REILLY'S RETURN

by Amelia Autin

  While he was at it, he'd also stocked up on non-perishables at a grocery store in Sheridan, enough to last them a couple of weeks. It didn't make a lot of sense, since he was bringing Walker in on the operation, but Reilly was reluctant to eat the man's food. He didn't want to be indebted to Walker any more than absolutely necessary.

  The low purr of a well-tuned engine alerted him only a few seconds before two strong headlight beams swung into Walker's driveway. Reilly stayed right where he was. The garage door clattered and hummed as it rolled upward in response to a garage-door opener's radio signal, and the sheriff's 4x4 drove forward into the unlit garage. Reilly had already taken care of the overhead light by unscrewing it a couple of turns in the socket; he'd have the shield of darkness when he made his move.

  He pulled his .45 out of its holster, then waited. He heard the car door slam shut, followed by a muffled curse. Walker must have tripped over something in the dark. The garage door rattled closed, and the firm tread of footsteps made their way toward the covered walkway. Reilly slipped silently around the corner of the garage. Cody Walker had just unlocked the back door, and Reilly had his gun cocked behind the sheriff's right ear before Walker even knew he was there.

  "Not a sound," Reilly ordered, his voice pitched to carry no further than Walker's ears. "No, don't turn around." He grasped the collar of Walker's uniform shirt for additional control. "Use two fingers to pull that gun out real slow," he said, referring to the revolver in the sheriff's gun belt, "and hold it out at your side." When Walker silently complied, Reilly said, "Now drop it. Carefully." Walker did that, too, and the gun landed on the dead grass beside the steps with a small thud. Then Reilly gave him a slight push. "Inside."

  Walker entered the house with Reilly right behind him, the .45 still cocked and threatening. The kitchen was dark, with only faint traces of moonlight gleaming through one window. Reilly was waiting patiently for his eyes to adjust, when the sheriff said coolly, "I don't have more than twenty dollars on me. There's a fifty stashed behind a photo in the living room, but other than that, pal, you're out of luck."

  Reilly had to admire the other man's coolness under pressure. Walker had tensed when he'd first felt the gun pressed against his skull, but otherwise his big, lean body had betrayed no sign of fear or trepidation.

  "I don't want money," Reilly said. "I want information." He waited for that to sink in, then added, "And I need your help."

  "If it's help you want, you couldn't come to the office like normal folks?"

  The acerbic statement surprised a laugh out of Reilly. "Ice water in your veins, huh?" he approved. "A man after my own heart." His tone sharpened. "If it was just me, Walker, I wouldn't have come to you in the first place. But it's not just me. It's Mandy Edwards."

  Walker stiffened. "Mandy's dead." His gravelly voice sounded as if it hurt him just to say the words, much less know them for the truth, and Reilly relaxed his grip on the man's shirt just a fraction.

  "No, she's not. She's very much alive, and if I have anything to say about it, she's going to stay that way. I'm betting my life you feel the same."

  * * *

  Mandy could scarcely keep her eyes open. It was late, she was exhausted, and the warmth of the fire was making her drowsy. But she stubbornly refused to surrender to the welcoming arms of sleep. If that meant she stayed up all night, then she'd do it. And when morning came without Reilly's return, she'd know, and then her heart could stop its foolish wishing.

  Her eyes drifted shut. I'm so tired, she thought. Tired of pretending I'm strong. Tired of fighting off the memories.

  She hadn't voluntarily opened the door to where her memories of Reilly were stored in so long that it was almost second nature to keep them locked up, but last night Reilly had forced her to remember. He'd picked the lock on her memory just as he must have picked the lock to break into her house. Now the unlocked door stood ajar, beckoning her to peer inside.

  Don't do it, part of her warned. You'll only hurt yourself if you do.

  Her heart refused to listen. I'll just look at the good memories, she reasoned. The safe ones. It doesn't have to hurt.

  The bookstore, she decided. That was safe enough. There was nothing about the memories of Reilly and the bookstore that could hurt her.

