Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  It had been a close call. He’d woken the instant she had, keeping himself very still as she tiptoed into the bathroom. He’d never had a problem before, but when she’d approached him, when he felt the soft, minty sweetness of her breath, the feathery brush of her fingers on his face, he almost caught her wrist and yanked her down into his lap.

  He wasn’t a man of violent urges. But she brought violence out in him. He wanted to smother her, cover her with his body and push between her legs. He wanted to take her, in heat and passion and furious desire.

  And he wanted to make love to her. Slowly, gently, seducing her away from her virginal fears, he wanted to bring her the kind of physical pleasure that would wipe everything else from her mind. So that when he left, she’d remember. Always.

  But he’d controlled himself. And she’d backed away in time. Helen Emerson wasn’t the woman for him. If he took her, he might as well let Drago finish her. She knew her needs very well—she wasn’t the kind of woman for casual sex and brief affairs. She was a forever after kind of woman. And if he made love to her and then disappeared, a part of her would die. And he was man enough to control himself and keep that from happening. Wasn’t he?

  The problem was, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his entire life, up to and including Elena Petri. And the more he fought it, the more he needed her.

  He rose, far more quietly than she had, and stretched out on the sofa. The cushions still held the imprint of her body. The afghan still held the trace of her scent. White roses. He’d never see a rose again without thinking of her.

  He stared out into the darkened room, knowing that this time he wasn’t going to sleep. This time he was going to lie awake and try to control his unruly body, try to control his unruly mind. He only had another twenty-four hours or less to get through. He could do it.

  He stared at the blank television screen, wondering if he could find some more home shopping, maybe even one of those hour-long shows selling car wax. Anything to keep his mind off the woman in the next room.

  But even the wonders of modern television couldn’t distract him in his current state. All he could do was lie there on the sofa, imaging Helen beside him. And in the distance he could hear Ricky Drago’s high-pitched giggle.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14 dawned cold and blustery, not unlike another February 14 long ago. Rafferty watched the flakes of snow swirl down outside the window, and he thought about the woman in the other room. He hadn’t been able to think of anything else for the past few hours of wakefulness, and the slow lightening of the city couldn’t distract him.

  Her scream echoed through the apartment, sharp, shrill, panicked. He surged off the sofa, kicking over the coffee table, yanking the gun from his waistband as he raced into her bedroom. If he couldn’t stop Drago, maybe he could force her to pull the trigger.

  She was alone, sitting up in the middle of that fluffy white bed. The curtains were drawn, there was no sign of any intruder. She simply sat there, her eyes wide with fear, her hands covering her mouth as if to stifle the screams. And then her eyes went to the gun he held in his hand, and the fear in her eyes turned to panic.

  He put the gun down, carefully, on the dresser beside the door. “What happened?”

  “A…a nightmare,” she managed to choke out, still staring at him in shock. “I get them sometimes. They’re…very real.”

  He stepped inside the room, knowing he shouldn’t. “What did you dream this time?”

  “It’s always the same. I hear something that sounds like thunder. Or a thousand drumbeats. A roaring, terrifying kind of noise. And then nothing. Silence. And the howling of a dog.”

  Rafferty felt his skin crawl. He knew what she was talking about, even if she didn’t. He’d been there. He’d heard the thunder of the tommy guns as the bullets ripped into flesh. He’d lain there in a welter of blood, dying, and listened to the mournful howl of Scazzetti’s old mutt, still chained to the wall, the only survivor of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

  “It’s just a bad dream,” he said, hearing the harshness in his own voice. “Forget about it.”

  “But why does it keep coming back? Why can’t I remember more of it? Why is it always the same? Why do I keep hearing that dog…?”

  “Will you shut up about the damned dog?” Rafferty said savagely, crossing the room to the side of the bed. “It’s just a dream. You must have read something about the massacre…”

  “The massacre? You think I’m dreaming about the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre?” she demanded, obviously astonished. “Why should I do that?”

  He shook his head. He wanted to sit down on the bed beside her, he wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and draw her to him. She’d changed into some sort of oversize shirt; more men’s clothes when he’d fantasized about white lace lingerie. He still found her irresistible. But he had to resist. He didn’t move. “Beats me,” he said, more calmly now. “But it sure sounds like your dream. The thousand machine gun bullets, and some old dog howling that finally brought help.”

  Her face paled. “You’re kidding.”

  He shrugged. “You probably read about it and forgot. That’s what the witnesses said about it. If it weren’t for the dog howling no one might have checked for hours.”

  He was unprepared for her reaction. He thought the simple truth would have reassured her. Instead she shuddered, making a small sound of infinite distress, and it was all the excuse he needed.

  He climbed onto the high bed and reached for her, pulling her against him. She came readily enough, and he could feel the icy fear in her flesh, the terrified pounding of her heart beneath the thin cotton of her T-shirt. He’d just hold her for a moment, he told himself. He’d control himself, certainly he could do that. He’d just allow himself a minute of holding her, to calm her down.

