by Anne Stuart
Rafferty stepped into the light, and Helen sucked in her breath as she saw his face. There was no mark on it from the gun that had been fired point-blank at him. No mark, but a deadly purpose.
"You want to die, Drago?" he asked, his voice soft and menacing. "Stupid question—of course you want to die. You want to be with Lizzie again. Let Helen go. There are police crawling all over this building. Didn't you know Ms. Emerson comes from a family of cops? All it took was one phone call and half the force is on its way."
"Do you think I care? Cops couldn't touch me back then—they won't get me now." He stroked the gun against Helen's cheek, and it was all she could do not to scream.
"You're not invulnerable, Ricky. I'm one up on you that way. We're a little more evenly matched this time. Stop hiding behind your hostage. Are you afraid of me? Afraid that this time I might be able to do it?"
"You can't take me," Drago said in a high-pitched shriek, pushing Helen away and rising to his feet. "I'm not afraid of anything, and I'm not afraid of an East Coast jerk like you, with your fancy clothes and your fancy ways. You think you had Moran fooled, but he laughed at you behind your back. We all did. We knew you didn't have the guts when things got rough. You didn't refuse out of scruples, you refused to go along with the rough stuff because you were scared. You couldn't shoot a living soul…"
Rafferty raised the gun in his hand, pointing it at Drago. "But then, who knows if you qualify as a living soul, Ricky," he said in a shivery, gentle tone of voice, aiming the gun. "Let's see." And the sound of the gun being cocked in the stillness was as audible as an actual firing.
Drago's face turned sickly white. "You can't," he gasped, taking a step backward, forgetting about Helen. "After all these years…"
"After all these years," Rafferty said, advancing on him, a slow, steady pace that drove all thought of his hostage out of Drago's deranged mind, "I finally can."
And then Drago smiled, a ghastly travesty of humor. "No, you can't," he said. "Not if I'm not threatening your little lady friend. You can't shoot me in cold blood, even if you know I deserve it." He took another, deliberate step away from Helen, holding his arms up, the gun still in one hand. "Go ahead, Rafferty. Let's see if you can play the cosmic avenger."
He couldn't do it. Helen knew it, Drago knew it. Rafferty couldn't shoot him down in cold blood, and that fact was his salvation. And their possible doom. The gun wavered in Rafferty's strong hand, then lowered as he released the firing mechanism. "Get the hell out of here, Drago," he said wearily.
"No way." He whirled around, the gun raised and aimed straight at Helen's head, when a volley of shots filled the air. She knew that sound, the noise of a thousand drumbeats, the roar of thunder, as Drago's body was riddled with bullets. And then all was an eerie silence.
Helen reached Drago's body at the same moment Rafferty did, and Rafferty took his hand, holding it hard. "Damn," Drago wheezed. "Who would have thunk it? A copper finally got me in the end. See you, Raff…" His voice trailed off into silence. An eternal one. And Helen knew with absolute certainty that there would be no more valentines for Ricky Drago.
There were police all around her, pulling her away from the body, pulling her away from Rafferty. She knew half of them, but at least none of her family was present.
"I'm okay," she said as someone tried to check her. "What about Billy?"
"Just a flesh wound." It was Rafferty's voice behind her, a voice she never thought to hear again. "They'll take him to the same hospital as Mary."
She turned to look at him across the crowded rooftop. Ignoring a dozen curious cops, she ran into his arms, holding tight, hiding her face against his chest.
And somewhere in the wintry silence, a dog began to howl.
Chapter Fourteen
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The apartment was still and silent when Rafferty finally shut the door behind them. He didn't bother to switch on the light, and the darkness was a blessed relief to Helen's ragged nerves. She slumped against him, exhausted, too weary even to cry, and his arms were tight, strong, comforting. The beat of his heart was slow and steady beneath her ear, the heat of him was palpable through his formal clothes. He was real, he was there. But for how long?
