Jack didn’t correct her assumption; there was no need for them to know Annie had broken in, or why. By the time he’d finished detailing the rest of the evening, ending with Annie giving him Cricket’s picture, Mary Gallagher was sitting on the step next to her son, her face pale.
“A demon,” she said, horror lingering in her voice. “What can we do?”
Jack met Gallagher’s eyes. “That depends on whether Brian will stick his neck out.”
Gallagher stood, his face a rigid mask. “Your crazy obsession was never about Annie before, Harrington. Don’t question what I’d do for her.”
“Good, because I need more than prints. I want everything you can find on Lily Milton.” When Gallagher swore, Jack ignored it and pushed on. “Particularly in the past eighteen months, since she left the Bureau.”
“For God’s sake, Jack. Her division’s got more layers of security than the spooks do. I don’t even know if I can get past—”
“If you can’t, I’ll go directly to her.” He saw the frustration in Gallagher’s expression, knew it matched his own. Milton was the last person he wanted to approach for information. “We don’t know anything about what Annie’s up against. Even Annie doesn’t know much. But I’d bet Milton does.”
“And when Milton stabs us in the back?”
Jack spread his palms, shook his head. Gallagher had more to lose than Jack did—and it wasn’t the job or the salary that mattered, but the badge behind it.
“You’ll be free to vacation with your wife,” he finally said. There was simply no reassurance to offer.
“Marnie did mention she and the kids were missing you, Brian.” Mrs. Gallagher stood up, patted her son’s hand. “Now go on to work, so you can get started. Jack, you look as if you could use something to eat. I planned on hiking to Haegele’s this morning . . . oh, dear. Try not to look so relieved.”
A chagrined smile tugged at Jack’s lips. It remained as Gallagher reversed his sedan onto the street, as Mrs. Gallagher returned with her purse.
He fought with his impatience—felt like an ass for it. He could always use more coffee and sugar, but there was too much to do before his inevitable crash. Catching up with Mrs. Gallagher wasn’t at the top of his list.
“And now you look too guilty,” she observed as soon as they hit the sidewalk. “You should leave that to old biddies like me. Do you know that for three years after Donald passed, I continued cooking for myself—because I was ashamed at how relieved I was whenever I ate something that I hadn’t made. As if being grateful that I didn’t have to eat my own cooking anymore meant that I was grateful he was gone.”
Jack opened his mouth, but every response stopped in his throat. Jesus, what could a man say to that?
She smiled kindly, then gave his hand a pat, just as she had Gallagher’s a few minutes earlier. “Of course, I knew that wasn’t true, but it took my heart those three years to catch up with my head. And the guilt still tugs at me now and then.”
Jack nodded, as if he understood, and immediately wondered if he should have shaken his head.
But Mrs. Gallagher didn’t seem to notice his inadequacy; her gaze was soft and unfocused as she mused, “He was very traditional, Annie’s father. And so long as I tended to the kitchen, he never complained about what came out of it.”
Jack frowned, recalled the redheaded giant of a man. “He expected Annie to join the force.”
The glance she slanted at him was puzzled; then realization slid over her expression. “His children were Gallaghers— and male or female, Gallaghers are cops.” She stopped walking, her brows drawing together. “He was a good man, Jack Harrington. Fixed in his ways, strong in his faith and his ideas of how the world ought to be—but still, a good man. I enjoyed cooking, even if the results were terrible; if I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have expected me to do it. And he loved Annie enough to bend, to support her when she chose medicine.”
“Yes,” Jack agreed quietly. Unlike his own father.
“He loved her enough. But he wasn’t flexible enough.” Tears suddenly sheened her eyes, and she began walking again. After a moment, she continued, “As a mother, as a wife, as a woman—the night Annie came home and told us what had happened to her was the worst of my life. Not because of what she’d become, but because Donald couldn’t bend that much. He thought he was doing the right thing. The righteous thing. And in the space of a few minutes, I went from wishing him dead to trying to save him, but his heart had just . . .”
