Tangled Destinies

by Diana Palmer

  He held her hips in his and moved her against him. “Is your need as sweetly aching as mine?” he whispered into her mouth. “Are you dying for me?”

  “Yes—” Her voice broke because the ache was staggering.

  He moved abruptly, throwing her back on the cover. His eyes were black, his big, hair-roughened body looming above her. She’d never seen him look like that, so formidable and dominating.

  He knelt and caught her thighs, dragging her up in an arch to him. “I want to see you,” he whispered. “I want to see you this way....”

  His hands contracted, and she gasped as his body suddenly, sharply merged with hers. His fingers pressed into her hips, and he laughed roughly as he jerked them even closer in rhythmic surges that caused unexpected sensations to rip at her body.

  “Marc!” she cried out, gripping the pillow with both hands, her eyes wild and dilated and shocked with the sweeping fever of passion.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and laughed again, and all at once he came down on her with the full weight of his body, his hips invading, his mouth crushing hers.

  It was like nothing she’d ever dreamed. She whispered things she’d never believed she could say to a man; her hands touched, pleaded; her eyes opened and looked up into his. She needed, wanted, had to have that inexpressible intimacy of knowing when it happened for him.

  And he let her watch. He let her see it begin, in soft shudders, in the dilation of his black pupils, in the anguished contortion of his face and the pulsating tension in his throat and in the cry he bit off as his head was flung back in tormented ecstasy.

  She felt the tension that arched his powerful body down into hers, felt his body ripple with helpless convulsions. And even as she watched him, she felt that silvery ecstasy pulse through her own body. Her eyes closed, and she bit her lip as the involuntary movement of her hips and the writhing of her body suddenly intensified, became a hot wave of deliciously unbearable pleasure. She cried out in a pitiful, high-pitched whimper that she couldn’t control and clung to him, burying her face in his hot, damp throat as it went on and on and on...and it wasn’t enough, she needed more, more!

  “What a sweet, wild little sound,” he whispered at her ear as her body shuddered. His hands smoothed back her hair. “Shh. Let me see you.”

  He lifted his head and looked into her tormented eyes, and he smiled tenderly and soothed her, even as the shudders grew worse. “Gaby,” he whispered. “How beautiful you are in passion.”

  “I can’t...bear it,” she whispered in an agony of pleasure.

  He moved slowly against her. “Soon. Almost now,” he breathed, studying her face, seeing the soft contortion, “Soon. Lie still.”

  “Marc!”

  His movements intensified as he heard her gasping cries, felt her body jerking, writhing beneath him. “Here,” he whispered, drawing her hands to his hips. “Hold on to me now. Hold on while I make it happen for you. Now. Now!”

  Her body seemed to explode in silken flames. She thought she would never survive it, live through it. His face blurred, became an outline in a red mist, and her nails must have hurt him as she arched up, crying in great, gasping sobs as something incredible happened to her, controlled her, beat the breath and life out of her with its crashing ecstasy, its unbearably sweet fulfillment. She felt the shudders and couldn’t control them. And for a second, for a bare instant, she flew among the rainbows, became one with the sun. And with Marc.

  She wept for a long time afterward, and he held her cradled against his sweat-damp body, soothed her with his big, loving hands. His mouth touched over her flushed face in soft, tender kisses that were comforting, adoring, almost reverent.

  “The little death,” he whispered in her ear. “Now you understand, don’t you, Gaby?”

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “It was...it was...unbelievable.”

  “Yes. For me too. We fulfilled each other completely.” His arms drew her closer. “Oh, Gaby, I hope you don’t want a big wedding. I just want to put a ring on your finger and keep you with me day and night for all my life.”

  Her face lifted. “Married?” she burst out. “You want to marry me?”

  “Well, what did you think I meant? In case you haven’t noticed,” he added, brushing a tender kiss over her mouth, “I’m trying very hard to make you pregnant so you’ll have to stay with me.”

  “You didn’t say you wanted to get married.”

  “But I do,” he said fervently, searching her eyes. “Don’t you?”

  She could hardly manage a smile through the tears. “Yes.”

  He laughed, bending to kiss her eyes, her nose, her soft mouth. “Yes. Mrs. Marcus Stephano. It sounds good.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” She clung to him. “Oh, Marc, I...” She almost said it. She wanted to say it. I love you. But she couldn’t. He might not want that. He might not feel that way. He could want her without loving her.

  “You what?” he asked, lifting his dark head. He smiled. “Can’t you say it?”

  She cleared her throat. “I need a drink of water.”

  He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something. Then he ruffled her disheveled hair. “Okay. How about champagne? What we just gave each other calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do,” she agreed fervently, and he laughed as he got out of bed and went to fetch glasses and a bottle of champagne.

  They drank it thirstily and then showered, bathing each other with lazy, sated pleasure. Then they slept in each other’s arms without a shred of cover, and Gaby thought that she’d never in her life been so deliriously happy. Perhaps he didn’t love her now. But she could hope. And perhaps he’d learn to love her as she loved him. She’d work so hard at it.

