Mallory Rush - [Outlawsand Heroes 02]

by Dead or Alive

  "A very long time. So long that I'd forgotten how beautiful something like this could be." She stared at him, her heart in her eyes, and felt the threat of tears behind them. "I don't know you, not really, but I do know you must be a very rare man. You have to be to make me feel the way I do now. Special and pretty, inside and out."

  "But of course you are," he assured her with such sincerity that she had no doubt he meant it. "Whatever fate brought you to ever question it is no less than a travesty. I, too, have been the victim of circumstances beyond my control. And so we do what demands to be done."

  He kissed her softly, much too briefly, but it was a potent kiss just the same. The hint of tobacco was on his breath; it fanned her parted lips, which yearned for a deeper mating. "I make no demands on you," he said quietly. "My only wish is that you might need something of me. Do you?"

  "I..." She did need something from him. The passion, the fire, the sheer joy of being held and touched by a man who made her feel again. She needed reality to slip away, to be foolish and give in to this reckless abandon. "I do," she answered.

  "Then by all means, tell me."

  Unable to speak aloud what she couldn't admit to herself any more than she could deny it, she delved lower, wrapped her shaking palm around his length. A faraway voice called to her, warning her with a single word, insane.

  But what a fine madness it was. Waves of sensation rippled from her hand and spread like a match put to dry grass after years of a drought.

  "Dear God," she breathed out in a broken whisper. Her belly clutched; her womb reached for what she held.

  She began to shake, shake all over, and Lori was suddenly frightened by the quaking of her body. It was making demands, urgent, uncompromising demands that trampled her search for a fragment of lost reason. What was happening to her?

  She didn't know, but something was taking her over and she was desperate to regain some sense of control.

  She heard a distant sound and she thought he must be groaning. And perhaps he was, but the pitch she heard was too high, a whimper that went on and on and became an endless moan. And then she knew it was her, moaning and choking on sobs while her thighs jerked open. And she was frantically rubbing against his palm, trying to push him in and starting to cry because something was in the way, something besides his petting hand.

  Her panty hose, she thought it was her panty hose. She couldn't release him long enough to do it herself and so she pleaded, "take them off. Tear them, rip them, I don't care. Just please, get the damn things off!"

  Her head fell back and she rocked faster, harder, while his own hips were too still and his hands stroked her too softly. One in her hair and the other palming her through the hose, he made no effort to remove.

  Why was he taunting her this way? Why was he murmuring quiet, comforting words while she wanted to scream her frustration at him?

  And then her body was screaming for release, for an end to the pain. She was racked with it, her hollow womb pleading to be touched and filled. And then something broke, shattered within. It was tearing her apart, turning her inside out, then leaving her to crumple with nothing to hold on to. Nothing to feel except the release of an inner fist quivering in exquisite sensation.

  But the rest of her felt bruised, battered from the assault of a ferocious inner storm that had taken her over, used her, then flung her carelessly aside.

  She was left in pieces, her pride thrown away.

  Lori was desperate to find it. She was desperate to crawl into a dark corner and hide. Far, far away from here, where she lay sprawled in a messy, sobbing heap on top of a near stranger who was soothing her with a tender, consuming embrace. His hand stroked her hair. He pressed his lips to her temple and made a "shhhh, shhhh" sound of comfort.

  All of her clothes were on, even her boots, and yet never had Lori felt so naked, so rawly exposed.

  "My lady," he whispered. She turned her face as far away as she could, only for him to grip her jaw insistently and turn her to face him. "Look at me," he firmly demanded.

  "No. I—I'm sorry, but I just can't."

  "But, why? Are you angry with me because I didn't—"

  "Please, don't remind me. I feel humiliated enough as it is. But no, I'm not angry with you. Just with myself."

  Even breathing seemed to take all the energy she had, but she felt for the tub's edge and tried to crawl out.

  His hard clamp on her wrist coincided with the grip of his thighs, the tug of his hand in her hair. Forcing her eyes open, she winced at the concern in his gaze. "Please, Noble, let me go. I need to be alone."

