by Anne Stuart
She saw the flash of the knife before Johnny did, and she screamed a warning, enough so that he only landed a glancing blow before it was knocked away, and then Johnny’s big, strong hands were around his throat, choking him. Benny’s struggles grew more frenzied, his legs kicked the floor, and Johnny was going to kill him. She had to do something.
“Don’t!” she cried, coming toward them, thinking she could pull him off the struggling man. “He’s not worth it.” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him off, but he simply knocked her out of his way, almost as if he didn’t hear her, didn’t see her, lost in a bloody haze of violence that had only one conclusion.
For a moment, she was stunned, but it took more than that to stop a twenty-first century woman, and she scrambled to her knees. “Don’t kill him, Johnny. Don’t let him do that to you. I love you.”
Johnny’s hands tightened, his face a mask, and Benny stopped kicking.
Chapter 20
There was nothing but a loud, roaring noise in Johnny’s head as he tightened his grip, squeezing the life out of the Nazi bastard beneath him. The man’s battered eyes were protruding, his bloody mouth open and gasping, his uniform covered in blood, and he didn’t hesitate. He’d done this often enough, it was his job, and he felt nothing but a mindless rage as he pressed his thumbs to deliver the maximum pain in the shortest amount of time, because the soldier needed to be dead, fast, before someone heard them, and he couldn’t get caught. He wouldn’t be any good to anybody if they caught him.
They’d kill him, and he didn’t care if they did, but he wasn’t going to let this vicious bastard hang around to continue his frenzy of torture and rape, and some woman, some child would survive because of him. It was a good day to die. Let them come and find them, but not too soon. Not until Von Eisner was dead.
He could hear her sobbing in the background, the woman he’d tried to save. He thought he hadn’t gotten to her in time, but she was there, begging him, weeping, trying to save the bastard’s life, and he was confused. Why wouldn’t she want the man dead—he’d raped and killed her. But why was she here? “I love you,” she said, but the words barely penetrated. “I love you.”
And he looked down into Benny Morelli’s almost unrecognizable face. No close-cropped Aryan hair, no blood-splattered uniform. Benny Morelli, who deserved to die, but not by his hand.
He pulled his hands away and sat back, dazed. Benny didn’t move—he was probably already dead, and Johnny really didn’t give a damn. There was noise all around him, shouting, voices, and someone strong pulled him away from the body. Police, he realized dazedly, and they were looking at him the way kids would look at a man-eating tiger in the zoo. Wary, but fascinated. He was too tired to roar at them.
He looked around the suddenly crowded room. Someone was bending over Rosa, and she was moving, trying to sit up. And Mollie was there, held back by some of the drivers he’d been playing poker with, and he was glad. He was covered with blood, his fists were numb, and he didn’t want her touching him. She’d seen the monster he was, and her face was white with shock, and he vaguely thought that he’d hit her, shoved her away in his murderous rage.
Someone was working on Benny’s corpse, and he moved, struggling. Not dead yet, Johnny thought, rising to his feet.
No one was holding him, no one was stopping him, no one seemed to think he’d done anything wrong. He took one more look at Mollie, who was staring at him, something unreadable in her eyes, in her pale face, and then he simply walked away.
Chapter 21
Mollie watched him walk away, from the locker room, from the store, maybe even from her life, and she didn’t go after him, when she wanted to so badly. He was wounded, hurting, and she wanted to hold him, love him, fix him, but she knew instinctively that she would only make things worse. He needed to get away, remove himself from this crowded center of violence and rage, and the most loving thing she could do was let him go.
And so, she did. Rosa was sitting up, and someone was cleaning the blood from her face. One eye was swollen shut, but most of the blood seemed to have come from a bloody nose, not some devastating head wound, and Mollie breathed a sigh of relief.
