and she went willingly, and in her mouth was the sweetness he’d tasted, more than a hundred years before, when he’d first kissed Mary Kelly at the Ten Bells.
Chapter Fifteen
LIZZIE WRAPPED HER arms around him, her body softening beneath his as he covered her. The sound of his scream had torn her from her dream, and for a moment she’d been lost, disoriented. It had felt so real.
But there was no reality now but the horsehair mattress beneath her back, the flickering firelight as it danced across her skin, the feel of his body against hers, hard and hot in the darkened room.
She cupped his face with her hands and kissed him slowly, fully, prepared for the onslaught of his demon-driven desire.
It didn’t come. There was no anger, no hurry, just warm, sweet arousal that curled slowly through her body and his as he kissed her back, tasting her, settling his body against hers so that she was in no doubt about how much he wanted her, and in no doubt that they were going to take their time.
He kissed her mouth, her cheekbones, her sensitive ears. His hands slid down between their bodies, covering her breasts through the soft, worn material of the oversize T-shirt, but his touch was gentle, caressing and almost unbearably arousing. She whimpered with a wordless longing, but his mouth simply covered hers, drinking in her soft protest, as his hands moved lower, between her legs, touching her.
Suddenly she was afraid. Not of his violence—she’d surrendered to that and survived, gloriously intact. She was afraid of his tenderness. Afraid of his love.
She tried to move away, but he stopped her by the simple expedient of placing his body over hers again, holding her still with the solid, inexorable weight of him.
“What are you afraid of, Lizzie?”
She forced herself to look up at him, into eyes that were dark, but not brown, into a face that was long and narrow and faintly stubbled with beard, not square and adorned with side-whiskers and a flowing mustache. She looked up at him and saw another man, one she’d loved long, long ago.
“It’s been so long,” she blurted, knowing how foolish it would sound to a man who’d made love to her only a few hours ago, but saying it anyway.
But he didn’t even smile. “Too long,” he said. “More than a century.” And then he kissed her slowly, his gentleness sliding into a shimmering sensuality that left her hot and damp and panting for breath.
He pulled back, resting on his knees, watching her as he began to unfasten his jeans. She lay there, watching for a moment, and then she reached up, covering his hand, stopping him. “Let me,” she whispered, unfastening the zipper, freeing him, pushing the rest of his clothes off him with a deftness she had never known she possessed.
His body was lean and wiry and golden in the firelight, a runner’s body. She slid her hands up his chest, placing her mouth against his neck as she pushed him down on the mattress. He tasted of soap, of skin, of something dark and wonderful. She moved her mouth downward, over his flat belly, kissing, biting, tasting.
And then she took him in her mouth, the full, silky length of him, consuming him, consumed by him, lost in an act she had never performed, not in this lifetime, and never with love.
His hands caught her shoulders, his long fingers caressing, and she could hear the strangled sound of his breathing, taste the salty sweetness of his desire, feel the blood course through his body. The night closed down around them, and there was nothing to fear, only the two of them, and she wanted this, she wanted him.
She felt his hands tighten on her as he pulled her away, and she let out a cry of protest, of frustration, but it was too late. He pushed her down on the mattress, kneeling between her legs, and he was huge and shadowy and everything she had ever wanted.
She spread her legs for him, closing her eyes as his hands cupped her hips, and waited for the thrust that would fill her.
A moment later, her eyes shot open when he set his mouth between her legs, using his tongue, his teeth, his lips, to bring her to the precipice, and she felt fear once again. And then there was no room for doubt as she leapt over the edge, her body dissolving into an endless convulsion that stole her breath, her heartbeat, her mind and soul.
He waited, watching her, as she struggled to return to reality. He waited long enough for her to catch her breath, for her eyes to focus, and then he moved, sheathing himself inside her with one strong, liquid thrust, setting his mouth against hers.
She felt taken, possessed, lost. She felt triumphant, possessive, found. She raised her hips, bracing herself against the mattress to meet him, and she kissed him back.
The rhythm of their bodies was slow and easy as they rocked back and forth on the old mattress. She could feel the wonderful tension build once more, and she reached for it, like a greedy child, but Damien moved, forestalling her, slowing it down, only to build it even more strongly.
He rolled over on his back, taking her with him, looking up at her as she moved over his body, the two of them slick with sweat as the firelight cast eerie shadows across their skin. He reached out and caught her hips, but let her set the pace, his face drawn taut with the effort of control.
She felt smooth, sleek and powerful. “Don’t fight it,” she whispered in the darkness. “Give yourself to me. Now, Damien.”
His eyes shut tight. “Now,” he said. “Now.” And he thrust up into her, hard, filling her with his warmth, his wetness, his love.
