by Stuart, Anne
“Don’t stop,” she whispered as his too-long hair fell against her. “If you stop this time, I’ll kill you.”
His only answer was to reach for the waistband of her jeans, unfastening them with one rough movement and pushing them down her hips, her plain white panties with them. She kicked out of them, standing there in the firelight, naked, waiting for him, looking into his dark, tormented face unflinchingly, as she reached out and put her hand against his zipper, pressing, hard, as he stared down at her, panting, distant.
He tried to pull back as one last vestige of sanity penetrated his need. “I’ll hurt you,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, sinking to her knees in front of him, pressing her face against the front of his jeans, feeling the heat and desire pulsing through him. “Hurt me if you have to. I need you, and you need me. You need to go to the edge, to know you’ll come back.”
“What if I don’t?” His fingers threaded through her hair, but he wasn’t pulling away. “What if I don’t come back?”
She turned and kissed him through the metal zipper and the layers of denim, and she felt him pulse against her mouth. “I’ll take that risk.” And she reached up and undid his jeans with trembling hands.
A shudder washed over him, and she knew he’d given up his control, released the last remnants of sanity. It was too late to change her mind, to pull back, and she quashed her temporary throb of fear. She’d come this far—she wasn’t going to let either of them call a halt to it until they faced their demons.
She unfastened his jeans and shoved them halfway down his thighs, and his cock sprang free. He was big. Long and thick, and it was no wonder he’d hurt her last night when she hadn’t been ready. He’d probably hurt her again, and she didn’t care. She wanted him. She wanted this.
He hauled her up into his arms, roughly, before she realized what he was doing, wrapping her legs around his waist. He looked dark, remote, not the man she thought she knew, as he shoved her up against the wall, his face almost brutal in the firelight.
He pushed into her, hard, filling her, and she braced herself, welcoming him, no longer worrying about pain, only needing him, more of him, all of him, but this time her body didn’t resist him, this time she was ready. Her face was crushed against his shoulder as she felt him thrust into her, and she cradled his head, holding on, wanting nothing but his release, his pleasure filling her.
It was darkness, madness, blood and death. With each thrust of his body she went a little farther, a little deeper, lost in some world where nothing remained but the inexplicable, powerful feelings surging through her body, the sound of his breathing in her ear, the beating of his heart against hers, the slick sweat on his skin as he surged into her, again and again and again, deep and hard and eternal.
He went rigid in her arms, and she clutched him tightly, desperate, afraid he might leave her. He made a sound, a harsh, lonesome cry of pain and completion, as he climaxed, spilling into her. And then, to her shock, she followed him, torn away from everything she’d ever known, and there was just their joining, pulsing, wet, complete. Eternal.
She was gasping for breath, trembling, unable to think, unable to do anything but let the endless shudders wrack through her body as she held him, so tightly that he could never escape her, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, beside her head, and then he slammed it, hard, against the surface. Before she could stop him he pulled free from her body, lowering her, but her knees were too shaky to hold her, leaving him with no choice but to put his arms around her. “Damn,” he said. He sat on the floor, cradling her in his lap, the firelight sending stark patterns across their sweat-damp skin. “Damn,” he said again, this time a little softer, a little more wondering.
It was a few moments before Lizzie regain a semblance of sanity. She looked up at him, uncertain, feeling suddenly vulnerable. She reached up and brushed a thick lock of black hair away from his face. “Why damn?” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper. “We made love and survived. I’m still in one piece,” she said. She glanced down at her body, sprawled across his. “I think.”
She managed to coax the faintest glimmer of a smile. “Just damn, Lizzie,” he murmured, but his hands were gentle on her, wrapping her tight against him. “Just damn.”
HE KNEW WHERE they were. It had taken him hours, endless, damnable hours, but he had finally traced them. Damien had inherited a house in a small town near Joshua Tree. A simple phone call verified that the place hadn’t been inhabited for years, that someone answering Damien’s description had gone into one of the new convenience stores that were springing up in all the outlying towns as civilization crept forward. He knew where they were, and he knew how to find them.
He was in a hurry. His time was running out; he knew that. Twenty-four hours was all he had now, and he had to use it wisely.
He’d used the last mask on the old man. He hadn’t wanted to, but when he’d stared into those sightless eyes he’d known Hickory had wanted the mask, and he’d put it over his face, shutting out that dead stare.
He would have to find a new one. One more. The stores were empty; he’d ascertained that days ago. He could try to track down private collectors, but that would take too long, even with his resources.
No, he knew where he would find the mask he needed. With the person whose destiny it was to wear it. He would find it with Long Liz Stride. And this time he would finish the job, good and proper.
It would take at least three hours to drive out to Damien’s house. He could take his time. Stop for a cup of coffee and some soggy doughnuts. Maybe even take a dozen home, for later.
Because later his work would be done. For this lifetime. He could go back to his usual business and forget all about the past three months. He would have done what he had to. It would be over. For this lifetime.
