REILLY'S RETURN

by Amelia Autin

  David Pennington swallowed the last of his cognac, placed the snifter on the table, and allowed himself a small, private smile. "Then it's fortunate for me that Ryan Callahan is no longer available, isn't it?"

  No one answered that question, though silent looks were passed back and forth among the lawyers, and in the sudden quiet Carl Walsh's muttered curse echoed through the room. Walsh held his hand over the mouthpiece, his gaze darting across the room to his superior. "You'd better take this call, David."

  Pennington's eyes narrowed at the urgent tone and the look of concern on Walsh's face, but he never lost his cool demeanor. He glanced back at his attorneys. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?"

  Chairs were pushed back, papers were gathered up and shoved into briefcases, and less than a minute later the half-dozen lawyers had vacated the room, leaving Pennington and Walsh alone.

  "Who is it?" Pennington demanded, watching as the door closed with a solid click behind the last attorney.

  Walsh put the caller on hold. "Centurion," he said.

  Pennington's cold gaze moved from the door back to Walsh. "Is the line secure?"

  Walsh nodded. "We did an electronic sweep this morning. No bugs." The New World Militia had learned their lesson the hard way. Some of the evidence presented at Pennington's trial had been obtained through wiretaps and listening devices. That evidence had helped convict him and, ironically, had also provided him with the grounds needed to overturn that conviction and win a new trial.

  "How about at the other end?"

  "Pay phone. And he gave the proper code-word sequence. The line's secure," Walsh reassured him.

  Pennington picked up the receiver in front of him and stabbed at the Hold button. "Yes?" he said, deliberately not identifying himself. He wasn't taking any unnecessary chances.

  "Callahan's still alive." Pennington recognized the voice, confirming identification of the man known as Centurion. "When you said he was heading for Black Rock, I told you I'd take care of it," the voice continued. "But no. You wanted your boys to handle it." There was a pregnant pause. "They handled it, all right. Now the place is crawling with federal agents, sifting through the ashes, asking questions of everyone in town. And folks are cooperating with the Feds, big-time, because it's one of their own who's missing. Your boys made a big mistake, involving Amanda Edwards. You know how it is in towns like Black Rock. Now that people are stirred up and talking to the Feds, it's going to be twice as hard to get to Callahan."

  "What makes you think Callahan's alive?" Pennington asked coolly, forcing down a surge of rage.

  Centurion laughed harshly. "I saw him yesterday."

  Pennington's nostrils flared, the only outward sign of fury he allowed himself to display. "I see." He thought a moment, then asked, "Do the Feds know he's alive?"

  "No bodies were found in the house. You can't keep something like that a secret from the Feds. They know." Silence ensued, then Centurion spoke again. "What are you going to do now?"

  "Whatever I have to."

  "Do you want me to—"

  "I want you to sit tight," Pennington ordered. "I'll get back to you." He slammed the phone down and stared at it for several seconds, letting the rage he'd suppressed earlier wash through him while he struggled for control.

  "It's Callahan," he said unnecessarily, once he'd mastered himself enough to speak calmly. "He's alive."

  "I know." Walsh pulled up a chair across from him and sat down. "Are you going to let him take care of it?" he asked, nodding toward the phone.

  Pennington's eyes glittered. "If you'll recall, the only reason Callahan's still alive is because Centurion didn't take care of it a year ago. Why should I entrust this job to him again?"

  There was a pause, then Walsh said, "You don't have much choice, do you? That town's too small. If you send anybody else now, they're sure to be spotted. I'd wait a couple of days, let things die down, wait for the FBI to leave." He made a placating gesture. "Let Centurion handle it, David. He screwed up the first time, and he'll make doubly sure he doesn't do it again." Walsh took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No explosives, though. No fire. Let it look like an accident. Safer all around that way, and a damn sight easier."