She took it, all of it, her body drinking it in, taking him, owning him, reveling in the moment, her own body clenching tightly as she claimed him. She collapsed on top of him, a weary, panting little mass of humanity, and she could feel the stray shudders racking his body as his strong arms came around her, holding her, cradling her against him.
She wanted to say something. To tell him that she loved him, no matter what he did, that she had always loved him, throughout time. It had been her fault, opening the door to the man she thought she could trust, so certain she was safe when he’d warned her she wasn’t. He’d blamed himself for decades upon decades, and she had to tell him it was all right, that they had another chance.
But there were no words. He rolled onto his side, tucking her tightly against him, and her face hid against his shoulder, naturally, comfortably, shutting out the night and the demons that would gather once more. She could feel his hand soothing her hair away from her face, feel the soft touch of his lips against her temple. Hear the murmur of words, gentle, meaningless words, of love, of commitment, of happily-ever-af
ters that they might never see.
She heard it all, her body warming and softening against him as she fought with her memory. She’d seen something. In her dream, she’d seen the kindly, familiar face of the man who had killed her. The answer was there, but she was too weary, too sated, to reach for it.
Instead, she sighed, giving up the last of her control, giving everything to Damien, melting against him. And the last thing she heard before she drifted off to sleep was the sound of her name on his lips. “Mary,” he said, and his voice came from far away, from across decades. “I love you forever.”
LIZZIE AWOKE SLOWLY, by degrees, accepting her surroundings with a surprising calm. Light was filtering through the closed shades, the bright, merciless light of the desert, and the house fell hot, stale and musty. There were still coals in the fireplace directly in front of her eyes, but she’d kicked off whatever covers she’d used during the night. She was lying on the mattress, stark naked. And utterly alone.
She found her discarded T-shirt, pulled it on and rose on unsteady feet. It had been a long night, and she felt damp, sticky and slightly sore. She hugged herself tightly for a moment, wishing it were Damien’s arms and not her own. And then she went in search of him.
There was no sign of him upstairs. She headed into the bathroom, washed quickly and pulled on her discarded clothes. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was feeling somewhat more human, lured by the smell of coffee and the certainty that she would see Damien.
There was coffee, all right. But sitting at the table, a doleful expression on his face, was Detective Finlay Adamson.
Lizzie almost screamed, swallowing her instinctive panic before she could give in to it. “You scared me,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot, casting a surreptitious glance around the room for a trace of Damien.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just got here, and I heard the shower going. I didn’t want to walk in on you.”
“How did you find us?”
“County records.”
“Damien said this place wasn’t in his name.”
“He pays taxes on it just the same,” Adamson said. “It took a while, but I was able to trace it. Where is he?”
She took a deep, meditative sip of the coffee. It was absolutely horrible—Damien must have made it. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no sign of him, and the car’s gone. Where did he go?”
I won’t panic, she told herself, sinking down in the hard wooden chair opposite Adamson. There’s a logical explanation for all this, I know there is.
Her eyes met his. “I don’t know,” she said simply.
Adamson took a deep breath, and she could feel the concern running through him. “Lizzie,” he said, “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“I think you should get away from here. Away from Damien. He probably heard me coming, and he’s just waiting until I leave. And then it will be too late for you, Lizzie. He’ll kill you, as he killed all the others.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She jumped up, knocking her coffee over. “Damien isn’t the Ripper! I’ve been with him during the most recent killings, been right by his side. He couldn’t—”
“Don’t trust him, Lizzie. You haven’t been awake, watching him. You’ve been sleeping. I expect you might even have been drugged. The Ripper works fast—it doesn’t take that long to gut a body, if you’ve had a bit of practice.”
“Don’t,” she said faintly, holding up a hand in protest.
“I’m trying to save your life. He murdered your friend, then let you find her. We have proof, Lizzie. Fingerprints. Witnesses. Physical evidence. We’ve been watching him for a long time, and we finally have enough to nail him. He’s the Ripper, and he may not even know it. He’s killed a dozen women, and you’ll be the next one. He’s even started to kill men.”
She raised her eyes, staring at him. “Men?”
“An old man was found in your apartment, Lizzie.” He tossed the newspaper onto the table, and the headline screamed at her. It wasn’t the Chronicle, with its sense of discretion. It was one of the bloodier papers, and Hickory’s dead face, streaked with blood, stared back at her in bright color. “He killed him, and he’s going to kill you.”
She should be feeling numb by now, Lizzie told herself. She shouldn’t be able to hurt anymore. “He didn’t have a chance to kill Hickory,” she said, in one last, desperate attempt to deny it.
