REILLY'S RETURN

by Amelia Autin

  Yes, she thought bitterly, it was too bad she didn't drink. Cody kept his cabin stocked with everything, even a well-hidden bottle of Jack Daniel's, which she'd discovered tucked inside a galvanized tin bucket during her orgy of cleaning yesterday. If she'd been the drinking kind, she could have numbed the dormant pain Reilly's innocent question had reawakened. If she'd been the drinking kind, she'd be able to forget, at least for a little while, what else she'd lost when she'd lost Reilly a year ago.

  Oblivion. She'd sought that in a bottle of booze once before, last New Year's Eve. It hadn't helped. It hadn't really blotted out the memories, only dulled them. When she'd sobered up the next morning, the grief had returned stronger than before, leaving her heartbreakingly vulnerable to Cody's brand of sympathy.

  Best not to think about that, Mandy decided, as she left the bottle of Jack Daniel's undisturbed.

  Her pacing took her past the tousled bed in the corner for the fourth time, and finally she couldn't stand it one more minute. "Can I help it if I wasn't raised to leave a bed unmade?" she muttered to herself as she briskly tugged the top sheet and blanket into place. When she picked up the pillow to fluff it, she caught a faint lingering scent. Reilly.

  She pressed the pillow to her face and breathed deeply, closing her eyes as memories surged to the fore. Memories of waking in Reilly's arms all those months ago, snuggling, cuddling together in the early morning hours. She'd been shy that first morning, after her wanton behavior the night before, but he'd made it seem so natural that her shyness soon evaporated.

  He was a sprawler, she remembered, his big body taking up more than his half of the bed as he slept, but she hadn't really minded. Her bed had been cold and lonely before his entrance into her life. Books had kept her company at night, but books couldn't hold her in the dark, couldn't warm the sheets, couldn't lull her to sleep like the sound of his breathing did.

  Making love with Reilly had always been intensely exciting, better than her fantasies, and her body still craved him. Their encounter earlier proved it. But it was other things she'd missed the most after he was gone. Little things. The touch of his hand. The way his eyes tilted up at the corners just before he smiled. The scent of him on her pillows.

  A sound at the front door made her drop the pillow on the bed as if it burned her. Reilly was back.

  "Could you give me a hand here?"

  "Sure." A furtive swipe at her damp eyes, a quickly expelled breath, and she was ready to face him. She hurried to his side and relieved him of the box of groceries tucked under his left arm. His eyes searched her face, but she kept it averted from him. She couldn't handle any more of his questions right now.

  She set the box on the kitchen counter, and he dumped the other box he carried right beside it, then caught her arm as she turned away. "You've been crying."

  "No, I…" She swallowed the lump in her throat. "No."

  "Mandy…" The unexpected helplessness in his voice was that of a man who hadn't had a lot of experience dealing with tearful women, especially ones who denied it. "I know this has been a lot for you to take in. I wish I could have spared you, but—"

  "That wasn't why I was…"

  "Then why?"

  She shook her head. She couldn't possibly explain it to him, no matter how hard she tried. Some things you just couldn't put into words. And there were some things she wasn't ready to tell him, things she might never be ready to tell him. Things like—

  Her thoughts shied away from that subject like a frightened colt. She couldn't even think about it, much less discuss it. She tore her gaze from his and snatched at another topic. "You certainly bought enough food." She began unpacking the box of groceries. "How long were you planning to stay here?"

  He didn't answer her. When she glanced at him, questioningly, a can of pork and beans in one hand, and a box of Minute Rice in the other, he said abruptly, "I don't know." He reached and took both the can and the box out of her hands and set them aside. "Don't change the subject, Mandy. Why were you crying?"

  Out of the maelstrom of emotions still surging within her, bitterness crept to the top. "Don't demand answers from me," she said in a tight, little voice that sounded harsh and unforgiving to her ears. "You don't have that right."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Mandy's bitterness set off an explosive reaction in Reilly. "Damn you," he growled, then swung away and strode around the room. He faced her again, the emotional tightness in his chest making breathing difficult. "Maybe I deserve that," he said through the pain. "But did you ever think maybe I don't?" He raked a hand through his hair and fought for control. "I didn't desert you. I left to protect you. But Mandy—" he made sure she didn't look away "—you have to know one thing. I'd do it again if I had to."