  And maybe one brief kiss wouldn’t make things worse. He could brush his lips against her forehead, against the thick, sweet-smelling hair, and she might not even notice. It wouldn’t do any harm. Even if he threaded a hand through the thick hair at the back of her neck, tilting her face up to his, it wouldn’t cause irreparable damage. Even if she looked up at him, her eyes wide and solemn and waiting, her mouth pale and damp and slightly parted. He didn’t have to kiss her, did he?

  Yes, he did. He put his mouth over hers, and all his good intentions vanished. She had the sweetest mouth he’d ever tasted, shy, slightly uncertain, but more than eager. She slid her arms around his neck, kissing him back with enthusiasm that was astonishingly innocent, but then, he’d already figured she hadn’t had that much experience. When he pushed his tongue between her lips she jumped, and he waited for her to pull away.

  But she didn’t. She simply clung more tightly, following his lead, her own tongue shyly touching his, until he thought he might explode with longing.

  He pushed her down on the bed, covering her body with his, no longer caring about the consequences. Beneath the layers of fluffy white covers he could feel her body, slight and soft and trembling, and he wanted to push the covers away, strip their clothes away. He wanted to lose himself in her slender body and her wonderful mouth. He was tired of thinking about the consequences—he only had another twenty-four hours, damn it, and he wanted this woman, needed this woman, with a longing so fierce it made his bones shake. And she was shaking, too, with the same kind of need, and it made no sense whatsoever for him to reach his hands behind his neck and catch her arms, to pull them away, to break the kiss and move away from her, so that she looked up at him in wide-eyed shock and desire and frustration.

  “You know as well as I do this is a bad idea,” he said, surprised at the shaken sound of his own voice.

  Neither of them moved. She still lay in the center of the bed, and he could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. He didn’t climb off the bed, as he knew he should. Some masochistic part of him made him stay right there, within reach, to prove he could do it.

  “Why?” she
asked finally, her voice small and brave.

  “Because I’ll be gone tomorrow morning. I don’t want to be, but I don’t have any say in the matter. And you’d be alone, figuring you’d been a fool, and you’d hate me, and even worse, you’d hate yourself.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” She sat up, slowly, and she was too damned close to him. “Don’t you know that people spend a lot more time regretting the things they don’t do, and not the things they do?”

  “Helen, you’re not the type for a one-night stand. You’re the kind of woman who needs commitment, who needs tenderness and a future. I can’t give you any of that.”

  The small smile that curved her pale mouth was almost his undoing. “Why am I trying to talk you into this?” she asked. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

  He made himself touch her, just to prove that he could, cupping her face with his hands and staring down at her. “Lady,” he said, “I’ll break your heart.”

  “My heart, Rafferty? Or is it your own you’re worried about?” she said, humor warring with the faint trace of anxiety in her eyes.

  It came to him then with the force of a blow. He could love this woman. This impossible, shy, fierce, brave woman, and the thought terrified him. Up until now he hadn’t been that reluctant to leave when his time came, simply because he hadn’t been leaving anyone behind. If he let himself care about her, love her, then leaving would destroy him. And he might see whether he could turn a gun on himself.

  He smoothed the sides of her face with his thumbs. “I have no heart, Helen. No heart to break.”

  “Prove it,” she said. And she kissed him, brushing her lips against his, lightly, lingering, and he knew he should pull away, but he couldn’t. The sweetness of her mouth was more erotic than anything the professional Crystal Latour had ever come up with, and he slid his hands down her shoulders, down her arms, pulling her tight against him with a groan of despair.

  She was unbuttoning his shirt, her hands clumsy and nervous and wonderful when they slid against his skin, touching him. She was pulling him down on the bed, and he told himself he’d been gentlemanly enough. Maybe she wasn’t as inexperienced as he thought. There was one surefire way to find out.

  He took the hand that had slid around his waist and pulled it down to the front of his trousers, to the row of tiny buttons that were straining over the effect she was having on him. He held her hand there, even as she tried to pull away, and he knew he hadn’t been wrong.

  He moved fast then, pulling away from her, climbing off the bed and standing at the far end of the room. His shirt was unbuttoned, he was having trouble catching his breath and his entire body throbbed. Damn her and her innocent eyes and her luscious mouth.

  “Chicken,” she said softly.

  It was the final straw. If there was one thing James Sheridan Rafferty was not, it was a coward. He’d been about to button his shirt, but he left it hanging, reaching instead for the mashed pack of cigarettes that still survived. “No one calls me chicken.”

  “You must have seen Back to the Future,” she said.

  Her words gave him a start of surprise, before he realized she must be referring to a movie. “No,” he said with a trace of wryness. “But I think I’d like it.”

  “Rafferty…”

  “I’m not going to bed with you, Helen. Because I’m not going to be here tomorrow morning, and you deserve better than that.” He tried to keep his voice flat and unemotional.

  “Can’t you call your boss and tell them you need a few extra days?”

  He grimaced at the notion. “No.”

  “Can’t you just miss your plane?”

  “I didn’t come here by plane.”

  “Well, how did you get here?” Helen demanded. “And for that matter, since we’ve already ascertained that you’re not Billy’s lawyer, what is it you do for a living?”

