Touch Me Not

by Julie Kistler

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Suzette said suspiciously. “But whatever it is, just don’t be too obvious, okay? We’re trying to show off how moral and high-toned we are. Hanky-panky,” she added, casting a jaded eye at Gilly’s rising color and Luke’s studied innocence, “is not on the bill.”

  “Got it,” Gilly returned quickly, trying to maintain her composure as little flicks of fire quite literally reached up and pinched her in the behind.

  “Got it,” Luke chorused. The swine.

  As soon as Suzette was a few feet away, Gilly slapped away his hand and smoothed her skirt. “Luke, that was terrible!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said soothingly. “I couldn’t help myself. It’s that skirt.”

  “Oh, it is not. You’re just being wicked tonight.”

  “And you love it.”

  His smile was incorrigible. “Yes,” she said, laughing, tipping into his chest so he would put his arms around her again. “I do love it.”

  Her words were almost drowned out by a sudden disturbance behind them. Someone yelled, “Fight!” and there was a shuffle of feet and bodies. Gilly could hear the crack of flesh hitting flesh, a girl screaming, “No!” and one of the older students—a senior perhaps—went down like a sack of potatoes, narrowly missing toppling the refreshment table.

  Lena Winslow, the Latin teacher, had been manning the table, and she leaped back, clasping the whole punch bowl to her chest to secure it.

  Another kid—someone Gilly didn’t recognize— shouted, “Keep your hands off my woman!” The kid lunged in the direction of the boy on the floor, who was holding a hand to a newly bloodied nose. More teenagers rushed in, taking sides in the dispute.

  Suzette made a beeline for the center of the disturbance. Gilly, headed that way, too, weaving through students, parents, politicians and a minister or two, all of whom were shuffling their feet uneasily and watching the fight.

  Gilly reached the boy on the floor first, while Suzette cornered the other combatant. “I didn’t touch his girlfriend,” the boy with the bloody nose told Gilly sulkily. “Jerk came out of nowhere.”

  “Well, that’s okay. Nobody’s hurt.” She helped dust him off and found him a handkerchief for his nose. She was just turning to tell the milling crowd that order had been restored when all hell broke loose again.

  A wealthy woman in a tight cocktail dress suddenly yelped, smacking someone with her tiny evening purse as a man on the opposite side of the gym hollered, “Pickpocket! That kid stole my wallet!”

  “My necklace!” screamed another woman. “There are thieves everywhere! The place is crawling with them!”

  People began to push and shove, plowing under anyone in the way. The man who’d lost his wallet elbowed someone else out of the way, apparently trying to pursue his chief suspect, but the guy he shoved didn’t appreciate it any and swung out with a fist. He missed his target, but he did connect soundly with the mayor’s wife’s face.

  The poor woman began shrieking, “By dose! By dose!” which Gilly took to mean that they’d suffered another nasal casualty.

  “Everybody just calm down!” she shouted, but panic had already set in. Everywhere people were scrambling for the exits. Lena Winslow, however, was still bravely clutching the punch bowl.

  The mayor was nowhere to be seen—presumably he’d escaped at the first whiff of trouble—but his chief aide was sitting on the floor by his boss’s wife, pressing his hankie to her nose, looking white as a sheet. All the other VIPs were lost in the sea of screaming flailing humanity.

  The Snow Ball was an unmitigated disaster.

  Gilly realized belatedly that she had lost Luke. There was no way to find him now, not with so much chaos surrounding her. Oh, God. Luke. Smack-dab in the middle of all this noise and confusion when he was still a bit shaky just being out in public. This must be driving him crazy. Gilly scanned the ballroom desperately. What was happening to Luke?

  “I have to find him,” she said, but there was just no way. She almost considered getting down on her hands and knees and crawling through the sea of legs, but she knew she’d never make it.

  “Look on the bright side,” she whispered as the refreshment table collapsed under the weight of two middle-aged politicians engaged in fisticuffs, and six platters’ worth of cupcakes and Rice Krispie squares went sailing into the crowd. “Things couldn’t get any worse.”