Benny wasn’t in as good shape, but he was breathing, so that, at least, was a mixed blessing. She didn’t particularly care whether he lived or died, but Johnny didn’t need that death on his soul. He had others—she had no doubt about it, and even though World War II was only a distant part of her history lessons, she had a clear sense of how devastating it had been. Seeing its effects up close should have come as no surprise. The fact that so many men seemed to be unscathed by the experience was all the more remarkable, but then, those men were responsible for the dreaded 1950s. Maybe that stultified decade was simply a response to the horrors of war. Whether she liked it or not she was there at the cusp of that time, and she really didn’t want to go through that decade alone.
Paramedics, or whatever they were called, had arrived, and Benny had been unceremoniously dumped onto a stretcher and carted away. No one seemed particularly concerned about him, but it was more than clear who the bad guy was, and if they dropped him on his head before he reached the hospital she wouldn’t have been surprised.
“You okay, miss?” It was another typical Irish cop, like all the others, and she wondered if she’d seen him before. Probably not—half the cops in the room, and there was at least a dozen of them, looked close enough to be brothers or at least cousins.
“Yes,” she said, climbing to her feet. “Johnny got here in time.”
“That Benny’s bad news,” Officer Riley or Muldoon or O’Leary said gravely. “He’s been in and out of the precinct a number of times, but we’ve never made anything stick. I think it will this time.”
“If he makes it.”
“Oh, he’ll make it,” the policeman assured her. “Wouldn’t want the bastard to get off too easy. Where do you think Johnny went?”
She looked up in surprise. “You know Johnny?”
“Sure. Most of us do. He’s a good guy. Plays a wicked hand of poker, minds his own business unless someone’s been beating up women. We look the other way if he tangles with someone who deserves it.”
Of course you do, Mollie thought, her emotions mixed. “Will he face charges?”
The man scoffed. “For beating up a rapist? I don’t know where you come from, miss, but around here we protect our women. His name won’t even show up in my report.”
It was then she realized he was a lieutenant, not just a beat cop, and she felt some of the tension leave her. She shouldn’t approve of police corruption, but if it saved Johnny, she’d pay bribes herself.
“Maybe you should get looked at,” the lieutenant continued. “You seem a little shaken, and you’re sporting a bruise on your cheek.”
From when Johnny had blindly knocked her away. She knew the rules—once a man hit you, you left, no matter how sorry he was, no matter how much he promised never to do it again.
But it hadn’t been Johnny who’d shoved her away. He wasn’t a man who hit women, he was a man who rescued them. He probably rescued children and small animals as well, she thought, her heart breaking. It had been a different man, a man lost in a nightmare, and she intended to make sure that man had no reason to come back.
Come back to me, Johnny. I’m staying. Come back to me.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly. “Can I talk to Rosa?”
“They’re gonna take her to get checked out, but you can have a minute.”
She wove her way through the milling cops and assorted other strangers to kneel at Rosa’s side, startled to see Rosa’s grin in her swollen, bruised face. “We gotta save that umbrella,” she said breathlessly.
Mollie was shocked to find she could laugh. “The Sisterhood of the Umbrella,” she said. “Maybe we can get it mounted.”
Rosa’s own laugh was painful to hear. “I like that. You take care of Johnny, you hear. He’s going to need you, and they tell me I gotta go to the hospital
, even though I’m fine. He didn’t even get my underpants off, the stupid dick.”
Another shaft of relief. “I’ll take care of Johnny.”
It was almost shocking how fast the room emptied. Rosa was carried out on a stretcher, albeit with much more care than they’d hauled Benny away, with only a couple of cops left behind when she made her way back through the cafeteria. The lieutenant was sitting at one of the tables with a couple of men in double-breasted suits whom she knew belonged to Macy’s. One of those men was Ratchett the Floorwalker, and he was looking nervous. Benny had been his stooge, and it looked like that rent was finally coming due.
Give me five minutes alone with him. She was finally ready to confront the men who used women and their power over them. She wanted to slug someone, quite desperately. She couldn’t hit Ratchett, but if a cruel fate sent her back to the future, she would certainly clobber Philip Ronson.
