But the drapes weren't open. She liked the room dark when she slept, and the few times she went near the windows, she simply peeked out. She didn't want to draw attention to herself, didn't want anyone outside to be able to look in and see her. The resulting darkness made the room snug and evening-cozy. Coupled with the warmth from the heating system, it made her comfortable and drowsy. Unlike Michael, who suffered from insomnia, under normal circumstances she could sleep anywhere, even in this big chair.
Unlike Michael, who had been named for an angel. Letting her eyes drift shut, she tried to recall what she knew about the angel Michael from her churchgoing youth. The seven archangels, with powers exceeding those of other angels, had been considered to hold guardianship over the different nations. Michael had been the prince of Israel.
Her Michael considered himself the prince of nothing, and he had no desire to be guardian of anything but his own sorrow.
But he was her guardian, until she somehow managed to set him free, and then he could be her prince.
He could be her very own angel.
* * *
When Valery awakened, the room was darker, cooler, quieter. She must have been asleep awhile, judging from the stiffness in her joints and the crick in her neck, but she wasn't eager to wake up just yet. She'd been having a dream, a dream about angels—lovely, warm, ethereal beings who made her warm and gave her hope. She hated to release them, hated to let them go and return to wakefulness and the problems that had filled her life for the past week.
But she was awake, perhaps summoned back from sleep by the aroma of food, hot and enticing—or perhaps by the gaze, steady and undemanding, that was on her. She didn't open her eyes just yet, but in her mind she could clearly see Michael in front of her. Listening hard, she could just make out his breathing, so slow and measured, and she could smell the faintest scent of aftershave, applied early this morning before he'd gone out in the pouring rain.
"That chair's not made for sleeping." His voice was quiet, cautious—as if he wasn't sure how she would respond—but friendly enough. Soothing enough.
Sensual enough.
"I didn't intend to fall asleep. It's a gift I have—or a curse, depending on your outlook. I can sleep anywhere, anytime."
"Rub it in, why don't you?"
When she at last ventured to open her eyes, she saw in the dim light that he was kneeling in front of her. She also saw the faintest hint of a dry smile that matched the dry tone of his voice. A part of her would have liked to freeze the moment long enough to turn on every light in the room, so she could see the smile clearly. Another part was more than grateful for the darkness. There was something freeing about darkness, about shadows, about reading voices rather than expressions. It was easier to talk then. Easier to connect. "I don't imagine there's anything worse than someone snoring away when you can't sleep, is there?"
"I sleep alone. I wouldn't know." After a pause, he curiously asked, "Do you snore?"
"I sleep alone, too. I don't know." She wondered why he had come in. To tell her that lunch—or, probably, judging by the darkness, dinner—was ready? Or just to check on her, to make sure she'd given up her intention of running away?
Lifting her head in preparation for straightening, she winced as the muscles in her neck protested. Before she could move far, he came closer and began rubbing the knotted muscles with slow, easy movements. "Ah, that feels good. Where did you learn…?"
"I haven't always slept alone." Slowly he cased her into a sitting position, then used both hands to massage her. Her head fell forward, her breath rushing out in a sigh of pleasure, while he worked away the tension and strain.
"Your wife… What was her name?"
"Beth."
She couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. "Beth Bennett?"
"She didn't like it much, either. Now she's Beth Betancourt."
"That's worse."
"Betancourt's got money. That makes it bearable."
With a shake of her head, she returned to her intended question. "Did you miss her when she left?"
"I had stood in church in front of God and my family, promising to love her forever, and forever lasted only three years. I was disappointed."
"'Disappointed'," she repeated, mimicking his delivery. "The end of a marriage should be more than a disappointment. How about a tremendous loss? A heartache? A great sorrow? Where is your passion, Michael? What excites you? What inspires and inflames you? What stirs you to emotion?"
Slowly he ended the massage, dropping his hands to rest on his thighs, and waited for her to look at him. She did so just as slowly, raising her head, smoothing her hair back before meeting his gaze. Satisfied that he had her attention, he shrugged then, a simple raising of his eyebrows, a simple lift and fall of his shoulders. "Lately it seems you do."
His honesty made her catch her breath. It sent little shivers down her spine. It conjured heated images of bodies, of need, of hunger and satisfaction so sweet.
It made her want.
She opened he mouth but couldn't speak, lifted he hand but couldn't touch. She was trembling because she knew, in the way that she'd known to come to him, in the way that she'd known lots of inconsequential little things, that they were going to be lovers. That she could indeed stir his passion. That he could, for the first time in her life, teach her about passion. That he could teach her to trust—the deep, unyielding sort of trust that was essential to a satisfying life, exactly the sort of trust that her parents had stolen from her, that Remy had also taken.
She knew those things, not one of them inconsequential. She saw them in her future.
She also knew—no hocus-pocus this time, no great psychic unknown, but with pure, basic woman's instinct—that he could break her heart. Her parents' and Remy's abandonment had been painful, terribly, traumatically painful. Those losses had shaped her life, had made her into a woman who respected heartache, who respected love. She knew love could bring extraordinary joy.