She tried to remember Billy's words to her as they'd bundled him onto a stretcher. He'd been pale, in shock, but he'd managed a weak smile. "Don't think about it," he whispered. "That's what Mary wanted me to tell you. Just take each moment as it comes, and don't think about the past. It's too crazy. Take what you can and hold on to it."
Helen was trying to do just that. The last day and a half seemed nothing short of insane—a dreamlike excursion from reality that both exhausted and overwhelmed her. She never wanted it to end. And if she could believe Rafferty, it was about to end, all too soon.
"Billy will be all right," Rafferty murmured into her hair, his hands strong and comforting on her narrow back. She was huddled into his overcoat, and his own clothes were wet from melted snow. She sighed, pressing against him, wanting to absorb herself into his very bones.
Rafferty's powers never ceased to amaze Helen. His ability to return from the dead, to take a bullet in the face with no aftereffect were impressive enough. His ability to withstand the assembled, familial power of the Chicago police department was nothing short of miraculous.
He might not have been quite so successful at expediting the removal of Drago's body and sending the dozen police on their way with promises of full cooperation if members of her immediate family had been present. As it was, there were two honorary uncles, three ex-partners and a couple of patrolmen she'd worked with in the past, all with a personal interest in Helen's well-being and an instinctive distrust for the still, silent stranger who was overruling them.
Rafferty won. Once Billy was stabilized, his color pale but his pulse steady, once the initial questions were answered, Rafferty simply got rid of them. And no one, up to and including honorary uncle Tommy Lapatrie who'd bounced baby Helen on his knee after her christening could stand up to him.
"I keep thinking about Drago," she whispered in the darkness, pressing her face against his damp white shirt, his warm chest. "To see him cut down like that…" She shuddered, and Rafferty's hold tightened. "Did they have to use machine guns?" she whispered.
"They didn't."
She raised her head, as a fresh chill ran through her body. "What do you mean? I heard them, I saw them…"
"A police sharpshooter killed him. Three bullets, just to make certain."
"But I heard… And the dog…" she said.
"Don't think about it, Helen. It was another time, another place. Drago is where he belongs now, and if you ask me, he's happy to be there. Losing his wife put him back over the edge. Now he can rest."
She looked up at him. "Is that supposed to be comforting?" she asked. "Is that what you're expecting? A nice, eternal rest? If I can believe what you've been telling me…"
"Don't believe a word I've said." He cupped her face with his strong hands, running his sensitive thumbs across her trembling mouth. "It's all a pack of lies. Just believe in the moment. That's all anyone ever has."
"That's what Billy told me," Helen whispered, looking into his bleak, sorrow-filled eyes.
"Billy would know."
"I just have one question."
"Don't ask it," Rafferty said, his voice desperate. "It will only make things worse. Either I'll lie to you, and you'll hate me, or I'll tell you the truth, and you'll wind up hating me anyway."
"I'm not going to ask if you love me, Jamey," she managed a pragmatic tone of voice, and his mouth began to curve in a reluctant smile. "I know the answer, even if you don't. I just want to know if you'd stay. If it were up to you."
"I don't think I should answer that, either."
She reached up and took his face in her hands, his dear, lost face. "I'm not giving you a choice, mister," she said firmly. "Would you stay?"
For a moment he didn't say a word. And then he closed his eyes, and she co
uld see his soul flash across the dark planes of his face. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away."
From somewhere in the distance they could hear the sound of Crystal's grandfather clock, beginning the slow, sad chime of midnight. "Are you about to turn into a pumpkin?" she whispered, her fingers tightening.
He shook his head. "By tomorrow morning," he said, his voice rough.
"Then we have time? A few more hours?"
"A few more hours," Rafferty said.
"It will have to be enough." She reached up and kissed him, her mouth open against his, tasting his darkness and sorrow, tasting the decades.