  She stared at him with accusing eyes. "Then why did you bother coming back?"

  The arrow found its mark, slipping through his defenses, and he lashed out in pain. "Because I love you, damn it! Because I couldn't stay away!" His chest heaved as emotions roiled inside him. "And because I thought you loved me."

  "I did love you!" Her response was a hoarse whisper.

  "Did?" It hurt more than he thought possible. "Is that why you look for every chance you can to turn the knife?"

  "It's not like that!"

  "Then explain it to me."

  She shook her head as she wiped her tear-swollen eyes. "Like you said, it's not that easy."

  He took the three steps he needed to reach her, and clasped his hands around her arms. "I know it's not. Needing someone…" He swallowed, hard. "Mandy, Pennington swore he'd see me in hell for betraying him. But he doesn't have to kill me to accomplish that. If anything happened to you…"

  "Would you care?"

  It was a cry from a wounded and desperate heart, and Reilly squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if he could block out her pain along with the sight of her ravaged face.

  "Yes, I'd care," he whispered huskily. "I should have stayed the hell away from you in the first place, but I couldn't." He raised one hand to cup her cheek, almost surprised when she didn't flinch away. He searched for the right words and found them in his heart. "I was thirty-eight years old when I came to Black Rock, Mandy, and I'd lived most of my life alone. I thought that's the way it would always be. But I fell for you the moment I saw you, and I'm still falling."

  "Please don't say things like that," she said, but her tone lacked conviction.

  Hope stirred within him despite the hopelessness of their situation, and he had no defense against it. He bent his head, hesitating just long enough for her to escape if she wanted to, but she never moved. He brushed her lips with his, then pulled her closer and deepened the kiss when she made a small sound of surrender.

  When he finally lifted his head they were both trembling. He let her go and stepped back, afraid that if he didn't his control would shatter. A flicker of hurt showed in her eyes before she masked it, and he knew she had no idea how close to the edge he already was.

  "Did you mean it?" she asked, surprising him yet again.

  "That I love you? Yeah. I meant it."

  "Then don't leave me again."

  "Do you think I want to?" She didn't answer and he stated, "That's the last thing I want." Frustrated because he couldn't make her understand what she meant to him, he said, "I won't let them hurt you, Mandy. If it means leaving, I'll leave. If it means staying, I'll do that instead. But I won't let them hurt you." He drew a sharp breath. "I'll kill them all before I'll let them touch you. "

  "You…" He'd shocked her with his brutal honesty. "You don't really mean that."

  "You wanted the truth. That's the only truth I know." She didn't actually move, but her eyelids flickered, and he sensed her inner withdrawal. "I was a good cop, Mandy. I won't say I never bent the rules, but I was a good cop."

  "Then how can you talk about killing, as if—"

  He cut her off. "Because you're more important." He shook his head impatiently, and
his jaw hardened. "If anything happens to you, Pennington's a walking dead man. I'll take him to hell with me."

  * * *

  Reilly had gone to stand by the front window, leaving Mandy stunned and unsure of what to say. It was too much to absorb all at once, she thought. Reilly had been right about that. She needed time, time to assimilate everything he'd told her, time to sort through her emotions. Her life had changed drastically in the last two—was it only two?—days. How could she be expected to deal with everything that had happened since?

  The day before yesterday she'd still been mourning the man by the window, now miraculously returned from the grave. She'd lost her home, and almost died in the process. She'd gone to sleep last night feeling abandoned once again, only to wake in her ex-lover's arms this morning. She'd learned that passion wasn't dead in her, and that the man who'd once held the key to her heart could, by his own words, kill in cold blood.

  She latched on to that last thought and amended it. Not in cold blood. No, if Reilly killed, it would only be because he cared passionately.