But she wasn’t going back. This was her home now, and if she had to spend the rest of her life in a department store, she would happily do it, as long as Johnny was there.
And to hell with the looming ’50s. She wasn’t doomed to be June Cleaver, vacuuming in her pearls. She could be Audrey Hepburn in leotards and rebellion. This was her home.
In such a cavernous place, it was easy enough to sink into the shadows, make her way back up the stairs to the workshop and the break room beyond it. She felt shaken, dirty, and she needed to get the feel of Benny’s hands off her. She knew she should wait until she was certain the cops had left—the remaining night watchmen never bothered to go past the third floor—but she couldn’t stand the feel of her skin. She showered in the dark, scrubbing her body, her hair, her face, until every trace of Benny was gone, and she stepped out of the tiny stall into the empty bathroom.
It wasn’t empty. Johnny was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, his head tilted back. He’d washed the blood away, even changed his shirt, and she didn’t care. She would have gone to him if he’d been covered with Benny’s blood; she’d always go to him.
She put her arms around him. She was wet from the shower, but it didn’t matter, she simply hugged him, pressing her face against his chest as he stood there, motionless, unresponsive. It didn’t matter—all she needed was to hold him for as long as he let her, and when he slowly lifted his arms and put them around her, she let out a deep breath, sinking further into him.
“I heard you.” His voice was a quiet rasp, vibrating from his chest. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t here. I was someplace else, and I only knew I had to kill him. But I heard you.” The stiffness began leaving his body, and he rested his face against her head.
She felt enclosed, enveloped, so safe, so warm. It didn’t matter that she was soaking wet and naked in a utilitarian bathroom—she was where she belonged. “Did you hear what I said?” Her own voice sounded raw as well. She should have laughed—they were both so pathetic. She wanted to cry.
“Yes,” he said.
“But you don’t believe me.” There was no question in her voice, and she told herself it didn’t matter. She believed enough for both of them.
“I came back, didn’t I?”
It was a time for grand gestures, elegant lovemaking, high drama and declarations.
Instead, Mollie broke into noisy tears.
She heard his rusty laugh through the noise she was making, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh too, but since she’d turned into a perfect waterworks, she didn’t really have the choice. She just let him hold her, stroke her, comfort her, when he was the one who needed comfort. All her efforts at self-control only made it worse, and he finally picked her up, pushing through the door back into the break room and laying her down on the sofa.
The room was filled with an eerie blue light—the streetlights filtered by the gently falling snow—and he squatted beside her, looking at her from hooded eyes. She tried to regain control, but a watery hiccup came of its own volition, followed by another, and his wry smile made her want to wail.
“You gotta stop crying,” he said gently. “How can I kiss you if you cry?”
She reached up and pulled him down, and he seemed to have no trouble finding her mouth after all. His kiss was slow, languorous, allowing her moments to breathe as he bit softly at her mouth, letting his tongue slide over her lower lip and then his teeth tug at it. And then the tears fled, as she kissed him back, ripping at his clean white shirt so that buttons went flying across the room, and she didn’t care.
There was something deliciously wanton about being naked, wet, vulnerable beneath his bigger, stronger body, and she slid her hands beneath his open shirt, tugging it free from his trousers, sliding her fingers across his hot skin. She wanted him naked too, she wanted them so wrapped in each other that there was no end and no beginning. She reached for his belt, determine to be deft this time, when his hand shot out and covered hers, stopping her frantic tugging.
“No,” he said, an awful finality in his voice. “You need more than what I can give you.”
His hand was too strong, easily trapping hers, but she could feel his erection against her skin. She narrowed her eyes. “You really want to risk me crying again?” she warned him.
“You cry all the time anyway,” he answered, unmoved by her threat. “You need someone who can give you a good life, someone who can walk outside in the sunlight, who’ll marry you and take care of you and give you four kids and a house on Long Island.”
She couldn’t control her shudder. “So I can vacuum in pearls and high heels?”
His forehead creased. “Why would you do that?”
