One More Valentine

by Anne Stuart

  So he simply kissed her again, teasing her mouth open, using his tongue, feeling the tremulous response as he deepened it. He kissed her with slow, deliberate thoroughness, leaving no part of her lips, her mouth, her teeth untouched, kissed her until she couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, and neither of them cared.

  The baggy sweatshirt came off easily enough, followed by the thin scrap of bra. That was one improvement in modern times—underwear was far less cumbersome and a great deal easier to dispose of. The same for clothes in general, even though he felt damned funny unfastening the pair of men's jeans she wore. But there was nothing masculine about the pristine white cotton panties, nothing masculine about the soft mound of flesh that he put his hand on, feeling her arch against him.

  His mouth left hers, to trace a path down her body. He wanted to kiss her breasts again. How could he have ever thought they were too small? They were perfect, in his hands, in his mouth, and he let his tongue swirl around each small, tight nub, reveling in the shiver of reaction in her slender body, reveling in his own fierce pleasure.

  Her stomach was flat, white and smooth. He kissed her navel, he kissed her hips, he kissed the white cotton covered core of her. He kissed her long thighs, that writhed beneath him, he kissed her knees and her calves, he kissed the delicate arch of her feet.

  "Rafferty," she said, and her voice was strangled, distorted with need.

  "Not yet." He slid his long fingers underneath the panties and pulled them down her legs, tossing them across the room so that she lay there, naked, aroused and frightened. He didn't want to scare her further, but he already knew what he wanted, and nothing short of mass hysteria could stop him.

  He leaned forward and put his mouth on her. She jerked, and he heard her quiet little shriek of shock and protest, but he ignored her, cupping her hips with his big hands, spreading her legs, kissing her, tasting her, loving her, ignoring her shock and shyness and uncertainty, ignoring everything but the flowing response he was eliciting, a response that flowered and built, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her heels dug into the mattress, and her whole body convulsed against him.

  She was shivering, sobbing, gasping for breath, but he wasn't finished with her. He knew how to prolong it for her, how to make her cry out in the darkness, and he did so, drinking in her pleasure with such intensity that he almost came, too.

  "Jamey," she said, her voice raw and weak. His mouth left her, and he moved up her body, to lie on top of her, careful not to crush her, his desperate, massive hardness in the cradle of her thighs as his hands framed her shocked face.

  He kissed her lips, knowing she could taste herself on his mouth. He kissed her eyelids, her throat, tasting the rapid, erratic pulse beneath his tongue, as he spread her legs apart beneath him. She was still too weak and trembling from the aftermath of her climax to help him, but he didn't mind. He needed all his strength to control himself, to control his mindless need to surge into her damp heat, to push and thrust and burst.

  He could feel the sweat cover him as he poised himself at the untried entrance. His muscles were clamped with the effort to slow himself, control himself, as he began to push inside. She was wet, and sleek, and very tight, and her eyes flew open, meeting his as he reached the inevitable barrier.

  Rafferty thought he might just possibly die. It was too hard, too good, and he didn't know if he could stand it. He looked down at her, the flowing veil of hair spread out around the white pillow, the wide dark eyes, the soft bee-stung lips, and he pressed, slowly, feeling her pain, feeling her pleasure.

  "Don't stop," she whispered, and her hands were digging into the sheet. "Please, Jamey, don't stop."

  "I couldn't," he said simply. And with a short, sharp thrust of his hips he broke through, sinking fully into her tight, milking warmth.

  Her arms came around him, holding tight, and he could feel the tremors rocketing through her body, and he didn't know if they were tremors of pain or desire.

  He tried to pull away, but her arms were tight around him, holding him against her. He reached up and cupped her face, his thumbs gentle on the soft planes. "This doesn't work if we don't move," he whispered.

  She opened her eyes. "I know," she whispered back. "I've read books."

  "Naughty girl. Did I hurt you?"

  "Not much." It was a lie, he knew it, but only a little one.

