by Anne Stuart
Hell and damnation. Why couldn’t he be like other people, simply stay dead once he was killed? Why did he have to come back to troubles like these, impossible troubles? Why did he have to come back to a woman who disturbed his equilibrium, scraped his nerves, fired his libido and generally drove him crazy?
He did a subtle reconnoiter of the apartment, making sure every entranceway was locked and barred. If Helen noticed his edginess she was too nervous herself to comment on it. His next step was to turn on the television. Home shopping was finished for the night, and an old Humphrey Bogart movie was playing. One that still looked strangely modern to Rafferty’s eyes.
“I love that movie,” Helen said wistfully.
“Stay up and watch it with me,” Rafferty suggested. “I’m not tired.”
“I am.”
“Just tell me what’s happened so far.”
He was doing it on purpose, but thank heaven she was too tired to realize it. She sank onto the sofa, curling her long legs underneath her, and took off her glasses, rubbing her eyes. “He’s an ex-sailor, Lauren Bacall’s the widow of a friend. Edward G. Robinson is a gangster, sort of like Al Capone.”
“He doesn’t look like Capone.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen some pictures…” Helen said, yawning, her defenses beginning to slide.
Rafferty sat on the opposite end of the sofa, not close enough to scare her away. She glanced up at him, a skittish expression in her eyes for a moment, and then she leaned back. “He doesn’t,” Rafferty said.
“Anyway,” Helen said sleepily, “they’re on one of the Florida Keys. Key Largo—that’s the name of the movie. And a hurricane is coming.” She yawned, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened again. “And the gangster is trying to get back into the country after he was deported…” She snuggled down lower in the sofa. “Just watch for a bit, and then you can ask me questions.”
He watched, all right. He watched her. She was already asleep, her long eyelashes fanned out against her pale cheeks, and her long thick hair was tangled around her face. He reached out and took the glasses from her limp hand, then held them up to his own face. They were practically clear glass. Typical Ms. Emerson, looking for all the defenses she could find.
It would take more than clear glasses to protect her from the likes of Ricky Drago. It would take more than a family of cops.
Somehow or other Rafferty had to find a way to stop him, before it was too late. Or next year, when he returned, Helen Emerson would be gone.
Chapter Seven
Rafferty didn’t want to sleep. When you only had forty-eight hours a year to live, you didn’t want to waste it in bed. Alone, that is.
He rose from the sofa, kicked off his leather wing-tips and headed into the kitchen. He found the almost empty coffee jar but nothing as useful as a kettle. He wasn’t going to risk the microwave—it still looked like something out of Buck Rogers to him, and he didn’t want to risk waking Helen up by exploding the kitchen. He boiled some water in a saucepan, scraped the hardened crystals into a mug and drank the brew down without shuddering. He’d done tougher things in his life. But not many.
Ms. Emerson wasn’t a great believer in food. He found cans of soup and a half-empty box of crackers, two things that hadn’t changed much in the past sixty-some years. He stood in the kitchen while the soup heated, staring out the window into the darkness. Somewhere out there Drago waited. Somewhere nearby. And it was a cruel twist of fate that a maniac like Drago had the ability to maim and kill, and Rafferty was helpless to stop him.
It made a kind of cosmic logic, one of the Scazzetti brothers had pointed out the second year they’d come back. If whoever was in charge of sending them back had any sense, he wouldn’t allow felons back into society with the ability to continue committing crimes. They were getting a second chance all right, but the deck was stacked.
Which had been fine as far as Rafferty was concerned. Working for Moran had been a job, no more, no less. An exciting job, a dangerous job, a well-paid one. But not on the order of a religious calling.
Besides, with only forty-eight hours, he didn’t have to worry about earning a living. Particularly when he returned each year with exactly what he left with. A package of Black Clove gum, a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a wallet crammed full of very crisp thousand-dollar bills that was supposed to pay for a shipment of Canadian bootleg liquor.
