Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  She didn’t move, taking what small comfort she could from his hard hands on her arms. “What makes him think you’ll care that much?” she asked, aware of the absurdity of this conversation in a darkened, deserted hospital hallway, talking with a man returned from the dead, asking questions while a madman stalked her.

  “He knows me.” Rafferty’s voice was bleak.

  “And he knows what a knight in shining armor you are beneath your gangster pinstripes?” she said.

  “No.” He released her wrists, pushing his hands through her thick brown hair, running his thumbs across her soft lips. “He knows me better than that. He knows I’ve finally found my fatal weakness. If he kills you, then he destroys me, much more effectively than a hundred tommy gun bullets ripping into my flesh.”

  Helen shivered. “It’s true, isn’t it? You weren’t making it up? I saw a picture…”

  “Don’t think about it, Helen,” he said. “Don’t think about any of this. It’s just a bad dream, a nightmare, like your dreams about gunfire and dogs howling. It happened a long time ago—you don’t have to worry about it, you don’t have to think about it. All you have to think about is this.” He put his mouth against her, gently, his tongue touching her lips, and she sank against him with a shaken sob, clutching him tightly, so tightly, as if she could fight the twisted whims of fate and fortune.

  He kissed her cheekbones, her eyelids, her temples and her earlobes. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, he pulled her hips tight against his, so that she could feel how much he wanted her, and her own response heated and flowed, longing for him.

  When he finally broke the kiss his expression was that still, scary one that no longer had the power to unnerve her. Except that she knew the determination that lay behind it.

  “I want you to go now,” he said, pulling her hands from around his neck, where she wanted to cling forever. “I want you to go back down those stairs and forget about me. There’s no way we can change it, even if we wanted to.”

  “Even if we wanted to…?” she echoed, incensed.

  “You deserve better than me, counselor,” he said, and his mocking smile was back in full force. “You deserve someone noble and pure, someone who can give you the things you deserve….”

  “You deserve a brain transplant,” she snapped back. “How dare you tell me what I want, when what I want, what I need, what I deserve is you—”

  “I didn’t know they did brain transplants,” he interrupted, the humor reaching his eyes as she fought for him.

  “They don’t. But I’m proposing you for the first candidate. I love you, Jamey. Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? I love you, I love you, I love…”

  His mouth silenced her, hard and hot and wet. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her as if his life depended on it, kissed her as if it were his last act on this earth. He kissed her with his heart and his soul, his tongue and his lips, his body and his mind, and she thought she might climax from the sheer power of it.

  “Go away,” he said, breaking away from her.

  “I can’t.”

  “Damn it, Helen…”

  “Damn it, Rafferty,” she mocked, no longer caring. “I can’t go back down the stairs.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because someone was following me. And I’m pretty sure it was Drago.”

  And then she was frightened. By the murderously bleak expression on his face. The resignation in his strong, lean body, and she had the sudden, hideous feeling that things were spinning out of her control, that death and despair were approaching from that deserted stairwell, and nothing Rafferty could do would stop it.

  They heard the noise together, the scrape of footsteps, the turning of the doorknob. “Run,” Rafferty ordered in a harsh whisper. “Run like hell.” And he pulled her gun out of his coat pocket, holding it with both hands, training it toward the door.

  Helen couldn’t move, sickened, terrified. “Have you ever killed anyone before?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Rafferty…”

  “Run, damn it.”

  Helen wheeled around, finally prepared to obey. Only to come face-to-face with Ricky Drago’s mad eyes.

  It all happened in slow motion, and yet at lightning speed. Helen screamed, in warning, in terror, just as Billy’s voice could be heard on the other side of the locked door, pounding, calling to Rafferty. Rafferty whirled around, aiming the gun, but Drago had already caught Helen, hauling her up against him, using her as a shield.

  “Too bad, Rafferty,” Drago said with a wheezy little chuckle. “I didn’t want to play it this way. But you’ve been too good. You always were. Maybe this time you’ll finally get the peace you deserve.” And raising the gun he held in his right hand, he aimed it point-blank at Rafferty’s face.

