Night of the Blackbird

by Heather Graham

  “I mean it.”

  “You’re prejudiced. Being an old family friend and all.”

  “Longtime friend, not old. You’re not going to marry him.”

  “Michael?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  He shook his head. “You’re here with me. You never risked the night to run out and be with him.”

  “Honestly, Danny, if I don’t marry him, I’m a fool. He’s doing everything in his power to get close to my family. He knows what’s important to me. And he cares. He isn’t trying to save the world, or destroy it, whichever you’re after. I’ve never been sure. He’s an American.” Danny’s fingers were still moving through her hair. He seemed to have settled more comfortably beside her, radiating a startling heat. “Grounded,” she continued, wishing it didn’t seem quite so hard to keep her focus on what she was saying. He was smiling at her, apparently listening. His face was close. His scent and warmth seemed to seep into her, sweep through her. Irish magic. “Good-looking,” she managed. “Damned good-looking. Dependable. Reliable.”

  He curled a tendril of her hair in his fingers, amused. “Dependable. Reliable. What words to describe a passionate relationship.”

  “You should listen to a few of my friends who have been divorced. They’d go for dependable over exciting any day.”

  He shook his head. “Some of your friends probably do need reliable and dependable. But you need reliable, dependable—and exciting.”

  “Michael is—” she began.

  His lips touched hers, very gentle. Then he moved his face a fraction of an inch away. “Touch of friendship, not an attack,” he swore, his whisper brushing her cheek. “Michael is…?”

  “Um…exciting and dependable…”

  This time his lips touched hers with a greater force. His kiss parted her lips, brought a wealth of wet, sweeping heat. She was wrapped in his arms, tangled in her T-shirt and the comforter, and the kiss went on and on, wet, ragged, his plunging tongue seeming to reach inside to her womb, caressing every erotic zone in her body. She didn’t protest. The amazing thing was that she didn’t protest. Every ethic, every tenet of right and wrong, seemed to slip away. Her fingertips moved against his face, threaded into his hair. His lips broke from hers. “That’s an actual kiss,” he murmured.

  “What? Um…no more so than what I shared with…”

  “Michael,” he supplied.

  Somehow he was over her. She felt the T-shirt tangled around her waist.

  “Michael,” she agreed.

  “No, no. With Michael, it was a performance. With me, it was a kiss. Allow me. I’ll show you the difference again.”

  “You’re not supposed to be attacking me,” she reminded him.

  “This isn’t an attack,” he whispered. “You’re free to go, you know.”

  “With you draped over me?”

  “Well, I don’t actually want to make it easy for you to leave.”

  She could have pushed him away, but it was easier to convince herself that he was blocking her exit. She lay perfectly still, staring into his eyes. When he kissed her again, she brought her hands between them but still made no move to push him away. As they rolled to the side, mouths still fused together, she found her fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt. She touched his bare flesh. So familiar. The mat of tawny hair that teased her fingertips, the taut muscle beneath. A second later he was halfway up, struggling out of his shirt. Then his hands were on her and her shirt was on the floor. When he wrapped her in his arms again, she was instantly aware of the length of him. Wired muscle, tension, heat. She loved his chest, the feel of her lips against his throat and collarbone, the cradling way he cupped the back of her head. He used one foot against the other to shove off his boots, and she felt his foot move along her calf. The stroke of his hand was on her thighs, fingering the delicate panties she wore. His mouth closed over her breast, and he worked his body down the length of her. He knew how to do things with his tongue that defied silk and mesh. If there had ever been a time to protest, this was it. She spoke his name, but it was nothing more than a whisper. Her hips were moving, arching to his erotic, liquid manipulation. Lava seemed to burn deep inside her, then erupt and flow like a cascade. She nearly screamed aloud at the force of her climax, bit her lip, shuddered in his hold and allowed the volatile climax to sweep through her.

  She was barely aware of his movement, his jeans joining the rest of their clothes on the floor, the force of his body between her thighs when he settled over her and into her. Her fingers laced together against his back; her legs locked around his hips. She had forgotten this; she had never forgotten this. Danny made love like he lived, passionately, vehemently, with electric force. He filled her with his physical presence, aroused her anew where she had been shaken and sated, pulsing slowly, giving, taking away, then finding a beat that raced like thunder, building a need within her that was a sweet agony until she bit lightly against his shoulder, feeling her climax seize hold of her again, euphoric pleasure like a blanket of honey streaming through her system. Danny eased to her side, flesh bathed in a fine sheen of perspiration. He had a way of holding a woman after sex that kept the warmth glowing. Fingers in her hair, smoothing dampened strands. Sated, catching her breath, she felt the wave of thoughts bombarding her mind, thoughts that the previous moments had not allowed. She was an evil human being. If there had been any chance of this happening, she should have been honest with Michael. But there shouldn’t have been a chance of this happening. She was an adult, she was mature, she was…not as much in love as she had tried to convince herself she was. But what she had done was still wrong. Really wrong.