He leaned against the sink and closed his eyes, remembering Drago’s malicious words. Maybe he just wasn’t very lovable. During the intervening decades all of the others had found someone to love them, found a new life with all the trials and joys inherent. Even Drago seemed on his way to a decent life until fate once more stepped in.
But it hadn’t happened to Rafferty. Of the seven men killed in that garage on that wintry February day, he was the one with the least on his conscience. The others, even Billy, had been involved in enforcing Moran’s rule, in resisting Capone’s efforts to take complete control. Rafferty had stayed out of that side of things.
But in the long run he was the one who was still paying. The others had made peace with their past and found new lives. Not Rafferty.
He’d come close a few times. Most particularly in 1946, when he met a smart, sweet woman named Carrie who fell in love with him. He believed her when she said she did. He believed her enough to ask her to marry him, and they set the date for February 16. But he wasn’t around then.
He could have been happy with her, he knew it. But he hadn’t had that chance. By the following year she was gone, moved back to her hometown in Indiana and Rafferty had realized that the rules didn’t hold for him. He wasn’t going to get out of this endless cycle, and the sooner he accepted that fact, the sooner he began to enjoy what he had, the better.
But Ms. Helen Emerson was stirring old feelings inside him, old and new. He was drawn to her, in ways he couldn’t remember being drawn. And while he wanted nothing more than to strip off that clinging little dress and teach her about her body and his, something stopped him. The knowledge that he wouldn’t be there in the morning. Sure, this morning he’d be there. But not the next. And for all the toughness she tried to project to the outside world, inside she was nothing more than a soft, vulnerable kitten. And he never hurt helpless creatures.
He didn’t even taste the soup and crackers. When he walked back out into the living room the television was flickering, the movie long gone. Helen had shifted in her sleep, stretching her long, silk-clad legs out in front of her, and the short black dress rode higher, halfway up her shapely thighs. Rafferty looked at her and stifled a groan.
He could move silently, and he did so, rummaging through her bedroom, not quite certain what he was looking for. He tried to keep his eyes from the bed. Thank God it wasn’t the same one he’d once shared with Crystal Latour, but it was almost as bad. The brass-and-iron headboard was adorned with fat cupids, and the pile of fluffy white covers looked both virginal and enticing. Why the hell did he have to get mixed up with someone like Helen Emerson?
He found an ivory afghan in a closet that was filled with the same, shapeless men’s clothes she’d been wearing when he first met her. He found the loaded gun in her desk drawer.
He wondered if she knew how to use it. Probably. With a protective family of cops behind her, she would have been given more instruction than the average rookie. She’d probably be a better shot than he was. He’d never been crazy about guns, even though he’d carried one, and used one, out of necessity.
Hell, who was he kidding? Of course she’d be a better shot, considering the fact that if he tried to cock it and pull the trigger the damned thing would simply refuse to fire.
He used to wonder if the same thing would happen if he pointed it at his own head. If there was a way out of this endless cycle.
But that wasn’t his style. He didn’t believe in weakness, or self-pity. If he was doomed to come back year after year then he could just make the best of it. Enjoy what plea
sures were offered him.
The only problem was, Helen Emerson wasn’t offering him any pleasures. And he wasn’t about to take them.
He tucked the compact little gun in his jacket. He wasn’t quite certain why—Helen stood a greater chance of using it to keep Drago at bay, if things got that bad. But he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the small sense of power it gave him.
She didn’t move when he draped the white coverlet over her body, covering her long, luscious legs, her surprisingly curvaceous body. She sighed, snuggling deeper into the soft old sofa, and he stood there, staring down at her.
A strand of hair had fallen over her face, caught against her lower lip. He wanted to see her face. He reached out a gentle hand and took the thick lock of hair, moving it away from her mouth. And then he let his fingers trail, feather light, against her lips.
They moved against his skin. He didn’t know whether she was saying something in her sleep. Or kissing him. He didn’t want to know.
