He reached under his seat for a flashlight, then got out of the car and waited patiently on the curb.
After a long minute, she hit the handle and opened her door. Climbing out, she slammed the door and stared up at the house he’d pulled up in front of. Her father’s house.
It stood on the hill like a castle, a peaked black silhouette against a starry sky. Moonlight glanced off the mullioned panes of glass and wound around the bars on her bedroom window. The white-pillared portico sheltered the front step from rain and cast the stoop in shadows. Four sculpted brick chimneys rose from the peaked roof line. A spike-tipped black iron gate guarded the hillside lot, kept the riffraff from wandering in.
It looked gloomy and angry, the darkened house she’d grown up in. Skeletal trees marched along the fence line, their limbs clinging to the last leaves of autumn.
“Only thing missing is a sign that says Bates Motel,” Angel said wryly.
Madelaine didn’t return his smile.
“Come on, Mad,” he said quietly, reaching out his hand for her.
She came toward him slowly, taking his hand, tucking her small, cold one in his. Wordlessly he led her to the front door, then scouted around for a rock. Finding one, he drew back, ready to fling it through the plate glass living room window.
She stopped his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us inside.”
She gave him a strange look. “Try the key. It’s in the loose brick under the top step.”
He cast a look downward, saw the brick sticking out. “It’s not half as fun….”
She didn’t smile. “Use the key.”
He found the key in the crumbling mortar of its hiding place and slipped it into the lock. The door opened with a whining creak. He flashed his flashlight into the gloom and walked into the shadowy foyer, her hand held tightly in his. Slamming the door shut behind them, he led her down the foyer, past the massive kitchen, into the dark room that had once been her father’s office. Even now, all these years later, it still smelled of cigar smoke and power.
He fished a book of matches from his pocket and knelt before the huge white marble fireplace. Plucking firewood from the copper barrel on the hearth, he built a fire. Flames leapt and writhed on the long-dry wood. Heat pumped into the cold room.
And still she stood there, shivering, unmoving.
He went to her and took her hands in his. When their gazes met, he saw her anxiety, and the words he’d practiced stuck in his throat.
“Why are we here? You know how I feel about this place.”
He heard the fear in her voice and he ached for her, just as he had so many times in the past. He didn’t know the particulars of what had happened to her in this house, with that crazy, mean old man as her father, but he knew she’d been hurt. “This is where it happened, and it seemed right that this is where it ends … and maybe begins.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looked around the room. It was exactly as he remembered it, except for the fine layer of dust that clung to the furniture now and the faint scent of mildew. Silver sconces, black with tarnish, still held thick white candles. Two huge burgundy leather chairs sat huddled in the corner, backed up to heavily paneled walls. Long, dirty windows parenthesized the fireplace, their panes half-covered by dusty drapes. The same bear rug covered most of the thick plank flooring. “This is where I sold my soul for ten thousand dollars.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. But there was too much between them, too much at risk, to pretend he hadn’t done what he’d done to her. If they were going to have any chance for a future, he had to atone for the past.
“I know we don’t have to talk about it, but I need to apologize for what I did. I know an apology doesn’t mean much—just a few words that are overused—but I’m sorry, Mad.” His throat tightened. “If I’d known—”
She went so still, she seemed to have stopped breathing. A thin vein pulsed wildly at the base of her throat. She looked like a frightened deer, ready to bolt. “Known what?”
“I was seventeen years old. What did I know about life? You were the first girl I fell in love with, and you made it seem so damned easy—sort of like finding a killer toy in the Cracker Jack box.” He touched her cheek, felt its velvety softness, and he smiled. “I didn’t know I’d never feel that way again, or that you’d haunt me. I didn’t know I’d spend the rest of my life dreaming about a girl I’d walked away from.”
Her eyes met his, the look in them frank and unflinching—a long way from the teenage girl he’d fallen in love with. “I always understood what you did, you know. I even forgave you a little bit—or I thought I had until you showed up again. My father was a powerful man, hard to deny.” She gave a throaty laugh. “I know that better than anyone.”
She was offering an easy way out, and he wanted to take it. Before the surgery, he would have, but he couldn’t do it this time. It was too important that he be honest—for both of their sakes. “It wasn’t your father. I could have stood up to that asshole; it was me. I was afraid to swear I’d love you for the rest of my life.” He shook his head. “Pregnant or not, you were for keeps, I knew that, and I knew if you vowed to love me forever, you’d keep your word. You would love me….”
There were tears in her eyes. “Yes.”