DAMIEN WATCHED her as she slept. There was a curious kind of peace in it, knowing that at least for now he had kept her safe. She looked exhausted. He could see the pale mauve shadows beneath her closed eyes. He could see the faint swelling of her mouth, bruised by his kisses. He’d marked her. And he still wanted her.
Still in one piece, she’d said, although she hadn’t sounded quite sure of it. She’d stumbled when he sent her to take a long, soaking bath, and when she’d emerged, pink-limbed, fresh-faced and oddly shy, he’d almost ripped off the oversize T-shirt he’d unearthed from his drawers upstairs.
He’d brought down one of the mattresses and set it on the floor in front of the fire. She’d looked at it, managed a sleepy smile that was almost as erotic as her long pink legs, and said, “No sheets?” But she’d lain down on it anyway, drifting effortlessly into sleep as he watched her.
He’d waited until she was soundly asleep before he took his own shower, then came back and fed the fire, placing fresh logs on the coals that held the remnants of her masks.
He wanted to stretch out on the mattress with her, draw her into his arms and hold her. He wanted to make love to her. They’d had sex, hot, hard, quick sex, and he hadn’t turned into a monster. Now he wanted to make slow, languorous love to her, to taste every inch of her body, to kiss her into a daze of pleasure.
He still didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust the creatures of the night, the creature who hunted them both. Somewhere out there, Jack the Ripper was waiting. No longer did Damien fear that the Ripper hid inside his own twisted heart. He wasn’t the Ripper.
But he shared his own piece of culpability. And if he wasn’t careful, that responsibility would spread into this lifetime, into the woman who lay sleeping so soundly, so trustingly.
IT WAS FOGGY that night. But then, there was nothing unusual about that—London in the autumn was usually plagued with fog, and 1888 had had more than its fair share. She didn’t mind. It made for a
bit of privacy, and she was always one for privacy. Growing up in a one-room shanty with twelve brothers and sisters, your own parents rutting away close by, made you long for a bit of peace.
At least she was as far away from Ireland as her money could take her. And London had been good to Mary Kelly. She was a pretty girl, prettier than most, and she got more customers than most. Nicer ones, gentlemen, mostly. Ones with soft hands and kind words, who just liked a bit of sport now and then, something different from what their wives would offer them. And Mary Kelly was willing, for a price.
She didn’t like men much. They were usually bullies, like her father and brothers, intent on either beating or bedding a woman, and it didn’t matter if she was your own kin or not. She’d put up with it because she was too small, too weak, to fight, and then she’d left. And the men who came down to Spitalfields in search of a bit of female companionship were at least a sight better than her own brothers.
She had no intention of being in the business for long. Just until she got together enough money to get her to France. She wasn’t going to be a whore in France, mind you. She would arrive in Paris with enough money to keep her going, long enough to find a rich man who would fancy a pretty girl of his own. One who might put forward the cash to start her on a career on the stage. Mary Kelly could sing, she could dance, and she could recite in a loud, clear voice. By the time she returned to London she would take the city by storm. Mrs. Langtry would pale in comparison.
There were only two things in the way of this stellar plan. Jack the Ripper. And James Killian.
The Ripper didn’t frighten her. She was a clever one, not the sort to go off with a stranger, no matter how much money he dangled in front of her. The women he’d killed had been old, in their forties, toothless, worn-out old crones who would lift their skirts for a bob and then be on their way. Even poor Lizzie Stride had usually been too drunk to notice who she went with, as long as they gave her enough for her night’s lodging and a bag of cashews.
Lizzie. They’d been good friends, despite the difference in their ages. Not like Cathy Eddowes, the old bitch. It was Lizzie’s death that had made the difference. It was Lizzie’s death that pushed Mary Kelly into talking to that nosey reporter.
He was nice enough looking, she supposed. His suit was a little too flashy. She had good taste, Mary did, and knew what a real gentleman should be wearing. That diamond on his left hand was a sizable one, and at first she thought she might be able to talk him into parting with it. It would have gone a good ways toward her passage to France.
But Jack Killian was a downy one, and he knew what he wanted. Told her flat out that he’d never had to pay for it and never would. She could keep her skirts down and her eyes up—he wasn’t interested.
She’d known it was a lie. The way his brown eyes lingered over her breasts, the way his hand reached out for her, then dropped before he could touch her. He wanted her, all right. And the surprising thing was, she wanted him. For the first time in her life, she actually wanted a man.
He had a plan, he said, drawing her to a private table at the Ten Bells Pub and plying her with hot shandies. She watched what she drank—she needed her wits about her or she would end up like Cathy or Lizzie. But Killian’s plan was a good one, a chance worth taking. If the two of them could trap the Ripper, then she could write her own ticket. She wouldn’t need to go to Paris to go on the stage. She would be deluged by offers right here in London. They would call her the heroine of Whitechapel, Killian told her, his voice soft and persuasive. People would flock to see her.