  He looked at her. He’d never told a soul, never even been tempted. But he knew if he didn’t come clean, didn’t warn her exactly who and what he was, then he wasn’t going to be able to resist.

  He lit the cigarette, taking a deep, deliberate drag off it. “I don’t do anything for a living, sweetheart,” he said. “And I haven’t for sixty-four years.”

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment Helen didn’t move. Her bedroom was shadowy, just the early-morning light filtering through her thin curtains providing some illumination, and she couldn’t see his expression. Not that it would have done her any good. At his best, Rafferty was hardly the most communicative of men. Even in bright sunlight she probably couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

  “You want to run that by me again?” she said in an even voice. “That statement didn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

  He was already regretting it, she could tell. She wondered what would happen if she pushed the covers aside. The T-shirt she was wearing only came to midthigh, and she already knew he was more than appreciative of her legs. She’d pushed it as far as she could go. For the first time in her life she wanted someone, she wanted Rafferty. She wanted him to show her what she’d been missing, to show her with love and gentleness.

  But he frightened her. There might be love and gentleness, but there was also passion and a kind of darkness she didn’t understand, and wasn’t quite ready to face. So she kept the covers pulled over her, and waited.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” he said. “If you want to hear about it, I’ll tell you. But you won’t believe me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve listened to a lot of unbelievable stories in my time. You could try me.”

  The suggestion hung in the air between the two of them, and there was no mocking smile on Rafferty’s face. “I’ll make the coffee,” he said again.

  “The coffee beans, if any, are in the freezer.”

  He stared at her blankly. “Why?”

  “It keeps them fresher.”

  “Don’t they grind coffee anymore?”

  “It tastes better if you grind your own.”

  “I thought things were supposed to be getting easier,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “In the kitchen,” he said. And he closed the door behind him when he left.

  She dressed hurriedly, throwing on a faded pair of jeans and an old T-shirt before heading into the kitchen. Rafferty had found the coffee beans, but he was staring at them with dismay. “I don’t see a coffee grinder.”

  She picked up her electric one, but he still didn’t seem to recognize it. He hadn’t rebuttoned his shirt, and it hung loose around his hard, muscled chest. He had a tan, and once again she wondered where he came from. Where he was going.

  She took the beans from him without a word, making the coffee with brisk efficiency. She waited until it had begun to drip down into the pot, then she turned to face Rafferty, trying to find a place to focus her eyes. His chest was too distracting.

  “Where’d you get your tan?” she asked, unable to keep from thinking about it. Wondering if the light sprinkling of hair would be rough or smooth against her hand.

  “Florida. I was down there my last January.”

  “Is that where you’re going when you leave here? Is that where you live?”

  He shook his head. The kitchen was large for an apartment, but too small with Rafferty taking up space. The coffee dripped, slowly.

  “Are we going to play twenty questions?” she asked sharply. “Or are you going to tell me?”

  There was no warmth in his eyes, just a cold, bleak humor. “If you want to hear it. I don’t know where I’ll be. I don’t know where I’ve come from. The tan on my body comes from my last visit to Florida, which happened to be in late January—1929.”

  She stared at him blankly. “So how old would that make you?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

  “Depends on how you calculate it. I was born in 1895, in Columbus, Ohio.”

  “Which would make you ninety-eight years old. You’re very well pres
erved,” she said dryly. Drip, drip went the coffee.

  “You could say so. I died when I was thirty-four years old. On Valentine’s Day.”

  She didn’t know if she could wait until the coffee finished. “Valentine’s Day, 1929,” she said. “Don’t tell me. You were gunned down in a garage along with a bunch of other gangsters. And Al Capone was behind it.”

  “Yes.”

  She pulled out two mugs, her movements fast and jerky as she set them down on the counter. She pulled the pot out, listening to the hot coffee splash down on the burner, and filled both cups. She turned, holding her own mug in both hands, trying to hold on to something. “So what are you doing here?” she asked with what she considered to be admirable calm.

  “Every year I return to Chicago for two days. February 13 and 14. And then I’m gone again. I don’t know where I go in between, or what happens to me. Hell, I don’t know if I really exist at all. Maybe I’m just a dream.”

  “A nightmare,” Helen said, taking a sip of the too-strong coffee to try to steady her nerves. “So what are you doing in my apartment?”

  “That’s a little hard to explain.”

  “Surely not. I mean, you haven’t had any trouble giving me a pile of garbage about returning from the dead every year like something out of a bad movie. Why stop at this point?” Her voice was brittle, angry.

  “You don’t believe me?” He seemed more astonished than offended by the notion.

  “Of course I don’t believe you. I was never big on horror stories—The Night of the Living Dead isn’t one of my favorite videos. Why are you really here, and what do you want from me? And what’s Billy Moretti got to do with it?”

  He hesitated, and she wondered if he was going to switch to the truth. Apparently not. “Billy was one of the men killed in the garage.”

  “Sure, Rafferty,” she said in a brittle voice. “Then how come I’ve seen him any number of times and it wasn’t anywhere near February?”