  "I'll make it feel better," he promised, pulling away from her, just slightly, and then thrusting back in. She lay passively enough beneath him, and he let her, doing all the work, content to prolong it, intent on taking every last ounce of delayed pleasure from her, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her hips began to meet his measured thrusts, and he could feel the tremors of response begin to ripple and build within her.

  He wanted, needed to come in her lithe young body so badly he was shaking with it. But he needed her there, too, more. It didn't matter that he'd already given her pleasure, it didn't matter that he deserved his own. He couldn't find it without her, and even as he felt his body shake apart he knew he had to bring her with him.

  Her fingernails dug into his shoulders. Her hips arched beneath him, milking him, calling to him, and her breath was sobbing in his ear. Even through the swirling mists of his own fierce need he could taste and feel the nuances of her response, could feel her balance at the very precipice, ready, trembling, terrified.

  He put his hand between their bodies, touching her, as he surged into her, pushing her hard against the soft white mattress. He felt her explode around him, gripping him with a thousand tiny tremors, and he lost himself, filling her with his body, his soul, drowning them both in a vast storm of helpless, hopeless love.

  He knew he was heavy, but he didn't want to get off her. He cradled her head in his arms, kissing the dampness from her face as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He wanted her arms and her legs wrapped around him, tightly. Maybe if they just stayed this way he wouldn't have to leave her.

  But he was a man who faced the unpleasant things in life, and clinging to Helen wouldn't keep him here, and it wouldn't keep her safe. He moved to one side, pulling her with him, wrapping her around him, and she came willingly, burying her head against his shoulder, her face hidden against his skin. He stroked her hair, gently, soothing her, listening to her shuddering breathing slow, listening to her thudding heart as it regained a normal rhythm. He waited until he thought she was ready, and then very carefully tilted her face up to his.

  She didn't want to meet his gaze, and he realized with heartbreaking amusement that she was shy. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

  Even in the darkness of the bedroom he could see the blush that covered her face, and he wished he had enough time to spend with her to show her enough that she was well past blushing. But that would be up to someone else. "Okay," she said.

  "Okay," he echoed, not bothering to disguise his amusement. "That's not much of a recommendation. Was it worth the wait?"

  Her eyes flew up to meet his then, and there was such deep emotion in them that he almost wished she were still shy. "Don't you know?" she asked.

  The humor fled. "I know," he said, brushing his lips against her, running his tongue over her swollen mouth. "I didn't want to hurt you."

  "You didn't. Not much," she added with characteristic honesty.

  He kissed her then, a brief, hard kiss, before he pulled away from her, climbing off the high white bed. She watched him leave, not saying a word, and a moment later he was back with a cool, wet washcloth.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded warily, her defenses already returning.

  He pushed her gently down on the bed. "Taking care of you," he said, pressing the cool cloth against her. She jerked against the touch of the cloth, the touch of his hands, but she quieted immediately, watching him out of dark, wondering eyes.

  "You didn't use anything," she said after a moment.

  "Use anything?"

  "Protection," she said, her voice low. "A condom. I should have thought�
��"

  "It's okay."

  "Okay for you, maybe."

  He pushed her hair out of her face. "Okay for you," he said gently. "You won't get pregnant. You won't get any diseases."

  "What makes you so certain?" she asked in a disgruntled tone of voice, pushing her face against his hand like a kitten searching for affection.

  For a moment he said nothing. He didn't want to argue anymore, or try to convince her. He hadn't wanted to make love to her for any number of reasons. He hadn't wanted to steal her virginity from some man who'd treasure it and deserve it, though God knows no man could treasure it more than he had. He hadn't wanted to love her, knowing he would have to abandon her without warning. And he hadn't wanted to get so close, knowing that he was, in effect, living a lie, simply because the truth was so unbelievable.

  "I can't harm you," he said wearily, knowing she wouldn't believe him. "No pregnancies, no diseases."

  "Does my virginity magically return as well?" she asked tartly.

