by Nora Roberts
"No, I won't." He cupped her face in his hands. "Remember who you're talking to."
"All right." She blew out a breath. "I heard him talking, in my head, I think. It sounded so much like Joe—the tone, the meanness in it. He called me— her—a whore, a slut. He knew she was in love with someone else, but he wasn't going to let her go, ever. He said he'd kill her first, kill both of them."
"Come on, let's get out of here. Let's go upstairs."
"I haven't finished—"
"Leave it, Cassie. Just leave it." He would have carried her, but she got to her feet. Still, her hand reached for his. "The other day, when you were talking to the old ladies?"
"Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Berman, yes."
"You talked about Abigail being in love with someone. I thought you'd made it up, to add a little romance to the story."
"No. I can't explain it, Devin. I just know it's true. I saw him."
He paused at the back stairs that led up to her apartment. "You saw who?"
"The man she loved. I was in her room, and then I looked and he was at the door. He was looking right at me, talking to me as if I were Abigail. I could feel her there. Her heart was broken, but she let him go. Made him go. Devin... Devin, I think she killed herself."
He sat her down in a chair in her living room. "Why do you think that?"
"I can't explain that, either. Just a feeling. She didn't know how else to get free. And maybe because I thought about it once."
The blood drained from his face. "Good God, Cassie."
"Not for very long," she said quickly. "And not very seriously. I had the kids to think about. If I hadn't had them, I might have thought about it longer. When you're trapped, Devin, you get crazy ideas about escape."
Nothing he knew about her had ever frightened him more. "I would have helped you. I wanted to help . you."
"I wouldn't let you. I wouldn't let anyone. You, Ed, Regan. There were others, too, others who were willing to do whatever they could. I was wrong not to accept the help, but that's over now." She curled her hands over his. "I'm not telling you this to upset you, but to try to help you understand how I know she did it. She didn't have people to help her. He'd seen to that. He made sure she was cut off from the women in town, made sure the servants were too frightened to do anything but stand back."
Somewhere in her mind, she could almost feel it, see it. "He hit her, too. It was his fist I saw today. Not Joe's. But it's the same, you see. So much the same. When he killed that boy in front of her, she knew he was capable of anything. She gave up, Devin. Eventually even her children weren't enough to keep her from escaping in the only way she knew."
"It's not you, Cassie."
"It could have been."
"But it's not," he said firmly. "You're here, you're with me. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."
"I'm tired of being afraid." She closed her eyes, let her head rest on his shoulder as he crouched in front of her. "I'm glad you're here." She let out a deep sigh. "Why are you here?"
"I worked it so I could clear out for an hour. I wanted to see you. I wanted to be with you."
"I thought about you all morning. I nearly put coffee in Emma's thermos for school, because I was thinking about you instead of what I was doing."
"Really?" He couldn't think of a more satisfying compliment. When she lifted her head, he could see that the color was back in her cheeks. "Were you thinking that you'd like to make love with me again?"
"Yes, I was."
"I've still got most of an hour," he murmured, rising and bringing her to her feet.
She blinked. "It's the middle of the day."
"Uh-huh." He drew her toward the hall.
"Devin, it's daylight."
"That's right." He unhooked his belt that held his beeper and weapon, hung them over the doorknob.
"It's..." Her heart stumbled as he reached out to unbutton her blouse. "It's barely noon."
"Yeah, I'm going to miss lunch." As he slipped the blouse from her shoulders, lowered his mouth toward hers, he smiled. "Do you want me to stop, Cassie?"
Her head rolled back on her shoulders. "I guess I don't," she said, weak, willing.
She forgot that the sun was shining and the birds were twittering. She forgot that traffic was cruising by on the road, and that people were going about their business in town.
It was so easy, so powerfully easy, to let it all happen again. It was so easy to enjoy the way his hands moved tenderly over her, the way his mouth coaxed hers to warm. He felt so good against her when she curled her arms around him, so solid, that she forgot to feel self-conscious because the sun was pouring through the windows.