  “I have to go,” she murmured.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I have to go now.”

  He drew his arms away. Shadows hid his amber eyes.

  “What did you expect?” she whispered.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something like, ‘What was I thinking, even pretending to be so totally in love with another man, when here’s Danny, and together we’re just so damned good.”’

  “Obviously you’re good,” she murmured with a trace of bitterness. “I’m here.”

  “Well, you know me. I don’t just want to be good. I want to be the best there is.”

  She didn’t tell him that he’d certainly managed that. “And I should have spent my life waiting for those moments when you chose to be in the country?”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m being unfair.”

  She had said she needed to go, yet she was still lying beside him, loath to leave. Her knuckles brushed over his abdomen.

  “Now you’re being an evil woman,” he informed. “That’s truly unfair if you’re intending on leaving.”

  His abdomen gave new meaning to the term “six-pack.” “You’re in incredible shape,” she told him. “Curious, for a writer and lecturer.”

  “The better to seduce you during those moments when I’m in the same country.”

  “You’re being flippant. I’m talking about real life.”

  “You shouldn’t marry Michael.”

  “Apparently,” she murmured, “Michael shouldn’t marry me.”

  “You’re on a misdirected guilt trip.”

  “Oh, right. He’s in a hotel room where I keep saying I’ll appear, but I shouldn’t feel guilty for being in your bed instead.”

  “He’s not right for you.”

  “Because he happens to be here when you are?”

  He shook his head, staring at her intently. “Because he has beady eyes.”

  “Oh, God, Danny, stop with that.” She almost managed to rise at that point, but their legs were still tangled together. “Danny, I really should leave,” she said softly.

  He shook his head stubbornly. “For what? So you can race upstairs, feed on your guilt and decide to make it up to the guy by running over there and throwing yourself into his arms? Either confessing—or not confessing—
and trying to make it up with another performance?”

  “No!” she protested angrily. “I would never do anything like that. It isn’t me, and you know it.”

  “That’s right. You’re far too Catholic. You’d need a long hot shower, cleanse away the sin and all that.”

  “Damn it, Danny, if we’d had any time at all together in the last several weeks—”

  “Aha,” he murmured.

  “Aha, what?”

  “That’s not love,” he told her. “I mean, to come to me just because you haven’t had time with him…I’m sorry, but you’re not in love with him.”

  “There’s love and then there’s sex,” she said primly.

  “Yeah, and it’s a hell of a lot nicer when they go together.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, in all those years, it never actually occurred to me that you’d come back one day and declare that you actually loved me. To total distraction, above all else, et cetera, et cetera,” she murmured dryly.

  “I never said that love should rule your every moment, or that it should make you behave insanely, or take precedence over everything else, like responsibilities, living, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I never know what you’re actually saying, Danny. Or what you mean. Maybe that’s half our problem.”

  “There you go. You’re admitting we have a problem, which means we’re an us.”

  “Danny, you are the problem.”

  “I’m going to be a lot more of a problem if you keep tickling my ribs that way.”

  She clenched her fingers into a fist.

  “I didn’t really mean you should stop.”

  “Danny, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been here. I certainly shouldn’t stay.”

  “But the sin has occurred already,” he said, shifting his weight so that he pinned her to the mattress. “And, you know, I really do love you.”

  “Danny, I believe that you care about me.”

  He groaned softly, lowering his head. His hair brushed against her breasts. She wondered how such a simple thing could feel so terribly erotic. “The sin has already been committed,” he repeated softly.

  “I think it’s worse when you sin twice. Especially when you should have known better the first time.”

  “That’s the point. You did know better the first time. And since you’ve already sinned, at least in your own mind, you should go with it. All the way. Everything in life should be done with passion, commitment, all the way.” His eyes rose to hers for a moment, glowing amber.

  “Danny,” she murmured, “if I stay now, for a while, you can’t go thinking that…”

  “That?”

  “It means…”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t go thinking anything. It’s simply easier, more convenient, to go for the guy in the house rather than the one outside it. Nothing personal. You need sex, just sex, hey, I’m happy to oblige.” He spoke sarcastically, but with an underlying note of bitterness that somehow dulled the anger she had felt at his words.

  “No, Danny, I…”

  She felt the pressure of his lips against her throat, her collarbone.

  “That was rude. Uncalled for. I should…hit you,” she whispered.

  “Never opt for violence,” he murmured against her breast. “And you can’t hit me, I mean, that would mean that one of us was taking this…personally.”

  His hand sculpted the length of her body. Fingers caressed her flesh. Zeroed in. Moved with practice and subtle precision. He was her every breath, close, hot. Breathing Danny was too easy, too natural, as familiar and electric as life….

  “Damn you, Danny,” she murmured.

  “My name…how personal and intimate,” he said. “It’s only courteous to respond in kind.”

  His caress traveled the length of her.

  Very personally, very intimately.

  “Danny…” It came out like a long moan when she said his name again.