  Reilly had come in for a book just after she'd opened that morning, had rescued her from the ladder, and had stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Thinking back, she couldn't remember exactly what they'd talked about all that time. Books, of course, at first. They'd found they shared similar tastes in some areas, and laughingly agreed to differ on others. She adored John Grisham and found his books fascinating. He preferred the gritty realism of Lawrence Sanders. Neither cared for the depressing pretension of what passed for "literature" these days, but when he diffidently confessed that he'd once accidentally picked up a Linda Howard book and hadn't been able to put it down, she'd fallen in love.

  Oh, not really. Love had actually taken a little longer, but she'd certainly formed a serious crush on him that morning. He was so different from the other men she knew. Even now she didn't know what it was about him that had attracted her so strongly, but whatever it was—sex appeal, charm, personality—it had thrown her for a loop. She was a small-town girl, born and raised, and she'd liked it that way. She'd been happy enough with her life before he'd come along. Maybe it hadn't been exciting, but there'd been a genuine satisfaction in the comfortable sameness of her days.

  Reilly changed all that. Changed her. His smile made her feel young and giddy, while his eyes told her she was sexy and exciting. He'd seemed to find her as fascinating, as irresistible, as she found him.

  She hadn't wanted him to leave that day, had kept him leisurely talking about this and that while her brain feverishly worked to think of some excuse to see him again.

  When he'd let slip that he'd just moved to Black Rock and was looking for a likely location to establish his carpentry business, she'd eagerly volunteered to help, and even offered him his first job—building new bookshelves for her store.

  She smiled dreamily. Reilly's work had been first-rate, but it wouldn't have mattered to her if the bookshelves had fallen apart as soon as she stacked books on them. She would have done anything at that point to keep Reilly in her life.

  * * *

  Only two short months later they'd become lovers.

  "It's late. I should get going," Reilly had told her, making a halfhearted attempt to rise from where they both reclined on large pillows in front of her fireplace, but Mandy wasn't about to let him go now. She'd waited so long already, all her life, it seemed, to make love with this man. She'd set the stage for tonight: a candlelit dinner, coffee afterward in front of the roaring fire, soft music playing in the background. And she was wearing the blue silk blouse she'd bought for the occasion with, daringly for her, no bra beneath it. No, he wasn't leaving tonight if she could help it.

  "Don't go." She put a hand on his arm and felt the corded muscles tighten beneath her light touch. "Please."

  He looked down at her, an expression she couldn't fathom on his face. Desire was there—she couldn't mistake that—he wanted her as much as she wanted him. But … pain? How had she hurt him?

  "Mandy, this isn't a good idea. I—"

  "Don't leave me." She scarcely recognized her own voice, a husky plea with a little catch in the middle that slipped past his defenses. Everything he felt for her was reflected in his face in that moment, and what she saw there gave her the courage to continue. Her fingers slid down his arm and captured his hand, then she lifted it and drew it to her breast.

  She saw it in his eyes, the moment when he succumbed. A flash of intense longing sparked between them and his head came down, his lips finding hers. In between kisses that stole her breath and set her body on fire he told her—warned her, really—that he wasn't a gentle man. But he was. He was. Gentle, and fierce, and loving…

  * * *

  Mandy woke as she was gently lifted into a strong pair of arms.
Her eyelids fluttered open, but it was too much work to keep them that way, so she let them slide back down, a satisfied smile touching her lips.

  Reilly had returned. She'd known deep down that he would. She'd pretended that she hadn't believed him, because she'd been afraid of being hurt again, but her heart had known all along. Explanations could wait. They weren't important now. He was back, and that was all that mattered.

  A minute later she was lowered to the bed. Still in that dream state, she clung to the arms that held her, afraid that if she let go she'd awaken from the dream and find he'd never been there at all.

  "Let me go, Mandy." The deep growl was real, but it held reluctance, and she knew he didn't really want her to let go, no matter what he said.

