He wanted to find himself in her.
Hell. Not so long ago he would have said he didn't have a soul. Now he knew he did, and he knew it ached. For this. For her. For Valery.
Reluctantly he withdrew his hands and guided the dress off her shoulders, then drew it up over her hips, her waist, her breasts, her head. If it had been any other piece of clothing, he would have dropped it onto the floor and worried about it later, but he took a moment, one agonizingly long moment, to drape it across the nearest chair, and another moment—longer, sweeter torment—to look at her, to study and absorb her.
Paint her wearing a sweet, seductive smile and very little else? Try nothing else. In her ivory lace bra and matching tiny panties, she was lovely—winter pale, porcelain delicate. His artist's eye wanted to capture on canvas the well-proportioned lines of her body—long throat, rounded breasts, narrow waist, slender hips that led to long, long legs—while the man in him simply wanted—wanted to touch. Wanted to kiss. Wanted to thrill. Wanted to fill. His desire had turned sharp, had developed edges that scraped and left him raw with hunger. Thoughts grew jumbled, little making sense but that overriding need.
Not desire.
Not hunger.
Not wanting.
Need.
As if he couldn't live another moment without her.
As if he surely might die with her.
But it would be a sweet death.
With a smile, she unfastened the clasp of her bra and let it fall to the floor. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, pulled his shirt over his head and left it to fall where it might.
Hooking her thumbs beneath the elastic band of her panties, she drew the little bit of silky ivory down, bending, pushing, kicking it away, and then she lowered herself to the bed, one knee, one hand, slowly down, until she was lying on the green, navy and crimson cover.
Damned if she didn't look like she belonged there. Her nights in his bed had given her a claim to it.
And her days in his life had given her a claim to that, too.
If she wanted it.
He unzipped his jeans, and Valery watched, unashamed of her curiosity. His jeans were snug, and he was hard—a tantalizing picture if ever she'd seen one. There was something impressive about a man's arousal, something so damned primitive, so damned powerful. A woman could hide her need, but a man's was impossible to disguise, impossible to ignore.
And Michael's…
He stripped off his jeans, and a fluttery little sigh trembled through her. Powerful. Oh, yes.
The mattress shifted when he joined her there, then shifted again as he moved over her. For a moment he simply looked down at her, his eyes clear—no shadows, she realized in some small, still-rational place—and then he moved, settling between her thighs, probing, finding, pushing, filling until she could take no more. The entire time his intense, dark gaze never left hers.
Unexpectedly her eyes grew damp, and she squeezed them shut, breaking that small contact. She had never felt so connected to another human being—not physically, mentally, emotionally. Certainly not spiritually. But if she told him, if she tried to tell him that, he would probably laugh in that dry way of his and remind her that he no longer believed in things spiritual.
But she did.
"Are you—"
All right? Opening her eyes again, she smiled, combed her fingers through his hair, brushed them across his mouth, brought her hand to rest on his chest. "I'm fine. I'm…" He moved just a little, seating himself a little deeper, and her body adjusted, tightening, stretching, easing. "Oh, Michael," she sighed.
Lowering his body closer to hers, he kissed her, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, tasting, teasing, tantalizing, and she welcomed him with her own tongue. At the same time he began moving inside her, withdrawing so gradually that she throbbed, then sinking deep again, until they couldn't get any closer, any tighter, any more intimate. His rhythm was slow, her response immediate. She was hot, on edge, quivering with need, with sensation, with emotion. Everywhere he touched her, seductively or not, intentionally or not, she ached.
As the tempo of his thrusts increased, as the fever built, she clung to him. She kissed him with more than a hint of desperation, with everything she needed and wanted, with everything she had to give, and she held him. She felt his muscles clench and tighten, heard his breathing grow ragged, felt his completion building, strengthening, demanding, as surely, as purely, as she felt her own.
When he emptied into her, it was with a groan, with a heart-stopping intensity that gave her the push she needed for her own finish. He held her so tightly, so fiercely, as if he might never let her go, and he kissed her as hungrily as if the last few minutes had never happened, as if satisfaction would be a long time coming.
Maybe it would be, she thought, shuddering, weakening, giving in to the lethargy that was slowly claiming taut muscles and quivering nerves.
Maybe satisfaction would take more than once, more than an afternoon, a night, a week, a year.
Maybe it would take a lifetime.
* * *
"Tell me something," Valery said.
Michael shifted, settling against the pillows propped behind him, drawing Valery with him so that her head remained cushioned on his chest. The room would have been a few shades darker if not for the bedside lamp, and the apartment was a whole lot quieter—no heavy breathing, no groans, no helpless cries. It was peaceful. Comfortable.
Valery made it comfortable.
After a moment, he pressed a kiss to her temple, then asked, "What would you like to know?"
She tilted her head to the side so she could see his face without leaving his embrace. "Have you ever done this before?"
"Made love?" He pretended to consider it. "I think I've done it a time or two."