  And fired it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rafferty was dead. There was no other possibility, not with a gun fired at point-blank range. Helen’s mind accepted that unalterable truth, even as her heart fought it. She screamed, kicking and clawing at Drago, desperate to get to Rafferty’s fallen body, but even in her wild state Drago was too strong for her. She half expected him to use that gun on her, the gun that smelled of cordite and death, and she didn’t care. She wanted to be with Rafferty, and if he was dead then her own life had little meaning.

  She yanked herself away, stumbling to her knees beside his body, flinging herself on top of him as he lay facedown on the linoleum floor. Behind the door she could still hear Billy, shouting, and with her last ounce of energy she screamed out a warning. She didn’t even see the gun coming, feel it slam against the side of her head. All she knew was blackness.

  She floated for a while, in a sea of loss and confusion. She knew someone was carrying her, someone she hated. She could feel the hardness of a shoulder digging into her stomach, hear the muffled grunts as she was hoisted through space. She wondered whether she were dead, whether she was going to find Rafferty in this dreamlike limbo. Whether they’d return together, every Valentine’s Day, to live out the last two days of their lives.

  In her dreamlike state she no longer had any doubt that Rafferty had told her the truth. It all made its own weird kind of sense. But there were still a thousand questions unanswered. Had she joined Rafferty in death? Or was Rafferty somewhere else, his endless cycle of Valentine Days over with at last?

  Everything hurt. Her head, her heart, her mind and soul. She couldn’t, wouldn’t think about it. The blackness beckoned, a safe, nurturing blackness, far away from the labored giggles of the madman who carried her. And she welcomed the blackness, searching for Rafferty within its velvet confines.

  BILLY SLAMMED THROUGH the safety door, coming in low to avoid gunfire. In the shadowy stillness of the unused hospital corridor he thought at first that it was deserted. Until he saw Rafferty lying facedown, unmoving.

  “God, no!” Billy moaned, running to his side, tugging at him. The sound of gunfire had filled him with dread—Drago wasn’t the kind of man who missed often, and according to Rafferty, he’d missed twice in the past two days. He wouldn’t be making another mistake.

  He turned Rafferty over, staring down into his unmarked face. There was no sign of a bullet wound, no sign of any trauma. He lay very still, and Billy put his head against Rafferty’s chest, listening for a heartbeat.

  It was there, quite faint, but growing steadily stronger. There was no blood, no sign of a scuffle. Just Rafferty lying there, as still and silent as the grave.

  “What…what the hell are you doing?” his voice wheezed, and Billy sat back, relief washing over him.

  “You’re not dead,” he said foolishly, backhanding an unmanly tear from his eye.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Rafferty said, his wry voice sounding hoarser than usual. “What happened?”

  “Beats me. I was trying to catch up with Ms. Emerson. The door was locked, and I heard you shouting at her, and then a gunshot.” He glanced around him. “Where is she? D
id Drago shoot her? What happened…?”

  Rafferty closed his eyes and began to curse, something far more intense than the mild “damn its” he’d favored Helen with. “Drago’s got her,” he snapped, surging to his feet, swaying slightly for a moment. “And I’m the one he shot.”

  “Jeez, Rafferty!” Billy gasped, putting a supporting hand under his arm. “Where…how…are you okay?”

  Rafferty shook himself, almost in disbelief. “I’m okay,” he said. “After all this time I should be getting used to crazy things, but I’m not. Drago shot me right between the eyes,” he said, staring at Billy with his unmarked face. “I heard the noise, felt the heat and pressure of the bullet. And all I’ve got right now is one hell of a headache.”

  “Does that mean he can’t hurt Ms. Emerson?”

  “Who the hell knows what any of this means?” Rafferty countered wearily. “I don’t trust fate, or providence, or Drago’s aim. We’ve got to get her, and we’ve got to stop Drago, or maybe the next person he shoots won’t have my amazing recuperative powers.” The heavy mockery in his voice couldn’t quite disguise the fear.

