by Anne Stuart
“Do I?”
“You never eat. And you feed off the blood of innocence.”
“Are you innocent, Annie?”
“I’m not dead yet either,” she snapped, finding her temper had returned.
“True enough,” he murmured.
“How many people have you killed, James?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“How many more people are you going to kill?”
“Apart from you, Annie? I don’t know. As many as I have to, I suppose.”
She looked at him. At his dark, austere face, his bleak eyes. There was gray in his hair, she realized. In the time she’d been with him he’d gone from old to young to old again. Older than time.
She pushed the table away from her, and the dishes rattled. She was a little drunk, she supposed, but given the circumstances she was entitled. “Then do it,” she said. “Foreplay seems to be greatly overrated in these circumstances. Just do it.” And she sank to her knees, her head bowed, waiting for him.
She felt him move, his shadow looming over her. She closed her eyes, feeling easy tears start, and she hated them. Hated him.
He sank down in front of her, kneeling, and slid his long hand around her neck, under her hair. Tipping her head back with effortless ease, so that she had no choice but to look up at him, as the damnable tears slid hotly across her face. Oddly enough, she felt no fear as he looked down at her, his hands touching, caressing, ready to finish it all. “Any final words from the doomed lady-in-waiting?” he murmured, still mocking. He reached out a thumb to brush the tears away from her face, but she had no doubt the large hand that still cradled her neck could take care of the job.
A thousand cries of anger and despair rushed through her. But there was only one thing she could say.
“I love you, James.”
His fingers tightened almost reflexively, and she felt the blackness begin. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, only to find herself sprawling back on the hardwood floor where he’d flung her.
He was halfway across the room, breathing deeply, glaring at her. “I ought to fucking kill you,” he said furiously. “You stupid little bitch, if I had any sense I’d cut your throat and have done with it.”
She stared at him in shock, unable to move, even when he spun back, so fast she barely saw him, and caught her arm, yanking her up tightly against him. “Damn you damn you damn you,” he said, a muttered litany that no longer sounded Irish, no longer sounded Texan. It was simply pain. “I can’t let you do this to me.”
“Do what, James?” she whispered, shock and confusion knocking her sideways. She’d been ready to die. Ready to die at his hands. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to live.
He didn’t answer. He simply caught his hands in her hair, holding her against him, and she felt him shake.
She didn’t know what to do. Her arms came up, around him, and her fear, her acceptance had vanished, and she was alive again, filled with a dark, moonlit fury.
He tried to disentangle himself, to push her away, but her emotions had erupted, and she fought back, her hands hard and angry, refusing to let him pull away. He shoved her, and she fell back, knocking the light over and plunging the room into murky darkness, lit only by the chill silver light of the Irish moon.
“What’s the matter, James?” she demanded, her voice harsh and breathless. “Can’t you do it? Is it a different matter when it’s someone you’ve known most of your life? Is it a little harder to kill someone you’ve made love to? Or is it just because I know what you’re going to do and you can’t deal with the knowledge in my eyes?”
“I can’t deal with your flapping tongue,” he shot back, making no effort to come closer.
“Then finish it, James,” she said fiercely. “You’ve killed for me. You’ve killed the man who was a father to us both. Why don’t you finish the job?”
“If you don’t shut up,” he said viciously, “I will.”
“Do it!” She pushed away from the wall and crossed the room. He didn’t move as she came right up to him, and her anger was too great to let the fear back in. He was staring down at her with cold, undisguised rage, and she knew if she didn’t push him now, to the very limits, she would never be safe again.
“I’m not afraid of you, James,” she said, and her voice didn’t waver.
“Prove it.”
She went cold. The stakes were so high, beyond life and death, beyond love and redemption. They were fighting for his soul, and for hers. “What do you want from me?”
“You said you love me? Prove it. Put your hands on me, Annie. Put your mouth on me. Now.”
Chapter Eighteen
She was a woman who hated oral sex. Who made love in the dark, and each lover had been carefully programmed by her father to be just what she expected. She was a woman who lay passively beneath a man and allowed him to pleasure her.
She looked at the man who could kill her, the man who could destroy her far more easily by simply dying himself, and she put her hands on the wide leather belt at his waist, fumbling at the brass buckle.
He didn’t move. He let her struggle with the belt, her fingers clumsy, trembling, as she pulled the leather free from the belt loops of his faded black jeans.
His body was hard, hot beneath her hands. Outside, the banshees wailed; inside, Annie Sutherland sank to her knees in front of him, sliding her trembling hands up under the loose black T-shirt.
His skin was smooth, warm, silky. She pressed her mouth against his stomach and felt the pulses leap beneath his flesh. She put her tongue out tentatively, tasting him, and he was warm, salty, male.
She glanced up at him, hoping for approval, for reaction, but he simply stood there, looking over her head, his hands at his sides as she pressed her face against him.
She sat back on her heels, suddenly nervous, and he looked down at her. “Keep on, Annie,” he taunted. “Show me how much you love me.”