Tomorrow night, he told her. He’d already bought a gun, and tomorrow night they would lay their trap. The Ripper wanted her, Jack said, though he never told her how he knew. The two of them would lure him back to her room, and then, quick as you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” Killian would burst in with the gun. He would kill him, if he had to, and his own career would be made as well.
Mary looked at him across the table, at the handsome mouth beneath the handlebar mustache, the determined brown eyes. “You’ve got it all figgered, haven’t you?”
“It can’t fail,” he said flatly. “You trust me, don’t you, Mary? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’ve never trusted a man in me life,” she said pertly, tossing her head back and staring at him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she knew what he was thinking. And for the first time in her life, an answering warmth filled her. “You can trust me,” he said. “I’ve got as much to gain as you do.”
“Not as much to lose, however,” she pointed out.
He just stared at her for a moment. “I wouldn’t want to lose you,” he said, the words soft and unexpected.
She didn’t move. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
“I said I wasn’t going to buy it. I don’t want ten minutes beneath your skirts, Mary. I don’t want a couple of nights, either. I want everything.” He looked at her, and the dark longing was stark in his eyes, reaching into her heart and squeezing. “I want forever.”
He kissed her then. She hadn’t been kissed in years. Most of her customers weren’t interested in preliminaries, and she found it kept things more impersonal. But he leaned across the table and brushed his lips against hers, and something inside her blossomed into life, something she’d thought had died long ago.
Her lips clung to his for a brief, eternal moment, and then she leaned back, feeling the unexpected sting of tears in her eyes. She never kissed, and she never cried. “Killian . . .” she said, wanting to tell him she loved him, but he stopped her.
“I know, Mary,” he said wryly. “You want a rich man and a comfortable life. I can’t compete with the kind of thing you’re looking for.”
“If we catch the Ripper you’ll be famous,” she said. “If you’re famous, you’ll be rich.”
His eyes met hers. “Yes.”
“Tomorrow night,” she said, suddenly brisk.
He didn’t move. Then he shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind. It’s too dangerous.”
“Don’t be daft, man,” she said, feeling suddenly, gloriously happy. “You’ll be watching and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not like those poor old hags. I’ll be on my guard. We’ll do it, Killian. We’ll catch the Ripper. And we’ll live happily ever after. Together.”
She rose, leaning down to kiss him again, and his hand reached up and touched her breast. She wanted to press against his hand, to know the pleasure he could give her, pleasure that no man ever had ever given her, but she had work to do. She pulled away regretfully, smiling at him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to meet someone.”
“Don’t, Mary,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Lord love you, I’m not going to turn any tricks tonight,” she said cheerfully. “After I’ve promised you my hand and heart? Not to mention the rest of me. I’ve got to go pay me rent, or I’ll be out on the streets come morning, and then what will we do? Cheer up, Killian. We’ll be fine.”
She paused in the door, waggling her fingers at him, and he stared after her. And it wasn’t until she stepped out into the fog-shrouded darkness that she wondered whether he believed her story for even one moment.
He might come after her and she didn’t have much time to lose. She intended to give up the life—indeed, the thought of meeting her customer tonight gave her the cold chills. Not that he was a bad sort, mind you. And he was just the kind of man who could do a girl a good turn when she needed it.
Besides, he was very generous. She would take the last ten quid and stash it with the rest of her savings, and Killian need never know that she’d turned one last trick.
She was humming under her breath, something Irish and lively. She was going to like what James Killian did to her body. It was going to be different from all th
e other men, hunching over her, sweating and panting and heaving.
She heard the knock at the door as she was stripping off her half-gloves. Some of the other girls were nervous, but not Mary Kelly. Not with tonight’s customer. He was one of her regulars—this would be his fourth time in the past few months. He’d come to her each night the Ripper struck, poor man, and she could understand his need for a little bit of forgetfulness.
She opened the door and saw him, his face bland and kind and familiar. He was carrying a bag this time, but she paid it scant heed, opening the door and ushering him in before anyone could see him. “Hello, Chief Inspector,” she said brightly, reaching for the buttons on the front of her dress.
“Hello, Mary,” he said, setting the case down on the foot of the bed. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She smiled brightly, ignoring her inward sigh of boredom. “Oh, I love surprises,” she said.
The chief inspector in charge of the Ripper case chuckled. “You’ll love this one, lass.”
KILLIAN RACED DOWN the alleyways, his fancy new shoes skidding on the wet cobblestones. She’d lied to him, he knew it, and he’d let her do it. He had the gun in his pocket—if the Ripper was coming after her tonight, he would be the one to stop him.
He had considered for a moment, for a brief moment, that he would call it all off. Forget the Ripper, take Mary Kelly home with him, off the streets and keep her safe. But it had been no choice at all. They were too ambitious, the both of them. He didn’t want a scratch-penny existence with a drab of a wife. He wanted everything, fame and fortune and Mary by his side. It was a risk worth taking. And he was going to let her take that risk.