  If she had time, her mind kept prodding. If the killer missed. If they trapped him. The fear, forgotten for a little while, came back with shattering force. Tears threatening, she pressed close against Marc’s sleeping body. Please, she prayed silently. Please don’t let me lose this now, not after so many years of anguish. Please let me stay with him just for a little longer. Just a little longer. And as she prayed, the weariness caught up with her. And she slept.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MORNING CAME all too soon. Marc was already awake and fixing his tie in place when she opened her eyes. She lay quietly in the bed, her gaze wandering over him as he tucked the tie into his vest and took a comb to his thick, shaggy hair. He really needed a haircut, she thought lovingly. The thought was such a wifely one, she couldn’t help but smile. She felt a warm glow all the way to the tip of her toes.

  “Good morning,” she murmured drowsily, and smiled when he came back to the bed and leaned over to kiss her.

  “Good morning,” he replied, smiling back. “How are you?”

  “I ache in places I didn’t even know I had,” she said with a wicked look. “And I feel better than I ever felt. How about you?”

  “I could go you one better on that ache,” he replied, chuckling as he loomed over her, “but mine isn’t the same kind.”

  Her eyebrows arched, and he leaned over and whispered, “It’s worse for men early in the morning.”

  “After last night?”

  He burst out laughing. “Ah, Gaby, that was last night. And I’ve been hungry for you a long time.”

  She blushed prettily. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind when you come back home this evening.”

  His face sobered abruptly, as did hers. They stared at each other for a long moment, with the specter of the day between them, with the fear that there might not be a joyful homecoming. Because there were, as the police sergeant had said, no guarantees.

  He sat down beside her and touched her face with just the tips of his fingers. His eyes were protective, worried. “Gaby, fate couldn’t be so cruel to us,” he said sof
tly. “Not after what we’ve been through. We’ll be together. I promise you, we’ll be together.” He bent and kissed her with aching, thorough tenderness. “Together. Even if the worst happens.” His voice caught in his throat, and she saw him swallow. “Because I can’t live if something happens to you. I can’t!”

  “Marc!” She wrapped her arms around him, tears stinging her eyes as she pressed against him, feeling the wetness on her face as it smeared against his warm throat. “Oh, Marc, I couldn’t live without you, either, not now. I wouldn’t want to. I...need you so,” she whispered, amending what she meant to say, what she wanted to say.

  He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “Only need?” he asked deeply. “I don’t think so.” He kissed her eyelids closed, and his fingers were delightfully loving on her face as he traced it. “I want to stay with you so much, bella mia. I want nothing in life less than to leave you now, with danger so close.” His arms tightened, pulling her closer. He sighed raggedly at her ear, and she thought the warmth of his concern would last her through any trouble.

  “I’ll be all right,” she whispered. “Really I will, Marc.”

  “I’ll pray. And I mean that, just exactly the way it sounds.” He lifted his dark head and stared at her for a long, silent moment. “Amore mia,” he whispered. “There will never be another woman. Not for the rest of my life. I swear that.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly, and then more forcefully, loving the strength of him, the warm, muscular huskiness of his big body so close to her. If only she could stay like this and not have to go through with setting a trap for a killer who might be lurking somewhere nearby. But there would never be a future for her if it didn’t end now.

  She drew away finally and ruffled his dark, disheveled hair. “You’ll have to comb it again,” she said teasingly.

  “It was worth it.” He got up and went back to the mirror, watching her as she climbed out of bed and dressed. “Isn’t it intimate, watching each other dress?” he asked softly. “I like that. It feels like being married.”

  “I want to be married to you,” she replied, shaking back her hair when she was wearing the jeans and T-shirt again. She grinned at him. “So don’t think you’ll escape this time.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.” He glanced once more at his reflection and pocketed the comb. “Well, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You?”

  “Me too,” she replied, folding her hands in front of her. “Want me to cook you some breakfast?”

  He shook his head. “Not even coffee. Let’s get it over.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  She held his big hand as they walked to the front door and tried not to think that this might be the last time she saw him in this life. There was a twinge in her shoulder as the stitches pulled when she reached up to hold him as he opened the door, and it reminded her of how desperate the situation was.

  “See you later, big man,” she said loudly, in case the killer was within hearing. “Don’t work too hard.”

  “Yeah. You too. See you.” He kissed her with apparent carelessness, and with eyes full of black torment, he forced a smile and turned and walked away toward the elevator.

  Gaby went back inside, closing the door. She started to lock it. No, she thought. That would make it too hard. She’d appear to be careless.

  She stared around the apartment. Which way would he come? she wondered. Where would he be? Would he come through the front door? Or...there was the fire escape outside the bedroom. Would he come through it?

  She twisted her fingers. It was nerve-racking, the waiting, the not knowing. It might not even be today. He might not fall for the bait. He might lie low and wait for days or weeks or months. Her eyes closed on a wave of pain. It could go on forever!

  And just as she opened her eyes again they widened with horror. Because there was a noise in the bedroom. She instinctively went to the doorway to look, and there he was.