She wanted to hit him. “Take off your shirt,” she said in a harsh voice. To her utter amazement he did as she ordered, pulling it over his head and tossing it in the corner. And then he leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching her once more.
I can’t do this, she thought, blindly reaching for the snap of his jeans. Her hands dropped in her lap. He can’t expect this of me. I don’t want …
“Change your mind?” he taunted.
“Is this a test?” she shot back furiously.
“Life’s a test, Annie love. You’re about to fail this one.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you’re free to go. Back to the States, where you can tell your story to the newspapers before Carew decides to put a contract out on you. You’re already in enough trouble with your father’s old confederates, but people like Carew and Martin aren’t going to want you spilling your guts to the media.”
“Then why are you telling me to do it?”
“Because they’re going to try to shut you up before you do. Once you talk to enough people, it’ll be too late.”
“You think Martin would try to kill me?” she said, disbelief and contempt in her voice. “I thought he was the one man I could trust.”
“Of course. He’d regret it. As I’d regret it. But he’d do his job.”
“What if I tell him you killed my father?”
“He already knows.”
In a day of shocks it was just one more. “And Carew?”
“They all know, Annie. Carew placed the order.”
“And you followed those orders.”
“You want excuses, Annie? Reasons?”
“No,” she said. She still knelt at his feet, looking up at him in the darkness. She could rise, step back, walk away from him. The time of death had passed, the dance of death was over. He wouldn’t hurt her, he would let her go.
And that was precisely why she couldn’t leave. She reached her hands up and unfastened the brass snap at the top of his jeans.
He sti
ll didn’t move to touch her. In the dim light of the room she couldn’t see his expression, but she could sense the waiting tension in his body. Just as she could see the unmistakable bulge beneath the zipper of his jeans.
She touched him. She placed her hand over the rigid length of him, letting her fingertips glide over the denim. He didn’t move, but his flesh jerked against her hand.
She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his groin. He didn’t make a sound, but she could feel his sudden sharp intake of breath.
It made her feel oddly powerful. He was testing her, playing a game with her, but it was a game he was losing. His body grew hotter, tighter against her, and she moved her face to press her mouth against his cock.
It was barely a sound. A strangled murmur, quickly bitten back, but it was enough. Triumph swept over Annie, triumph and desire. She sat back, looking at the damp spot her mouth had left on his jeans.
“All right,” he said with a deliberate drawl. “You pass the test, Annie. You love me enough to force yourself to do despicable acts in order to prove it. Or maybe you’re afraid enough of death. You’re reprieved, Annie. I’ve changed my mind.”
She ignored him. She pressed her mouth against the opening at the top of his jeans, tasting the hot flesh there.
“Stop it, Annie!” he said, the drawl gone, tension in its place. “I told you, I don’t want this.”
“I do,” she said.
He hauled her up against him, ignoring her struggles, plastering her tightly against his body. He threaded his hand in her hair, trying to hold her still, and when he kissed her it seemed to shock him as much as it shocked her.
And then he was gone. Slamming out of the room, running from her. She heard the sound of the car engine, and she wondered if he’d come back. Or if someone else would come instead, and finish her.
She crossed the room, weary, aching, hot, and restless. She picked up the fallen light and turned it on against the murky darkness. She took the bottle of brandy and poured herself a full glass, drinking it down with a shudder. She filled it again, and then she lay down on the bed, wide-eyed, empty, waiting.
He didn’t dare go far. There was a shirt in the back of the car, too small for him, but he pulled it on anyway. It smelled of hay, and he wondered whose car he’d stolen. Some sweet, innocent farm boy?
Ah, but he didn’t believe in innocence anymore. Except in Annie Sutherland’s troubled eyes.
He’d almost gone too far. Even he had his limits, and he’d come close to exceeding them. The list of his crimes was carved in what was left of his soul, but while he might have killed, he’d never wantonly, cruelly destroyed. Until tonight, when his rage and lust had almost driven him over the edge. Annie Sutherland might very well think she loved him. She might think she could barter anything away to save her life, to ensure his protection. And he’d been angry enough at her distrust to push her, test her.
He’d thought his self-hatred couldn’t reach any deeper, but he found he was wrong. He knew his options, and they were thankfully clear.
He would take Annie back to the States. Back to Washington, to Carew. And there he would barter. Not for his own life. But for Annie’s.
He sat in the car, watching her window, shivering slightly in the cold night air as he held the heavy silver frame in his hand. He glanced down at the tormented martyr, being eaten by a snake, and for the first time he noticed the resemblance. The face of the suffering saint bore an uncanny resemblance to Winston Sutherland.
His surprised laughter was bitter. Such a symbol of Ireland’s fate. The snakes had been driven out, but they’d returned with Winston Sutherland. To eat them all.
Shards of glass sliced into his hand as he smashed it down against the steering wheel. He ignored it, peeling back the rough painting of the holy martyr to reveal a thin slip of paper covered with Win’s precise, delicate handwriting.
James peered at it in the darkness. What good was an assassin who needed reading glasses? he thought wryly. He couldn’t read more than a word or two of the paper, but he knew what it contained. The hierarchy of Win’s little world. And those who were left behind to run it. The names were there, some he didn’t know, one he recognized. It took all his fierce fury not to crumple the paper in a rage.