She also knew it could bring extraordinary sorrow.
And Michael carried with him such an aura of sorrow.
He was waiting for her response, and she wasted a moment or two trying to determine what he most wanted—encouragement or discouragement. Did he want to hear that she found him appealing, too? Did he want her to tell him with all certainty that they would eventually become lovers? Or did he want her to push him away, to confirm what he probably already suspected—that an affair between them would be ill-advised at best?
She didn't know. She couldn't read anything in what little she could see of his expression, couldn't read anything in his mind. She couldn't foresee even the tiniest, most insignificant detail of her immediate future.
She was left to guess. To play it by ear.
And she'd never been very good at playing anything by ear.
Her voice came out a little soft, a little husky, but nothing that couldn't be explained away by her recent nap. "I don't believe I've ever inspired passion in any of the men I know."
"Then the men you know are fools."
"And what are you?"
His laugh was dry and bitter. "I'm the biggest fool of all."
He was disappointed, she realized. He had wanted encouragement of some sort, and she had protected herself by taking the neutral ground, by neither accepting nor outright rejecting his honesty.
"Dinner's on the table," he said curtly as he moved to stand up. "Come on out whenever you're—"
At last she touched him, her fingers wrapping around his forearm, finding it warm and strong. "Show me."
Slowly Michael sank back to the floor. When she had asked about passion, the truth had been the farthest thing from his mind—no, that wasn't true. He had known the answer before she'd finished asking; he just hadn't intended to say it aloud. It had come from someplace unexpected, from someplace that he'd been out of touch with for so long that he'd nearly forgotten its existence.
It had come from his soul.
And she had treated
it … not lightly, but not seriously, either. Certainly not as if the interest, the connection—the desire—was mutual. That was exactly the reaction he'd needed.
But damned if it wasn't a world away from what he'd wanted. And now she was asking for what he wanted. There was no denying the invitation in her voice, her words. No ignoring the heat growing between them. And no silencing the certainty that what he was about to do was wrong, but damned if he wasn't going to do it anyway.
You're damned if you do and damned if you don't, aren't you?
Yes.
Hell, yes.
So if he had to regret this tonight and tomorrow and a lifetime of tomorrows, he might as well make it worth regretting.
He touched her, drawing her forward, sliding his hands into her hair. It was soft and cool, and it feathered over his fingers as he picked up the massage he had earlier abandoned. She was surprised, he knew. She had expected something more immediate, more blatant, more demanding. With his fingers he silently coaxed her forward until her forehead was resting on his shoulder and her hair was cool beneath his cheek.
Gradually the surprise drained away, along with some measure of her tension. He continued to rub long after the need for it was past, finding a rich pleasure in no more than this—his fingers on her skin, her body close to his, her breath warm against his chest. In losing Evan he had also lost his ability to enjoy such simple things. He had survived, but he lived by routine. The color had gone out of his life.
But, for a time, Valery could bring it back.
For a time.
And for a man living in the worst time of his life, for a time was enough. She would bring him some color, some warmth, some healing, and when she was gone, he would be a better man for having known her.
Unless he failed her the way he'd failed Evan.
For an instant his fingers grew still and his heart beat too loudly in the still room. He'd told her he couldn't be responsible for her death, and he had meant it with everything in him.
So he would keep her safe.
Or die trying.
Setting aside such bleak thoughts for the middle of the night, when she was sleeping soundly as he roamed the darkened apartment, he turned his conscious thought to his artist's side. Not the man. Not the cop. Not the protector. Not the betrayer. He noticed the texture of her hair—soft but heavy, not silky or baby fine. He learned that the skin behind her ear was softer than her throat, which wasn't as soft as just below her eye. Closing his eyes, he compared her scents—perfume the strongest, shampoo nearly masking soap, which almost overwhelmed lotion. He stroked hair, skin, clothing and found incredible heat. He held her close and found incredible need. Incredible longing. Incredible fear.
His. Hers. Theirs.
He knew his fears. He wondered, for a moment, about hers.
Kissing her seemed the natural next step. He pushed her back, cupped her face in his palms, bent toward her. It must have seemed natural to her, too, for she anticipated the first touch. But it was his thumb, not his mouth, that made the first contact. He drew it along her lower lip, tickling, teasing, and she smiled, stopping him in midstroke.
Damn, when had he last seen a smile both sweet and seductive, innocent and tantalizing?
Not lately. Maybe not ever.
Reacting to that innocently seductive smile, he kissed her without further delay, without further play. He slid his arms around her, pulled her hard against him and took her mouth, sliding his tongue inside, kissing her as if he'd known her for all time, feeling as if he'd needed her for at least that long. And she responded—sweet damnation, yes, she responded with the same need, the same hunger, the same greed.
