MICHAEL'S GIFT

by Marilyn Pappano

  For the first time in practically a lifetime, she felt as if she'd found where she belonged.

  "It's not so bad, is it?" he asked, his mouth near her ear, his voice soft and teasing. "No horns, no evil eye, and it even looks exactly like you."

  "It bears a passing resemblance," she corrected. "She's much prettier than I am."

  "How is that possible? She is you."

  She twisted in his arms so that she was facing him. "She's your vision."

  "You're my vision. You and she are one and the same. It's a perfect likeness."

  She glanced at it again over her shoulder, unconvinced, then looked back at him. "I'm impressed. And I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "I thought your work lacked passion."

  He smiled faintly. "Most of it does. I paint because I want to, not because I need to. I painted this one because I had to. The difference shows."

  "Yes," she agreed in a whisper. She understood the difference between wanting and needing. For years she'd been wanting someone to hold her close, to make her feel wanted, but because it had simply been a desire, she hadn't felt compelled to find someone to do it. Right now, though, at this very moment, that wanting had turned to needing. She needed to be held, comforted, assured, and she wasn't ashamed to ask. "Michael … please…"

  He understood and offered her wordless comfort, holding her tight, stroking her hair gently. Resting her head against his chest, she felt the soft knit of his shirt and the reassuringly steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

  After a time, he tilted her head back and gazed down at her, so solemn, so intense. "You know where we're headed, don't you?"

  She nodded.

  "You know it might be a mistake."

  Although she nodded again, she didn't agree, not deep down inside. She'd made enough mistakes in her lifetime; she could recognize one when she saw it. Michael didn't come even remotely close.

  "I don't want to hurt you, Valery."

  She wanted to assure him that he couldn't hurt her, but, of course, he could. What stirs you to emotion? she had asked last night, and he had answered, Lately, it seems you do.

  Lately. As in right now, but maybe not in the future. Maybe not for long.

  Seems. As in it appeared to be her. It was likely her. Possibly. Probably. But not definitely. Not beyond a doubt.

  Oh, yes, he could hurt her, and the fact that it was done unwillingly wouldn't make it any less painful.

  Forcing a faint smile, she reminded him, "I've been hurt before, and I've always survived." But how many heartaches could a person endure before it became one too many? Where did she draw the line and say no more? No more caring, no more loving, no more hurting?

  She had drawn the line over twenty years ago, when Remy had let her down. And she had crossed over it when she had walked into this apartment last Friday night.

  "We've both survived sorrow, Valery, but that's not living. I don't want to hear that you'll 'survive' whatever I do to you."

  She smiled again, this time with genuine feeling. "I'm a grown woman, Michael. I'm willing to take a chance for something I want. And who knows? We might both come out of this just fine—better, even, than before."

  And maybe they would. After all, there were only so many possibilities. Maybe sex was all either of them really wanted, and once their needs were satisfied, once they'd made up for all the hurt and emptiness in their lives, they would be happy to tell each other goodbye.

  Or he could take what he needed and give what she wanted—but not what she needed—and break her heart.

  Or he could take a few chances of his own and find out that sometimes the rewards were worth the risks, and these hours together could be the beginning of something long, happy and permanent.

  Since she knew the first was impossible—for her, at least; sex was the least of what she wanted from Michael—that gave her a fifty-fifty chance of heartache.

  And a fifty-fifty chance at happily-ever-after.

  Those were better odds than she'd faced in a long, long time. Those were better odds than life usually dealt.

  Michael brushed her hair back, tucking a strand behind her ear, thinking once again how soft and heavy it was. "Remember when I said that I liked your hair better this way?"

  She nodded, and the motion tugged her hair from his fingers.

  "It's nice … but I wish it was still long and blond."

  "It'll grow back, and the color will wash out."

  But would he be around to see it? he wondered. She was talking weeks, and they didn't have weeks. As Remy had reminded him yesterday morning, time was short. Sooner or later, things had to be settled. Valery couldn't stay hidden in his apartment forever, no matter how much she wanted to. No matter how much he needed her to.

  He wished he hadn't lied to her about knowing Remy. Technically, he told himself, he hadn't. She had asked if he knew Remy, and he had admitted that he did. But technicalities didn't count when it came to lying. He had learned that lesson from his father. Either you told the truth or you didn't—simple black-and-white, no shades of gray. An answer that deliberately misled couldn't possibly count as telling the truth with Brother Mark Bennett—and it wouldn't count with Valery, either.

  Wishes were futile. Standing here like this, his arms around her, her cheek against his shoulder, he knew that was true. His wishes, like the prayers he had once prayed, fell on deaf ears. If they hadn't, if they had ever come true, life would be different. He would be different.

  He would deserve Valery.

  But even though he didn't deserve her, he could have her. He shouldn't, but he could. He would. It was just a question of when.

  Frankly, he thought with a wry grin, barring interruption, right now sounded damned fine.

  As if summoned by his very thoughts, the phone rang, the sound shrill and intrusive. He thought about ignoring it—that was what an answering machine was for, wasn't it?—but then he considered the various messages that could be left, messages that could damn him in Valery's eyes. He had to answer it.

