One More Valentine

by Anne Stuart

  "I thought you were a ghost," she said, her voice deliberately taunting. "Or a zombie."

  "Damn it." He moved his hand from her mouth, cupping the back of her neck beneath the heavy fall of hair and kissed her then, his mouth hard against hers.

  She closed her eyes, sinking back against the wall, reveling in the feel of him, of his hard, taut body, of his hungry mouth, pushing her lips apart, tasting, devouring, as if a man obsessed. She wanted to kiss him back, but he was too forceful, allowing her no choice but to accept, passively, when she wanted more and more and more.

  When he broke the kiss he was breathing heavily, and she could feel him against the soft cradle of her hips, feel how much he must want her. He couldn't turn her down this time, could he? She'd waited so long for someone she really wanted. She was tired of waiting.

  "Helen," he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp of longing.

  She cupped his face with her hands, his dear, tormented face. "I want you, Rafferty. I've been waiting all my life for you. Don't turn me away."

  He groaned, sinking his head against the wall beside hers, and she could feel the shudder dance through his body, as he fought it, fought her, fought himself. And then with a muttered curse he dropped his hands to her shoulders, shoving the heavy fur coat off and onto the floor at their feet. He slid his fingers under the straps of the velvet dress and pulled them down, abruptly, baring her to the waist, and in the darkened hall she almost panicked.

  "Trying to scare me off, Rafferty?" she whispered, stilling her reaction, keeping her hands from covering herself. "You can't do it."

  "Can't I?" he muttered. And he pulled the dress down over her narrow hips, so that it fell at her ankles, and she was standing there in the hallway, dressed only in a pair of serviceable white cotton panties and white silk stockings rolled to her knees.

  He scooped her up then, wrapping her around his body, her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders, pressing her against the wall as he kissed her again, his mouth hot and wet and seeking, his long fingers cupping her hips, squeezing, pressing her against him, and she could feel his heat and hardness at the very center of her.

  She knew she should be frightened, and she was. She knew she should be turned off, and she wasn't. She wanted to feel his flesh against hers, his bare skin against her breasts. She wanted to lie on the big, empty bed in her room and have him show her what she'd been waiting twenty-nine years to discover. He was the right man in the right place at the right time, even if he didn't believe it.

  She clutched him tightly, her fingers kneading his shoulders beneath the wool jacket. And then he broke the kiss, swinging her around dizzily, carrying her into the apartment, and she closed her eyes, expecting to see the bedroom.

  Instead he dropped her on the couch, unceremoniously, making no move to follow her down onto the spacious cushions.

  She was completely vulnerable, half-naked as she'd never been before with a man. She lay there, staring up at him, waiting.

  He stood over her, his tie still in place, his face tense and dark, his breathing rapid. "This is no good, Helen," he said in a tight, angry voice. "You know it and I know it."

  She didn't move. "You don't want me?" she asked in a forlorn voice.

  He cursed then. Not a polite curse, not a gentlemanly curse, but with words that might have even shocked her hard-boiled brothers. "Damn it, Helen, don't you have any sense of self-preservation?" he said finally.

  "Not where you're concerned. I'm in love with you."

  The words horrified him almost as much as they shocked her. She hadn't realized it until she spoke it aloud, and the thought was astonishingly right.

  "Helen, you don't know what you're talking about," he said, running a desperate hand through his hair. "You don't even know me."

  There was a limit to her bravery after all, she discovered. A limit to how much she could offer, how much she could be rejected. Heat flushed through her body, and she struggled off the sofa as she tried to cover herself. "Sorry," she muttered in a miserable little voice. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

  He caught her as she tried to move past him, caught her in hard, strong hands. "I'm trying to do what's best for both of us," he said. "For once in my life I'm trying to do the right thing."

  "Bully for you," she said, hating the burning of tears in her eyes. "Let me get some clothes on." She tried to pull away from him, furious now, furious and ashamed. She'd allowed her first real taste of passion to blind her, but now her eyes were opened, and she wanted nothing more than to hide. From him and from herself.