He kissed her until the heat between them was too much to bear, until he wanted more, needed more, needed it so much that he ached with it. He kissed her until he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, until he wasn't sure he could ever stop, until he wasn't sure—considering the way she clung to him, the way she welcomed him—that she would ever let him stop.
Finally, with strength born of sheer determination and nothing else, he pulled away—not too far away, just enough to completely break the contact. Slowly her eyes opened, and in the dim light they stared at each other. She looked startled, and he wondered if her surprise was reflected in his own eyes.
He wondered if she understood how badly he wanted her … and how badly he didn't.
He wondered if she knew that what he wanted didn't matter now. They had crossed the line. After one single extraordinary kiss, they couldn't go back to being two strangers sharing an apartment, to an off-duty cop protecting a witness.
They could only move forward.
And he could only hope that they both survived.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
The sun was shining on Tuesday, the day promising to be one of those bright, beautiful winter days that made life in the South worthwhile. Valery got up early, bathed and dressed in jeans and a snug T-shirt. She put on a little makeup, spritzed herself with cologne and for the first time regretted cutting off her hair and coloring it such a ghastly black. She regretted not giving Michael a list of clothing to bring from her apartment, so she could have something prettier to wear than this shirt that celebrated the blues in the Big Easy. She regretted being so damn restricted here.
But she didn't regret that kiss last night.
No way would she regret the follow-up that was sure to occur today.
She would never regret the lovemaking that would come after.
She left the bathroom, expecting to find him sitting at the table drinking coffee or in the kitchen making breakfast. Maybe she'd gotten up early enough to help.
He was sitting at the table, dressed as she was, only his T-shirt was solid black. But he'd obviously been up for a while—at least long enough to go to Café du Monde for beignets and coffee. Long enough to also go someplace else, it seemed, judging by the papers scattered across the table.
Valery sat down across from him. There were no beignets left in the bag or on the plate in front of him, she noticed, settling with a scowl for a taste of powdered sugar. Looking up from the papers—reports, she could see now; police reports?—he caught her chiding look.
"I wasn't sure when you'd be up. I'll make you a pancake in a minute."
"That's okay. Don't bother." She dipped her finger in the sugar again. "What time did you get up?"
"About five-thirty."
"Because you couldn't sleep, or because you wanted to run more errands while I was asleep?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd hate for you to be losing any sleep because of me."
For the first time since she'd knocked at his door Friday night, he laughed, the genuine kind of laughter that she hadn't thought him capable of. It did wonders for him—eased the worry that seemed permanently etched into his face, lightened the shadows in his eyes, made him about a hundred percent friendlier, more approachable.
And a hundred percent more appealing, she thought, shifting edgily as the desire that had settled deep inside her last night twisted a bit, reminding her that it was there.
"Honey, I've been losing sleep over you since the first time you popped into my head. A little bit more here or there isn't going to hurt."
She settled more comfortably into the chair. "What are you looking at?"
He sobered, but a little of the openness remained. "Reports on Nate Simmons's death."
"Which you got from…?"
"Smith."
Smith Kendricks. The old-money, blue-blood, high-on-the-social-ladder assistant U.S. Attorney. She would like to meet him sometime, would like to see what it was that drew him and Michael to each other. "Learn anything interesting?"
"Something." Sorting through the pages, he chose one and offered it to her. She had barely started to read it when he tapped one fingertip on the pertinent information, a name at the bottom of the page. The name of the agent in charge of the FBI's investigation into Simmons's killing. R
emy's name.
She stared at it for a long time, knowing that Michael knew about her relationship to Remy, wondering for a moment how. Then she silently chastised herself. He was a cop, and she was a witness to murder. Right now, the cops in this city probably knew as much about her as she knew herself, and much of it was likely in these papers right here. Surely it was known that she'd been raised by the Sinclairs, that her home was their home and not anyplace she'd ever shared with her parents.
His voice was a shade gentler when he spoke again. "You want to tell me about him?"
She folded her hands together, resting them primly on the edge of the table. "What do you already know?"
"That he's your cousin. That it was his parents who took you in after your parents' divorce."
"How much more do you need to know?"
"Everything."
Everything. She thought back to the time when Remy had been one of the three most important people in her life, and she smiled bitter-sweetly. Everything was an awful lot for a cop to ask.
But it wasn't so much for Michael.
Her smile slipped away, and her fingers tightened together. "It's a long story."
"I've got nothing but time."
After another moment's hesitation, she glanced at the sugar-coated plate. "How about that pancake?"
He stacked the papers together neatly and laid them aside before going into the kitchen. She swiveled in her chair to watch him, expecting the kind of pancakes she made at home—a little baking mix, a little water, a hot skillet. Instead he gathered the essentials on the counter: eggs, milk, flour and sugar, mixer and bowls. When that was done, he turned on the oven to preheat, started a pot of coffee and began assembling her breakfast. He didn't prod her to start her tale, but he did glance at her curiously, so, with a sigh, she began.
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 12