  "No!" Pennington pounded the heavy table so hard with his fist that the phone jumped and jangled. "No, damn it!" He thrust himself away from the table and stood, quivering with rage. "Callahan betrayed us, betrayed me. I won't let him get away with it." Pennington looked down at his clenched fists, forcing them to relax as his mind worked feverishly on a plan. Then he smiled.

  "I swore I'd see Callahan burn in hell," he said softly. "And this time, I'll be the one who sends him there."

  * * *

  By the time night fell, Mandy's brain was teeming with the details of the sting Reilly was setting up. It would have been fascinating, in a macabre sort of way, discussing things she'd only read about in books, if not for the fact that both their lives depended on the plan's success.

  "It's dangerous, Mandy," he stated somberly as she handed him the last of the dinner dishes to dry. "I wish…"

  He didn't say it, but she knew he wished there was some way of keeping her from being involved. "You can't un-involve me," she said matter-of-factly. "So it's useless to waste any time thinking about it."

  One corner of his mouth twitched into a wry smile. "My practical, down-to-earth Mandy," he said.

  Not always, she thought wistfully, remembering when she'd believed that impossible dreams could come true. And they had, for an all-too-brief span of time. She'd learned her lesson, though. She no longer believed in dreams.

  She shivered, from the chill creeping through the cabin or from the memory of lost dreams, she wasn't sure which. She took the dish towel from Reilly's hands, folded it lengthwise, and draped it over the dish rack. "It's getting a little cold in here. I'll get a fire started, but we'll need more wood. Could you bring some in from out back?"

  "Sure. I'll need to make a perimeter check, too. I'll do that while I'm at it." He unholstered the .45, checked the clip and the action, then reholstered the gun all in one smooth move. It reminded Mandy, as if she needed reminding, of the violent world Reilly took for granted.

  He grabbed his jacket and was gone without another word. She stood there for a moment, thinking about his world, so far removed from hers, and the things he'd let slip this morning. Then she sighed, and moved to the fireplace.

  When Reilly finally returned, carrying an armful of wood, the fire was going strong. She helped him stack the rough-hewn split logs beside the fireplace, then said, "I think I'll turn in early tonight. Do you mind if I have first crack at the bathroom again?"

  Reilly, who had taken off his jacket and hung it up, was in the process of dusting his hands off on the sides of his jeans. "Go ahead," he said. "I don't mind."

  As she gathered her things from the bureau drawer, something occurred to her, and she stopped abruptly, the bar of soap in her hand.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing," she answered quickly. Too quickly.

  "What is it?"

  Her cheeks red, she mumbled, "I forgot I don't have any nightclothes." She hurried on. "But that's okay, I'll make do like I did before."

  "Sorry. I didn't think of it." Their eyes met, and both knew the other was remembering long, lazy nights when neither of them wore anything at all to bed. His voice deepened as he added, "It never even occurred to me."

  Mandy's breath caught in her throat as a rush of desire flooded her body. How many times had she dreamed of being with Reilly again, of feeling the helpless surge of excitement that only he created in her? How many times had she replayed their lovemaking in her mind, keeping his memory alive long after his death?

  She tore her gaze away from his, grabbed her new toothbrush and added it to the little pile of things she carried, then scuttled into the bathroom. When she'd shut the door behind her, she sagged against it for a moment, weak with longing. Her chest rose and fell as her breath came quick
ly, and once again she had to struggle for control.

  A quick bath did nothing to calm her down. Her heightened senses responded to the warm, lilac-scented water and the roughness of the washcloth as she ran it over her skin. The sensation reminded her that she was still very much a woman. Reilly's woman.

  She washed her hair, remembering a time when Reilly had done that for her, his strong fingers sliding through the slick, soapy strands, lingering, teasing, tormenting…

  When she realized where her thoughts were heading, she dunked her head under the tap and rinsed off quickly. Later, her newly trimmed hair wrapped in a towel, she brushed her teeth, concentrating on each brisk stroke as if she could brush her thoughts away in the process. It didn't work.

  You want him, an insidious voice inside her said. And he wants you. Would it be so wrong? This isn't a game the two of you are playing. There are people out there trying to kill you, and it could happen at any time. You might not ever have this chance again.