He undressed her, completely, taking his time over it, drawing out each moment just to look at her. To look at what was finally his. The softness. The sweetness. He kissed her, soothing and arousing her, as he undressed himself. His hands were gentle, because he knew it was what she needed. His mouth was patient, allowing her to set the pace. And the pace was slow and dreamy.
He lowered her to the bed she'd made so neatly that morning, gave himself the quiet delight of brushing her hair with his fingers until it was all tangled golden curls over the plain white quilt. Her eyes were closed, and already her cheeks carried the faint flush of stirred passions.
Last night there had been only the light from a practical and unscented emergency candle, a narrow bunk and a room that smelled of old coffee.
Today there was sunlight, birdsong, and the perfume of the flowers by her window. And today, he thought, she knew there would be pleasure.
He gave her pleasure. Rivers of it. She floated on it, glided on it, immersed herself in it without reserve. All hesitancy, all shyness, vanished under a warm haze of gently lapping sensations.
The texture of his callused fingers, the friction of them as they moved over her skin caused little spark-ing shocks that speeded her pulse. The taste of his mouth as it moved to her flesh, then back to her lips, was drugging. She could hear his breathing quicken, or those little hums of pleasure in his throat, whenever he touched some new part of her. He was so beautiful to her—not just his incredibly stunning outward good looks. More, it was the beauty inside that drew and seduced her—the kindness, the strength, the patience.
It delighted her to be able to squeeze her hands over his biceps, feel the coil of strength in them, in the muscles of his back. She adored the shape and weight of his body, the way it pressed hers deep into the mattress. The light scrape of his teeth on her shoulder gave her a quick, jittery thrill. To answer it, she nipped at his while her hands grew bold enough to journey down.
He hissed out a breath, jolted. Her eyes flashed open when his head reared up. For an instant, for an eternity, she saw something dark and edgy and dangerous in those moss-green eyes. Something that had her blood leaping high and her pulse scrambling.
He yanked himself back into control, the way he would have yanked a wild dog on a thick leash. His muscles knotted. He could have sworn he felt the sweat burst out of his pores.
"Don't worry." His voice was raw, but he lowered his mouth gently to hers again. "Don't be afraid."
She wanted to tell him she wasn't, couldn't be afraid of him. That she would be afraid of nothing that happened between them. That she wanted to know what had come into his eyes. But he was kissing her into oblivion again, into that misty place where there was nothing but warm, quiet pleasures.
Her moan was long and deep when he eased her to a peak. Long and deep when he gave her more. She let the current take her, opening for him, letting him fill her. Nothing was more stunning than moving with him, feeling his body mesh and mate with hers.
Then his mouth was at her ear, and through her own gasping passion she heard him say her name. Just her name, before he pulled her with him.
"I love you." He still ached for her, even as he shifted his weight and drew her against his side. "I want you to get used to hearing that."
"Devin—"
"No, I don't expect it ye
t. I will, but I don't expect it yet." He turned his face into her hair and breathed in the scent of it and her, a scent that always reminded him of sunlight on a meadow. "You just get used to hearing it. You tell me when you're used to it, because then I'm going to ask you to marry me."
She went rigid. "I can't. How can I think about that? This is happening too fast."
"Not for me." He wouldn't be angry, he wouldn't even allow himself to be discouraged by the shock in her voice. Instead, he stroked a hand down her arm and spoke with quiet confidence. "I've gotten good at waiting, so I can wait a while longer. But I figured you should know where I'm heading here. I want you, I want the kids, I want a life, but I can wait until you're ready."
"I might never be ready. Devin, you have to understand, I don't know if I can ever make those promises again."
"You've never made them to me. That's all that counts." He rose up on his elbow so that he could study her face. He'd frightened her, he noted. But it couldn't be helped. "I love you. You let that settle in, and we'll see what happens next."
"Don't you see that—"
"I only see you, Cassie." Persuasively, he kissed her, until the hand she'd lifted to push against his shoulder went lax. "Only you."
