Turning, she walked back to the campsite. When she stepped into the light, Killian made a sharp sound of relief.
She glanced at him, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Nerves tightened her stomach, set off a flurry of butterflies.
"Come sit by the fire," he said, not moving toward her. "We could ... talk."
The suggestion caught her off guard. "About what?"
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He frowned, and at the movement, the shadows on his face shifted. "Does it have to be about something? Jesus, Lainie, haven't you ever just shot the shit with a man?"
"No." The single word hurt, revealed so much more than she wanted to reveal.
"Come on." He stepped backward, sat cross-legged on the ground.
She moved slowly toward him, dreading each step. The fire's heat washed through her in a shudder. About five feet from him, she sat down and drew her legs against her chest.
For an eternity, neither of them spoke. Lainie stared hard at the fire, trying not to feel warmed by it. "You shouldn't have done that," she said without thinking, and she honestly didn't know if she was talking to him or herself. The moment the words escaped, she wished she could take them back.
"Done what?" he asked, but he knew. She knew he knew.
Reluctantly she looked up. "Kissed me."
"You kissed me first."
"Yeah, but my kiss was nothing. Yours . . ." Across the fire, their gazes locked, and her words dwindled into silence. She tried to think of a way to finish the sentence that would make a joke out of it. Nothing came to mind. Her words hung there in the quiet, limp and pathetic.
"I felt it, too, Lainie."
Her heart tugged hard. She bit down on her lower lip and wished she could look away, but his gaze held her in a velvet grip that seemed to promise everything. "I didn't say I felt anything."
"No, you didn't. I did."
Suddenly she believed everything she saw in his
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eyes, and it scared her to death. She lurched to her feet. "This is about sex, isn't it?"
He frowned up at her. "What?"
She surged toward him, yanking her sweater off and flinging it toward the tent. "This . . . seduction of yours. It's about sex. You want to have sex with me."
He rose slowly, his gaze fixed on her face. "Lainie, don't�"
"You don't have to screw with my mind, Killian. If you want sex, just ask for it." She laughed, a harsh, hollow sound that brought tears to her eyes. She fumbled desperately with the buttons on her pants. Her fingers felt swollen and useless. "Anyone can have sex with me."
He grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her to him. She tilted her face to say something�anything. But the look in his eyes stole her voice. He looked sad and infinitely tired.
"Lainie," he whispered hoarsely, drawing her close for a hug. His strong arms curled around her and held fast.
With that touch, so gentle and reassuring and safe, she felt all the fight go out of her. She sagged against him.
Finally he drew back, but didn't let go.
Not wanting to, but unable to stop herself, she looked up at him. "I don't know what you want from me, Killian." Her voice was harsh and barely audible. Shame filled her chest, made it difficult to breathe. "But whatever it is, I don't have it to give."
"Maybe you do."
She stilled, almost forgot to breathe. Her heart beat so rapidly, it sounded like thunder in her ears. It was a provocative thought, romantic. Maybe ...
She had a second's worth of fairy tale, then reality
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hit, crushing her newborn hope. She'd had these thoughts a million times in the past, and a million times she'd been forced to admit the humiliating truth. There was something in her, something dark and ugly, that made men push her away. And she was too old now to think that she could change.
"I don't have anything to give you, Killian." "You couldn't be more wrong, Lainie." At the quiet, gentle way he said her name, she looked up. He touched her cheek, a feather-stroke that brought a shiver of response.
"I'm not wrong, Killian. Trust me." "No," he said softly. "You trust me." The words, so close to Viloula's advice, made Lainie's heart beat faster. "What do you mean?"
"Lainie, it's been fifteen years since I wanted a woman." He paused, seemed to steel himself. "And that was Emily. I loved her." Lainie swallowed. "I know."
"Since Emily's death, I haven't cared about anyone." He sighed. "No one ... until now." "Don't�"
He silenced her with a look. "I don't pretend to know what it means, or where it's going with us, Lainie. But I know this: You can give me what I want. Because all I want is you."
She shook her head. "You don't know me, Killian. If you did�" "Then let me."
She frowned. "Let you what?" "Let me know you."
She gasped at the quietly spoken words and stumbled away from him. When there was some distance between them, she stopped. "I-I can't," she said.
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"Lainie
The way he said her name made her want to cry. She wished suddenly that things were different, that she were different. She wanted to take her words back, say she'd try. But she couldn't manage it. Years' worth of false hopes and bitter disappointments kept her silent.
She stood stiffly, stared up at him, unable to say anything.
A gentle rain started to fall. She felt the cool splash of droplets on her upturned face, smelled the fresh scent of the water mingling with the aroma of soap that clung to her skin.
The shower blurred her vision, turned him into a tall, silver-haired smear before her eyes, until she couldn't read the expression on his face anymore, couldn't tell if he was smiling or frowning.
She stepped back and swiped at her eyes. It was gone; the moment of intimacy, of possibility, melted into the rain and was washed away.
Tears, she thought tiredly. It was as if God were up there, crying softly for what she'd become.