  He found he could smile. "Counselor, I wish I could say you'd be the death of me, but it's already too late for that."

  "You aren't going to tell me the truth, are you?"

  "You aren't going to believe the truth," he replied. He reached for his shorts, pulling them on with a spare movement, both to protect her uneasy modesty and to try to control his still lively reaction to her.

  It was a mistake. She stared at him, her eyes wide with sudden shock. "What are you wearing?"

  He looked down. They were common enough, baggy white linen shorts that came almost to his knees. He had his custom-made in Ireland, with a row of tiny pearl buttons he was in the midst of fastening. He smiled wryly. "Men's underwear. Made in 1929. They've worn well, haven't they?"

  "Rafferty…"

  He wasn't in the mood to argue. "Why don't you take a long hot bath? I'll see if I can find something for us to eat in your empty icebox."

  "It's not an icebox," she said mutinously, her dark eyes anxious, and he wished she hadn't been a virgin and didn't need time to recover, wished he could push her back down on the bed and start all over again.

  He had to content himself with pressing his mouth against the corner of her eye, feeling her arch up against him, feeling her hands reach for him. "It is to me," he said. "And you're a mouthy dame." He kissed her lips, for good measure, before he headed for the bedroom door.

  "I just wish I knew what you were, Rafferty," she said, her voice forlorn. And he closed the door behind him, trying to shut out temptation.

  Chapter Twelve

  « ^ »

  By the time Helen emerged from the bathroom Rafferty had heated two cans of soup, eating one of them, made six pieces of toast and butter, and smoked three cigarettes. He sat at the café table in the corner of the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the plastic tabletop, his nerves on edge. He would have thought that finally making love to the recalcitrant Ms. Emerson would have taken some of the tension away. Instead, it only seemed to build.

  He'd washed the dishes, more out of boredom than a need for order. He'd called Billy, only to find he'd already headed over to the hospital for nighttime visiting hours. He considered calling Helen's family, then thought better of it. If he called, she'd be out of his hands, no longer his responsibility. He'd have maybe another six hours to enjoy himself.

  But the fact of the matter was, he didn't want to waste even five minutes of his remaining time away from Helen—not if he could help it. And he wasn't ready to trust anyone, even Helen's own family of police, to protect her from someone as devious and murderous as Ricky Drago.

  He had to take care of Drago himself. He had no idea how he was going to manage it—although he still carried Helen's loaded gun, he'd already ascertained that the weapon simply refused to work in his hands. That didn't mean he couldn't lure Drago into doing something to himself. The details were sketchy, but Rafferty's determination was very clear. He alone could stop Drago. And he had to make sure Helen was safe while he did it.

  She looked scrubbed, pink cheeked and shy when she finally walked into the kitchen. She was wearing men's clothes again, a black T-shirt that clung to her subtle curves, faded jeans that hugged her long legs. She'd pulled her brown hair behind her in a ponytail, probably trying to look businesslike. She only looked more luscious.

  "There's soup and toast," Rafferty said, stubbing out his cigarette. "And coffee. Unless you'd rather get something at the hospital."

  She'd been carefully avoiding his gaze. '"The hospital?" she said pouring tomato soup into a mug and bringing it over to the table.

  "I thought you wanted to visit Mary and Billy."

  "I forgot."

  "Well," Rafferty drawled, "things have been distracting the past twenty-four hours."

  She looked at him then, and he wanted to kiss the faint stain of color from her cheekbones. "I'd like to see the baby," she said.

  "Eat your soup first."

  "Are you going to leave me there?"

  He stalled for time, reaching for his cup of black coffee and taking a sip. She could see through him, much too clearly. After tailing her for the past thirty-six hours, how could she know he was planning to pass her on to Billy while he went after Drago himself?

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I know you."

  "You've known me less than two days. That makes you an expert?" He kept his voice cool and mocking, the same tone he used to put pushy women in their place.

  It didn't work with Ms. Emerson. "Yes," she said. "Are you going to answer me?"