  He shook his head slowly, irrevocably. "You are not a harlot, are you?"

  Chapter 4

  A harlot? Struggling to remain calm, she said, "no, I am not a harlot. Even if I acted like one."

  He laughed softly at that. "My dear, please rest assured that in no way did you conduct yourself as a harlot—even one with rudimentary experience. I hope you will forgive me."

  "Forgive you?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "For what?"

  "For mistaking your occupation as one you couldn't possibly fulfill," he said. "After all, you can't touch and not feel, can you?" When she didn't answer, he continued. "Please know, had I sooner realized you were a woman of virtue, I never would have attempted to compromise you."

  Lori was no less than amazed that he considered her a woman of virtue—which she was—after she'd all but forced herself on him. Unable to bear the lengthening silence further, she asked unevenly, "Anything else?"

  "I regret my refusal to compromise your virtue." He brushed his fingers against the nylon from her thighs to her hips. "When you demanded me to remove your pantalets, honor demanded that I not. And now my body demands to know what stupidity possessed me to refuse you, much to the detriment of us both."

  Lori's cheeks flared hot, scalding hot, and more than anything she wanted to go under the water and never come up. But instead she forced herself to meet his probing gaze and remain still as he fingered the elastic at her waist.

  Noble's brow gathered into a network of fine lines.

  "Never have I encountered such a clever work of underclothing before. Are they some new invention imported from France, perhaps?"

  Had panty hose originated in France? Lori had no idea, but for now, she decided, panty hose had most definitely come from France, not from the clearance rack at her local department store.

  At her nod, he said, "you intrigue me. Everything about you seems so honest, and yet you're a mire of contradictions. For a truth, I cannot understand why such a clearly decent woman would allow me the liberties reserved for a husband. And why would you paint your face?"

  Paint her face? Lori decided he meant what little was left of the makeup she'd applied hours ago, thinking she'd meet the gang at the Kick and Kaboodle. But thank heavens she hadn't been able to bring herself to leave Noble; and thank heavens she'd dressed in her country-and-western dancing clothes. Between her long denim skirt, simple white blouse, and boots, she could pass for a woman from Noble's time—except for her makeup.

  "I paint my face because I think it makes me look better. And you didn't take any more liberties than I did. I'm a widow, Noble. And I guess you could say I was very much in need of a reminder that I'm still alive even if my husband isn't."

  "I see." The look he gave her was accepting, but dissatisfied, as if he were playing second lead and was accustomed to commanding the stage.

  "Next question," she prompted.

  "Not a question, an observation. You're wealthy."

  "I am?" When he frowned, she quickly amended, "well, yes, I am. How did you know?"

  "How could I not know? You have a fine porcelain tub, running water, the most modern of fixtures." He gestured to her antiquated bathroom. It complemented the furnishings throughout her house—secondhand vintage, re-upholstered in jeweled tones. The hardwood floors with scattered tapestry rugs lent warmth—and contributed to the appearance of a bygone era.

  "I live
comfortably," she hedged, wondering how long the surroundings would fool Noble. Not nearly long enough, that was for sure. One look at her kitchen and he'd freak. For that matter, all he had to do was get a gander at her TV and be plunged into his own personal episode of The Twilight Zone.

  Exhausting and mind-blowing as the night had already been, it was sure to be a walk in the park compared with the dreaded inevitable. She wasn't ready to handle this any more than Noble could be. But she had to say something, do something, to ease him into it before she dropped the bomb.

  An idea came to her. "If you'll give me a minute to change, I'll bring you some dry clothes." Contemporary fashion, a good place to start.

  "It's rather dubious that I can fit into any of yours." His gaze dropped to her soaked blouse and lingered.

  Lori could feel her nipples tauten. She had forgotten her shame, her distress for having come so completely undone. Confronted with both, she wanted none of either. Noble was a special man and he created some very special reactions in her. What he had given her, what she had greedily taken, was a part of her life back. There was no shame in that.