  “Where do you think he took her? I only heard one gunshot, so she must still be okay. Unless he used a knife…” Billy let the words trail off as he recognized Rafferty’s expression. He’d known Rafferty for more than half a century, and he had thought that eerie stillness of his had lost the power to frighten him. He was mistaken.

  “She’s all right,” Rafferty said in a quiet, deadly voice. “She’s hurt, she’s frightened, but she’s still all right.”

  “You know that?” Billy asked, all admiration. There seemed to be no end to Rafferty’s powers.

  “No,” he said, disillusioning him. “But the alternatives are unacceptable. Helen’s okay. She has to be.”

  And Billy wasn’t about to put up an argument. “Where do you think he’s taking her? Maybe we can head him off.”

  Rafferty slammed his fist against the wall with impotent rage, and Billy noticed for the first time that he was still holding the gun. “Why the hell can’t I think straight?” Rafferty said. “I don’t think he’d go back to Clark Street—he tried that once, and it failed. There’s just an old folks home there now, anyway.” He tucked the gun into his waistband. “We’ll start at his place and go from there. Since he took her with him instead of killing her here, he must have something in mind. Are you coming with me?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “What the hell does the pope have to do with anything?” Rafferty snapped, heading down the hallway at an uneven run.

  “Sorry,” Billy muttered, abashed, as he followed him. “It’s just a saying. Does that gun work?”

  “Not for me. I tried when I saw Drago grab Helen. It wouldn’t even cock. You want to use it?”

  “Not if I can help it. My parole is pretty shaky at this point—if I’m caught with a loaded weapon I’m looking at some hard time.”

  Rafferty stopped and stared at him. “You’d let Helen die?”

  “No. But I’m looking for alternatives that’ll keep us all alive. You included.”

  Rafferty’s smile was bleak and humorless. “It’s too late for me. We figured that out a long time ago. The rules don’t apply to me. All I need to do is get Drago. If I can accomplish that much, I don’t give a damn whether I come back anymore.”

  “But she’ll wait for you. She might not believe…”

  “I don’t want her waiting. I’m no good for her, Billy. She deserves the best, not some remnant of another time and place, a time and place better left forgotten. Even if I had the choice, I’d choose to leave.”

  “You’re in love with her,” Billy said, his voice soft with astonishment.

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “To someone who knows you,” Billy said. “Mary said something about it, but I thought she was just being crazy after the baby’s birth. Did you tell her?”

  “Tell who? Ms. Emerson? Of course not. She doesn’t need that kind of complication in her life. Once I’m gone she’ll convince herself that it was all a dream. At least some of the more unlikely aspects of our time together. By next fall she’ll be ready to move on.”

  “You’re awful dumb for such a smart man, Rafferty,” Billy said.

  “I’ve got to find her, Billy. I’ve got to save her life,” Rafferty said, his voice bleak and desperate. “Help me figure out where to start.”

  Billy shook his head. “I haven’t got the faintest idea. You’re the one who seems so tuned in on her. Listen to your heart.”

  “I don’t have one,” Rafferty said.

  “Don’t give me that. Use your instincts, man. Sixty-five years ago you had the most powerful instincts in Chicago. Bugs Moran wouldn’t spit if you didn’t tell him it would be okay, Capone was shivering in his fancy boots at the thought of you. You’ve got talent, you’ve got a gift. Use it,” Billy said.

  Rafferty leaned against the wall by the freight elevator, closing his eyes. “It never mattered so much before, Billy,” he said in a hard, quiet voice. “If I make a mistake this time, it’s for keeps.”

  “You won’t make a mistake, Rafferty. You’re here to save her life. You’re here to make her life. Don’t blow it.”

  Rafferty’s eyes flew open, and for the first and only time in his life Billy saw fear there. Uncertainty, strength and love as well. “I know where he took her,” he said, and the moment of fear was gone.