“You didn’t leave him alone with him? Are you absolutely positive? Even for a moment?”
She remembered running out to the car, waiting there for Damien to join her. It had only been a matter of a minute or two. Hadn’t it?
“Why would he kill Hickory?”
“Why would he do any of this? He’s not sane, Lizzie. He’s going to kill you next, if you don’t get the hell out of here. He didn’t . . . mutilate Hickory. He just cut his throat, and then left. It wouldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds. But it took Hickory time to die. Long enough for him to write the name of the murderer-in his own blood on your floor.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Are you willing to stake your life on it?” He reached out a hand and placed it on hers, comforting. “Let me take you back to Los Angeles, Lizzie. I can get you protective custody—they won’t dare say no after the recent killings. It’s your only hope until we catch that monster.”
Lizzie pulled her hand away. “I’ll wait for him,” she said.
“Haven’t you been listening to me? We have proof. He’s the Ripper. Maybe not in every case—we still haven’t ruled out the possibility of copycat killers. But there’s no doubt at all that he killed Courtland Massey and at least five of the others.”
“I’ll wait for him,” she said again.
Adamson shook his head. “You’re as crazy as he is. At least there are no more masks, as far as we can tell. He used the last one on Hickory Nissen.”
“And he can’t kill without a mask,” Lizzie said dully. She turned and headed into the living room, moving to the basket at a run. The final mask, the mask Damien had told her to save, was gone.
It would be her death mask, she knew it. She knelt on the floor by the empty basket, and pain racked her body, so sharp that she wanted to cry out. Here was proof she couldn’t hide from. She raised her eyes to meet Adamson’s compassionate ones as he stood in the doorway.
“He’ll kill you, Lizzie,” he said. “Don’t let him do it. If not for your sake, for his. You’re in love with him, aren’t you? In love with a man who wants to kill you. Who wants to cut your body into pieces and—”
“Stop it.” It should have been a scream, but it was nothing more than a soundless whisper.
But Adamson heard. “Come with me, Lizzie. Only I can keep you safe from the Ripper.”
She wouldn’t cry. It was too mundane, too worthless a reaction to something that was unbearable, unacceptable and unbelievable.
But there was no other explanation. “I’ve heard that before,” she said, her voice flat and expressionless. And she rose, letting Adamson take her hand and lead her out into the mercilessly bright desert sun.
“HAVEN’T SEEN YOU around these parts in a long time, Johnny,” the old woman behind the counter murmured.
He peered at her, finally putting a name to that withered old face. “Mrs. Ramirez,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” It was a lie. Mrs. Ramirez was the nosiest woman in three counties, and she’d never tempered her gossip with the slightest bit of compassion. Not that he needed compassion, he thought. But his mother could have done with a bit. He pushed his basket across the small counter, and the old woman picked out the quart of milk, the cigarettes and the beer with the air of an archaeologist discovering stray treasures.
“When did you start smoking, Johnny?” she
asked.
None of your damned business, he thought, but he managed to keep a relatively pleasant expression on his face. He needed to get back to the house. He hadn’t wanted to leave Lizzie, even for a few minutes, but he’d needed to make a phone call, and his mother had never even owned a phone.
Things had begun falling together. The unbelievable suddenly seemed not just a remote possibility but the inescapable truth. And the only way he could do something about it was to call Adamson and ask him, outright.
But Adamson, as usual, had been nowhere to be found. And the fear had begun.
He’d refused to give in to it. He’d come to the small convenience store at the crossroads to make his phone call and to pick up a few necessities. If he panicked, it would give the powers of darkness a foothold.
“Got a girl, have you?” Mrs. Ramirez said, peering at the box of condoms he’d thrown in there before he realized who was working here.
“No,” he said flatly, controlling his urgency. “A woman.”
“They all liked you back then,” she said. “Even my own daughter couldn’t keep her eyes off you. You remember Stella? She was in the class behind you.”
“Of course,” he said, not remembering Stella at all.
“She’s married now, with four kids. Drive her crazy, they do. She’ll be excited to hear you were back in town. Broke all the young girls’ hearts back then. A regular lady-killer.” She pushed his change across the counter.
He stared at her for a moment, and a sudden, life-affirming certainty filled him. He’d known, deep in his heart, from the moment he’d touched Lizzie. He knew now in his mind and soul, as well.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.” He grabbed his groceries and headed out the door.
A sense of doom was creeping up on him, growing stronger and stronger as he neared the old house. He shoved his foot to the floor, making the old Austin-Healey jerk forward, speeding along the deserted road. He skidded to a stop behind the house, racing up the back steps without bothering to slam the car door, calling her name, telling himself that his fear was crazy, but panicking anyway.