  How many times had she cried herself to sleep, her arms empty and aching for him? Lonely. God, she'd been so lonely for so long. No one else had ever touched her the way Reilly had. Would it be wrong to sleep with him once more?

  "Maybe I'll finally get him out of my system," she whispered. "Maybe I've built things up in my mind because I thought I'd lost him. Maybe we weren't really that good together."

  She was lying to herself, and in her heart she knew it. Sleeping with Reilly wasn't going to do anything but draw her deeper under his spell, but she wasn't going to let this chance pass her by. She wanted him, and just like before, nothing else mattered. But she wasn't going to lie to herself anymore. This time she was going into the relationship with her eyes wide open.

  Reilly was going to break her heart again, and she was going to let him.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  The lights were off when Reilly emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a clean pair of jeans, and he stopped short, his heart suddenly slamming inside his chest. The only illumination in the main room came from the fireplace, and Mandy was sitting in front of the crackling flames combing her nearly dry hair. The fire's glow danced over her vulnerable profile, gilding her hair, her skin. And Reilly's mouth went dry with wanting.

  Wanting. What a pitiful word for the emotions that tore at him as he watched her, mesmerized by the slow movement of the comb through the golden halo of her hair. Desire, wild and sweet, spilled into his bloodstream and surged through his veins. Love, tender and aching, washed over him in waves, leaving him shaking in its wake.

  Love. Such a small word for such a devastating force, but how could he not love her? From the first she'd been everything he'd never even known he was looking for: gentle, but not weak; sweet, but with enough tart edges to delight his taste; beautiful, but seemingly unaware of it. And her eyes—her eyes had looked into his soul and had seen not the man he was, but the man he'd wanted to be, for her. She had been clean and good and untouched by the horrors of his world, and she had healed him when he hadn't even known he needed healing. He'd loved her long before he'd admitted it to himself, hadn't recognized it for what it was until that night at her house when she'd looked at him with love shining from her eyes and asked him to stay.

  He soundlessly mouthed her name and took an unknowing step toward her, then realized what he was doing and stopped himself with a physical effort. Just because you want her, he told himself sternly, doesn't mean she wants you.

  He dropped his dirty clothes in a pile in the corner, and hung his shoulder holster over the back of a chair. Then, because he couldn't resist, he stole another glance at Mandy.

  She turned at that moment. She didn't speak, but words weren't necessary. Her expression spoke of a longing that matched his, of a love that echoed what was in his heart. Without looking away, she placed the comb on the floor, then mutely held out her hand.

  "Mandy?" He didn't dare trust himself to move closer, not until he was sure he wasn't just projecting what he wanted to see in her eyes.

  Her tongue touched her lips, and she swallowed. "Don't make me ask," she said in a soft voice that swept through him like the wind. "Not this time."

  He didn't know how he reached her, only that he was there, kneeling beside her, his arms pulling her up into his embrace. The first kiss went astray as they whispered each other's name, but then Mandy raised her face to his and their lips met.

  The world exploded once more, only this time the explosion was sparked by desire. The flames in the fireplace were nothing compared to the internal conflagration that quickly escalated out of control. Heat scorched his skin as his hands roamed her body, greedy for everything he'd been denied so long. He murmured her name repeatedly, pressing frantic kisses wherever he could reach.

  "Touch me," he whispered, but he couldn't wait. He grasped her hands and slid them down his bare chest, and it was like throwing gasoline on a raging fire. His manhood throbbed, swelled, threatened to burst his zipper. When her hands settled at his waist, then hesitated, he begged hoarsely. "Oh God, Mandy. Please."

  His breath caught as her fingers slowly measured him inside his jeans, then fumbled with the zipper. It seemed to take forever before she released him from that strangling confinement, but once she did he had no control, no finesse left. He had one goal in mind—to be inside her—and there was no room for anything else.

