by Anne Stuart
Irrational horror scampered down Helen's spine. She tried to jerk her hand away, but the fingers tightened, grinding her bones together so that she had to bite her lips to keep from crying out.
"Don't be scared of an address, Ms. Emerson," that evil, crooning voice continued. "A place can't hurt you. The old garage was torn down decades ago. Sure, the dogs won't go anywhere near the place, but other creatures aren't so sensitive. I thought this would be a fitting place."
"A fitting place for what?"
"For me to kill you. Sort of poetic justice, don't you think?" And the man knelt down beside her, and she found herself staring into a pair of mad eyes that had once looked sanely enough out of Willie Morris's face.
"Why would you want to kill me?" Her voice didn't even tremble. Even if her hands did.
Morris smiled, a sweet, eerie smile. "Let's just say I owe you." And he brought a gun up into her vision, a very small, very lethal-looking gun.
She was going to die. She accepted it calmly enough, having no other choice. This crazy man was going to shoot her, for no very good reason, and her fury at Rafferty grew. Damn it, she didn't want to die a virgin. She didn't want to die without having known love.
The irrational anger was so strong that she kicked out, slamming the door open and knocking Morris onto the sidewalk. She didn't need a second chance. She took off down the sidewalk, her fur coat flying after her, certain at any moment that a bullet would slam into her back. Morris didn't strike her as the sort of man who would miss a target, even one moving as quickly as she was.
She leapt across the street, directly into the woman with her two dogs. They went down in a tangle of howling and snapping, the leashes wrapping around the women, the dogs barking in fury as Helen tried to fight her way free, terrified that she was going to bring death to a stranger as well as to herself.
He came up behind her; she could feel his presence before his hands caught her, extricating her from the leather leashes, hauling her upright. She turned, cold and ready to face certain death. And instead she looked up into Rafferty's furious eyes.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
She stared at him mutely, ignoring the vociferous anger of the other woman as she tried to sort out herself and her dogs. Helen glanced around, but there was no sign of Morris, no sign of anyone at all besides the disgruntled dog walker, who gave her a look of fury before stalking down the sidewalk, her dogs still carefully skirting the boundaries of 1322 Clark Street.
Rafferty ignored them as well. "Are you going to answer me?" he asked in a tight voice. "Why did you sneak off without telling me where you were going? Why did you come down here, of all places?"
"I didn't know I needed to account to you for my actions. I didn't know I wasn't allowed out on my own," she shot back, irrationally angry now that the immediate danger was past.
"Damn it, Helen…"
"Stop saying 'damn it,' " she shot back. "You say it too damned much."
He caught her shoulders in his strong hands, and if they were hard on her skin, they were nowhere near as painful as Willie Morris's lethal grip. "Why are you here?"
"Willie Morris asked me to come down here. He said he had something to tell me. About you."
Rafferty said something a great deal more succinct than "damn it."
"And you came? Without telling me?"
"I didn't know it was Morris. He didn't identify himself. And I didn't think I could trust you."
He looked as if he were doing everything humanly possible to keep his temper. Somehow his towering rage was reassuring. He wouldn't be that angry if he didn't care for her, at least a little.
"What did he want?" Rafferty demanded. "What did he tell you?"
She tried for a cool, disdainful smile, but it came out woefully lopsided. "I think you know as well as I do what he wanted," she said crossly. "He tried to kill me." And then, to her utter shame and amazement, she burst into tears.
Chapter Eleven
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They drove back to Helen's building in silence. Rafferty paid less attention than usual to his admittedly erratic driving, but even a few near misses couldn't force a protest from Helen. She sat with the seat belt wrapped tightly around her, staring blankly out the window, the tracks of her dried tears on her pale face.
She probably got freckles in the summer, he thought irrelevantly. Not too many, just a smattering across her pert nose, maybe a dusting along her cheekbones. He'd never see her with freckles. He'd never feel the summer sun again. Funny, but up until this time he hadn't minded. But right now he minded like crazy. Not seeing Helen Emerson's freckles.