She lifted her hand, as if to say there were no words, then delicately wiped her cheeks.
And that simply, it came together and ripped a hole in Jack’s chest. The row houses wavered like a mirage, and he shoved his sunglasses over his eyes.
He’d contemplated the worst: Annie, losing control, killing her father. He’d wondered if the heart attack had been a lie, just as her accident had been.
But a different picture was forming, of a father who couldn’t see a vampire as anything but damned. Who’d used his gun, and tried to destroy the evil he thought his beloved daughter had become. A mother’s grief and fury turned against her husband.
Then Annie would have gotten up.
“We Gallaghers know guilt.” She looked up at him, her gaze sharp. “Annie knows more than Brian or I possibly could, and deserves none of it.”
It was Jack’s turn to stop, a muscle in his jaw working. “Do you think I’d add to it?”
“I think that when you came to us six years ago, you were wanting a family almost as much as you wanted Annie. And you were still looking for that family after she’d gone.”
He couldn’t deny it. He’d jumped straight into a commitment with Jenn, had begun thinking of a home and children. Trying to re-create what he’d had with Annie, what he’d wanted for them.
And he’d failed, not because he’d tried to replace Annie—but because it hadn’t been Annie. If he’d wanted a life with Jenn or any of the other women, he’d have fought to keep it.
In a low voice, he said, “If that was all I was looking for, Mrs. Gallagher, I’d have had it by now.”
She studied him, then resumed their walk. “Have you considered that even though you’ve found her again, she can no longer give it to you?”
“No, I haven’t.” Because it didn’t matter. He wanted the same thing he always had: a future with Annie.
And he didn’t give a damn what form it took.
He drew in a long breath. “I appreciate that you’re trying to protect Annie—but she doesn’t need protection from me. I’m the least of her worries.”
“I doubt she sees you as the ‘least’ of anything,” she said, and her soft smile returned. “Do you know, even though Annie and I have dinner once a month—well, I have dinner—I have no idea where she lives? I didn’t know Cricket existed until last week, when Annie asked if I’d spoken with her. And she didn’t ask for my help, even then.”
There was no reproof or jealousy in her statement, but there was a question. A need to be useful.
This walk hadn’t been time wasted after all.
EIGHT
EVEN SLEEPING, JACK WAS SNEAKY.
He’d trapped Annie on her back, his bare thigh heavy on hers, his arm wrapped across her chest. There was no way to scoot out without waking him.
Silently, she turned her head, and her heart contracted. Even with his face half-buried in the pillow, she could see his features were lined with exhaustion.
The perfume of her shampoo was thick in the air, the crisp scent of mint toothpaste, a lingering dampness. He’d prepared for bed here, but it hadn’t been more than two or three hours ago.
She’d wait a few more minutes then—to let him sleep, and to savor the moment. It was the first time she’d ever woken up with someone next to her.
How wondrous that, of all people, she’d ended up waking next to Jack.
Each of his breaths was deep and even, his lips slightly open. His jaw was clean-shaven. The night before, she’d loved the roug
hness of it; now, she only felt the slow-burning anticipation of tracing her fingers over his smooth skin.
Had he anticipated it, too? He’d used her shower, her soap, but he’d had to have brought his own razor. Planning ahead . . . intending to be ready when she woke.
Intending to continue what her daysleep had interrupted.
Oh, God. The realization sent the bloodlust tearing through her. She whimpered, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her nipples stiffened, and she fought to keep her body still, to keep from arching and rubbing the taut flesh against his arm, to keep from opening her legs and rolling him beneath her.
He’d be hard after the first bite, and she’d have him inside her seconds after it jolted him awake.
Her hips rolled, once. She squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out the sight of his skin, the brevity of his undershorts, the strong length of his body that, even in sleep, didn’t look or feel soft.