The apartment was warm and dark and safe. Outside the storm raged, inside all was heat and flesh and love. She wasn't quite sure how they made it into the bedroom. She was trembling as she closed the door behind them and began to strip the clothes off him, pushing his jacket and shirt onto the floor, reaching for his belt buckle. She half expected him to protest, to take control, but he seemed to know she had to be the one to take the lead, to touch, to kiss, to run her mouth down his chest to the waistband of his trousers, to unfasten the unexpected row of buttons, to touch him, hold him, reveling in the warmth and strength of him, in his muffled groan of pleasure. He was like silk and steel in her hand, pulsing with desire, and she wanted more. In the few short hours remaining she wanted everything, a lifetime to last her through the long empty nights that stretched ahead of her, without him. She'd waited twenty-nine years for him. She wasn't about to settle for anything less.
"Take off your clothes," he said, and his voice was rough in the moonlit darkness, rough and caressing.
She obeyed, pulling the baggy sweater over her head, skimming her jeans down over her hips and kicking them away. She reached up to undo the front clasp of her thin scrap of a bra, but his large hand covered hers, stopping her, and he drew her closer, putting his hot, wet mouth over her breast, suckling it through the wisp of lace that covered her.
His hands slid down her sides, along her hips beneath the silk panties, cupping her, pulling her against him. Her knees felt weak, trembly, her heart was racing, her pulses were full and flowing. She was overwhelmed with longings so fierce, so intense that she was afraid she might fly apart. She needed him, all of him, in every way possible. She wanted him hard and fast, she wanted him slow and lingering. She wanted forever. And she only had one more night.
He kicked out of the rest of his clothes and pulled her over to the bed. She lay down with him, leaning over him as he lay back against the pillows, and her hair was a curtain around them, shutting out the cold February night. She kissed his lips, running her tongue along the firm edges of his mouth as he tried to kiss her back. She moved her mouth down the tautly muscled planes of his chest, touching, tasting, savoring him, storing a thousand sensations inside her. She kissed his stomach, his navel, his hips. And then she put her mouth on him, feeling him jerk with surprise, his hands threading her hair, holding her there, gently, as she loved him, she loved him, and she never wanted it to end.
She was trembling, covered with sweat, when he pulled her away, and she fought for a moment. "Wait," she said. "I want to…"
"I want to come inside you," Rafferty said. "Not just your mouth. I need all of you. Now." He pulled her up and over him, so that she lay full-length on top of him, her hands clutching his shoulders.
He reached up and unfastened the bra she was still wearing. He pulled off her silk panties, roughly, and threw them off the bed. "I don't want to hurt you again," he said. "But I can't help it. It's too soon…"
"Show me," she said, overriding his concern. "We only have a few more hours. Show me what to do."
He groaned, and his last attempt at restraint vanished as he reached between her legs to the heated, aching center of her. She arched against his hand, whimpering softly with pleasure, and in the darkness he smiled, murmuring to her, telling her how sweet and responsive she was, how soft and sleek and damp and hot she was, and how much he needed, wanted her.
"Slowly, love," he whispered as he positioned her above him, throbbing and ready. "Very slowly. Make it last. God, Helen…" the words were a jumble of pleasure as she followed his lead, sinking slowly, filling herself with his strength.
There was no pain this time. Just a tightness, a stretching, followed by the most glorious burgeoning inside her as she flowed around him, her heart bursting, her soul in flight as he held her hips in his big hands and showed her a slow, steady rhythm that was likely to drive her mad. His control was greater than hers. When she was ready to shake apart, reaching for something beyond her grasp, he simply rolled her over on the bed, covering her, surging against her with a slow, steady pace that made her want to scream, to pound at his shoulders and weep.
And suddenly his control was gone as well, and he thrust into her, again and again, in a frenzy of need that brought forth her own wild response, and when he went rigid in her arms, his body arched against hers, his voice lost in a strangled cry, she was with him, shattering around him, tossed into the maelstrom of a love that knew no boundaries of time and space, life and death.