There was no sign of Drago following them, but he took a circuitous route just to be certain. By the time they reached Crystal's old house Helen looked as if she was on the ragged edge of control. And Rafferty knew he had no choice but to push her over, once they got inside. If he hoped to have any chance at all of saving her life.
She climbed out of the car before he had time to even turn off the key, running up the stairs and disappearing into the apartment. He half expected to find the door locked, but she'd left it ajar, and he closed it carefully behind him, using all three locks and the security bar as well. He didn't want to let Ricky Drago in without a sufficient amount of warning. And he didn't want to give Helen the chance to run off again, perhaps straight into another trap. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight until he had her safely delivered into the arms of someone who could protect her.
He found her in the kitchen, staring into the half-empty refrigerator as if she were looking for the meaning of life. "The cupboards are bare," Rafferty said, his deep voice startling in the quiet.
Helen still leaned on the refrigerator door. "I'm not hungry."
"If you're too hot we could always open a window," Rafferty drawled.
She slammed the door shut, turning on him, and he was glad to see that the frightened, listless expression had vanished, replaced by one of sheer wrath. "What the hell is going on?"
He held himself very still, watching her. It was amazing to him, his total inability to terrorize her. Most people had only to come face-to-face with his impassivity and they'd back down. Not Helen. She was tough in ways unimaginable for such a vulnerable woman. It was little wonder that he was undeniably obsessed with her.
"What do you mean?" He stalled.
"Who are you? Why have you moved in on me, so that I can barely go to the bathroom alone? I must have been stupid not to have noticed before, but Willie Morris very kindly pointed it out to me before he tried to kill me," she said, her voice acid. "Who are you, who is Billy Moretti, who is Willie Morris? Do you all want to kill me? What in God's name is going on here?"
Her voice was rising in agitation. She heard it as well as he did, and with a great effort she took a deep breath, calming herself. "I want you to tell me the truth, Rafferty. No more science fiction stories, no more time travel, no more fairy tales. Just the plain, unvarnished truth."
"I told you…"
"I know what you told me. You're a dead gangster from 1929, and so was Billy Moretti. Perfectly believable," she snapped, and he could see the edge of panic dart behind her warm brown eyes. "So how does Willie Morris fit into all this? Who was he, Elliot Ness?"
"That's the second time you've mentioned Elliot Ness, Helen, and I don't have the faintest idea who you're talking about," Rafferty said wearily.
"Stop it!" Her voice broke, and she turned away. "I want to know what you're doing here, and what you want from me. Are you going to kill me?"
He wanted to touch her. He wanted to reach out and clasp her shoulders, pull her back against his strong body and warm her, soothe her, protect her. He clenched his fists to keep them at his side.
"If I wanted to kill you I've already had a dozen chances," he said. "I'm trying to protect you."
She turned back. "Why?"
"Ricky Drago plans to kill you. I'm doing my damnedest to stop him."
"Who the hell is Ri
cky Drago? And where does Willie Morris come into this?" she asked fiercely.
He'd forgotten Drago's new identity. "Drago and Morris are the same man," he said, trying to come up with something believable for a woman who didn't want to believe. "I knew him a long time ago…you might say in another lifetime."
"Why does he want to kill me? And why do you want to save me?"
"He blames you for his wife's death."
"What?"
Rafferty shrugged. "Don't expect me to understand. I wasn't even around when it happened. Apparently you brought him in for questioning, and he was in such a rage about it he drove into a cement bridge. He wasn't hurt but his wife was killed."
"God, I remember," she said, some of her ferocity fading. "But that was almost two years ago. Why would he want to come after me now?"
"Drago…er…Morris is a very methodical, very meticulous man. He never forgets a grudge, and he's not quite sane. Knowing him, I expect he always planned to get around to you in his own good time. And that time is now."
"Why you?"