  She knew immediately she shouldn’t have said that. First somebody collided with poor Lena Winslow, and the punch bowl was history. The mayor’s wife had just started to rise to her feet when the tide of Tahitianpink liquid sloshed her way, and down she went like the Titanic.

  And then the lights went out.

  Gilly stayed where she was, and she hoped everybody else did the same thing. But there was too much movement around her for her to feel that optimistic. She was elbowed one way, jostled the other, and then a very fresh hand closed over one breast. She grabbed the hand, yanked the guy closer and kicked him, hard.

  “That’ll teach you to grope me!”

  A light went on in the hallway outside the gym, and somebody turned on a flashlight, which gave the room an eerie glow. A roar seemed to go up on the side by the big field-house doors, and cold air rushed in. The street lamps outside cast a few murky rays in through the now open doors, but not enough for anyone to really see anything. Still, the crowd seemed to have taken up some kind of anthem. What were they saying, all run together and jumbled like that?

  “Nightshade?” Gilly echoed, stunned down to her uncomfortable high heels. “I forgot all about him.”

  Clearly he hadn’t forgotten about her. If she squinted, she thought she could see his dark broadshouldered form and the rakish cast of his fedora silhouetted against the open gym doors. The sea of people seemed to part for him, fights broke off in midpunch, and the noise level subsided immediately.

  She never had figured out how his mere presence seemed so daunting before he even moved a muscle. But whatever magic he wielded, it was working tonight. There was a slam and a thunk, a gasp. Everyone in the gym seemed to be holding his or her breath.

  Gilly saw the black-cloaked figure striding closer. He’s coming for me, she thought, hope rising in her heart. In spite of her best intentions, she was filled with the same sizzling passion he always provoked, the same incredibly heightened awareness of his big solid body.

  “Nightshade,” she breathed, reaching out as the man in the black hat moved closer.

  He swept right past her without so much as a hello.

  A second later he came slashing back through the crowd, dragging someone by the neck. And then he was gone.

  The power was restored and the overhead lamps flooded the field house. Everyone seemed to blink in unison and stare at one another and the debris. From outside, sirens fractured the night, announcing the arrival of the police. The commissioner and the mayor had been in attendance tonight, and it still took the authorities a good half hour to respond to an emergency in West Riverside.

  But Nightshade was nowhere to be seen.

  Gilly was curiously deflated. She should’ve been happy the melee was over, furious that her Snow Ball was decimated, desolate that her plan to show off Benny’s was in tatters. But all she could think about was how Nightshade had ignored her. She might as well have been one of the folding chairs, for all the attention he’d paid her.

  She felt a tug on her arm. “Ms. Quinn?” It was Javier, one of her art students. “There’s this guy who sent me to get you. Mr. Blackthorn?”

  “Luke?” Holy hell, she’d forgotten all about him!

  Javier ducked back into the crowd, leading her outside through the gym doors. A cold wind whipped around her, and she felt instantly chilled.

  Shivering, she asked, “He’s out here?”

  “Yeah, Ms. Q,” Javier responded. “Right over here.”

  The police were just entering that way, so things were a bit confused. The mayor and his pal Ed Spivak, who had argued on be
half of the casino to the city council, were hobnobbing off to one side, smoking cigars, looking very unconcerned, which made Gilly’s blood boil. How dare they not even care that her Snow Ball had been smashed into smithereens?

  She passed by smartly, her chin in the air. Next, Gilly and Javier made their way around a pile of bodies—not dead ones, just injured. There were four of them, all tied up in a neat bundle. They might as well have been marked Culprits they looked so guilty.

  “Nightshade asked me to keep watch over them,” a round, red-faced man announced proudly. “I guess they’re like a band of pickpockets or something. He rounded them up and dropped them here.”

  A cop tipped back his hat and scratched his head. “So how did Nightshade know these were the right guys?”

  “Beats me,” their temporary guard said. “Might want to take a look in their pockets, though.” He pointed to a bright diamond necklace trailing out of one coat pocket, and a nice little haul of billfolds peeking out of another.