He didn’t trust himself on the sofa with her, big as it was. He moved back across the room, sinking into the old chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and watching her. He wanted a cigarette, but he was afraid it might wake her. He wanted a drink, but he’d already ascertained that Ms. Emerson didn’t carry anything more than a vinegary-smelling bottle of white wine, and after all these years he still had some standards.
He didn’t want to sleep. But somehow, sitting in the darkened room, with only the glow of the flickering television set and the faint scent of Helen Emerson’s perfume surrounding him, he began to feel at peace. It didn’t matter that a crazy man was lurking outside, ready to kill the woman he’d decided to protect. It didn’t matter that impossible desire was eating a hole in his gut. It didn’t even matter that he’d gone more than an hour without a cigarette. Alone with Helen Emerson, he felt oddly serene. And within moments, he followed her into sleep.
He dreamed of Elena. He hadn’t thought of her in years, had done his very best not to think of her. Even fifty-some years after her death, sixty-some years since he’d seen her face, her memory still had the power to bring forth emotions he wanted to stifle.
He remembered the first time he saw her. He’d been with Moran himself, an unwilling part of his entourage as he made a social call on a store owner on the South Side. The store owner hadn’t been interested in buying Moran’s watered-down liquor to sell under the counter, hadn’t been interested in paying the alternative, a large sum for protection from Capone’s rival organization. Rafferty had stood to one side, his face blank of all emotion, as Ricky Drago had systematically broken Giuseppe Petri’s hands. Only making a move when his daughter had burst on the scene, screaming with rage.
Ricky would have killed Elena, given half the chance. He hadn’t liked the fact that Rafferty had stepped between them, pushing Elena behind him. Most people were terrified of Drago’s lightning temper and violence. But they were equally in awe of Rafferty’s legendary control.
Moran had watched the stand-off with interest and amusement, finally calling Ricky off when it looked as if one of them would wind up dead. “Cut it out, you two,” he’d said. “I need both of you too much to let you get into fights. If Jamey wants the girl, let him have her. God knows, he could probably use a little action on the side.”
Drago had backed off, staring at Rafferty out of hate-filled, crazy eyes. And if Capone’s men hadn’t intervened on a cold Valentine’s Day less than a year later, Ricky would have put a bullet in his head when he least expected it.
He’d watched as Moran and the others drove away. He’d been left with one of the Packards—Moran was a gentleman in such matters, and Rafferty drove Petri to the hospital himself, with Elena crooning comforting words to her father as she rode along.
He waited until Petri’s hands were splinted and bandaged, waited until he’d paid the bill in full from the thick wallet of Moran’s money he always carried, waited until he drove the two Petris back home and Elena got her father settled in bed.
And then he’d tried to kiss her.
Of course she’d slapped him. When he kissed her the second time she slapped him harder. When he kissed her the third time she kissed him back.
But it hadn’t worked. Not with her hot-tempered father screaming imprecations at Moran’s head and at anyone connected with him. Not with Elena’s old-fashioned values warring with her undeniable passion for him. Not with the escalating gang war that had taken the Petris’ store, their house and the life of Elena’s younger brother.
He’d even offered to quit. To go away with her, from the city, from the gangs, from the memory of grief and blood.
And she’d told him no. Even as she told him she loved him, she kissed him goodbye on a cold February morning. “Not in this lifetime,” she’d said, her husky voice filled with implacable sorrow. And he’d never seen her again.
She’d never married, he knew that. She’d died of meningitis a few years after the massacre, and he used to wonder if she ever regretted her choice, the values that he couldn’t live up to.
Because he sure as hell regretted them. He’d loved that woman, with a mindless, blind passion, and he’d had it thrown back at him for failing to measure up. He’d vowed then never to make that mistake again. And he never had.
But still, every now and then he thought about Elena. She was very, very different from the uptight Ms. Emerson. Full of old-world values, Elena had been dependent on the men in her life, a dutiful daughter, a passionate lover, a grieving sister. She’d been short, and plump, and luscious, and she’d made no demands on him. Except that he be someone he wasn’t.