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t live on Long Island, I think four children is a bit extreme, and I don’t need taking care of.” He lifted that fucking eyebrow, and she was starting to get annoyed. “Don’t make me hit you, Larsen,” she warned.
But she wasn’t getting anywhere—he’d gone back to that dark place of loss as he tried to push himself up, away from her. “I shouldn’t have come back,” he said, and she didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself. “I had to say goodbye, but it wasn’t supposed to come to this.”
He was very strong; she knew that, but she threaded her arms around his waist and held on, determined to fight. To fight for him.
“Where else was it supposed to go?” she said. “This is where we should be, and I have no intention of ever letting you go.”
“Mollie...” he said patiently. “I mean, Madison...”
He hadn’t used her original name since the first day she’d been here, and it sounded odd in his voice. “Mollie,” she said firmly, correcting him. “I’m Mollie, and I love you, and this is where I belong.”
He held out for one moment longer. And then it was as if a dam broke inside him, and she was no longer pleading, and he was all need, demand that matched her own. They rolled off the wide sofa, onto the floor, and he was shoving down his pants, her hands were everywhere, her mouth was everywhere. She wanted to feast on his skin, drown in his body, his heat, his strength, she wanted him inside her, now, fast, hard, but now that the die was cast, he wouldn’t be rushed. Pushing her back, he kissed her, licked her, down her body, his mouth fastening on her nipple and drawing it deep, brushing it with his teeth, and she let out a startled cry, arching up, as his hand slid down between her legs.
He was so, so good with his hands—of course he was. He was an artist, and he knew just where to touch, how hard, how soft, and when he moved his mouth to her other breast, he bit it, just enough, and her body convulsed as he used his thumb on her, and she slammed her hands over her mouth to stifle her scream.
He didn’t stop. She was just starting to come down from the orgasm when the feeling began to build again, rushing through her, his thumb busy as his fingers slid inside, and it wasn’t enough, she needed his cock, and then it was too much, and this time she couldn’t even silence herself, her slow, keening wail echoing through the room, possibly through the whole damned store.
Johnny wasn’t worried. Sh
e cried out when he pulled free, moving between her knees, but an unexpected need spiked through her, and she managed to sit up despite the shivering weakness in her body, putting her hand in the center of his gorgeous chest, pushing him back.
He raised a questioning eyebrow—of course he did, but she didn’t care. She leaned forward and licked his chest, tasting the salty sweet texture, and when she pushed at him, he lay back docilely enough, letting her kiss him, taste him, bite him.
She didn’t know who was the more shocked when she licked at the solid column of flesh rising from his body, and then she didn’t think at all, letting her mind dissolve as she leaned down and took him into her mouth, sucking him in deep, and it was wonderful, the feel of him surging into her, pulsing as she drew him in deeper. This was hers—she owned him, she owned this, and she wanted more, she wanted to wrap her tongue around him until he exploded inside her, and she wanted to swallow. She wanted to take everything, but he was too big, her mouth too small, and she almost choked in frustration, his hoarse reaction, his hands in her hair, helping guide her, were almost too much as she tried to take more, all of him.
And then he caught her shoulders and pulled her away, up and over his body, catching her hungry mouth with his, and they rolled across the floor, ending up against the door, nothing but need and lust and sensation. When he lifted her, turned her, she moved easily, up to her knees as he pushed into her from the back, and the sensation was astonishing as he pushed against something that made her entire body shake, and she still needed more, she needed him to drive away her last fears, she needed him to take her so completely that he held nothing back, wiping them both clean.
“Harder,” she whispered. “Please. Harder.”
The last of his control disappeared, and he slammed into her, so hard that she almost fell forward, but she held on, taking him with powerful, almost feline pleasure, just as she wanted, harder, faster, turning into a cloud of sensation and nothing more, pushing, pumping, almost brutal, and when she came he erupted inside her. His arm was wrapped under her and holding her tight against him as she contracted, milking him, drawing everything from him, for a breathless eternity.