  That was another thing she had to rethink. How could she reconcile his statement that he loved her with the fact that he'd let her think he was dead all this time? If he truly loved her, how could he have done that?

  Nothing made sense any more, least of all this well of bitterness she'd discovered in herself. If someone had asked her two days ago, she'd have said that she'd give anything, anything, to bring Reilly back to life. Now that it was true, it was almost as if she resented him for being alive after all.

  Was she really that selfish?

  She looked over at Reilly's bleak profile, and realized she'd hurt him more than she'd known he could be hurt. Remorse urged her toward him, then she winced and caught her breath as a sharp pain pierced her instep.

  "What is it?" Reilly swung around, concern etched on his face.

  "I think I have a splinter or something in my foot."

  "Let me see." He dragged a chair over for her to sit on, then knelt in front of her. "Which foot?" She raised her left one slightly, and he picked it up, propping her foot against his muscled thigh as he examined it thoroughly. "There it is." His large hands were gentle as he removed the quarter-inch splinter from her flesh, then he glanced up. "When was your last tetanus shot?"

  She thought about it. "Three years ago, I think. Somewhere around there."

  "Good," he said, then added, "Stay there," as he left her briefly, returning with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a wad of tissue, and a Band-Aid from the bathroom. He doused the tissue with alcohol and dabbed it on her insole. "This might sting a bit."

  Mandy flinched. It stung like crazy, but all she said was "A bit?"

  A rueful grin tugged at Reilly's lips, then he blew on her foot to dry it. The unexpected sensation sent shivers of awareness up her spine. She controlled her reaction as best she could, and watched as he fitted the bandage in place.

  "You know," he teased, glancing up, "if you wore shoes more often, you wouldn't have these problems."

  All at once memories of other times came back to her with a warm rush. She'd always enjoyed going barefoot, the freedom of it, putting her shoes on last thing before she left the house and kicking them off the minute she came home. Reilly had teased her about all the extra work she had to go through to keep her feet from becoming too callused because of going barefoot so much. But he'd made a sensual game out of rubbing her feet with lotion after she'd soaked them, working his way up her ankles, calves, thighs…

  He was remembering, too, she saw. His tawny brown eyes darkened as his chest began to rise and fall. He slowly lowered her foot to the floor, then stood up, pulling her with him. "Mandy, I…"

  She knew she should move away, do something to avoid the kiss she saw in his eyes. Instead, she reached up and touched his face with a wondering hand, as longing shook her. Then their arms swept around each other. The kiss, when it came, was like nothing they'd ever shared. It spoke of the loneliness that only those who've loved and lost can know. It spoke of the longing of two people to escape a past too painful to bear yet too beautiful to erase. But above all it spoke of a passion that had never died, passion tempered by the knowledge that this was a moment stolen out of time that might never come again.

  When he would have released her, Mandy clung to him. Not yet, her heart cried. Not yet. She rested her face against the warmth of his shoulder, indulging her senses, her memories, and the part of her heart that still loved him unconditionally.

  It felt so natural, so right to be in his arms like this, to have his lips pressed against her hair, to hear his heart beating in cadence with hers. No one had ever held her as Reilly had, as if she were the only woman in the world. Was it wrong to pretend, only for a moment, that there was no past, no future? Was it wrong to let herself be vulnerable just once more?

  Eventually, though, she had to let him go. She sighed and loosened her arms, then drew back a little, and he whispered something she didn't catch.

  "What did you say?" she murmured.

  A chuckle escaped him. "I said, maybe I shouldn't complain about your bare feet, if that's the way you react to a splinter."

  Mandy laughed, too, more from nervous relief than anything else. "I'm not always such a wimp."

  Something—was it pride?—flashed across his face. "I know you're not," he said, his deep voice warm with admiration. "I don't know any woman who could have done even half as well in this situation as you have."