  His hands trembled as he slipped them inside the robe she wore, seeking the warm skin he ached to caress. He groaned when he discovered she was naked beneath the robe, and he pulled it open, tugging impatiently at the belt until it gave way. He slipped the robe from her shoulders, letting it fall behind her. Then he was pressing her down beside the hearth, settling his body on hers, kneeing her thighs apart and rolling his hips until she raised her knees and opened her legs to him.

  A tiny voice in the back of his mind cautioned him to slow down, but he couldn't. He couldn't. He'd been without her for too long, had been tempted too often by her tantalizing nearness the last two days, and now that she'd given him the green light there was no stopping him. Air gusted out of his lungs when he sank his body into hers and came to rest in the cradle of her hips.

  Reilly held himself still by sheer will, wanting, needing to savor the sensation of being sheathed in Mandy's warm, moist depths. He'd dreamt of this moment, secretly praying to the God he wasn't even sure he believed in that someday he'd return to the woman who symbolized the home he'd never known. All his life he'd been on the outside looking in, but when he was in her arms, his body buried deep within hers, he wasn't alone anymore.

  Home. He'd come home.

  He couldn't hold back any longer. He withdrew slowly, his body shaking with the effort, then pressed inward, even deeper than before, desperately needing to find his place within her. He moaned a wordless apology into her mouth, then threw back his head and arched into her again.

  His lips sought hers once more. Wild, rough, urgent, his kiss told her all the things he had no words for, as his hips rose and fell with increasing rapidity.

  Mandy couldn't think anymore. Didn't want to. Feeling took over and she abandoned herself to it, letting it build to shattering proportions. This mad rush to completion was something new between them, she thought distantly, as Reilly's unchecked desire fueled her own. He'd never before made love to her as if he were dying and she was his salvation. Maybe he never would again, but it didn't matter. This once would live forever in her memory, and she surrendered to it, and him, willingly.

  She rubbed her calves against his denim-clad thighs, urging him on, then hooked her ankles around the backs of his knees and opened herself fully to him. She was helpless then, and he immediately took advantage of it, driving into her deeper and harder than before. But she wasn't afraid. She trusted him implicitly, in this at least. Even though she was physically at his mercy, she knew he'd never hurt her.

  He didn't. He made love to her, fighting his own release with each pounding stroke, pa
nting her name as sweat beaded on his brow and rolled down his face. "Now, Mandy. Now!" he rasped. He surged into her—once, twice, thrice—and the intense, throbbing pressure finally broke.

  She closed her eyes and sobbed his name, her body arching toward his as wave upon wave of pleasure swept over her. She reveled in it, tremors of completion stealing her breath and her strength. Then she opened dazed eyes. As if he was waiting just for that, he groaned her name again, and with one last, fierce thrust he finally let himself go. The naked emotion on his face ripped through her heart, and she locked around him—arms, thighs, inner depths—holding him safe as he collapsed against her.

  * * *

  The floorboards were rough and hard beneath her, the thin robe she lay on the only thing between her and the wooden planks. One side of her unclothed body was overly warm from proximity to the fire, the other side was shockingly cold. Her thigh muscles ached from unaccustomed exertion. And the heavy weight of the only man she'd ever loved threatened to crush her.

  Mandy didn't care. Reilly lay sleeping in her arms, with an expression of such utter peace on his face that intense love for him overwhelmed her. He'd worn that same expression once before, the night they'd first made love, and her throat ached with the memory.

  Remembering, she caressed him absently for long moments—light, gentle strokes over the sleek muscles of his back and hips that were meant to soothe, not awaken. Then a tiny chuckle escaped her when her roving hands touched denim. He hadn't even gotten his pants off.

  "What's so funny?" The sleepy rumble of sound reverberated through her body, and her breasts responded as if Reilly had caressed them.

  She shivered, from the erotic combination of the cold air and his warm body, then shifted a little, trying to let her lungs drag in enough air to answer him. He raised up abruptly, and she made a sound of protest. "Don't go," she whispered in vain, her clutching hands no match for his strength as he pulled away.