"I could tell by your moves that you weren't a beginner," she said dryly. "I mean with one of … one of your visions."
His laughter broke free before he could restrain it. "Hell, no."
"Why so vehement? Am I the only woman who's ever come to you for help?"
The only woman who's ever come to you for help. He liked that phrasing, liked it better than visions, than people popping unwanted into his mind. But it wasn't entirely true in her case. He was beginning to believe that she had come to him—psychically, physically—for more than help.
He was beginning to think that maybe she was a gift, served up by the powers that be—by God?—as a reward for his years of enduring the other so-called gift.
"No," he replied, stroking the baby-soft underside of her breast. "You're not the only woman."
"But you've never been attracted to the others." She sounded smug, so sweetly, satisfyingly smug.
"We're not talking great numbers here. Over the years there have been twelve, maybe fourteen people. Four or five of them were women." Then he relented. "You're the only woman I've been attracted to in longer than you'd care to know."
"Since Evan died," she said softly.
Yes. Since Evan died. That was when he had stopped living, as well.
She turned onto her side, touching one fingertip to the scar that curved across his ribs. "Do you think he would have wanted that, Michael? Do you think that for one minute he would have wanted you to blame yourself, that he would have wanted you to punish yourself the way you have?"
Of course he wouldn't have. Michael knew that, knew it in his head as surely as he couldn't get it through to his heart. Remy had told him; Smith had. Even Evan's wife, Karen, had taken time from her grieving to come to him, to assure him that she didn't blame him, to remind him that Evan had loved him, that he wouldn't have wanted Michael to feel any guilt over his death.
And he'd felt it anyway, had tried to drown in it, along with the knowledge that, even after death, he was still letting Evan down.
"We met our freshman year in college—we'd been assigned as roommates. I'd never known anyone like him. Within minutes of meeting, I knew we were going to be best friends for the rest of
our lives. He was a rare soul. Unique. Special."
"No," Valery whispered against his chest. "That kind of chemistry isn't one-sided. It takes two. You were both unique, Michael. Both special."
That kind of chemistry. The closest he'd ever come to feeling anything like that since Evan was with Valery. He wondered if that meant she felt it, too. Did she agree that there was something special between them? Some sort of bond that might last the rest of their lives?
The rest of their lives. Forever and ever, till death do us part, amen. Now that was a thought.
"It's hard without him, isn't it?" she murmured. "You love someone, you build a special relationship together, you're always there for each other and then suddenly he's gone. It hurts. No matter how it happens, you can't help but blame yourself, but sooner or later you have to deal with it. You have to get on with your life."
"Like you have?" he asked skeptically.
Her hand had been stroking his stomach. Now it went still, and for a moment so did she. He couldn't even feel her soft little breaths. Then the moment ended, and her fingers began moving again. Her breast began rising and falling again. "We're talking about you, not me."
"You're talking about me as if you know what I've been through, and to some extent, I believe you do. Maybe it was even worse for you. At least Evan died. Your parents left you voluntarily. Your cousin turned his back on you of his own free will." He felt her stiffen and start to push away, and he held her tighter. "Don't tell me I have to deal with losing Evan. Don't tell me I have to get on with my life. Don't give me advice that you can't follow yourself."
"It's hardly the same, Michael." She succeeded in wriggling free of his embrace and sat up in bed, turning to face him. Her hair was mussed, her body all soft and enticing before she covered herself with the corner of the comforter. "You're still grieving for Evan. You're still convinced that if he can't be alive and happy and well, then you don't deserve to be, either."
"And you're convinced that everyone you love will leave you. First it was your mother, then your father—"
"He isn't my father."
"He is in your heart," he pointed out.
After a long still moment, she acknowledged that with a single nod.
"And then there was Remy."
"So I had a few bad years. I'm over them, Michael. I'm living a perfectly normal and happy life."
"Are you?" He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "Who's sharing this perfectly normal, happy life with you? You told me before that you don't have any close friends, that the friends you do have aren't important to you. You don't know what it's like to lose a friend like Evan because you've never had a friend like him, have you?"
She didn't respond.
"You told me you don't need anyone in your life. Is that normal, Valery? Is that what makes you happy—being totally alone? How does it feel to be the object of a citywide—hell, a statewide—search and to know that, after all the years you've lived here, no one gives a damn whether you're found? No one gives a damn if you're found … except the cops and Jimmy Falcone."
She gave him a long, unfaltering look. "And you. You care."
The desire to smile at her quiet confidence was almost too much to control. "You noticed that, huh?"
"You wouldn't be here with me right now if you didn't care."
"You're right. I do." He hesitated, and his gaze shifted away, then back again. "I wish I could say the same about you. I know I don't make love with women who don't mean something to me … but I know you've been with men who meant nothing to you."
Valery felt cold inside, the sort of chill that settled deep inside and didn't go away for a long, long time. It was the sort of chill that a warm blanket or a hot drink couldn't touch. It was the sort of chill she had lived with night after miserable night when she was eleven.