  She was already melting inside, but his words of praise finished the job. "Thanks," she said shyly. There was an awkward pause, during which they stared longingly at each other and tried not to show it. Then Mandy said. "You know, I never thanked you for saving my life the other night. I guess I got so caught up in what was happening, that I—"

  Reilly made a dismissive motion with his hand. "It was my fault you were in danger in the first place."

  "Why do you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "Play down the things you've done. Act as if they don't mean anything. This isn't the first time, either."

  He seemed at a loss for words, his thoughts turned inward. "Maybe—" he said slowly "—maybe because when I was growing up I was taught that anything I did was suspect. So I … I guess I learned not to look for affirmation from anyone but myself."

  "I don't think that's the same thing."

  Reilly's smile was crooked. "It is where I come from, Mandy."

  She opened her mouth to ask him to explain, but he cut her off. "Speaking of shoes," he said, although they'd been doing nothing of the kind, "I bought some for you yesterday." He went to a large paper bag stashed in the corner by his duffel bag. She'd noticed it earlier, in passing, but hadn't really had a chance to ask him about it.

  He handed her the bag unopened. "I think you'll find everything you need in there." He nodded toward the bag. "There's a couple changes of clothes for you—jeans, shirts, things like that—so you won't need to borrow Walker's clothes anymore. I also bought you shoes, socks, undies and a jacket. I think they'll fit."

  She glanced into the bag, then raised puzzled eyes to his. "Weren't you afraid someone might get … I don't know … suspicious, with a man buying all of this?"

  "I didn't buy them all in one place. That's partly why I was so late getting back last night. It took me longer than I thought it would, because I had to go to both Sheridan and Buffalo. I must have visited at least a half-dozen stores yesterday, not counting grocery and hardware stores."

  Shame scorched her cheeks. All the while she'd been thinking he'd deserted her, he'd been shopping for her instead. She couldn't apologize without telling him what she was apologizing for, but she could thank him, if she could swallow the lump in her throat.

  "Thanks." She barely managed to get the word out.

  As usual, Reilly shrugged it off. "It was nothing."

  Mandy wanted to insist that it wasn't "nothing," but realized she'd never convince him, so she turned away, opening the bag as sh
e went. She dumped everything out on the bed, and discovered Reilly had even bought her a comb and a pair of scissors—presumably so she could trim her hair, which she'd been longing to do ever since the fire had damaged it—as well as a toothbrush and several other feminine necessities. She picked up a bar of lilac-scented soap that had tumbled out along with everything else. It was the brand she always used, and she sniffed it delicately, smiling a little. It was a small thing, but it touched her that he'd remembered.

  Still smiling, she went to store her new clothes in the little chest of drawers by the bed. When she was finished she slid her hands into her pockets and casually leaned against the bureau. She looked over at Reilly and asked, "So what are your plans now?"

  * * *

  Over two thousand miles away, David Pennington sat in the war room of his Long Island compound, surrounded by the best legal task force money could buy.

  He held a snifter of fine cognac in one hand, and he rolled the liqueur around and around, warming it, as he listened absently to the spirited discussion taking place among his attorneys. He took a sip from the glass, holding it on his tongue, savoring the bouquet. Savoring his freedom.

  He ripped the glass in a silent, mocking toast to a dead man. To Ryan Callahan, whose death he savored even more.

  A telephone shrilled insistently, bringing the conversation around the table to a temporary halt. Pennington signaled his new second-in-command, Carl Walsh, to answer it on the other side of the room, and took this opportunity to bring the discussion to a close.

  "Bottom line, gentlemen," he said in a cool, emotionless voice, his gaze wandering from one man to the next. "What you're saying is that I can expect an acquittal in the new trial."

  Pennington's chief counsel glanced around the table at his fellow attorneys, then cleared his throat. "Not exactly," he demurred. "Juries are notoriously unpredictable. But given the evidence the prosecution has left…"

  Another man spoke up. "It was Callahan's testimony more than anything else that convicted you in the first trial. We couldn't discredit him with the jury. Now, without the tapes the appellate court excluded, and without Callahan's testimony…" The lawyer shrugged. "The prosecution doesn't have much of a case. It might not even go to trial."