Chapter Twenty-two
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Killian and Lainie lay side by side in the little tent, listening to the rain patter the dark fabric, watching the squiggly lines slide down the sloping sides. Outside, the fire was a dim, inconstant glow.
Lainie lay with her eyes wide open, the sleeping bag drawn taut across her chin.
Let me know you.
It was amazing how romantic those words were. She felt as if she'd waited a lifetime to hear them, to believe them. But now that the moment was at hand, she was terrified to open up. She couldn't imagine why he cared about her, and she couldn't help feeling that it was an illusion. Maybe even something out of her book that had no basis in fact, that didn't really exist.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Her thoughts were far too jumbled and depressing to reveal. She shrugged. "I don't know ... just listening to the rain, I guess."
They lapsed into silence again, amid the thumping splatter of the rain.
"Tell me something about yourself, Lainie," he said after a while.
She tensed. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything. What's your favorite color? 283
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What's your birthday? What food do you like? Where'd you grow up? ... Anything."
She answered slowly. "Black. December thirteenth. Anything someone else cooks."
He laughed. "You forgot where you grew up."
She had hoped he wouldn't notice her omission. "That answer's not so easy. There's a long version and a short one. Most people prefer the short."
He turned on his side. Bending one arm, he rested his face in his palm and stared down at her. "Then I guess I want the long version."
She was thrown back in time for an instant, to the years she spent alone, huddled in doorways or locked behind the hospital's iron bars. She squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the terrifying images that leapt to mind. "It's boring."
She felt his gaze on her face, probing and intense. Part of her wanted to roll away from his s
crutiny. But another part of her, the part that had recently come to life, wanted to know what he saw when he looked in her eyes.
"Not to me, it wouldn't be."
She looked at him finally. No one had ever asked her the question outright before�except the shrinks and social workers who were paid to ask but rarely listened to the answers. She was so used to lying about her past, either for shock value or to paint a pretty picture for Kelly, that she'd almost forgotten how much it hurt to tell the truth. Their faces were close, close enough to kiss, and the thought of it filled her with longing. "It's so ugly. If you knew the things I've done ..."
He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh or a combination of the two. "Look who you're talking to, Lainie. I'm an outlaw. I've lied, I've cheated, I've stolen. I've pointed guns at innocent
women and taken their money. I've killed men who probably had more right to live than I do. And none of that is the worst of my crimes."
She laughed shakily and glanced up at him. "Aren't we a lovely pair."
"We could be. Maybe . . ."
For a second it felt as if her heart had stopped. Her smile faded. She leaned toward him, drawn to his unspoken words by a powerful, intuitive force. "Maybe what?"
"Maybe together we could be more than we are separately. I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . ." He shrugged.
"It doesn't sound ridiculous."
"Maybe ... maybe this is what ordinary people feel every day, and it's just new to us."
"Is that possible?" she whispered, afraid to let herself hope.
"I don't know what's possible anymore. Do you?"
She thought about that. In the past week, she'd flown back in time, reexperienced her own past life, and kissed a figment of her own imagination . .. and liked it.
No, she didn't have a real good handle on what was possible.
"I know this, Lainie. You matter to me. And I haven't said that to a woman in fifteen years."
She reeled at the simple declaration. And I haven't heard it in a lifetime.
She pulled back slightly and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't look at him right now, because if she did, if she looked in his eyes and saw the emotion that matched those words, she'd lose control.
"Lainie?"
Reluctantly she opened her eyes. He gave her an un-
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derstanding smile. "Come on, let's go to sleep. Tomorrow's gonna come awful early."
"I don't sleep much."
"Come here."
She sidled cautiously toward him and lay stiff, her breathing uneven, her fingers clenched around the sleeping bag.
He leaned down toward her, so close she could feel the soft strains of his breathing against her face. She slammed her eyes shut.
"I'm right here, Lainie. Remember that."
Then he did the most amazing thing. He kissed her on the temple. His lips lingered against her skin, brushing, touching, while his fingers moved soothingly through her hair.
She let out a small sigh. All her life she'd waited for someone to help her sleep, to tell her bedtime stories and stroke her brow and sing soft lullabies. Everything she imagined a mother would do. She'd waited first as a child, alone and friendless and trapped in the foster care system, then as a young girl living on the cold, hard streets, and finally as a woman, searching for love in dark alleys and blind corners, from men who didn't know the word. Never once had she found even a hint of honest caring. Until now, until she met an impossible man from an impossible place and time.
Until Killian. He could say whatever he wanted. He could rant and rave and tell her he was no good for her, but she knew the truth. Deep down, where it mattered, he was a decent, honorable man. And if she let herself, she could fall in love with him.
He slid one arm beneath her neck and gently turned her, drawing her against his body. His other arm circled her waist and held her tightly. His breath rustled the back of her hair.
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The world spiraled down to the two of them, locked together in a small tent in the center of a huge, darkened desert. The rain hammered on, wind nudged the canvas walls, but inside they were warm and cozy and dry.
And safe.
For the first time in her life, sleep came easily.
The shadows twisted in on themselves and rolled forward, menacing, ugly shapes that rumbled with laughter and lowered voices.