His hands were still tight on her, and she hoped he'd leave a mark, a bruise, anything to hold on to after he left. Something to remind herself that he'd really been here. His face was buried in her hair, his heart still racing against hers, and she wanted to cling so fiercely that all the forces of heaven and hell couldn't touch him. And death shall have no dominion—where did that line come from, Shakespeare or the Bible? She only wished it were true.
Eventually their breathing slowed. "I'm crushing you," he muttered into her hair, making no move to get off her.
"I'm glad. Don't leave." Her body made an involuntary jerk at her choice of words. "I mean, don't…"
"I know what you mean." He lifted his head, looking down at her, and for the first time his face was oddly peaceful. No dark mockery, no secrets lurking behind his eyes. "I didn't want to do this to you."
She found she could smile, still wrapped tightly in his embrace. "Really? You could have fooled me."
He kissed her, lightly touching her tender lips. "I didn't want to make love to you, and then leave you," he said patiently. "You deserve so much more…"
"True," she said, indulging in her own light-hearted mockery, "but I don't happen to want anyone but you. Will you come back to me? Next year?" She didn't bother to try to disguise the anxiety and need in her voice. He would have heard it anyway.
"I can't ask you to wait three hundred and sixty-five days…"
"Three hundred and sixty-three," she corrected. "And I've already waited twenty-nine years for you. What's another three hundred days, more or less?"
"Helen, I…"
This time she stopped him, putting her fingers against his mouth. "You didn't want to say that, remember?" she whispered. "Tell me when you come back. I'll be waiting for you."
"I don't want you to…"
"I'll be waiting," she said, implacably.
He closed his eyes, fighting it for one more moment. And then he opened them, and there was love and acceptance in the sunlit depths. "I'll be back."
"I know you will," she said, her voice sounding strange and deep to her own ears. "And this lifetime will be for us." She let her eyes drift closed, unable to keep them open a moment longer.
She didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to lose one second, one moment, one breath, one heartbeat. But her body had its own needs, its own wisdom. She'd just survived the most tumultuous forty-eight hours of her life, and she needed rest, renewal, no matter how much she fought against it. She closed her eyes, drinking in the weight of him against her, the scent of his skin, the sound of his breathing. And then she slept.
Rafferty waited until she was sound asleep, waited until he could wait no longer, and then he pulled out of her arms, gently, lying beside her, watching her in the moonlit darkness as she slept.
The snow had stopped long ago—even before they'd come down from the roof. The time up there seemed strange and dis
tant. He'd never seen so many cops in one place at one time. It was enough to make him nervous.
But he hadn't been. He'd been too concerned with Helen, her face pale and crumpled, her muscles weak, her eyes wide and loving. Too concerned with his unbreakable date with destiny, and the need to cram every minute of living, of loving, in before he had to go.
He lay in bed with her now, touching her gently, pushing the hair away from her face. He could see a trace of dried tears on her cheeks, and he wanted to taste them. He was so hungry for her, so starved for her, that he could never get enough.
He couldn't rid himself of his sense of rightness, of belonging. He knew he should regret touching her, taking her, loving her. Knew he should regret the fact that she'd be waiting for him.
But he couldn't. Logic and should-have-beens had no place in his life. He only knew what was right. And Helen was right, for now and for always. Even if it was only forty-eight hours at a time.
He found himself thinking about Elena. With her pitch-black hair, bright blue eyes, her small, plump body and her old-world ways, she was as far removed from a modern woman like Helen Emerson as she could be.
Where had those words come from? The words of a woman long dead, a woman who'd never been his, except in his heart. Spoken in Elena's husky voice. The words of the woman he finally loved.
It made no sense, and he was far too weary to try to understand it. He'd fought for years, hoping to make sense of it, and no sense had emerged. He'd learned just to accept each day as it came.
He leaned over and feathered a kiss against Helen's bee-stung lips. He'd kissed her too hard, too often, and he wanted to kiss her again. But most of all he wanted to simply lie there and watch her, so that the last thing he saw was her peaceful, beautiful, sleeping face. To carry with him into his own tiny share of eternity.