Nightfall

by Anne Stuart

  She tried not to swallow convulsively. He would have felt her fear against the faint pressure of his thumbs. “You found her?” she echoed, trembling slightly.

  “Haven’t I always said so?” He let his thumbs trace the line of her neck, and his hand, his elegant, murderous hand, paused for a moment as it traced the mark he’d left, less than forty-eight hours earlier.

  “Why would you kill me?” she asked, with far more bravery than she felt.

  His thumbs kept up their gentle stroking, and she realized with sudden shock he’d been drinking. There was a glitter in his eyes, a faint deliberateness in his speech, and the smoky tang of whiskey was on his breath. She knew, to her sorrow, what people did when they were drunk. The emotional, the physical hurt they could inflict.

  Richard Tiernan was far from drunk. But he was already dangerous. The whiskey he’d drunk that night might be enough to push him over the edge.

  “Why would I kill you?” he murmured, considering it. “Maybe I like to kill. Maybe Sally and I have a grand plan, and I’d be afraid you’d expose it. It might be worth murder for that.”

  “Those are two possibilities,” she allowed, watching him. “But I don’t believe them.”

  “More fool you,” he said softly, moving his thumbs back to the front of her throat. “I could kill for what I want.”

  “You aren’t going to kill me,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She could see the cynical, frightening curve of his mouth. She could see the torment in his dark, haunted eyes. She could feel the faint tremor in his hands as they circled her neck, and she knew. “You didn’t kill your wife,” she said with sudden, complete certainty, and the relief and joy that filled her heart was explosive. “And you’re not going to kill me.”

  He dropped his hands as if burned, stepping back from her. “Stop it, Cassie.”

  “You didn’t kill her. I don’t know why you’ve let things go on like this. Why you haven’t tried to find out who really did it. Unless you know, and you’re shielding him. Or her.”

  “Stop it,” he said again. “I’m not interested in your romantic theories. You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I know that you never killed anyone in your life, and you’re not about to start now. You’re innocent, Richard. I know that as well as I know my own name.”

  He made one last attempt to fight her. “You’re in over your head. Leave it alone . . .”

  “I’m in over my head because you dragged me here. You want something from me, and I can’t imagine what. Is it trust? I trust you. Is it belief in your innocence? I know you’re innocent, Richard. Is it love? Maybe I can give you that, too. But that’s not what you want from me, is it?” He’d moved away from her, going to stand in front of one of the mullioned windows, his back toward her. The room was dark, only one light glowing, and the sun had set, plunging the room into shadows.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

  “Wrong about any number of things, no doubt.” She moved into the room, closer to him, unable to resist, drawn to her fate, to her doom, to her love. Close enough to feel his body heat, to see the tension that rippled through his lean, elegant frame. “To which were you referring?”

  He turned to look at her, and this time it wasn’t death in his eyes, in his face. It was life. Blazing. Frightening. Complete. “I want your love.”

  She swallowed. “And what would you give me in return?”

  His smile was wry. “Till death do us part?” he suggested.

  “Will you fight your conviction?”

  “No.” It was flat, inexorable.

  “Did you kill your wife?”

  “I thought you believed in my innocence,” he mocked her.

  “I do. I want to hear you say the words. Did you take a knife and stab your wife in the heart?”

  “No,” he said.

  She believed him. “This is the last time I’ll ask you. What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to love me more than you’ve ever loved anyone. I want you to give up everything for me. And I want you to let me die.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t ask much, do you?”

  “Eternity. And your soul.”

  “And how do I give up everything for you?”

  “By taking care of my children.”

  She took a deep, shocked breath. “It all comes down to that, doesn’t it? Your children are at the center of this, somehow. What about Sally?”

  “Sally’s sick. She’s got kidney disease. She needs treatment as soon as possible, and she’s not going to get it here. She’s living here under a phony name, with no national health card and no medical records. The paperwork Mark got for her and the children has been good enough so far, but when it comes to something as expensive as dialysis, the bureaucracy is going to look a little more closely, and that’s just too damned dangerous. She’s got to go back. In the meantime, my children still need someone to take care of them.”

  “And I’m that person?”

  “Yes.”

  “I passed the tests? That’s what they were, weren’t they? You were trying to make sure I was strong enough, devoted enough to watch over them? What if I hadn’t been?”

  “Then I would have had to find someone else.”

  She didn’t move, suddenly very cold as reality washed over her in ugly waves. “Why me?” she asked. “Was I a random choice? Have you had any other contenders?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “I saw your picture.”

  “Where?”

  “Sean keeps it on his desk.”

  “Don’t be absurd—I’ve never seen it.”

  “He hid it when you arrived. But it was there when I first met with him. I took one look at you and knew you were the one.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “You won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you love me. You’re good with children, even Sean admits that much. You’d do it for me, and you’d do it for them.”