What he was saying was the absolute truth. He was the kind of man who needed to be emotionally intimate with a woman before he moved on to physical intimacy. She had always started with physical intimacy, had always turned away before emotional needs could enter the picture. He had never made love to a woman he hadn't cared about. She had never had sex with a man she had cared for.
Until today.
Still, the fact that his words were true didn't make them hurt any less. Didn't make her feel any better. Didn't make her feel worthy.
"You're right," she admitted, a little sad, a little sore inside. "I've been with men who came into my life, and they stayed a little while, and then they were gone again. I never cared. I never missed them. I never wanted them again. But you're different, Michael. I'll always remember you. When you're gone—"
"Why do you assume that I'll leave, too?"
She stared down at her hand, still caught in his. "Because, in my experience, that's what people do." After a brief pause, she asked, "Don't you assume it, too? Don't you find yourself thinking, 'When this is over… When she's gone… When my life is back to normal…'"
The guilty look that came into his eyes was answer enough for her. He was looking forward to the future—to a future that didn't include her. But quickly enough the guilt faded and was replaced by an intense stare. "Will you answer a question for me, Valery?"
She nodded.
"This afternoon, here in this bed… Was it different from when you were with those other men? Was it the same, or did you feel something—" He broke off, raked his fingers through his hair, sighed exasperatedly. "Something special?"
She shrugged casually, as if she didn't know exactly what he meant. As if it hadn't almost brought her to tears. "Chemistry."
"Intimacy."
"Lust."
"Desire."
"Hormones."
He shook his head. "Emotion, Valery. And that frightens you, doesn't it? I frighten you. Trusting me enough to let me get close, letting me get close enough to hurt you, taking a chance on getting hurt—all that frightens you, doesn't it?"
Turning away abruptly, she leaned over the bed to grab the only clothing within reach—his T-shirt and the socks she'd left there earlier. She tugged the black shirt over her head, smoothing it down until she was modestly covered, then began straightening and pulling on first one sock, then its mate. "This is a stupid conversation," she said, choosing her words carefully, intending to offend, to bring an end to the talk. "I have sex with you once, and you start talking all this nonsense, as if you have a right."
His voice, when he finally spoke, was steady but underlaid with a cool warning. "My feelings don't get hurt easily, Val, but don't push it. I know you're afraid of getting hurt. I know you've lived more than half your life afraid. But if you want to punish somebody for that, punish the people who hurt you—not me."
She sat still on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress give and dip as he got up. She heard the rustle of clothing as he pulled on his jeans, heard the soft shuffle of his bare feet on the wooden floor as he walked away. She wanted to say something, anything, to stop him, but her throat was tight. No words could get out.
And she didn't have anything to say.
Again, he was right. It was easy enough to think that she was lonely, easy enough to envy him his friends, easy enough to want him in her life, to think of him in terms of love, when it was just that—thinking, wanting. No harm could come from thinking. A heart couldn't get broken just from wanting.
But faced with the prospect of possibly having what her heart wanted…
Frightened didn't even begin to describe the way she felt.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Valery didn't know how long she sat there, not thinking, not moving, just doing her damnedest not to cry. After a time, though, realizing that she was cold, hungry and lonely—God, she was always lonely—she got up and got dressed. Still wearing Michael's T-shirt, she left the room, taking short, halting steps into the living room.
Michael was in the kitchen, still wearing nothing but jeans. He was gathering ingredients from th
e cabinets and the refrigerator, getting ready to fix dinner. His movements were controlled, his manner stiff and unapproachable. No doubt this was one of those times when he was thinking. When this is over, when she's gone, when my life is back to normal…
As she moved farther into the room, she saw that the quilt was off the floor, neatly folded and lying across the back of the couch. The easel was put away, too, along with the sketch he'd done this afternoon … and the portrait she had finally faced this morning. Tossed in the garbage, where he likely felt they belonged? she wondered. Or tucked into the lovely armoire with the disturbing paintings of the churches?
The possibility made her shiver.
Courage carried her only as far as the end of the galley-style kitchen. Her feet stopped where wood planks gave way to vinyl tile. A bowl of chopped vegetables—onions, peppers, celery—sat on the counter, along with dishes of shrimp, sausage and crabmeat, oil was starting to smoke on the stove, and he was in the process of mixing spices in a smaller dish. Three kinds of pepper, salt, several varieties of dried leaves. Her kitchen at home contained exactly three spices: salt, black pepper and garlic powder. Like his ex-wife, she was a lousy cook.
But she could be a hell of an assistant.
"Can I help?"
He didn't even glance at her. "No."
His curt tone stung, but she didn't have the right to complain, she reminded herself. Didn't have the right to mind.
"What are you making?"
"Seafood gumbo with andouille sausage."
She rested her elbows on the counter and watched as he started the roux, adding flour to the hot oil, stirring it constantly with a whisk. "If your wife was a lousy cook and you left home for good when you started college, where did you learn to cook so well?"
"Evan's aunt taught me after the divorce."
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 16
