by Amelia Autin
She was helpless. Not against him but against her own desires. Her body responded instinctively to the man she loved: his musky male scent, his sweat-slick skin beneath her clinging hands, the dark flush on his cheekbones, the over-bright gleam in his golden brown eyes. Her body responded, and quickened once more.
"Come with me, Mandy," he panted between strokes, and somehow she knew he was referring to more than their lovemaking.
"I will," she promised, sliding her hands down, touching him where they were joined so intimately.
A groan rumbled out of him and he threw back his head, his hips hammering home one last time as her touch triggered his explosion. He filled her with his unsheathed essence—warm, life-giving pulses—and Mandy's heart exulted fiercely just before she gave herself up to the culmination of their passion one last time.
She was vaguely conscious of Reilly collapsing against her, his breath rasping in his throat, even less aware when he shifted most of his weight off her. She smiled dreamily when he drew her into the shelter of his body and tugged the blankets over both of them, but she couldn't keep her eyes open. She curled trustingly against him, kissed the underside of his chin, which was the only part of his face she could reach without changing position, then sighed in deep contentment and fell asleep.
Reilly held Mandy close, watching her as she slept. Maybe he would sleep, too, he thought, as soon as his heart stopped racing and the blood stopped churning hotly through his veins. Not now, though. Now he only wanted to hold the woman he loved and cherish this moment.
Eventually his pulse slowed somewhat, and he shifted, rolling onto his back, bringing Mandy to lie securely in the curve of his arm. He slipped his other arm beneath his head, and allowed himself the luxury of reliving what had just occurred.
Mine, he thought with a bone-deep satisfaction that cut through the waves of tiredness that had pulled at him ever since his adrenaline level had dropped. She's really mine. Not Walker's. Mine.
His arms tightened around Mandy in automatic response to the mention of Walker, as if he could create a physical barrier against his thoughts. After a moment he gave up the struggle. Hiding from the truth wasn't the answer.
Cautiously he examined the still-tender emotional wounds Mandy had inflicted on him with Walker's help. The wounds would never disappear completely, he realized, no matter what he did. He could cauterize them and carry the scars, or he could pretend they didn't exist. Either way he'd carry them for the rest of his life.
I can live with it, he decided. Given the alternative, there really was no other option.
Maybe someday he'd be able to put it all behind him. He'd made a start tonight. He'd just proved he could make love to Mandy without seeing the mental image of her in Walker's arms. And judging from her reaction to his love-making, both last night and tonight, there had been no room in her mind for thoughts of any other man.
He'd almost asked her afterward, a small, insecure part of him still needing confirmation that when she was in his arms she thought only of him. He'd been saved from what would have been a disastrous mistake when she fell asleep.
She loves me, he averred, angry with himself for needing reassurance like a child. Walker means nothing to her.
But a tiny niggling doubt remained, and he pulled her closer. She stirred without waking, turning a little, and something fell against Reilly's chest. He reached down and picked it up. Mandy's locket was warm from contact with her skin, and the old-fashioned filigreed gold gleamed dully.
A frown marred his features. If Mandy had owned the locket before he'd left her, he'd never seen her wear it, and he wondered if Walker—
No! he decided after a tense moment. He wasn't going to think like that. Mandy wouldn't wear another man's gift while making love with me.
Mandy slept on, undisturbed, and the temptation was too great for Reilly. He fumbled with the locket, and finally managed to pry it open with one hand. Then he just lay there and stared at the contents.
His own face confronted him, his face as it had once been. He was smiling down at Mandy as if she were the center of his world, and she was looking up at him, her heart in her eyes. Even as small as the image was, he could clearly make out both their expressions. He didn't know how she'd come up with a photo of them, but the picture had obviously been cut out of a larger one, and in one of those rare instances, the unknown photographer had captured on film a poignant moment out of time for all eternity.
His last doubt melted away. He closed the locket with a tiny snap and reverently replaced it against her skin. And smiled.
* * *
When Mandy woke it was still dark outside, not yet morning, but she felt so well rested she knew there wasn't much likelihood of falling asleep again.
She stretched, easing away from Reilly so as not to disturb him. He must have somehow sensed her absence, though, because he murmured in his sleep and tightened his hold on her.
She smiled to herself as she snuggled back into his embrace, a secret little smile that nevertheless radiated some of the joy she felt this morning. It didn't matter that her body ached from last night's encounter. It was a good ache. A delicious ache. One she gladly accepted in return for the chance to sleep in Reilly's arms.
Actually, now that she thought about it, her body had already been sore, even before they started, from their previous round of lovemaking the other night. The physical part of making love was strenuous activity, requiring the use of certain muscles. When a woman wasn't used to it, her body protested afterward. But she wouldn't have stopped Reilly from making love to her last night even if it had been extremely painful.
It hadn't been painful. Not at all. The soreness had vanished after a few moments, blanked from her mind by rising passion. She blushed as she remembered how wild she'd been, how she'd clung to him, scoring his back with her fingernails as he'd driven her from peak to peak.