A few miles away, Joe Dolin was policing a picnic area on the battlefield for litter. As he worked, his eyes scanned the fields, the hills, the road below. There were large, shady trees, stone walls. He was going to pick his time, and his spot. This wasn't it.
Eventually the crew would work their way down toward the bridge where General Burnside had screwed up during the Battle of Antietam. There the ground was uneven, rocky and thick with brush. There was a creek to hide his scent, trees to cover him.
He'd often poached in those woods, jacklighting deer illegally with some of his drinking buddies. He had plenty of time now to calculate how long it would take him to travel through them, where he could hide, who he could go to for a little help.
In the meantime, he was making himself a busy little bee, picking up the soft drink cans and wrappers tossed aside by lousy tourists or kids hooking school. His supervisor wasn't a fool, but Joe never gave him any lip, any trouble, and made sure he was first in line to volunteer for any of the harder or messier jobs.
He was building himself a damn good rep in prison, something he'd never had on the outside. Something, he thought as he wiped sweat from his brow, that was going to help him get out of the cage.
And get back to Cassie. Get to Cassie.
The little bitch was going to pay for every day he'd spent behind bars. Every hour he'd had to go without a drink or a woman.
When he was finished with her, he was going after MacKade. Maybe all four of the stinking MacKades. He'd had plenty of time to plan it out, to work out the mistakes, to dream about it.
He hoped he had to kill one of them. He hoped it would be Devin. And when he was finished, he was going to Mexico, taking whatever was left of his wife with him.
All he needed was money, a car and a gun. He knew exactly where he was going to get all three.
Chapter 9
Connor tried to take in everything at once. He knew Bryan was getting restless, wandering around the sheriff's office, trying to get a look at the cells in the back. But for himself, he thought nothing was more fascinating than watching the sheriff handle calls and type up reports.
He was going to write a story about it, and he had to get everything just right. The way the office looked, with the dust dancing in the sunlight through the windows, the scars on the desk from feet or cigarettes, the way the ceiling fan squeaked overhead.
He took a deep sniff and filed away in his mind the scent of coffee—really strong, and a little harsh—and the smell of the dust that sort of tickled the nose.
He tried to remember just how the phone sounded when it shrilled on the sheriff's desk, how the sheriff s chair scraped against the floor, how the deputy scratched his head, then his cheek, as he put papers away in the file cabinet.
He already had the sound of the sheriff's voice. It was deep and slow, and there was a hint of something in it. Humor, Connor thought, when he answered some of the calls. Other times it was brisk, kind of official. Once or twice he'd seen lines form between the sheriff's brows.
He sure did drink a lot of coffee, Connor thought, and he wrote a lot of things down. Connor had a million questions, but he held them in because he knew the sheriff was working.
Devin glanced up and saw the boy watching him. Like an owl, he thought. Wise and patient. A look at his watch told him he'd kept the kids hemmed in for most of their Saturday morning. He imagined Connor could sit there, quiet as a mouse, for hours yet. But he recognized the signs of trouble brewing in Bryan.
It was time to give them all a break.
"Donnie, you take over here. We're going to get some lunch at Ed's."
"Yo."
"The state boys call about the Messner case, you tell them I'll have the report to them by Monday."
"Yo," Donnie said again, and crushed his brows together over the filing.
"I'll pick up lunch for Curtis. Tell him, if he starts to make noises back there."
"You got a prisoner?" Suddenly all of Bryan's boredom was washed away in the thrill of it. "You didn't tell us."
"Just somebody sleeping off a night on the town." He was almost sorry he couldn't tell them it was a mad psychopath. "I could use a burger."
"All right!" Bryan darted out of the door. "I'm starving. Extra fries, right, Con?"
"I guess." Connor could hardly think about food with all the questions in his head. "Ah, Sheriff, how come you have that police radio on all the time? I mean, it has fire department stuff, and things from out of your jurisdiction."