He reached for his cigarettes. "What do you mean?"
"Who appointed you Sir Galahad, to come to my rescue like a knight in shining armor? Why do you care whether I live or die?"
He toyed with a dozen answers, some of them plausible, some of them truthful. He went for the most painful. "It was a favor to Billy."
He might as well have slapped her. Her face turned even paler, and she leaned against the refrigerator to steady herself. "Why does it matter to Billy?"
"He figures he owes you. You were right about him—he's trying his damnedest to go straight. Drago decided to put a monkey wrench in the works, and it was simple enough to get Billy to play along. All he had to do was threaten his wife. You had the wisdom to see that Billy was worth another chance, and he's not going to stand by and let Drago gun you down."
"And if it weren't for the baby's unexpected appearance he would have been the one in my apartment?" she asked, tossing back her long dark hair.
"Until he found someone to protect you," Rafferty agreed. His cigarette tasted foul, almost as foul as his temper. She was looking at him like a whipped dog, still ready to bite, and he knew he needed to demoralize her further.
"But he did, Rafferty. He found you."
"I'm only a stopgap. I'll be gone by tomorrow morning, and there won't be anyone between you and Drago."
She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. "That'll be just too bad, won't it?" she said.
"You come from a family of cops, Helen. I want you to call up one of your brothers and go stay with him until Billy can figure out what to do."
"No."
He stared at her incredulously. "A man tried to kill you," he said, biting off the words. "It wasn't the first time. Did you get a close look at the fur coat? There are bullet holes in it. Drago wants you dead, and he's not going to stop until he accomplishes that goal. Or until someone stops him."
"That's what you're here for, right? As long as the ghost of Valentine's Past is around, how can he hurt me?"
"Damn it, Helen!" He slammed his fist against the refrigerator, not even flinching as the force of his blow reopened some of the tiny cuts on his lacerated hand. "I can't save you!"
"Why not?" she demanded coolly. "Don't you have superpowers, or something like that?"
"Hell, I don't have any powers whatsoever," he snapped. "I can't shoot Drago. As long as I'm living in limbo I can't harm another living being."
"Guess what, Rafferty," Helen said softly. "You already have." She pushed past him, walking out of the kitchen, and for a moment he stood there, absorbing the force of her verbal blow.
She was standing in the living room, staring out into the snowy evening, her back straight and narrow beneath the baggy sweatshirt. Rafferty had never understood modern women's predilection for baggy men's clothes, but at that moment he couldn't imagine anything more desirable than Helen Emerson.
"I can't save you, Helen, " he said again, more quietly. "And I don't want to watch you die."
She didn't turn. "Cheer up, Rafferty. You'll be back in limbo by the time Drago or Morris or whoever he is gets to me."
"You don't believe me."
"I don't know what to think. If you expect to convince me you're a bootlegger who returns from the dead every Valentine's Day then you're expecting a lot."
"Call your family. I'll drive you there."
She laughed then, but the sound was almost without humor. "I thought you wanted to save my life, not kill me. Your driving is the closest to death I've come in years."
"Helen…"
"Don't worry about it, Rafferty. I won't make any more demands on you." She turned and sank into the corner of the sofa, staring at her knees. "You should have made it clear sooner that you were here under duress. I suppose it was only logical to pretend you were attracted to me in order to keep an eye on me, but really, you should have told me the truth. I'm a big girl, I can take it. I would have called the State's Attorney and—" She halted. "I don't know what I would have told him."
"Stop it, Helen."
She shrugged, and he could see the effort it was taking, to appear cool and collected. He despised himself, more than he ever had hated himself before, and he didn't know what to do. He wanted to soothe her, to comfort her, to kiss her, to make love to her, and yet any act of kindness, or desire, would be the worst possible thing he could do.
"He probably wouldn't have believed me," she said in a low voice. "I don't believe it, either. You know, Rafferty, I think you'd better leave. You don't want to be here, and if you have to leave Chicago by tomorrow morning I imagine you have better things to do than baby-sit me."