No pain could have withstood Reilly's sensual onslaught. He'd never made love to her quite like that before, holding his desire in check while seeing to it that hers raged out of control. He'd been relentless in his quest to take her places she'd never been before, almost as if he had something to prove.
Her smile faded. Maybe he had been proving something to her, or to himself. It might not even have been a conscious thing on his part, but she suspected there was more than a grain of truth to her supposition. She would never ask him, though. If there had been a demon of some sort riding him last night, she could only pray that the demon was now exorcised.
With a shake of her head Mandy banished those thoughts, and any others like them, for the time being. She had more important things to think about.
They might have made a baby last night.
She wouldn't let herself hope for that, of course, but she couldn't completely rule it out either. He hadn't worn a condom at all last night, nor the other night when he'd made love to her in front of the fireplace. Just as he hadn't worn one the first time they'd made love. She'd become pregnant that first time. Could it happen again?
The doctors had told her that as a result of the accident she might find it more difficult to conceive, but they had assured her it wasn't impossible. She hadn't cared at the time. She'd just lost Reilly's baby, and Reilly, too, so it might as well have been impossible as far as she was concerned.
Now she wanted that possibility with every fiber of her being. A baby. Reilly's baby. Not to replace the one she'd lost—for the rest of her days a part of her would mourn the tiny life snuffed out before it had a chance to draw breath—but a child to fill the emptiness in her arms and in her heart.
She knew that second chances didn't come to everyone, but God had granted her a second chance with Reilly. Maybe, just maybe, God in his mercy would smile on her once more.
Her eyes closed as she sent up a silent prayer. When she opened them again, Reilly was awake and watching her.
"Good morning," she said, suddenly and inexplicably shy.
"Is it?" His eyes twinkled at her.
"Let's see." He leaned over and tilted her chin up for a lingering, heart-stopping kiss. Breathless seconds later he collapsed back against the pillow, clutching his heart theatrically like a bad actor in a third-rate script. "Oh, yeah. It's a good morning all right."
Mandy couldn't help it. She laughed.
"That's better." He raised his head and smiled down at her, turning on the Irish charm. "For a minute there I thought you were going all shy on me, darlin'."
"Shy?" She dismissed the possibility. "No way."
"'Course not. No reason to be shy with me, is there?"
"Nope."
Reilly slid his hands underneath her arms. "Then come here."
She clambered on top of him, savoring the warmth of his skin over taut muscles that rippled and flexed as he moved beneath her. She rubbed her face against his chest and sighed with contentment.
She loved touching him without the barrier of clothes, had loved it ever since the first time on her front porch swing, when he'd unbuttoned his shirt and had granted her the freedom to explore. His body was so different from hers, and it was just as fascinating now as it was back then.
As Mandy continued her voyage of rediscovery, Reilly caressed her absently, letting his hands wander in aimless fashion over her body as if he were reacquainting himself with the glide of silky skin under his palms.
She reciprocated, tangling her fingers in the diamond-shaped thatch of hair on his chest, then tracing the line of hair as it bisected his body, finally coming to rest just above his now-throbbing manhood.
"Don't start something you can't finish," he warned.
"What makes you think I—" She gasped, partly in shock and partly in pain, when he slid his hand between her legs and brushed his long fingers over her swollen flesh.
Having made his point, he didn't linger. "You should have told me last night you were too sore to make love," he chided her.
"I wasn't, last night."
"Well, you are this morning," he said with finality, drawing her hand away and bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss before easing himself out from underneath her.
He rose from the bed and stood there for a moment in the early morning light, stretching. His muscles moved with easy grace beneath his skin as he arched his back, then twisted from side to side, shaking the kinks out.
Mandy watched him with loving eyes. If she'd seen him like this the night he returned, there'd have been no question of his identity. Plastic surgery had altered his face beyond recognition, but his body was unchanged. He was beautifully made: no muscle-bound weight lifter, but a man honed down to the essentials of muscle, bone, and sinew. The phrase, "a lean, mean, fighting machine," might have been coined to describe him, she thought with a touch of whimsy. The whimsical mood faded as she remembered what had made him this way, and she noted with a flick of pain each scar on his beautiful body that bespoke the harsh, dangerous life he'd led.
He turned to one side and she saw the still-raw wound on his arm, where he'd been injured while shielding her that night in the tunnel. She made a mental note to inspect it closely for infection later on, and rebandage it, even if Reilly protested. Maybe she couldn't protect him from every danger he faced, now and in the future, but she would at least protect him from what she could.
He turned once more, and a pattern of small, red, crescent-shaped marks interspersed with scratches on his back brought a blush to her cheeks and made her sit up abruptly.
Reilly swung around at the rustle of bedclothes. When his gaze took in her embarrassed expression and the sheet she clutched over her breasts, he raised a questioning eyebrow. She blurted out, "I branded you last night." The bald statement seemed to require more explanation. "Your back," she said. "I … I hope it doesn't hurt too much."
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, resting his weight on one arm. "You branded me a long time ago, Mandy. The first time I saw you." He rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek, then brushed his thumb over her bottom lip before adding, "It doesn't hurt any more now than it did then."