He’d tried to keep away from good women ever since. It was a waste of his time, and time was one thing in short supply. He was stuck here with Helen Emerson, a far cry from either Elena or Carrie, but a good woman just like those two. And he wished to hell it was February 15, and he no longer had to think about it.
HELEN AWOKE WITH A START. It was pitch black, her back hurt, her bra was digging into her rib cage and she had to go to the bathroom. On top of that, she wasn’t alone.
She didn’t move, lying there trying to orient herself. It came back to her in stages. She was lying on her sofa, her skirt indecently high. Someone had covered her with her grandmother’s afghan, and that someone was the other person in the darkened room: Rafferty.
She could see his shadow in the oversize chair by the window. He was asleep, soundly, she hoped as she carefully edged from underneath the cover. She tiptoed into the bathroom, closing the door silently behind her before turning on the light, and then stared at her reflection in shock.
She looked like a wanton, there was no other word for it. The knowledge should have distressed her, except for the fact that she looked like a very pretty wanton. She’d lost her glasses somewhere, but she didn’t really need them, and her tangled hair, smudged makeup and clinging dress made her look sleepy and sexy.
Dear heavens, the man hadn’t even kissed her, and yet all she had to do was be in the same room with him and she started thinking about things she’d never thought before. It was a good thing he was leaving in another day. If things went on this way she’d end up seduced and abandoned. And while the first part sounded delightful, the second wasn’t nearly as appealing.
It was a fluke that she’d reached the advanced age of twenty-nine in a relatively pristine state, a fluke and the presence of her overprotective family. While she’d been brought up in the strict Catholic church of her ancestors, she’d always kept an open mind, and if she’d ever fallen in love with someone she would have made the next logical, physical step.
But she hadn’t. There had been no one to set her heart to racing, her pulses to quivering, no one to cause that dull ache of longing in the pit of her stomach that had begun to plague her in the last twenty-four hours. No one but Rafferty.
Maybe it wasn’t lust, maybe it was an ulcer, she told herself wryly as she washed the makeup off her face. Maybe it was the fact that for o
nce her family wasn’t there to scare the man away. Not that Rafferty struck her as the type who’d scare easily. If he wanted her, really wanted her, then the entire Chicago police force couldn’t stop him. Only she could.
And she wouldn’t. She knew that full well. The brief touches, on her back, when he’d taken her elbow, when he’d plowed into her on the sidewalk outside her office, still made her skin tingle. She wanted him to touch her again. Softer this time. And harder.
She shook her head at her reflection. She was crazy, there was no doubt about that whatsoever, and she could thank her lucky stars that Rafferty was both a gentleman and apparently uninterested in her, despite his protests to the contrary. She was perfectly safe with him. Damn it.
She turned off the light before creeping back out into the living room. Rafferty hadn’t moved from his spot in the chair. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady, and even if it was dangerous, she couldn’t resist moving closer.
He wasn’t the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His face was narrow, his mouth thin, his eyes, when they were open, were too mocking. But there was something about him that drew her, more intensely than if she’d been confronted with a combination of Kevin Costner and Richard Gere. Except that he reminded her more of Humphrey Bogart crossed with Cary Grant. With a touch of John Garfield on the side.
She reached out a tentative hand. A lock of dark hair had fallen on his forehead, and she pushed it back, lightly, carefully, letting her fingers skim his heated flesh for a brief moment. And then she moved away, out of harm’s reach, out of temptation’s way, stumbling over a pile of old newspapers as she went, banging into the wall, before she turned and ran, lightly, silently, into her room, closing the door behind her.
RAFFERTY WAITED until he heard the door close. He sat up in the chair, and cursed, silently, fluently, in words that hadn’t changed in more than sixty-five years. Good Anglo-Saxon words that were probably around six hundred and fifty years ago as well.