  "No," she protested in a throaty voice, tugging until he came down beside her on the bed. The line between reality and dreams blurred, and she curled up against him, one arm thrown across his chest as if she could hold him captive that way. "Don't leave me." His chest moved up and down beneath her arm, a strangely hypnotic motion, and she murmured a request her heart had secretly been longing for since last night.

  "What did you say?" The voice rumbled in her ears.

  She sighed and snuggled closer. "Hold me," she pleaded, and sighed again—a contented sound this time—when his arms slid around her body. Then, for the first time in a year, she went to sleep in Reilly's arms.

  Reilly lay awake holding his love, his body hard and aching with unslaked desire. It hadn't taken much to arouse him—the sight of Mandy wrapped in a blanket, with her head pillowed on her arm, fast asleep in front of the fireplace had accomplished that. Picking her up and carrying her across the room had been bad enough. Adding Mandy's delicate fragrance, which no expensive perfume could rival, had swelled his arousal to painful proportions.

  This was subtle torture, worse than last night, worse than anything he'd ever imagined. Mandy's body was warm, soft, and oh, so inviting to the man who'd been denied access to it for so long. Her rounded breasts, covered by dark blue terry cloth, rested enticingly against his chest, and every shallow breath she took pressed them closer.

  Sweat broke out across his brow. Lovemaking with Mandy had always been explosive, he remembered, shaking with the strain. Holding her like this reminded him vividly of the two of them lying naked and sated in each other's arms, their bodies damp, their frantic breathing slowing in the aftermath.

  "Damn it!" The whispered words were softly but vehemently spoken, and his hand slid down to ease the restricting denim between his legs.

  This would never do. He'd never last the night like this. It would kill him. Better think of something else, Reilly, pretty damn quick.

  With an effort that cost him, he forced his thoughts away from the woman in his arms, and back to his earlier conversation with Cody Walker.

  He'd gotten what he went there for—Walker's help. And if it had been any other man, Reilly wouldn't have had such a hard time accepting it.

  He laughed soundlessly. What an understatement that was. His instincts had begun humming again as he'd talked with Walker about Mandy, the conviction growing that there was something neither of them was telling him.

  He reached across and arranged the blanket more securely over Mandy, making sure it covered her. Then he thought, what the hell, and tugged it over himself as well. He shifted positions and tucked her body closer to his while he was at it.

  Staking a claim, Reilly?

  He ground his teeth together. Damn straight, he was staking a claim. Mandy was his, at least until he was forced to let her go. She had started this by pulling him down on the bed with her. He'd tried to stop her, but he was only human, and there was a limit to how much he could take.

  She murmured in her sleep, words too faint for him to catch, then snuggled her face against his shoulder before subsiding again. Reilly's breathing quickened, along with his heartbeat and a few other parts of his body. Then something occurred to him, pushing his physical awareness of her to the back burner as he considered it.

  Maybe Mandy thought she didn't believe him, maybe when she was awake she'd argue again that she no longer needed him. That didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that subconsciously she still trusted him. She could deny it all she wanted to, but she couldn't sleep so peacefully in his arms like this if she didn't.

  For the first time since his return, tension relaxed its iron grip on Reilly. It made absolutely no sense to feel this good about his discovery, because there was a strong possibility he'd eventually have to give her up again. But he loved her, and always would. At least now he knew she still loved him, too.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

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  "What do you think you're doing?"

  Reilly was jolted awake from an erotic dream by the indignant question. He cracked one eye open, then the other, and found Mandy leaning over him in the predawn light, clutching the blanket to her chest like an outraged virgin. He sighed and closed his eyes. He wasn't ready for this. Judging by the gray shadows in the room, he'd had four, maybe five, hours of sleep. Not enough after the events of the last few days. His body, semiaroused by the dream and the proximity of the woman who had warmed the bed at his side until a moment ago, now felt cold and abandoned. As a result he was tired, edgy and hungry, though not for food. And he definitely wasn't in the mood for the confrontation looming before him.

  An insistent hand pushed against him. "Get out of my bed."