  "I've been beside you almost every moment since Billy told me you had a problem. Why should things change at this point?" He reached for his pack of cigarettes. One crumpled, one left. He put it back in his breast pocket with a sigh.

  "I don't know, Rafferty. I just have a bad feeling about this."

  "I'm not going to let Drago hurt you," he said. "No matter what I have to do, I won't let him get to you. I'll protect you from the bad guys."

  "But Rafferty," she said patiently, "who's going to protect me from you?"

  And to that he had no answer at all.

  She let him drive to the hospital. By this time she'd grown inured to the headlong speed with which he drove, and even if her pretty little Toyota was accumulating more than its share of scratches and dings, at least she'd have something to remember him by when he disappeared.

  She had no doubt whatsoever that he would be gone by tomorrow morning. She just didn't believe in his stated destination. People didn't return from the dead, year after year after year. And if they did, they weren't gorgeous-looking gangsters who walked into a virginal state's attorney's life and proceeded to turn it upside down.

  Jamey Rafferty was just a man, either a crazy man, or a man with a twisted sense of humor. Although neither of those explanations rang true, the alternative was far too bizarre. She wasn't going to ask any more questions, especially since she couldn't believe the answers. She was simply going to take what was given her, up to and including every spare minute she had with Rafferty. Tomorrow would be soon enough for reality to intrude.

  There was no sign of that mysterious black sedan following them into the hospital parking lot. She had no doubt whatsoever that Morris, or Drago, or whatever his name was, wanted to kill her. She'd looked into those mad eyes, into the barrel of that lethal-looking gun, and known death.

  She had no doubt that Billy had asked Rafferty to watch over her, or that Rafferty had taken on that task unwillingly. And she knew that by tomorrow morning, Rafferty would be gone.

  She ought to call her family—if she had any sense of self-preservation that was exactly what she'd do. If she called her boss she'd have to come up with proof. If she called her father or brothers she'd have to listen to endless lectures, questions, demands about her personal life, and they'd forcibly remove Jamey Rafferty from her life before she even had a chance to say goodbye.

  Tomorrow was soon enough for that. When she woke up, alone, she'd reach for the phone a
nd call her older brother Eddie. He'd be at her house with a cruiser and an armed guard within minutes. If Drago-Morris thought he could take on the assembled might of the Emerson branch of the Chicago police department he was in for a rude awakening.

  Until then, she'd take her chances with Rafferty. Because something told her that once he left, he'd be gone for good. And she needed to hoard and treasure every second she had left with him.

  Maternity was on the fifth floor. Rafferty put his hand on the small of her back as they entered the elevator, and she told herself the gesture was a protective one, not a romantic one. And still her skin tingled beneath the warmth of his flesh.

  "I thought only family was allowed," she whispered to Rafferty as he moved her along the busy corridor, past eagle-eyed nurses and dewy-eyed new parents.

  "I told them you were Billy's sister."

  "And what does that make you?"

  "Your husband."

  She wanted to hit him. She never would have guessed she'd have such an intense reaction to the thought, but it felt like a blow to her stomach. She wanted him to be her husband. She wanted to carry the baby he said was impossible. She wanted everything from him, but most especially she wanted all his tomorrows. And she wasn't going to get even one more valentine.

  The hospital room was filled with flowers. Billy was sitting in a chair, holding his baby son, while Mary watched fondly. Some of the warmth in her expression faded into anxiety as she spotted Rafferty, but she managed to smile anyway. "We weren't sure if you could make it tonight," she greeted them softly.

  "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," Helen said, skirting the bed, leaving Rafferty in the doorway as she peered over at the tiny, red-faced newborn.

  "Thanks for the flowers, Rafferty," Mary said in her shy little voice. "They're very pretty."

  Helen threw a curious glance over her shoulder at Rafferty, standing still and silent. He must have called in an order for the bouquet, which was an obvious gesture, but if Rafferty was who he'd said he was, mastering the art of phoning in flowers and using credit would be beyond him.