  "I have a few things that belonged to my husband. He was a good man, a very generous man. If he were here, he'd be the first to insist on sharing what he had with you."

  "Even his wife?" At her stricken expression, Noble quickly said, "that was unpardonable. Forgive me."

  "But you said it. I want to know why."

  "A fair demand," he conceded. "Though I have no right, I'm rather jealous. And it grieves me to think you might still regret the pleasure you found with me. I suppose I was simply asking aloud what I believed you were asking yourself in silence."

  "You must have excellent hearing," she admitted. "I did, and still do, love my husband. But Mick is dead and he's not coming back. What happened tonight happened—and I'm not sorry for it." She summoned up a tentative smile. "Now that we've got that settled, let's get out of this tub and pick up our conversation over a bowl of homemade chicken soup." Uh-oh. Where would they eat it?

  The dining room was safe. But she had to keep him out of the kitchen. And the living room. And her bedroom—-and not just because she had an electric clock and a phone in there.

  "Homemade soup? But what other kind would you have?"

  "Uh... There's good homemade and there's bad homemade. Mine's good. And only the best for you."

  "So it would seem, given the luxury of your company." He allowed her to gain her footing on the floor, then took the hand she extended.

  Though she tried not to look, she found herself staring at the considerable evidence of his unsated arousal as he hoisted himself up. Standing, he seemed even more powerful. Almost a head taller, his great, brawny chest filled her vision. She wanted to pull off his open, soaked shirt for a better view but knew that would be courting trouble. Let it drip on the already wet floor, she decided.

  Refusing herself the temptation to stroke his chest— or the greater temptation that resided lower—Lori quickly handed him a nearby towel.

  "What in the bloody blazes is this?" he asked, staring at the big pink flamingo printed in the center of the terry cloth.

  Tell him, dammit, just tell him the year 2000 is just around the bend and neon's in. "It's—it came from France with my pantalets."

  Brrinng. Brrrinng.

  "That sound, what is it?"

  "It's, uh..." The phone quit ringing. Cursing herself for a coward, Lori said in a rush, "my clock chiming. It came from France, too."

  Noble's brow furrowed. "It would seem that you have an uncommon number of imported possessions. Was your husband a smuggler, perchance?"

  "No, he was—" A policeman. What did they call policemen in Noble's day? Since she had no idea, Lori ad-libbed. "Like you, he was involved with the law." Good, she thought. Lawyers and policemen had plenty of contact with each other.

  "Ah, now I begin to understand why you so generously took me in. However, I'm greatly puzzled why Attu failed to mention your acquaintance to me. Were you just recently introduced?" At her quick nod, he said, "that is my good fortune," and turned his attention to the task of drying off, briskly, as if he were in a hurry.

  Lori told herself to go change, but she remained rooted in place, watching him sweep the cloth over his magnificent chest. Noble looked up. An intimate smile framed his lips as he caught her artlessly gawking.

  "How thoughtless of me. Seeing to myself while you shiver." Ever so softly he caressed the towel over her cheeks, her neck, and then the wet fabric clinging to her arms. "My lady... Lori. Leaving you will be enormously difficult for me. Nevertheless, I've stayed too long. I'll accept your offer of clothing and a bowl of soup. Should you have jerky or dried fruit you can spare me, I'll be most grateful. Even more so for the loan of a horse."

  "Anything that I've got, you can have. But—"

  "It is you whom I want. I must see you again, and when I do—soon, very soon—it will be with the most honorable of intentions. For now, however, I have no choice but to leave. Attu's life might very well hang in the balance."

  Steeling herself, Lori said somberly, "I hate to tell you this, Noble, believe me I do. But you have no reason to leave. Your friend Attu, he's dead." And all the other friends and family you once had. How could she possibly tell him something so devastating, heap heartache on top of the heartache she witnessed now?

  A sharp, tortured sound caught in Noble's throat. His eyes grew misty, the color of an overcast sky. Then swiftly his gaze hardened and his eyes turned a chilling shade of cold steel. His soft touch to her arm became a hard clench. Gone was the gentleman of refinement. This man was scary.