  "No," he said, his eyes flicking open to stubbornly meet hers. He was damned if he would. He wasn't a yo-yo she could bob up and down on a string as the mood took her. She'd dragged him into bed with her last night, and he wasn't getting up until he was good and ready. He'd had far too little sleep the last few nights, and she was the primary cause, so unless danger threatened them, he was staying right where he was.

  His curt refusal astonished her. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

  "Just that. You invited me here last night, and I'm staying."

  She clearly hadn't been expecting that response. For a moment she stared at him as if she didn't quite know what to say. Then with a muttered imprecation, she threw the blanket down and scrambled off the end of the bed, flounced into the bathroom, and slammed the door.

  Reilly closed his eyes again and rolled over onto the spot Mandy had just vacated, then groaned. The down pillow, the sheets, everything smelled of her, reminding him of his recent dream, and his body responded with predictable results.

  "Damn," he mumbled against the pillow, but without heat.

  What did you expect? his inner voice taunted him. She was half-asleep last night. She probably doesn't even remember what did or didn't happen.

  "I do," he said to the empty room. "I remember." He wished his body didn't. When Mandy got out of the bathroom, he was going to need a long, cold shower, or he'd never make it past breakfast.

  He lay there, face down, breathing in her scent. His arousal pressed against the mattress in bittersweet torture, and he tried to will himself back to sleep. It didn't work. He kept imagining Mandy in the bathroom, going through those peculiar female rituals of getting dressed, and his pulse speeded up until he groaned again. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he was getting any more sleep this morning.

  A few minutes later he heard Mandy stomp barefooted out of the bathroom. The sound of banging cupboards, slamming drawers and rattling pans got his attention, too, and Reilly rolled onto his side. He propped his head on one arm and looked toward the tiny kitchen area. Mandy was making breakfast—for one or two?—and obviously didn't care that he was trying to sleep.

  She was wearing Walker's shirt and jeans again, and he cursed under his breath. He hadn't had a chance to tell her about the clothes he'd bought for her yesterday. Given her mood, he doubted she'd be interested in hearing about them right now.

  He jackknifed into a sitting position, then dropped his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He adjusted the fit of his jeans—denim was never meant to
expand that much—yawned and stretched. His muscles protested, and he imagined he could hear his joints creaking. He was getting too old for this, he thought, as he rotated his left shoulder to see how the wound there was healing. Running around like James Bond was a game for younger men.

  Hold on there, O'Neill. Thirty-nine isn't exactly decrepit. You're in better physical shape than a lot of men half your age.

  Yeah, but it still didn't make him feel any better. He could keep up, all right, could still push himself to the limit, and beyond, without his body failing him. But there was a price to pay. Time was, he could go all day and night without feeling it in his bones. Nowadays it took him a few minutes to work out the kinks before his body was ready to face the morning.

  He sank back on the edge of the bed. He'd be forty years old soon, he mused—if he lived through the next month. The older he got, the faster the years passed. He would be fifty before he knew it, then sixty, seventy. And what would he have to show for his life?

  No wife. No children. Nothing to prove that the man who'd been born Ryan Callahan had lived on this planet. Nothing of himself to leave for future generations.

  A strange, wistful yearning filled him as he watched Mandy bustle around in the kitchen. A long-forgotten memory came back to him—he couldn't have been more than three or four—and he saw his mother moving in the kitchen of their Brooklyn brownstone, making breakfast for his father. She'd been miffed about something, and his dad had been trying to tease her out of it, but she'd refused to break down and smile at his humorous efforts. Eventually his dad, a construction foreman, had gone off to work. The moment the door closed behind his dad, however, his mother had been at the window, peering out through the curtains, her lips moving in her oft-repeated prayer that God would bring her husband home safely again.

  God had been inclined to listen that day. Patrick Callahan had returned that night as usual. But before the year was out, little Ryan Callahan was an orphan, his father killed in a fall from a high-rise under construction, his mother dead of a broken heart. Pneumonia was what the doctor told the parish priest and what the priest explained to four-year-old Ryan, but Ryan knew better. His mother had wasted away until death was a welcome relief from a life made unbearable by grief.