  Before he could do more than lift his hands from her, she instinctively raised her head, took a step back and freed him to move.

  The call was unimportant, someone he worked with wanting information on an old case he and Evan had handled. It was brief and uninteresting—that was a first; he had never before found cop talk uninteresting—and when it was over, he was more than willing to return his attention to her.

  During the call, she had come over to sit on the arm of the sofa, one foot on the cushion, the other on the floor. Her legs were long, her jeans snug, her feet in familiar white socks. She had raided his sock drawer, he thought, liking the idea more than good sense allowed. There was something appealing about it. Something intimate.

  "Business?" she asked, with a glance toward the phone.

  "Hmm."

  "Are you one of those people who doesn't like to talk about his work?"

  Even the suggestion made him laugh. When she asked, with no more than the raising of an eyebrow, for an explanation, he gave it. "Beth and I used to spend a lot of time with Evan and his wife Karen. She used to complain that she could tell our cop stories as well as we could because she'd heard them so often. It's a hazard of the job, I guess. You relive the good cases for the glory and the bad ones for the commiseration."

  "So you talk about it with other cops, not with… What do you call noncops? Civilians?"

  "Citizens. People. Them—you know, us against them." He shrugged. "I guess so. But wives and girlfriends get to hear their share—too often more than they want to hear."

  "Because it frightens them?"

  "That and it bores them. It's hard to understand what it's like to be out there unless you've been there. There's nothing like being on the street to get your heart pumping."

  "And you love it."

  He considered that a moment. He'd told her before that he wasn't cut out for being anything but a cop, and just a short while ago he'd told her—more or
less—that he couldn't see himself doing anything else. Both those things were true, but did he love the job?

  He had, back when he was twenty-two, fresh out of the academy, naive and gung ho and out to save the world. It hadn't been a job then, hadn't been work. He'd been like a kid let loose on the giant playground of New Orleans, and he'd been proud, damn, so proud of what he was and what he did.

  He had still loved it when he'd made detective, although he'd been less brash, less naive, less sure that the world could be saved. He had grown up some then—investigating murders could help you with that—and had long since lost the bright-eyed optimism he'd brought to the job, but he had loved doing it anyway. Even when his marriage had been falling apart and Beth had given him her final ultimatum: her or the job. He hadn't needed even a moment to think about it. It had been no contest. The job had won hands down.

  But did he love it now? He did it. He showed up every day, followed leads, watched suspects, interviewed witnesses, cultivated informants. He prepared cases, planned buys and busts, and testified in court. He was still dedicated, but he'd grown up even more since his days in homicide. He knew now beyond a doubt that there was no saving a world that was intent on destroying itself. He, and everyone else in the world who worked narcotics, was fighting a losing battle. Arrest one dealer and five more would take his place. Bust a major supplier and someone was ready to fill his slot; business wouldn't be disrupted for more than a day or two.

  It was an issue of supply and demand. As long as the demand for illicit drugs remained high, the supply would continue to flow. The so-called war on drugs was a failure, the just-say-no campaign a joke. His own work and the work of everybody in his division was about as effective as using a wad of tissue to plug a leaking levee when the Mississippi was rampaging.

  Valery was waiting patiently for a response. He wondered if patience was a Navarre family trait, then, remembering that she was a Navarre in name only, wondered if she'd learned it from Remy.

  So … did he love the job?

  Damned if he could say. It was a part of him. Being a cop was both who and what he was. No matter how futile the work or how ineffective he felt, he would continue doing the job until he retired. He was dedicated to it. He didn't want to do anything else. But did he love it?

  "It's a job," he said with a shrug.

  She slid to the right until she was on the cushion. "A job you wouldn't trade for any other job in the world. A job you've given half your life to. A job," she added solemnly, "that you would give your life for."

  Maybe he did still love being a cop, and he'd just forgotten it. That happened to people, didn't it? Sometimes couples who'd been together a long time began taking each other for granted, letting their love get lost in the work, the effort, the day-to-day reality of life. Sometimes, if they were lucky, they managed to rekindle the love. More often, it seemed, they drifted so far apart that they could never find their way back together.

  He had wondered sometimes, in the early days of their marriage, if that would happen to him and Beth, if one day he would wake up beside her and wonder what he was doing with this person that he had somehow stopped loving. It was possible. The newness, the passion, the adrenaline rush of being in love, had to fade, and he had wondered if what took their place would be strong enough to last.

  It hadn't been.

  One day they had both awakened—figuratively, if not literally—and wondered what the hell they were doing there. He couldn't imagine taking Valery for granted.

  He couldn't imagine that any man lucky enough to win her love would be foolish enough to let it slip away again.

  He couldn't imagine waking up beside her and wondering why he was there.

  Unwilling to pursue thoughts of Valery and love, he deliberately changed the subject. "Would you do something for me?"

  The wariness he expected didn't pop into her eyes, and she didn't attach any conditions—such as "As long as it doesn't involve the FBI"—to her answer. It was a simple, trusting "Sure."