  Good old Nightshade, always rushing to the rescue. Well, bully for him. Why couldn’t he have stopped the thieves before they ruined her party? And why couldn’t he have at least stopped to say hello?

  Thinking about Nightshade when she should’ve been thinking about Luke only made her feel guilty. She picked her way past the thugs as best she could, still following Javier’s lead. Around the back, on the gym steps, she finally saw Luke. “Oh, God,” she said. “You look terrible.”

  His clothes were a mess, and he looked drawn, bruised and shell-shocked. She ran to his side, cradled his head in her hands, kissed his face. “I’m so sorry! What happened? Did someone hit you? If it was that Nightshade, I swear I’ll kill him. He must’ve passed right by here. Oh, Luke, you didn’t try to help him, did you?”

  She glanced over at the moaning pile of thugs. “Luke, you didn’t get involved! Tell me you didn’t! Nightshade may be Mr. Crimefighter Extraordinaire, but you’re just a regular guy.” She felt like wringing her hands or at least stamping her foot. “Oh, Luke, this is awful. And it’s all my fault! I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” he muttered, tensing and wincing as he forced himself to sit up straight, sending her a dark look that shouted how much he did not want to be coddled.

  “Not my fault?” Gilly wasn’t as forgiving. She braced him against her shoulder to try to help him to his feet. “I brought—no, make that, I pushed—an emotionally fragile, possibly agoraphobic man into a madhouse! So whose fault is it?”

  He edged away. “Gilly, I came under my own steam. I’m not emotionally fragile. And I’m certainly not agoraphobic.”

  “Whatever you say.” But it didn’t stop the panic and the tenderness from seeping out all over her. She never should’ve let Luke come to this, never should’ve pushed him to recover too fast. “Luke, there are ambulances here. I think we should get a doctor or paramedic to—”

  “No doctors,” he growled.

  “Okay, well, I really think we should get you home, then. Bed rest is probably the best thing.”

  “Bed rest?” He stood, stiff and wobbly at the same time, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack. “Not exactly what I had planned for tonight.”

  “Well, you know, plans change. Get over it.”

  She hadn’t meant to snap at him, but she hated it when he got moody and cranky. Suddenly she remembered whose fault this whole mess was, and she relented immediately. She reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, wishing he didn’t flinch as her fingers grazed his skin.

  “Luke, I think you should go home. Doesn’t that sound like the best thing right now?”

  He nodded. And then, with a fierce look of determination, he put one foot in front of the other and strode for the Ferrari. Gilly sort of hovered behind him, ready to help if she needed to, fully aware he would rather die than let her.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved his keys, tossing them to her with studied carelessness. “You drive,” he muttered.

  “Looks like maybe your car was robbed, too.” She pointed to the trunk lid, which was slightly ajar. “Should I check to see if anything is missing?”

  “No,” he said abruptly. He used whatever strength he had to reach over and slam it shut, but she could see the effort it cost him.

  “Come on, get in.” She bundled him into the passenger seat and then went around to the driver’s side. And then she took a deep breath and stared down at the stick shift, praying she could drive the car well enough to get them back to Blackthorn Manor.

  “Thank God Aunt Abby and Uncle Fitz are gone for the weekend. They’d kill me for this,” she mumbled. “And they’d be justified if they did. Maybe I’ll just kill myself and get it over with.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Luke murmured. He leaned back his head, gritting his teeth as the car lurched down the street. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to drift away, into sleep or unconsciousness or something.

  Gilly’s heart beat faster. “Are you with me, Luke? Are you okay?” But he didn’t answer.

  She ignored a stop sign on the empty street, accelerating, heading for the bridge as fast as she could, determined not to shift again and risk killing the engine. She spared him an anxious glance. “You’ll be all right, Luke. I promise.”

  Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he respond, even with a moan or a groan?

  “You have to be okay, Luke,” she whispered. “You have to be. I lo—”

  She broke off, unwilling to finish that last devastating word. But it echoed large and loud in her heart.