He waited until she turned off the light, waited still longer, until he was certain she was asleep. Tucking the paper into his jeans, he made his way silently back up the narrow stairs in the carriage house, determined not to wake her.
He needn’t have worried. She lay sprawled out on the double bed, wearing only a T-shirt and panties. The bottle of brandy was almost empty, and he could hear the heavy, drugged sound of her sleep.
He stretched out on the bed beside her, careful not to jar her. She slept on and he lay next to her, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth, the slight weight of her body on the bed. He’d almost gone over the edge tonight, and it was a rare mercy indeed that something, maybe something as simple as Annie Sutherland’s eyes, had stopped him from taking one more soul to the dark, empty place where he’d thrown his own.
He shut his eyes. He wasn’t going to sleep. He was going to lie beside Annie and drink in the sensations of her, the scent and the texture. And in the morning he’d take her back to Washington, back to Martin, who’d protect her, and love her, and make her forget all about James McKinley.
He’d overestimated his resources. He hadn’t slept, or eaten, in days. He didn’t have righteous indignation or primal rage to fuel him—he had only fear for Annie’s life, fear that he might make some stupid mistake that would end up killing her. He didn’t dare relax, even for a moment.
But his body had other ideas. And when he opened his eyes, hours later, it was to see the morning light streaming in the casement window over the bed. His jeans were unfastened, and Annie Sutherland’s hand was on him. With his hand covering hers, holding it against him.
Her hair spread out over his chest, her face was buried against his shoulder. She was hot, shivering, and he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do this, but he was beyond words, as she moved her head down and took him in her mouth.
She didn’t know what to do. That was immediately, endearingly clear. Her teeth scraped him, she almost choked, and her very awkwardness was so erotic he almost climaxed before he was fully awake. He gripped the soft white sheet beneath him, struggling for an almost vanished control, and took a deep, shaky breath, letting her experiment. Taste him, learn him. Love him.
She was a fast learner. When he thought he could control himself, he lifted his hand to thread through her tangled hair, guiding her gently, showing her a tender rhythm that she picked up immediately. She made a soft, growling sound at the back of her throat, and he knew that this was no sexual sacrifice, no barter for her life. She wanted it as much as he did.
He stopped her, pulling her away from him, and she cried out in wordless protest. “Not yet,” he said, pushing her back against the bed. She slid up against the old iron bedstead and the welter of pillows, watching him out of dark, cloudy eyes, and he pulled off her meager clothing.
He kissed her mouth, hard and deep, thrusting his tongue inside. He kissed her breasts, with their tight, pebbled nipples. And he kissed her between her legs, cupping her hips, holding her as he used his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, against the sleek, hot folds of her body.
She was shivering, shaking, and he could feel her fists on his shoulders. He didn’t care. His tongue caught her clitoris as he slid his fingers inside her, and she arched off the bed with a choking sound as her entire body convulsed.
He made it last. Prolonging it, until she was sobbing, breathless. And then he sat back, wiping his mouth with his arm, watching her.
Her eyes were tightly closed, tears streaming from beneath the lids. He could see the ripples of reaction dancing across her body, and he wanted to run his tongue along those shivers.
He hadn’t expected her to move. To try to run again. He half thought she’d drift back to sle
ep rather than face him, but suddenly she rolled away from him, off the bed, scrambling across the floor.
He dived after her mindlessly, landing on top of her, and she lay facedown on the hard wood floor. She was sobbing, panting, and he had to be inside her, he couldn’t even wait long enough for her to turn over.
He slid his arm under her waist, hauled her up, and entered her that way, sliding in deep, so deep, and her guttural cry was a heartbreaking pleasure.
He couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t let him. She twisted her head around and kissed him, and he wanted to keep on and on, to fill her mouth, her body, her soul with him. To have her take everything and then want more.
She was gasping for breath now, covered with a film of sweat, and she dropped her head on her arms, shivering, sobbing. “I can’t, James,” she said in a choking voice. “Please, no more …”
He reached between her legs and touched her. He came when she did, emptying into her, wrapping his arms, his body tightly around her trembling frame as he filled her.
His heart was hammering in his chest, and the last bit of strength left him. He collapsed on the floor, falling backward, taking Annie with him so that she sprawled on top of him, clinging to him, shuddering.
He wondered vaguely how long it would take him to regain a tiny portion of his strength. Or whether he ever would. Whether Annie would come to her senses, scramble away from him, and probably try to shoot him for good measure.
She didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Her breathing had slowed, but her hands still clung to him, and she had turned her face against his shoulder, burying it there against his skin. He could feel the wetness of her tears, and it would have broken his heart—if he’d had a heart.
And then he heard her voice, small, quiet, asking the question he dreaded. “How could you do it, James?” she whispered, still curled up tightly against him. “You loved him. How could you kill him?”
He’d known, he’d always known the answer. “Because I did love him, Annie. Despite everything he did, and everything he was.”
“And what was that?”