  He didn't release her. A thousand emotions crossed his usually impassive face, and then he was very still, that threatening, enticing stillness. "I tried," he said, more to himself than to her, an excuse, an apology, a defiance. "Damn it, I tried." And he pulled her into his arms.

  She fought him this time, pushing against him. "I've changed my mind," she said. "I don't want you after all."

  "Fickle, aren't you?" he said wryly, kissing the side of her mouth, letting his lips trail down the line of her jaw, her throat, concentrating on the rapid pulse at the base of her neck. "I thought you were in love with me.

  "What the hell do I know about love?" she said bitterly.

  "Maybe I can teach you."

  She stopped her struggles abruptly, standing very still. He released her, and she slowly brought her hands up to his tie. She unfastened it more deftly this time, even though her hands were trembling, even though she was doing her best to avoid his intent gaze. She began to work on the pearl buttons of his white shirt, unfastening them slowly, one by one, until she reached the belt of his trousers. And then she leaned forward and put her mouth against his chest, against the hair-roughened flesh.

  He sucked in his breath, and for a moment she wondered if she'd been too bold. And then his hands cupped her head, gently, as she tasted him, her tongue tracing tiny patterns on his flat stomach, as her hands reached for his thin leather belt.

  He pulled her up then, into his arms, and somehow they made it over to the sofa as his mouth met hers. He pushed her back on the cushions, kneeling over her, still fully dressed, and his hands cupped her breasts, the first time she'd felt a man touch her, and his thumbs danced across the tight peaks, sending a shaft of desire streaking through her, arching her hips against his imprisoning legs. His mouth followed, wet and hungry, suckling her, and she moaned, a soft sound of pleasure and frustration.

  They hadn't turned on any lights, and the February afternoon was gray and shadowed, but inside on the overstuffed old sofa there was heat and light, as Rafferty slid his hands underneath her panties and pulled them down, over her long legs, leaving the stockings in place.

  She waited for him to strip off his own clothes, but he made no move to do so. Instead he lay beside her, pulling her against him, and her hands slid inside his open shirt, reveling in the heat and strength of his muscled flesh, as his mouth teased hers open, his tongue dipping, tasting, arousing. She could feel herself sinking into a swirling mass of sensations, existing in the delight of his mouth playing with hers, her breasts pressed up against his warm, hard chest, wanting nothing more in this life but his mouth, his mouth…

  She jerked in shock as his hand reached between her legs, cupping her. For a moment she stilled, not sure if she was ready, but his mouth kept coaxing, distracting, as he gently, deftly stroked her.

  "Open your legs, Helen," he whispered, moving his lips to trail a damp path along her cheekbones. "Come on, lady, don't be shy. Open them. It's not going to work with your knees together." There was just a trace of laughter in his voice, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

  But she couldn't resist him. Not when his mouth was so enticing. Not when his hand was so deft. She relaxed, just slightly, and his fingers found her, sliding into the heat of her, moving with such instinctive wisdom that she whimpered.

  "That's my girl," he whispered against her ear, nibbling on her earlobe. "Just relax, and you'll be fine. I won't h
urt you, I promise."

  A small part of her confused brain reminded her that it was supposed to hurt the first time. But she trusted him, believed him, as his fingers slid against her, deftly, insistently, and she was arching her hips against him, searching for something, she wasn't sure what, aching, longing, dying for him, as his tongue thrust deep into her mouth, his fingers thrust deep inside her, his thumb pressing, caressing, pushing, until suddenly she shattered, her body going rigid, as wave after wave of starshot darkness poured over her.

  She was crying when it began to fade away. She felt foolish, but the tears kept flowing, and she buried her face against his shoulder, against the white shirt he still wore, and he cupped the back of her head, holding her there, soothing her in a strained voice as his other hand stroked the taut line of her back.