  “Then what the hell are we waiting for?” Billy said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Do it?” Rafferty echoed, punching the elevator button. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Billy found he could smile. The night was far from over, and before it ended there would be blood and death. But he was a survivor, and so was Rafferty. They’d been through too much, too many lifetimes, to let it go now. When the smoke cleared, Drago would be dead, this time for good. And with any luck at all, Rafferty would still be here.

  “You’ll learn, Rafferty,” he promised, thinking of all the tomorrows. “You’ll learn.”

  HELEN WAS COLD, miserably, achingly cold. She didn’t want to open her eyes, wasn’t even sure they would open. Her eyelids felt frozen, her toes were blocks of ice and her fingers were numb. She huddled against the brick, wondering if the ice on her face was frozen tears. And then she realized it was wet snow, plastering her skin.

  She didn’t move. She’d left her down coat in Mary Moretti’s hospital room, but she didn’t particularly care. Freezing to death was supposed to be a comparatively pleasant way to go. Everything went numb, and you felt sort of drunk, and then you just drifted off to sleep. She wasn’t sure if that was taking into account the bitter wind that was ripping through her thick cotton sweater, slicing through her baggy jeans. She could have done without that. She would have preferred being blanketed in a layer of thick new snow, wrapped in a cocoon of whiteness, where she could lie like some medieval maiden, waiting for her knight errant to return from the crusades.

  “You awake, lady?” Ricky Drago’s high, unpleasantly cheerful voice broke through her fantasy, and she decided to ignore him, seeing if she could summon back the hazy vision of Rafferty.

  “Hey, lady.” His hand caught her chin, squeezing it painfully, and her eyes flew open, blinking away the snowflakes that had lodged in her lashes. “That’s better,” Drago said. “I don’t want you out of it. Not yet, at least. I’ve got plans for you. Big plans.”

  She just stared at him. There was nothing worse he could do to her, she reminded herself. He’d murdered Rafferty—life could offer no crueler surprises.

  Drago didn’t like her silence. His fingers tightened cruelly, and she let out a small, involuntary whimper. “That’s better,” he crooned. “You don’t like pain, Ms. Emerson? Few people do. I like it. I like to watch it. I like to make people hurt. I always have. It’s something wrong with me, my mother told me that. She used to try to beat it out of me, but it never worked. You can’t beat meanness out of a kid, Ms. Emerso
n. You just beat it in deeper.”

  She didn’t want to say anything, but she knew he expected it, demanded it, and she was finding the pain almost unbearable. “You’re right,” she managed to croak out.

  He laughed then, a high, eerie sound in the night air. “I’m right?” he echoed. “What do you know about meanness, Ms. Emerson? What do you know about what life does to you? You just sit behind your desk and ask your questions and you never listen to the answers. You make someone so damned mad that he…It was your fault.” He switched track abruptly. “All your fault, not mine.”

  Despite the pain in her head, the iciness of her heart, she had no trouble following his rambling train of thought. “I’m sorry about your wife,” she said, not knowing what name to call him.

  He slapped her. Her head whipped sideways, her cheek grazed the brick wall that she was huddled against and her eyes stung with tears of pain. “You’re sorry,” he said in an awful, hissing voice. “You don’t even know what sorry will begin to feel like. You’re going to discover new levels of regret that no one ever thought possible. I’m good at what I do, Ms. Emerson. I was one of the best, in a time when there were a lot of experts in my field. And I haven’t lost my touch. But you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Rafferty never tells anyone. You want to know why? He can’t. It’s that simple. None of us could. It would have given us an unfair advantage. Only after I found Lizzie, after she showed me how things could be…how…” His voice trailed off again, and the sorrow and despair on his mad face were truly devastating.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking. It was the cold she told herself, knowing it was the fear.

  The sorrow vanished from Ricky Drago’s face, replaced by a look of gleeful cunning. “I would have thought that was obvious. I’m going to kill you. You’re responsible for my wife’s death, and you have to pay. It’s been made very clear to me. You pay for the sins you commit. I’ve had to pay, and now it’s your turn, Ms. Emerson.”