  "I'm really sorry about your friend, Noble," Lori said, her voice trembling.

  "Not half as sorry as the bastards who took him down will be. Once I'm done with them, they'll consider hell a merciful reprieve."

  From the brutal rage marring his face, Lori knew that whoever those bastards were, they were lucky to be dead already. She wondered how a man of such breeding, a lawyer, had come to make dangerous enemies— who couldn't be half as dangerous as Noble clearly was himself.

  Would he direct some of that terrible anger toward her in response to the shattering news she had to give? Quite possibly he would. But if she could connect with him on a deeper level first, forge a sense of kinship, surely he would be less upset. With that hope, she opened herself to him, let him touch a very private part of herself, a part that understood the destructive emotions she saw in him now.

  Her gaze full of empathy, Lori cupped his cheek.

  "I know what you're feeling, Noble, and it's a terrible thing. But hate has a way of eating a person alive, consuming them and taking over, until it poisons even the good things left in life. In the end, the person you're really hurting is yourself. Let it go."

  He turned his lips into her palm. A soft, lingering kiss, and then he moved away. With the towel cinched at his waist and covering his thighs, he paced the small area of floor, reminding her of a sleek, lethal animal trapped in a cage.

  "Your words bear consideration, and without doubt they hold much truth. I cannot, however, relinquish my thirst for justice, nor my sense of honor. If a man will not uphold the dignity of his family name, then he is no man at all." He speared her with a fierce, prideful gaze. "I am a man, Lori."

  And what a man he was. Never had she beheld a man such as this, a magnificent warrior who thirsted for blood even as he held to his principles. Lord, but he must have been hell to take on in a courtroom. Lord, but he must be the devil in bed. And Lord, she'd better stop thinking such things and get him into those clothes that were sure to raise his suspicions.

  "Stay with me tonight, Noble. We'll have dinner while we talk... about all kinds of things. I'm really tired of eating alone and I'd love nothing better than to have you for company. Besides, you've had a hard time of it and I'm sure you could use the rest."

  "My dear, keeping company with you provokes many ideas, but rest is not among them." His low chuckle
was seductive. "However, I accept your kind offer. In return, I offer you the promise of my protection—which includes guarding you from my less honorable nature."

  Lori was a little sorry to hear this, but she delighted in his chivalrous flair. It induced her to indulge a feminine skill she hadn't tried out in years.

  "My, what a gentleman you are," she replied, almost tempted to curtsy. "You have quite a way with women, Mr. Zhivago. I'm not entirely sure that you're safe with me."

  She half expected him to laugh. Or maybe one up her in their flirtatious exchange. What she didn't anticipate was his head-to-toe devouring regard. It gave her the shivers.

  She shivered even more when he bent low and whispered in her ear, "a gentleman I might appear to be, but appearances are often deceiving. I would very much like to have my way with you, and my way would be anything but gentlemanly."

  His low growl of warning caused her to step back.

  She slipped on the wet floor and he caught her with an arm around her waist, a hand bracing the pedestal sink. Noble went still. Too still.

  She turned her head, followed the path of his shrewd gaze. It was on her electric toothbrush.

  Oh no. Doomsday was here and she was nowhere near ready to take it on. And she certainly wasn't ready to take on a man who obviously thrived on reason and control—both of them about to be ripped from his grip.

  Chapter 5

  He narrowed his eyes at the anomaly he saw, and then at Lori. "What is this?" Noble demanded.

  "It's—it's a... fancy toothbrush. From—"

  "France?" he supplied as he urged her aside and lifted what bore only a minor resemblance to a toothbrush. There were bristles, but they were made of a white, unnatural substance he had never seen. And they were attached to a sleek, long, thick handle, possessing a most peculiar veneer. On it was a flat square with arrows beside it, pointing to the words on and off.

  When he made to push the square to the on sign, Lori grabbed his hand.