  I love you.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Gilly,” Luke said clearly, “if you could possibly avoid at least one pothole, I would appreciate it.”

  She laughed out loud. Trust Luke to burst that bubble. Here she was, thinking he’d breathed his last and broken her heart both at the same time, and he was just cranky about potholes.

  “You sound like your old self,” she said happily, turning off the bridge and onto the private road that ran in front of the big houses on the bluff.

  But the words I love you still hovered in the intimate space of the car, and she couldn’t get them out of her mind.

  Of course I love him. I’ve always loved him.

  But that was different. She’d loved him as in impossible crush on a dangerous boy who made movie stars seem tame. She’d loved him as a dear friend, someone whose distance made him even dearer.

  But now…now she was filled with this incredible warmth and joy and longing. She wanted to make love to him. She wanted him to hold her and fuss over her. And make love to her. Definitely make love to her.

  But actually wanting someone to take care of her was a pretty odd feeling. She was the one always running to fix it, mend it, jump-start it, finish it, whatever it was. How would it feel to have someone like Luke pamper and spoil her, even for just a little while? How would it feel to have him bring her breakfast in bed, draw her a bath, ply her with champagne?

  She imagined sharing the bath, pouring the champagne on his hard-muscled chest and licking it off. If she hadn’t been driving, if he hadn’t been broken and battered, she would’ve pulled over and ravaged him right then, with or without champagne.

  As she pulled into Blackthorn Manor’s long driveway, she glanced over at Luke and smiled mistily. He was very still. His eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched, as if he was conserving his energy.

  Yes, it definitely looked like lust would have to be postponed for a while. Right now this bright shiny love, this hope and promise, were what warmed her. His lashes were dark and thick against his cheeks, and her heart seemed to expand to hold these new, precious feelings.

  She loved Luke. Wow.

  HE OPENED HIS EYES a crack, trying not to process the whole litany of small and large agonies his brain was frantically relaying.

  Why was Gilly staring at him that way? Wasn’t it bad enough that she was treating him like a small boy who’d cracked up his bike? The torment of watc
hing that tremulous concern, that outrageous outpouring of sympathy, was far worse than any physical pain he’d endured.

  Sympathy was not what he wanted from Gilly.

  Especially not now, not when he’d planned to carry her home from the Snow Ball and sweep her off her feet. And into his bed.

  Yeah, right A man who couldn’t walk a straight line without lurching from the exertion, a man who had no pretty words, no sensual weapons, nothing but a major case of guilt to work with, had about as much chance of a seduction scene as he did of climbing Mount Everest in swim fins.

  He sent Gilly a searching glance. What was she thinking? What was she doing here when they both knew she’d rather be with that damn Nightshade? She is with that damn Nightshade. But she doesn’t know it.

  How could he ever have thought for one second he could pull this off? Arrogance. Pride. Stupidity.

  He cursed himself. He’d created Nightshade to save her skin. How could he have known he would manufacture the perfect rival? Her words still echoed in his too-sensitive ears. Nightshade may be Mr. Crimefighter Extraordinaire, but you’re just a regular guy.

  Just a regular guy who couldn’t touch the woman he loved.

  One lousy kiss had sent him over the edge, and yet somehow he’d deluded himself into thinking he could make love to Gilly with no fallout, no sensory overload. Pretty ironic he hadn’t gotten far enough to test his theory. A bit of a fistfight, and he was history.

  Suddenly, with terrible conviction, Luke knew he couldn’t take any more of this, not one more second of her misty eyes and kind smiles, her innocent concern for his well-being while she mooned over the amazing Nightshade, who fought off whole gangs of thugs without breaking a sweat. If only she knew.

  “I’m going in,” he said abruptly.

  It took him a moment to maneuver himself out the passenger door, accompanied by lots of muttered swearwords. Oh, yeah. He was making himself more and more attractive by the minute. Gilly stayed with him, acting her usual cheerful self, which only made things worse.