  “You’re suddenly very sure of me. What if I get tired of them? Tired of living a lie? What if I decide you’re beyond seeing what’s right for everyone, and I take matters into my own hands?”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  She believed him. Totally and completely. “You aren’t quite sane, you know.”

  His smile was small consolation. “I know. Will you do it? Will you take care of my children, love them? Be their mother? Will you let me die, without putting up a fight? Will you do everything I ask of you? Will you give me everything? Will you promise, and never break that vow?”

  She stared at him. “How long do I have to decide?”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  She was beyond thinking clearly, beyond considering the consequences. “Yes,” she said. She reached up and touched his face, before she could change her mind. “I’ll do anything you want me to do. I love you.”

  The words came unbidden from her, a revelation, a benediction. She heard them with astonishment and a sense of rightness. She didn’t know how long she had loved him, she didn’t even want to think about it. There was no sense to it, morally, emotionally, and she’d always prided herself on her good sense. That had vanished when she walked into her father’s kitchen and looked into his haunted eyes. She loved him, and if loving him made her crazy, so be it.

  She was unprepared for the sudden change in him. He’d been holding himself very taut, and suddenly the tension seemed to leave his body. He sank to his knees in front of her, his arms around her waist, his head pressed against her belly, and he was trembling. She reached down, in wonder, to cradle his head against her, and she felt the heat of tears against her skin, and her heart broke.

  She dropped to her knees in front of him
, pulling him into her arms, pressing his face against her shoulder, holding him, like a mother, like a lover, holding him as he shook. The anger, the danger, the demon lover had vanished. This was a man in need, this was her man, and there was no sacrifice that was too much for her to make.

  Even if it meant watching him die, something far worse than simply dying for him. He had asked it of her, and she would give it.

  She put her hand against his face, feeling the dampness. She wanted to see him, to soothe him, but it was too dark in the room, and his mouth sought hers, blindly, like a child seeking its mother’s breast. She kissed him, and the darkness shuddered and fell around them like a blanket, wrapping them tight.

  Outside in the distance she could hear the roar and rush of the ocean. The faint call of a night bird echoed in the sky and then was hushed, and Cassidy sank to the floor beneath him, clinging to him, holding him, maternal, unquestioning, undemanding. There was no question where this night would end, no question that she had given herself to him, body and soul.

  Tomorrow would be time enough for regrets. Or perhaps next year. Or another lifetime. She had given herself, and she had promised.

  There was no turning back.

  Chapter 13

  THE FLOOR WAS hard beneath her back. Cassidy didn’t mind. The roughness of the wood beneath her was a reminder of reality, of the inevitable pain that was part of joy. She welcomed it.

  She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, and she was glad. There in the night they were safe, together, defenses and lies vanishing into the beneficent darkness. She put her hands up to his shoulders, clutching them beneath the loose black T-shirt, and closed her eyes.

  There was no anger in his mouth as it touched hers. She opened her own to him, willingly, tasting his tongue, as she felt his hands slide up her thighs, bringing her skirt with them. He lay between her legs, and she could feel his erection against the rough zipper of his jeans, and she lifted her knees, bringing him tighter against her, as she threaded her fingers through his hair.

  His hands reached up to cover hers, and then he pulled away, sitting back on his heels in the darkness, kneeling between her legs, looking down at her. “Take off your clothes for me, Cassie,” he whispered. “Do it this time and mean it.”

  He knew her too well; that was one of the many frightening things about him. He knew she wanted him to seduce her, to strip off her clothes like the accomplished lover he was reputed to be, so deftly she was barely aware of it happening. Instead he was asking her to be a willing participant. He had told the truth, more times than she could remember, when she’d asked him what he wanted from her. Everything.

  Her hands were shaking when they went to the row of tiny buttons down the front of her dress. He didn’t help. He knelt there, large and dark and powerful in the shadowy living room, as she fumbled with the buttons, one after another, down the center until she reached the spot where the skirt pooled up around her thighs, resting against his crotch as he knelt between her legs.

  He waited, with endless patience, and her fingers brushed against him as she unfastened the last few buttons. She felt him leap and pulse against her fingertips, and it was all she could do not to let her hand linger. Instead she spread the dress open, feeling the coolness of the night air kiss her skin, mixing with the heat of his gaze.

  She’d dispensed with her plain white cotton underwear. For this innocent visit she’d somehow ended up wearing teal green lace, and even with his hooded expression she could read his reaction.

  “Go on,” he said, not touching her, when she longed, needed to be touched.

  The bra fastened in front, and it took her several tries to undo it. Even undone, it still clung to her full breasts, and she wasn’t sure whether she should flick it aside. Whether he thought she was too voluptuous, too full-blown, too . . .