  She could feel the tension thrumming through his body, the sheen of perspiration on his skin, the rapid pulse of his heart against hers. She wanted to look up at him, to kiss him again, to find out what would happen next, but she was afraid. Besides, his hands felt too good on her, stroking her, soothing her, calming her. He was the one who knew what he was doing, not she. She could relax, and trust him. She could melt against the safety of his strong, hard body and know he would take care of things. She could rest…

  It was a long time before Rafferty dared disentangle himself from her sleeping form. Lying there with her damp, exhausted, deliciously naked body pressed up against his had been its own sort of hell. If this endless, unreasonable cycle ever ended, if heaven and hell existed, he no longer had to fear where he'd end up. He just had a taste of the worst of it. And the best. She murmured something when he pulled away from her, a soft sound of distress that tore at his heart. Maybe she really did love him. He hoped not. He wasn't worth loving. And there was nothing he could offer her, more than what he just gave her.

  He draped the discarded afghan over her, but it didn't help. He still knew in intimate detail the shape of the body beneath it. Round where it ought to be round, narrow and delicate, damp and hot, she was absolutely perfect. And he didn't know if the iron hardness between his legs would ever go away, in this lifetime or any of the subsequent ones.

  He'd done his good deed for the day, for the week, hell, for the whole century. He'd resisted everything she'd offered, giving, not taking. He'd tasted her, enough to know that she was everything he'd ever longed for, dreamed about, needed. He'd tasted her, treated her and left her intact, inviolate, still leady for the man who might deserve her.

  He hated that mythical man. Hated him almost as much as he…cared for Helen. She deserved better than him, and he had made the supreme sacrifice for some ungrateful bastard who'd probably treat her like dirt…

  Whoa, Rafferty. Slow down. Helen was too smart to fall for a jerk, wasn't she? Except that she'd fallen for him, when she should have known better.

  Maybe he should teach her a lesson. Maybe he shouldn't worry about breaking her heart—it would keep her from making the same mistake twice. Maybe he should strip off his clothes, pull back that afghan and finish what he'd started.

  Then again, maybe not. He could always find justification for his most base desires. He'd come this far, resisted what he wanted most out of some noble whim. It would be stupid to blow it at this point.

  He'd strip off his clothes all right. Take the coldest damned shower known to man, and if that didn't do it, he'd open all the windows and the let the freezing February wind try to cool his passion. After all, he wasn't going to worry about dying of pneumonia. That would be the easy way out, and he'd already learned that nothing was going to be easy for him.

  He'd just spent the most erotic half hour of his life, and he hadn't even come. God help him, what would it have been like if he'd done what she wanted?

  The bathroom smelled of white roses. He shrugged out of his jacket, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a different man, no longer cool and mocking. He looked like a man caught in a torment beyond his bearing. And before he realized what he was doing, he'd shoved his fist into the mirror, into his reflection, shattering the glass around his hand.

  The sound of the telephone woke her. The apartment was dark—a light snow was falling outside the window, and she was alone on the sofa, her grandmother's afghan wrapped around her.

  She could hear the shower in the distance. Rolling on her back, she touched her body. A body that felt different, and yet not different enough. What had stopped him? Did he simply not want her enough? Was he angry that she'd fallen asleep?

  The telephone was still ringing. She hadn't set the answering machine—she seldom did on the weekend. Wrapping the cover around her, she struggled to her feet, catching the phone on its sixth ring.

  "Want to find out about the man you're living with?" The voice at the other end responded to her husky greeting. "Want to find out about Billy Moretti?"

  "Who is this?" she demanded sharply, her momentary fog vanishing.

  "Want to find out who wants to hurt you, Ms. Emerson?" the damnably familiar voice said. "Don't trust Rafferty—he's a liar. Why do you think he hasn't left your side in the past twenty-four hours? He doesn't want you to find out the truth."

  "The truth about what?"

  "The answers to all your questions lie with me."

  "Who is this?" she said again.

  "Come and find out… 1322 Clark Street. I'll be waiting. But I won't wait long."