"I don't want it to hurt at all," she whispered, sliding her arms around him, stroking gentle fingers over the marks she'd left on him as if she could somehow heal him that way.
"It doesn't matter." His husky voice was very close to her ear. "Pain's a small price to pay for loving you."
* * *
The midday sun was high in the sky when the Learjet carrying David Pennington touched down at a private airstrip outside Chicago for refueling, then took off again. He glanced at his companion on this flight, the man he'd chosen to accompany him on this critical mission. Carl Walsh was a good man, and dedicated to the cause, but he was a follower, not a leader. He would carry out any orders he was given without question, but he couldn't be counted on to come up with any original ideas. Not the best man to be second-in-command of the militia, Pennington conceded, but after the fiasco with Callahan, not a bad choice either.
Callahan. Just thinking of the man made Pennington's hands clench the armrests until his fingers turned white. He'd handpicked Callahan as his successor, promoting him over other men with more seniority, so sure of his reading of Callahan's character and abilities. Smart, dedicated, deadly. And a loner. Ryan Callahan had seemed the perfect choice to head up the militia's elite corps. The rank-and-file members were good as a political power base, good for intimidation and recruiting purposes, but Pennington had always known his real power lay in the small, ultrasecret corps of human "weapons," those men who could be trusted to kill upon his command. Centurion had been one of those men. Callahan, he'd thought, had been another.
That's what made Callahan's betrayal a personal thing. That was the true reason why Pennington was handling this execution himself, instead of delegating it again. Callahan had signed his own death warrant with his testimony, but death alone was not enough to satisfy Pennington's craving for vengeance. Not anymore.
When Pennington had learned in prison that Callahan was still alive, his first reaction had been fury. His second had been suspicion. He'd trusted Centurion to carry out his orders. Had he been betrayed again? But Centurion's explanation had been plausible, and the subsequent failure of the other "weapons" Pennington had sent after Callahan had added weight to Centurion's argument that Callahan had the devil's own luck in sniffing out a trap.
But not this time, Pennington gloated, running over the details of the plan in his mind and finding them flawless. This time, Callahan, you're going down. I guarantee it.
Escape was impossible, the plan foolproof. After all, there was more involved here than just Callahan's crimes against the militia or Centurion's previous failure to execute him. Centurion knew that his own life was hanging by a thread, but that threat was meaningless to a man like him. It was the other threat that ruled Centurion, and there was no way the man would let Callahan live now. Not with the woman at stake.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
"Walker will be here soon," Reilly said, running a fistful of soapy utensils under the water and stacking them helter-skelter on the drainboard. Breakfast, lunch, and an early dinner had come and gone all too quickly. Now he and Mandy stood side by side at the sink, their jeans-clad hips touching occasionally, doing the dishes together as they waited for dusk and the sheriff's arrival.
"I know." Mandy concentrated on the plate in her hand, scrubbing it much longer than necessary before handing it to him to rinse.
He caught a glimpse of her distraught face before she turned away, and he said, "We're going to have to talk about it pretty soon. We don't have much time left."
"I know," she repeated, a sharp edge to her tone this time.
"I don't want to wait until Walker gets here. I don't think you do, either."
"Why do you always call him 'Walker'?" she asked impatiently. "His name's Cody."
"Not to me it isn't." He knew she was trying to distract him, and he sympathized with her. The possible outcome of his impending confrontation with
Pennington tonight wasn't something he particularly wanted to discuss, especially now. But he had to make sure she knew what to do, just in case.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Depending on whether Walker arrived early or not, they had maybe a half hour left. He weighed the alternatives, then decided that if Mandy wanted to postpone the inevitable discussion for a few more minutes, it was all right with him.
"Cody's just as bad," she continued. "He never calls you by your first name either, not even when he's talking to me." She handed Reilly another plate to rinse. "It can't have anything to do with—" She stopped in midsentence, and when she picked up again there was a slight catch in her throat. "Because other men do it, too."
"It's a guy thing," he said flippantly, making an effort to keep the conversation light for her sake.
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know that it means anything, really. I've never analyzed it before." He thought for a moment, running his thumb along the bottom of his mustache. "Maybe it's a macho thing. Staking your territorial boundaries. Establishing the pecking order. Something like that."
"Oh?" She gave him a dubious look.
"I guess last names are less personal, too." He thought about his buddies back in New York. Cops, most of them. Good friends, but other than his former partner, Josh, not what you'd call real close. And yeah, last names were the norm when they addressed each other, except for those who'd been tagged with embarrassing or descriptive nicknames.
"I don't know," he said, drawing his words out. "Maybe it's more than that." She'd started him thinking, and now he was caught up in answering the question to his own satisfaction. "Maybe it has to do with those emotional boundaries men are reluctant to cross with each other. It's different with a woman. A man can tell a woman things he'd never admit to another man."
"That's not always true. Sometimes it's the other way around." Her eyes sought his to emphasize her point. "Sometimes men share secrets and keep women in the dark."