No, he’d never been soft. And with the sheets bunched in her fingers, she recalled how hard he’d been six years ago in her brother’s backyard, long after everyone else had turned in for the night.
It had been his shirtsleeves in her fists then, her teeth clenched and back arched, her sundress around her waist. She’d had no idea where her panties had gone, and couldn’t care. He’d been using his hands, and his tongue, until the stars had spun out of control behind her eyes. And he’d wrapped her legs around him then, rocked, rough denim and slick heat, biting her shoulder, shuddering against her.
She’d carried the bruise for two days, and it had healed within moments of her transformation.
And soon, she’d be drinking from him.
It had to be that way. Packaged blood could ease the hunger in the short-term, but didn’t nourish a vampire. The blood had to be living.
It would be Jack’s—and when she took it, she’d take him.
Not like this, not like this. Her mind chanted it, but her body and the thirst took up the rhythm, timed it to the pounding of her blood.
Her hips undulated. Her fingers dug into the mattress. Hold still, Annie.
“Annie?” The drowsy question sharpened with concern. “What’s happening?”
No, Jack. Sleep. She just had to get to her nightstand—
Her eyes flew open as his weight shifted. He leaned over her, his hand cupping her cheek. “Tell me.”
“I need—” Blood. To take him inside her. “—to feed.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she felt the rise of his cock against her thigh. “Then feed.”
“No.” She began panting as he bent his head, kissed the hollow of her throat. “Not like this, Jack—”
“Will it kill me?”
She shook her head, then cried out as his lips closed around her nipple. So hot. The bloodlust escalated, lifting her body, seeking more pressure, more pleasure.
Her hands found his shoulders. “Jack, listen, listen, please.”
His tongue halted its devastating swirl.
“You don’t know how it . . .” She stopped, regathered, forced it out as crudely as she could. “We’ll fuck.”
“Good,” he said bluntly.
“Jack—”
“I lost you once, Annie. It taught me not to wait. Not when I want something.” His eyes met hers, his face dark with need. “And God knows, I want you. More than I have any other— more than I ever will any other.”
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “There have been others for me.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice softened. “I never expected that you’d wait another six years. Do they matter?”
“No.” And that was the point. But he didn’t know—couldn’t understand. She needed to fight back the bloodlust, explain. “That’s why—”
Annie’s breath hissed through her teeth as he wedged between her thighs. Heated and thick, grinding against her aroused flesh.
Her craving spiked. With a ragged moan, she began to move with him.
“This,” he whispered roughly against her ear. “I want this. To hold you, to be inside you.”
She wanted, needed that, too, and it was shredding her control. The pounding of his blood filled her senses. “Jack—I can’t—”
“I need to fuck you, to make love to you. To hear you, to feel you.” He gripped her hips, rolled her over. Turned his head and exposed his throat. “However, whenever. Whatever it takes, Annie.”
Whatever it takes.
She moved quickly. Her chest ached and her eyes burned, but she saw his confusion when he ran his fingers over his left triceps, found the injection site. She felt his shock when his gaze fell to the syringe in her hand.
“You’ll just sleep,” she promised hoarsely.
His anger rent through her psychic shields. Swearing, he struggled to sit up. She caught his shoulders, easily pushed him back against the pillows. His voice was already weakening.
She pressed her cheek to his, drew in his scent. When he slept, she bent her head.
And she fed.
JACK sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
Christ. He wasn’t sure if it was a head or a bucketful of wet sand. Whatever Annie had stuck him with had put him to sleep for another hour, but he was still groggy as hell.
A glass appeared below his face. “This will help.”
He glanced up. Her extraordinary eyes were cool, reserved.
His teeth clenched, but he took the orange juice she offered, and wondered how to cross the distance she’d put between them.
A distance he probably deserved. His skin flushed. Jesus, he’d gone after her like a rabid pitbull.
“You prepared well,” she said quietly. “You already took the vitamins that were on the counter?”