  "But…"

  "And come alone, Ms. Emerson. Rafferty wouldn't lift a finger to help you anyway, but I don't want him around. Come alone, and I'll tell you what you need to know. Unless you're willing to put your life in Rafferty's hands."

  That was exactly what she'd been willing to do. The phone went dead before she could say so, and she stared at the receiver in blank dismay, as the confusing events of the past day and a half swept over her. Rafferty's sudden appearance in her life, an appearance that had started with a lie and never been explained satisfactorily.

  The supposed near miss outside the courthouse, the stranger in the hospital, the phony drive-by shooting at Greg's that had left him white and shaken. What the hell was going on?

  He wasn't going to give her answers, she knew that already. He'd just tell her more fairy tales. And while part of her wanted to pretend nothing had happened, that no one had called, the part of her brain that was sharp and legalistic wouldn't let it be.

  She'd leave it up to fate. If Rafferty emerged from the shower before she'd dressed and left, then she'd confront him. Otherwise she'd find the answers to her questions at 1322 Clark Street.

  Why did that address sound so familiar? It wasn't that far away, but it wasn't a section of town she was that familiar with. It was decent enough—middle class, filled with apartment houses and small businesses and retirement homes, and it was still daylight. She had more to fear from the unanswered questions in her own apartment than a stranger in a residential neighborhood.

  He was still in the shower when she emerged from her bedroom, dressed in faded jeans and an old police academy sweatshirt she'd filched from her youngest brother. It had to be the longest shower known to man, and she was half surprised her meager hot water supply was still holding out. Unless he was taking a cold shower.

  Rafferty and his showers were no immediate concern of hers, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the telltale throbbing in her heart, the tingling in her skin, the tenderness in her lips. When she saw him again she'd be better equipped to deal with him, to demand the truth from him. And maybe then she'd be able to accept the fact that he simply hadn't found her desirable enough to make love to.

  She took her car keys from the floor where Rafferty had dropped them, pulled on the fox coat for lack of anything better to wear and headed out into the late-afternoon air. A light snow was falling, the sky was bleak and a strong wind was whipping down the street. Somewhere young lovers were getting ready to celebrate Valentine's Day. Somewhere people were eating candy and drinking champagne and flirting and kissing
and planning futures.

  Not for Helen. Not for today. She was going to end Valentine's Day just as virginal as the first one she celebrated. But at least she was going to have some answers.

  It was getting dark when she finally found 1322 Clark Street. She'd made a half a dozen wrong turns, driven slowly on the slippery streets, unsure of her direction, so that by the time she pulled in across the street from the place, she was beginning to have her doubts about the wisdom of her choice.

  The building was set back a ways from the neat sidewalk, with a wide expanse of stubbled, snow-covered lawn in front. She sat in the car for a moment, staring, as a woman walked down the street, two matched cocker spaniels at the end of a leash.

  The dogs had been well behaved enough, trotting along, until they came up to 1322. Suddenly they jerked, one of them snapping at the leash, straining at it to get away from the property. The other one promptly sat back on his haunches and began to howl.

  Helen had heard that sound before. The lonesome, eerie howling of a dog, and with sudden horror she remembered what 1322 Clark Street was: the original site of the garage where seven men had been gunned down so many years before.

  Her hands were trembling as she tried to start the car again. In her panic she ground the gears, and the car stalled. She tried again, as the door opened, and a hand reached in and came down over hers.

  "Running away, Ms. Emerson?" a soft voice asked.

  His hand was painfully, sadistically hard on her wrist. She tried to peer out the door at the man standing there, but she couldn't see much beyond a pair of dark, half-crazed eyes and a wiry body.

  "Let go of my hand," she said in a deceptively firm voice.

  "I thought you came for answers."

  "I changed my mind."

  "You know where you are, don't you, Ms. Emerson?" the damnably familiar voice continued. It was someone she'd prosecuted, she knew it, but she couldn't place him. "Of course you do. Rafferty must have been more forthcoming than usual. But then, he couldn't be, even if he wanted to. He can't tell you about who and what he is. Who and what we all are. But he must have said something."