  He reached out and separated the bra, pulling it away from her. Leaning forward, he put his mouth on her breast, and she could barely control her response. She cradled him against her, stroking his face, reveling in the deep, sensual pull of his mouth. She felt glorious, erotic beneath him, as he suckled on one breast, and then the other, drinking from her, devouring her, strengthening her and draining her.

  He let his mouth drift down, across her belly, pressing his face against her womb. She reached down for the lacy waistband of her bikinis, and his hands covered hers, and together they pulled the wisp of cloth down her legs.

  She reached for the hem of his T-shirt, wanting to pull it off him, but he stopped her. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice low and sinuous in the darkness, as his elegant hands moved back up her legs, pulling them apart, cupping her hips.

  She knew what he was going to do. She knew she ought to make some token, girlish protest. She wanted to give to him, not take from him.

  But she closed her eyes and leaned back, silent, as his mouth found her. Her heels dug into the wood floor, her hands fisted, and she bit down on her lip as he used his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, to take her, claim her.

  It was dark and frightening, it was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and if a small, angry part of her soul resented his power, his skill, her body was beyond reason. He was taking her someplace she’d never been before, someplace brilliant and terrifying, and she fought against it for a moment, pushing against his shoulders.

  But he was strong, and he was relentless. She began to whimper, helpless little cries of distress, and even as his mouth drove her, his hands stroked her thighs, soothing her, comforting her, holding her, as the madness began to swirl and escalate, until she convulsed, in an endless, silent scream, as he took her soul.

  He wouldn’t stop. It was as if he knew she could take no more, and he was determined to prove to her that she could. On and on he pushed her, tongue thrusting deep inside her, all the while his hands cradled her hips, holding her captive, fingers stroking, soothing, tongue pushing, taking, until she was sobbing, begging him, her head thrashing back and forth on the wood floor, her hips arched, her fists pounding at his shoulders, as she fought it, fought him.

  And then it was too late. She was lost, and she knew it. Her scream was no longer silent, it was an unearthly, high-pitched wail. As he took what he wanted from her. Everything.

  She was crying. She wasn’t quite sure why. All she knew was that he’d slid over her, covering her with his fully clothed body, wrapping her in his arms as his mouth met hers. He tasted of love and sex, he tasted of whiskey and of her. His arms were strong and comforting around her, and she never thought she would have sought comfort from him.

  She closed her eyes, knowing that the tears were still pouring down her face, unable to do anything about them. He kissed her tears, kissed her eyelids, and kissed the side of her mouth, his lips lingering, and after a moment she turned her face, putting her mouth against his, willingly.

  He kissed her very slowly, carefully, teeth tugging at her trembling lower lip, tongue sliding delicately inside her mouth, meeting hers, coaxing hers. It wasn’t until a shudder rippled through her body, and she began to kiss him back, that some of the darkness began to recede.

  He sat back on his heels, taking her with him, her dress still hanging from her shoulders. With seemingly no effort at all he rose, pulling her with him, and she staggered for a moment, her knees weak, until he pulled her up into his arms, and then he was carrying her through the dark house, up the stairs, and her newly sensitized body thrummed with panic and desire.

  The bedroom was low-eaved, shrouded. The moon had risen, shining in the open window, and the cool breeze carried the scent of daffodils on the air.

  The bed was small, the sheets were white, and he put her down carefully, pushing the dress from her shoulders and tossing it away, so that she lay there, cool and naked, vulnerable and afraid. But not afraid enough to run away again.

  She could see his eyes glitter in the
darkness, but she couldn’t read his expression. He stripped off the black T-shirt and sent it sailing. He unzipped his jeans and then hesitated, lifting his head to look at her.

  “Have I frightened you yet?” he asked, and there was a wealth of tension, of banked emotion beneath the casual words.

  She was surprised she was able to speak so calmly. “Were you trying to?”

  He considered it, moving to stand next to the bed. “I don’t know,” he said with devastating honesty. “I may have been. Did I succeed?”

  He only deserved equal truth. “A little.”

  “Do you want to run?”

  “A little,” she said again.

  He reached out his hand and slipped it under her tangled mane of hair, and he was impossibly, heartbreakingly gentle. “Are you going to?” he whispered.

  “Never again.” And she turned her face against his palm, and kissed him.

  RICHARD LOOKED down at the woman sitting on his bed. Her hair was a fiery mass around her pale face, her mouth was swollen from his, and her eyes were filled with panic and love. Quite simply, she was going to be the death of him.

  He’d wanted to push her, and he had. He’d wanted to see whether she’d turn and run, whether she could take what he could give her, whether she had what he needed, and he was willing to sacrifice everything in the discovery.

  He hadn’t realized it would involve sacrificing his own tenuous state of mind. He hadn’t realized that giving himself to her would wrench him out of that dark, empty place where he’d survived for so long. That she’d drag him into feeling again, when he thought and hoped that he’d lost the ability. That she’d make him care about her, not for the sake of his children, not for the sake of his goddamn plan, but for her.