  "Don't you want to know what it is before you agree?"

  "You've done a great deal for me in the last few days. I owe you."

  His gaze narrowed. "Wrong answer. We're not trading favors here, Valery."

  Her answering smile was sweet, innocent and smug as hell. "Okay. Right answer—beyond the obvious, I don't believe there's anything you could ask of me that I wouldn't do. Anything, Michael."

  Possible responses flooded his brain: Want me. Need me. Love me.

  Heal me.

  God help him, yes. He needed healing, and she could do it. She could make things right again. She could make him whole again.

  He sat utterly motionless, hearing again his own thoughts. God help him. He hadn't asked for help from God in nearly a year. He hadn't believed it existed, not for him. He'd long since given up praying for help or the blessed peace he had so desperately craved. But if prayer would bring him Valery—not for a time, which he was willing to settle for, but for always…

  It would just be one more prayer to go unanswered. One more bit of proof that he'd been forgotten. One more piece of evidence to confirm that he wasn't deserving of an answer.

  God answers prayers, his father had told him long ago, but sometimes the answer is no.

  For a depressingly long time, all his answers had been no.

  He'd lost faith that there could ever be a yes for him.

  "Michael?" she gently prodded.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he looked at her—sweet smile, gentle patience. She was a better woman than he deserved. If he hurt her, or if he let someone else hurt her…

  He would just have to see that it didn't happen.

  "Go into the bedroom," he said at last, "and put on that dress I brought you."

  She was a bit puzzled. "Don't you think it's a little bit much for the middle of the day when we can't go anywhere?"

  "I'm going to paint your picture in that dress." And then he was going to remove it. He was going to make love to her the rest of the day and all through the night. Then, when she was gone, when this mess was over and life was back to normal and she had left him all alone again, he would look at the painting.

  He would remember.

  He would always remember.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Valery closed the bedroom door quietly behind her and walked to the closet, taking the dress from its place there. It looked out of place, the only garment that was even remotely feminine in a closet filled with men's clothing.

  With Michael's clothes.

  She wished she could look her best for him. At home she had lovely lingerie, including an ivory-hued full slip of the sort once associated with sensuous Southern women and steamy Southern nights, and a pair of sheer silk stockings that perfectly matched the dress. She had a satin ribbon choker and antique earrings, both purchased at the shop specifically to go with the dress.

  But home was fifteen minutes away, and even home couldn't solve her biggest problems, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror, tugging despairingly at her short, black hair. She would never be as beautiful as the vision he'd painted, but she was a whole lot prettier with her own natural blond hair.

  And this afternoon, she desperately wanted to be as pretty as she could possibly be.

  After stripping out of her clothes, she carefully pulled the dress over her head. The fabric wasn't as fragile as its age might suggest, but still, she was always cautious with it. The dress had cost a small fortune, and she loved it. She had always thought, in a never-never sort of way, that she would be married in it.

  Of course, that was when there'd been no one to marry.

  No one to love.

  No one to feel more than a passing affection for.

  No one who hadn't been in her life one day and gone the next.

  And what made her think any of that had changed? she wondered with a scowl as she fastened as many of the tiny fabric-covered buttons down the ba
ck as she could reach. Michael had been careful to make certain that she understood exactly what was ahead for them if they didn't stop: an affair, maybe a little heartache. He wanted her for now, but not always. He wanted intimacy and closeness, but not romance. He wanted to make love with her, but he didn't want to love her.

  He wasn't offering her much, and he knew it—It might be a mistake; I don't want to hurt you—but, however little it was, she wanted it.

  She wanted it with a greed she had never experienced before.

  She wanted it with an intensity that frightened her.

  After putting on the little leather slippers, she left the bedroom for the bathroom. There, a thick towel draped across her shoulders in front, she freshened her makeup, then brushed her hair. For a time she stared hard at her reflection, relentlessly ticking off flaws—her forehead was too high, her lower lip too full, her skin too pale. She wasn't beautiful, seductive, sensuous or any of the things that would appeal to the artist in Michael.

  She probably wasn't more than a few of the things that appealed to the man in him, either.

  "Take what you can get," she whispered, her voice no more than a rustle of sound. "Take it and appreciate it and consider yourself lucky for having that much."

  At last, taking a deep breath, she left the bathroom. "You'll have to help me with the buttons," she said as she rounded the corner. "I can't reach—"

  Abruptly she broke off. He was standing beside the easel, a small, flat box in hand, and he was staring at her as if… As if he very much liked what he saw. As if he very much approved of what he saw.

  "Damn," he murmured fervently. "You're a beautiful woman, Valery."

  Lazy, warm pleasure curled through her. Put that way, she could believe that he believed it. So his artist's vision was flawed. So he found beauty in the unexpected. He believed that she was beautiful.

  She could be satisfied with that.

  Feeling suddenly a little shy, she came a few faltering steps closer. "I can't reach all the buttons," she said, turning her back to him. She'd managed the top few and the bottom ones. The dozen or so in between were open.