  “I’ve always believed in actions rather than words.”

  11

  Hours later, before the crack of dawn, Moira rose to leave.

  She rescued her T-shirt from the pile of clothing by the bed. Danny had been sleeping. Or so she had thought, until she turned to see that he was wide awake, watching her. If he’d been sleeping, he’d awakened at her first slight movement.

  She thought he meant to protest her leaving again, though surely he knew it was nearly morning and the household would be stirring soon.

  He rose on one elbow, watching her. “Tell me again. Exactly why did you come down here last night?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “What were you doing down here last night? You asked me if I’d been out, said you thought there might have been someone in my room. And you thought that someone was in the bar area—you suggested I might have knocked you on the head. Why were you down here in the first place? Dressed the way you were, you weren’t on your way out to the hotel to meet Michael.”

  “I heard a noise.”

  “A noise? You heard this noise in your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you thought it came from down here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of a noise?”

  “I don’t know. A thumping noise. As if…as if someone were moving things around or dropped something. I don’t know. I just heard a noise.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I don’t seem to be certain about anything these days,” she told him.

  He rolled out of the bed, strolling to her naked, taking her by the shoulders. “All the way, Moira, remember, all the way. Go with your instincts. Passion, commitment. Get rid of old beady eyes, today.”

  “Don’t you dare say a word to him or try to make up my mind for me about right and wrong and my future.”

  “I don’t need to make up your mind for you. I know you. You did that last night. As for old beady eyes, my love, I intend to let you wrestle with your demons all by yourself.”

  “Maybe my mind isn’t made up. Maybe you’re not as good as you think.” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes.

  “Moira, whatever you’re thinking, be careful. When you hear noises in the night, you shouldn’t go prowling around.”

  “This is my family home and my family’s business,” she reminded him. “I grew up here, learning to clear tables from the time I was a little girl. Why should I have to be afraid to walk around my dad’s place, even in the middle of the night?”

  He watched her, weighing the question for a minute.

  “Because there’s evil in the world, that’s why. When you’re a child, your parents teach you to watch out for strangers. Think of Son of Sam, the Boston Strangler, the Zodiac Killer, Jack the Ripper.”

  “Right. But none of them has keys to my dad’s pub.”

  “Yes, but your brother is here these days, I’m here, your associates are here. Doors may be left open.”

  “Danny, why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever is going on.”

  “I’m not privy to anything that might be going on.”

  She watched him for another moment. Her eyes slid down the length of him, far more analytically than in the previous hours. Danny was really toned. He could have stepped right out of the pages of a brochure on martial arts. Again she wondered how a lecturer and writer stayed in such excellent shape.

  “All right, Danny,” she murmured. She turned, starting for the door.

  “Moira.”

  “What?”

  “You know, you are keeping things from me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Like what really happened out on the ice the night before last.”

  “I slid.”

  “Trust is a two-way street, Moira.”

  “So it is.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t see any cars coming toward me, Danny. No one to meet halfway.”

  She turned again. He caught her arm. “Moira, listen to m
e. If you hear something, anything strange at all, it’s important that you let me know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She looked at his hand where he held her arm. The slightest unease swept over her. “I have to go upstairs, Danny.”

  He let her go. She walked out, closed the door to his room quietly behind her, then made her way through the bar and up the winding stairs. When she slipped into the house, she carefully locked the door. In her room, she took the videotape from her machine and put it on the table where she had found it. It was still very early. She showered and dressed, then sat in her room, staring at the phone and hesitating. She went to the living room and found Sunday’s newspaper. There was an article about Jacob Brolin, talking about his expected arrival in the city and mentioning the hotel where he would be staying.

  She walked to the kitchen, where her mother, in a terry bathrobe, had just risen to start breakfast. “Mum,” she said, walking behind her and slipping her arms around her waist.

  “Moira, darlin’, ’tis so early.”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s on your agenda for today?”

  “Well, I’ll definitely be helping Dad in the pub tonight.”

  Katy turned around and cupped Moira’s face between her hands. “You children are not responsible for the pub.”

  “But it’s fun, and I like helping Dad. And we’re getting a great show, really.”

  “Then I’m glad. Since I did rather manipulate you into coming home.”

  “Dad seems to be in great health,” she commented with a smile.

  Katy shrugged. “He did have to have a battery of tests.” She sighed. “I was worried because he works so much. But the doctor told me that work was good for him, just like an ale or a stout a day would do him no harm. Too many men retire and sit around becoming couch potatoes, and that’s what kills them, the doctor said.”

  “You know who works too hard, don’t you?”

  “Who?” Katy asked.

  “You.”

  “Oh, no, Moira, dear.”

  “Cooking, cooking, cooking.”

  “When it’s just your dad and me, there’s oatmeal in the morning. And I don’t fix his breakfast because he’s a tyrant, I fix his breakfast because I love to, and I like being a wife and mum. I’m happy as a lark that my girls have gone off and done well, but for me, well, I like my lot in life just fine.”