  He was blond. Short, not impressive-looking at all, except for the small pistol in his hand. He didn’t seem to be very dangerous; he didn’t even look like a hoodlum. On the street she might have mistaken him for a businessman.

  “Sorry,” he said with a faint smile. “Now you won’t have to be afraid anymore. It’s over.”

  She wanted to break and run, but she couldn’t even move. She prayed as she’d never prayed that their marksman was somewhere watching. Please, she thought. Please.

  She could see the certainty of death in the small man’s eyes. He held the pistol at his waist, and she knew that he would press the trigger any minute. He wasn’t kidding. It was no joke. This was it.

  Well, she thought fatalistically, if it happened, it happened. But the darkness would be so terrible without Marc...

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she closed them and tensed, waiting for the inevitable. Her body poised, like a dancer’s, on the edge of infinity.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GABY WAITED FOR the pain. Go ahead, she thought, please go ahead. Get it over with!

  And as if in answer to that bitter prayer, the sound echoed like a firecracker as a gun suddenly fired.

  But no impact came. Her eyes opened, her sight blurred a little as she stood there, frozen. And as she watched, the light went out of the gunman’s eyes. The pistol fell from his hands. He pitched forward onto the carpet.

  She bit her lip. She knew as long as she lived that she’d never forget. She’d never forget...

  “That was close!” Uncle Michael said from the open window as he climbed in with his pistol out. “You okay, honey?” he asked quickly.

  Her mouth fell open. “The police!”

  “They’re on the way up.”

  Seconds later the front door flew open, and policemen piled in, followed by Sergeant Bonaro and a panting, white-faced Marc.

  “Gaby!” Marc yelled.

  He brushed past the policemen, grabbed her up in his arms and held her and kissed her as if the world were ending. She clung, sobbing, loving the feel of his mouth on her cheeks, her lips, her nose.

  “I’ll never stop shaking!” Marc groaned. “I heard the shot, and I thought, did he do it, did he hurt her, and I wanted to die!”

  “I-I’m all right,” she said brokenly. “I’m all right.”

  Uncle Michael handed his pistol to Sergeant Bonaro. “He ducked around to the side and went up the fire escape like a monkey!”

  “We lost him inside,” Bonaro said ruefully, with an apologetic glance at Gaby. “So you shot him?” he added with a hard glare at Uncle Michael’s gun. “With your record, even under the circumstances, it’s going to be pretty rough on you.”

  “But he saved my life,” Gaby burst out defensively.

  Uncle Michael threw up his hands with a faint smile. “Hey, you got it wrong,” he told Bonaro. “I never fired that gun you’re holding.”

  Bonaro frowned. He unloaded the clip and lifted the muzzle to his nose. “Hell! It hasn’t been fired!”

  “It must have been your guy in the apartment across the way.” Uncle Michael grinned. “I saw his rifle barrel glint in the sun. Lucky he was there. I wouldn’t have gotten up those steps in time. One of the problems with my age,” he added with a grimace. “Maybe there’s something to retirement, after all.”

  Bonaro was letting out a slow breath. “Don’t scare me like that!” he burst out. “I had visions of a departmental shake-up if it got out that a retired mobster saved the girl while the police took the wrong elevator! Not to mention that it would most likely have landed you back in the slammer again,” he said, emphasizing the point.

  Uncle Michael laughed. “Yeah. Lucky I didn’t shoot the turkey, wasn’t it?” he murmured.

  “Yeah. Here,” Bonaro said curtly, handing back the pistol minus the clip. “Hide that somewhere and don�
�t let me catch you carrying it again!”

  “Okay. Whatever you say.” He went to pat Gaby on the back. She smiled at him past Marc’s broad shoulder. “Take it easy,” he said gently. “You’re safe now. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly.

  He winked at her, gave Marc an oddly smug look and walked out the door. Minutes later, after the body was removed and the police were through asking questions for the record, Bonaro smoked a cigarette and frowned.

  “Something wrong?” Marc asked as he sat beside Gaby with his arm still close and protective around her shoulders.

  “I talked to my men, and none of them fired that shot,” he said unexpectedly. He turned and caught the surprise on their faces. “And it wasn’t the marksman, either. Of all the times to have to make a trip to the john, he had to go apparently just as the hit man was climbing up the fire escape. Just one of those things. But you sure have a guardian angel somewhere, Miss Bennett.” He sighed. “This is going to be hard to explain to my superiors.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t my uncle?” Marc asked.

  “How? His gun hadn’t been fired. I checked.”

  “Well, whoever did it, I’m just thankful,” Gaby said softly. “I didn’t want to die.”

  “Who does?” Bonaro asked kindly. “I’ll let you know what we find out. But as far as we’re concerned, this was the contract killer. It’s just that the way he was dealt with is going to give me a few problems.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gaby said. “But thank you so much for all you’ve done.”

  “I wish it could have been more,” the sergeant said sincerely. “Good day.”

  Marc walked him out. When he came back, his face was faintly amused, and Gaby stared at him curiously.

  “What do you know that I don’t?” she asked politely.