He nodded, then tested both sides of his neck. The left was sensitive to touch, but there were no open wounds.
Her eyes followed the movement of his hand. Her lashes were dark again, her eyes outlined in smoky gray. “My blood heals it. Heals the bite. I did your lip, too.” Her gaze settled on his mouth, then flicked away. “If you’re hungry or dizzy, I can bring in that Haegele’s box from the kitchen. I have to admit, the pastries even tempted me—but I thought you were a Dunkin’ Donuts guy.”
Her barely there smile was more barely than there.
“I am.” A gulp of juice washed away some of the grittiness. “I bought them this morning with your mother.”
“You did?” She sat gingerly on the bed, her attention never leaving his face.
Not distant, he realized. Wary. “Yes. She’s operating under the assumption that, although you’ve kept this part of yourself separate from her, you have let me in.” His mouth flattened into a bleak line. “Which makes two of us who assumed too much.”
Annie stared at him, started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. After another second, she said, “What happened to your balls of iron?”
“What do you think, Annie? You’ve got them like this.” He made a claw of his hand, then twisted his wrist. “And you know I turn into a sap when I’m drugged. Or drunk.”
“Then I’m almost sorry I went out for your coffee instead of dropping by a liquor store. Drink that first, though; your blood sugar has probably bottomed out.” She tilted her chin at his juice, and her lips slowly curved. “And I can’t wait until I get my fangs into you again.”
“Hurrah for me. Another nap.” He looked away from her fading smile and drained the glass, ignoring the twinge in his chest that told him he was being an asshole.
But it ate at him. No matter how he circled around it, the bare fact was she’d doped him so that they wouldn’t have sex.
Yeah, he’d come on strong. But for Chrissake, a sharp word or a pinch would have brought him to his senses, and he’d have remained still and just let her feed. It would’ve been torture, but he’d prefer to lie on the bed with his dick on fire than miss a single moment with her.
Hell, even if the effect of her bite meant that he couldn’t control himself, she
was strong enough to hold him down. She could have stopped any guy with little effort.
So why hadn’t she done it that way?
Jack frowned and glanced over, then blinked. He’d been brooding for three seconds, tops, but Annie wasn’t on the bed. His clothes had been laid out in her place, a clear message that it was time to get ready, to work; she’d already left the room.
Fast. Strong. Yet she’d had a tranquilizer ready.
He dragged on his jeans, then stood in the cold room, staring at the bed.
Maybe it wasn’t the guy she had to worry about. A little scrape of Jack’s lip, and sexual arousal had sizzled through him like a lightning bolt. It had sent her tearing away from him. If Annie had felt anything like he had, or if the blood she drank amplified what he’d experienced—
Oh, Jesus love him.
There’d been others, she’d said. But Gallagher was right— it didn’t make sense that she’d immediately gone to another man. After waiting twenty-eight years, she wouldn’t have hopped into bed with a stranger.
I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry.
Six years, and he could still hear it so clearly. But she had nothing to apologize for.
Unless that was the reason she hadn’t come to him.
JACK was angry.
Even over the anxiety twisting her stomach, Annie could sense it. And though he was trying to bury it, the bitter heat rose and skimmed the turbulent surface of his emotions.
When his footsteps sounded from the bedroom, she glanced out from behind her paneled screen, then continued choosing her weapons. Nothing that he’d been projecting showed in his expression. Five minutes before, she’d felt a spike of painful realization from him—but whatever conclusion he’d come to, he was apparently still working through it.
And knowing Jack, he wouldn’t confront her until his head had cleared.
Almost on cue, she heard him pop off the plastic top of his coffee cup, and had to smile at the rip of a sugar packet.
Maybe she’d been right, then, to leave the bedroom when she had. When he’d woken, she’d gone in with the intention of explaining everything. But he’d obviously been feeling miserable—and between his shame, his sense of rejection, and her fear of his reaction, one of them would have said something they’d regret.
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