"There's only one thing I hate more than babysitting," Rafferty snapped. "And that's self-pity."
"Go away, Rafferty. You've made it more than clear you don't want me. Let me sulk in peace."
"The hell I will!" It was the last straw. He'd wasted almost his entire stay, blown it on an impractical, self-centered, abysmally untried girl, and now she was sitting there feeling sorry for herself. He was the one who'd been suffering, and all for the most noble of reasons. Suddenly he'd had enough.
He crossed the room, reached down and hauled her to her feet. She was so startled she tripped against the coffee table, falling against him, which suited him just fine. "I'm sick of this," he said in a furious voice. "I've been going through the most miserable time of my life, all in some stupid, misguided effort to spare you, and all you can think about is that I don't want you. How damned stupid can you be? What do you think this is?" He took her hand, yanked it down and pressed it to his groin.
She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn't let her. "I've been going crazy, trying to do the decent thing," he went on, his voice bitter. "I'm trying to save your life, I'm trying to leave you in the state I found you, no matter how damned much it's killing me. I want you more than I've ever wanted a woman in my life, but I don't want you wasting your innocence on a man like me, a man who can't offer you anything more than a night."
For a moment she didn't move. "Maybe a night is worth it," she said in a rough voice. And her fingers pressed against him.
He shuddered. "Damn it, Helen."
"Stop saying damn it," she said, "and kiss me."
He couldn't, wouldn't fight it any longer. When he finally emerged from the bathroom earlier that afternoon, marginally cooled down, his lacerated hand roughly bandaged, only to find her missing, panic had swept through him. He'd raced out into the street after her, just in time to see her taking off into the darkening afternoon, and it had been sheer instinct that had led him to Clark Street. Instinct, and a car it had taken him approximately four minutes to hot-wire and steal. There were certain talents that never grew rusty, even after sixty-four years.
He'd seen Drago from a distance, and he'd learned one thing. He might not be able to pull a trigger, but he could slam a car into another one. Drago had been knocked to the ground, his gun went flying and by the time R
afferty had disentangled Helen from the furious dog owner he'd taken off. And Rafferty's hands hadn't stopped shaking until he'd gotten her back to the apartment.
They were shaking again, this time with longing. He was going to take her, and to hell with scruples, and her future, deserving husband. To hell with everything but the need that had been burning a hole inside him.
"Sir Galahad, eh?" he said, scooping her up into his arms, holding her high against his chest. "Knight in shining armor?" He started through the apartment, kicking open the door to her bedroom. The sight of that unmade, pristine white bed made him harder than ever, something he wouldn't have thought possible.
He set her down on the rumpled sheets, disentangling her clinging arms as he stood back to watch her. And then he began stripping off his tie, kicking off his shoes.
She didn't move, her eyes wide and still in the shadows. "What happened to your hand?"
"It collided with your bathroom mirror." He stripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto a chair. "It's better known as acute sexual frustration."
"You really want me?" The notion still seemed to amaze her, and he wondered what she'd gone through in her life, to be so unsure of her powerful attractions.
"I'm about to demonstrate just how much," he said, reaching for his belt buckle.
She closed her eyes when he shucked off his trousers, and he almost called her bluff. But he didn't. Instead he climbed onto the bed, taking her face between his hands, gently, and kissed her lips. Slowly, delicately, tasting the softness, the tremulous dampness, as her eyes opened in the darkness. "You can change your mind," he said in a soft voice. "Anytime you want, I won't force you."
"You don't want me that much?"
"Damn it," he said, and then managed a wry smile. "Okay, no more damn its. I want you. I thought I made it clear how much. But there's one thing more important than how much I want you. And that's you."
"Rafferty, I love…" she said, but he covered her mouth with his long fingers, afraid to hear the words again. The more she said it, the more real it became. And he couldn't afford to believe she loved him. It would make it too hard to leave.