"Because you can never be sure what might come over that you'd have to pay attention to."
"When you know somebody, does it feel funny to have to lock them up?"
"Sometimes if you know them it makes it easier to settle things before they get out of hand."
"Have you ever had anybody break out?" Bryan wanted to know as he danced backward on the sidewalk. "Like, conk you over the head and run for it?"
Devin ran his tongue around his teeth. He had a wonderful image of poor old Curtis going over the wall. "Nope, can't say as I have."
"If they did, you'd have to shoot them, right?" The excitement of it leaped in Bryan's eyes. "Like in the leg."
"If they did, it's likely I'd know who they were, so I'd just go to their house and bring them back."
"What if they resisted arrest?"
Devin knew what was expected of him. "I'd have to rough 'em up."
"Slap the cuffs on him," Bryan said with a hoot. "And back into the cage. Wham!"
"The town's quiet," Connor said, "because the sheriff keeps it quiet."
Touched, Devin flipped a finger over the bill of Connor's ball cap. "Thanks. We aim to serve."
"Sheriff."
Devin turned and watched with an inner sigh as the ancient and wiry owner of the general store and sub shop approached. The man could talk the bark off a tree.
"Afternoon, Mr. Grant. How's business?"
"Oh, up and down, Sheriff, up and down." Mr. Grant paused, flicked a bit of lint from the front of his wrinkled brown shirt. "I thought I should let you know, Sheriff... not that I poke my nose into what's not my business... With me, it's live and let live..."
That ended the statement, which Devin knew was habitual. Mr. Grant's mind wandered freely from pillar to post. "Let me know what, Mr. Grant?"
"Oh, well, I was just taking a little air and happened to walk by the bank. Just past closing time, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"Seemed to me somebody was holding up the bank."
"Excuse me?"
"Seemed to me," Mr. Grant repeated, in his ponderous way, "somebody was holding up the bank. Had a gun, sure enough. Looked to me to be a .45. Could be I'm wrong about that. Might be a .38."
Before either boy could comment, Devin sla
pped a hand on each of their shoulders. "Go on up to Ed's. Stay there."
"But, Devin—"
"Do it, Bryan. Go on now, both of you. Stay there, and don't say anything." He stared hard at Connor. "Don't say anything," he repeated. "We don't want people getting upset and getting in the way."
"What are you going to do?" Connor said in an awed voice.
"I'm going to take care of it. Get up to Ed's. Move. Now."
When they ran off, Devin kept one eye on them, to be sure they obeyed. "Mr. Grant, I wonder if you'd come along with me. Let's just take a look at this."
"Fine by me."
The bank was across the street and another half a block up. An old brick building with elaborate ironwork, it sat catty-corner from Ed's Cafe. A quick look showed Devin that the boys had indeed gone in. They had their faces pressed up to the window.
Devin scanned the street. It was Saturday, and there was considerable traffic. Enough, in any case, to cause a problem if there was trouble. He didn't intend to have any of his people hurt.
"Did you get a look at the man, Mr. Grant?"
"Some. Young, 'bout your age, I expect. Can't say as I recognized him. Looked a little like the Harris boy, but wasn't."
Devin nodded. He spotted a dirty white compact with Delaware tags at the curb in front of the bank. "Recognize that car there?"
Mr. Grant thought it over. "Can't say as I do. Never seen it around here."
"Stay here a minute." Unsnapping the flap covering his weapon, Devin sidestepped up to the bank. The door was festooned with curvy ironwork. Through it, he could make out one teller behind the wide counter. And the man across from her, nervously waving a gun.
It was a .45, he noted. Grant had been dead-on.
He slipped away from the door. "Mr. Grant, I'd like you to get on down to the office, tell Donnie I need some backup here at the bank. We've got an armed robbery in progress. I want you to tell him that, straight out. And that I don't want him coming up here blaring sirens or coming into the bank. I don't want him coming into the bank. Have you got that?"
"Why, sure I do, Sheriff. Be happy to oblige."