"No." The plea slipped from her mouth. With some part of her mind, she heard herself speak, but it sounded far away, so far away. "Please ... don't ..."
An impenetrable, suffocating blackness descended on her. She gasped and tried to breathe. The sharp smell of ammonia exploded in her nostrils, made her gag and sputter. Cold, clammy sweat crawled across her forehead.
Leather straps spiraled through the darkness, slid toward her with a snapping, familiar sound. She writhed to get away from them and brought her hands up to cover her face. Hands pushed her down, pinned her until she couldn't move. Voices clattered around her in unintelligible monosyllables.
Footsteps pounded through the darkness, got fainter and fainter.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't go!"
Something or someone nudged her side. "Lainie, wake up. Lainie."
She snapped upright. Panting, gasping, she looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was sitting in light, pale, golden-green light that seemed to come from all around her. Walls wavered, pressed in on her.
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Panic swelled in her chest. Where was she? Oh, Jesus, where was she?
"Lainie?" The voice came at her from the light, warm and comforting and familiar.
Relief washed through her in a shudder. Killian. She twisted around to see him. He was sitting beside her, the sleeping bag bunched around his hips. He was looking at her with concern, his silver-gray hair glinting in the strands of sunlight that pulsed through the tent's green canvas walls.
"Killian." Without thinking, she threw herself in his arms.
His arms curled around her, gave her shelter from the horror of the dream. "It's okay, Lainie," he murmured, stroking her sweat-dampened hair.
A shuddering, desperate breath escaped her. She squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in the warmth of his body. Never in her life had she been comforted after the nightmare, and the luxury of it flooded her senses. She curled her arms around him, pressed her cheek to his chest.
"It's okay. You're safe."
At the quiet, comforting words, Lainie burst into tears. She felt a moment's confusion at her reaction, stupid and childlike, and then, almost magically, she forgot herself, lost herself in the comfort of his arms. And suddenly she was crying for all of it, for the lost years that should have been a childhood, for the parents who'd run away and left a little girl alone, for the daughter she missed more than life itself.
She shuddered at the force of her tears and snuggled closer to him. He stroked her hair, whispered soothing, nonsensical words that mattered less than the gentle sound of his voice. It was the touch she'd waited for all
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her life, first from her mother, then from her father, and then from every two-bit hood she'd ever met.
The tears flowed until there were no more tears inside her, until she was depleted and spent and suffering from a pounding headache.
She sniffled and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. She knew she should feel ashamed of her weakness, that she should pull away and smile up at him and pretend it didn't matter. But for once, she didn't want to apologize for something she'd done, something she was. And she felt better. It was as if those tears had been trapped inside her chest for years, a cold, solid block of ice against her heart.
Sniffing, she drew back and looked up at him. What she saw made her draw in a shaky breath. There was a sad tenderness in his gaze, as if her pain had somehow become his.
It felt impossibly familiar, that look, as if she'd seen it on his face a hundred times. Once again all the crazy things Vi had said seemed ... not so crazy.
/> She looked up at him. "You're not lying, are you?"
"About what?"
"You ... c-care about me."
He grazed her cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. "Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Jesus, Lainie." His voice was so soft, she could scarcely hear it. "Wasn't anyone ever good to you?"
She gazed up at him, achingly aware of how much she was beginning to care for him, and even more aware of how desperately she wanted to kiss him again. The memory of every kind word he'd ever uttered, every quiet promise he'd ever made, came back, filling her with a warmth she'd never imagined feeling.
"You," she said softly. "You've been good to me."
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He sighed. "That only proves how bad your life has been."
She barely heard him. She felt light-headed, caught up in a confusing kaleidoscope of emotions.
But through it all, a constant, was the knowledge that this moment of time was an impossible gift. For the first time, she saw the magnitude of the miracle, and it filled her with awe. She felt like a person who'd died and seen the light and would never be afraid of death again.
God had given her this gift, this moment. For years she'd railed at Him, demanded retribution and recompense for her own failings and pain. She had Kelly, and her daughter meant so much to her. But so often, when Kelly was asleep, Lainie had felt achingly, depressingly alone. She'd lain in her solitary bed, praying, praying for someone to come into her life to stay.
She'd thought that no one was listening to her prayers, then she'd thought He didn't exist, but she'd been so wrong.
He'd heard her every prayer, every whispered little-girl dream, and He'd answered them in a more stunning, more miraculous way than she'd ever imagined. And after this, no matter what happened in her life from now on, she'd never be the same again.
God had given her Killian and let her know what it felt like to fall in love.
Love.
The word caught her off guard. She felt a sharp flare of terror, and instinctively she tried to call back the thought. But it wouldn't go; it was lodged in her heart like a shard of glass. She felt it with every breath, piercing and pinching.
A sob caught in her throat. She stared up at Killian. Why did it hurt so much to realize that she loved him?
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It shouldn't feel this way. She should have felt exultant, excited . . . instead of lonelier and scared. Jesus, so scared . ..
She looked up at him, saw the perplexed look in his eyes, and knew that she'd been silent too long. Her heartbeat sped up. A ragged sense of panic clogged in her chest, made her breath come in short, sharp gasps.
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