“It scared me, Mad. I couldn’t handle your love—not at seventeen, hell, not even last year. I knew I’d start being the jerk, screwing around on you, drinking too much—all the things I always did.” He moved closer and gently took her face in his hands. “I’m not that scared kid anymore. I know what I want now.”
“Don’t say anything else, Angel, please….”
He knew what she was doing. She was afraid he’d say he loved her and then break her heart again. He wished he could blame her, but she had every reason to protect her heart from him. All he could do was try and keep on trying until one day she believed in him again.
He thought of all the things he could say to her right now, all the words he could use to tell her he loved her, but in the end, they were only words, and she’d heard them from him before. Instead, he leaned toward her, took her fragile, beautiful face in his hands, and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, the way he hadn’t even imagined back when they were kids. He hadn’t known anything about love. He didn’t know then how it twisted your insides and made you feel like you were made of glass. How sometimes—like now—you felt so brittle that a good wind could shatter your soul.
“Say something,” he said softly.
She closed her fist around the earrings, then let them drop soundlessly to the floor. “I don’t want to talk. I want…”
“What?” he asked. “What do you want? Just tell me and I’ll move heaven and earth to get it for you.”
“You,” she whispered. A slow, seductive smile spread across her face. She kicked one shoe off—it clanged against the spittoon in the corner. The other one hit the claw-foot desk leg. “I want you, Angel DeMarco.”
His breath broke into wheezing little gasps. Had his heart been connected to his central nervous system, it would have been thumping out of control; instead, it kept up its steady, unflappable rhythm. He swallowed, noticing that his throat was dry.
She started to unbutton her sweater, and he grabbed her hand. The minute he did it, he felt like a fool. He tried to smile it off, but she’d seen the truth in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do it, Mad,” he whispered, humiliation a cold stain in his stomach.
She didn’t smile or pretend not to understand. “Your doctor advised you that you could resume sexual relations whenever you felt… up to it.”
A smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “I have to admit, it turned me on when she said it.”
“And how about now?” she asked softly, unbuttoning his shirt.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we should wait…”
She smiled and undid another button. Her hand splayed across his che
st, each finger as hot as a brand on his flesh. “Should we?”
He couldn’t concentrate with her doing that. He felt her fingers, working nimbly on his shirt, her fingernails scraping the tender flesh of his chest. She peeled his shirt away, revealing the bright red scar.
He felt a moment’s hesitation, an uncertainty. It meant so much, loving her, and he was afraid he couldn’t do it. Afraid his secondhand heart would just give out.
She pressed onto her tiptoes and kissed the very top of his scar. Her lips were warm and pliant against the new flesh, and he shivered in response. He couldn’t hold himself apart from her. He wanted to crush her to him, bury himself deep, deep inside her, so deep he couldn’t tell where she began and he ended.
With a groan, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a passion he’d never felt before. He kissed her until he couldn’t breathe for wanting her. Slowly he lowered himself to the bear rug, and she followed him, her fingers still working on the buttons. When they hit the rug, she pulled his shirt off and tossed it away.
He wrenched her soft green sweater off and threw it over his head, then he unhooked her bra and let it slide through his shaking fingers to the fur.
She knelt on the rug before him, her breasts glimmering and perfect in the firelight. She reached up to cover them.
“The baby—”
He pulled her hands away and studied the tiny, silvery lines she was trying to hide. He could tell by looking at her that she thought she was damaged somehow, that her woman’s body couldn’t compare to the girl’s he’d loved before.
Very slowly he leaned forward and cupped her small, round breasts in his hands. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, bending down to kiss the soft swell of one breast.
She shivered and released a tiny moan, then arched slightly toward him. He took a nipple in his mouth as he unbuttoned her jeans and pushed her down onto the rug.
He eased the pants off of her, then the underpants, until she lay there, glistening with firelight, her naked body stretched out before him, wearing nothing but a pair of fuzzy socks. He dug deep in his pocket for a condom and pulled it out, tossing the little foil packet on the floor. Drawing back, he yanked off the rest of his clothes and threw them toward the door, then he came down beside her, kissing her again, stroking her body until she arched toward him and pleaded in his ear. Quiet, breathy words that strained his self-control.
He drew back, breathing hard. His heart pumped in an irritatingly calm rhythm, reminded him that nothing about this was normal.
“I don’t know, Mad,” he whispered brokenly.
“Don’t worry.” She took the condom packet and ripped it open, letting the bits of foil fall to the floor. Smiling, she reached down. Her fingers closed around him, squeezing, stroking. “You seem okay so far.”
Her hand was working magic. He moaned, closed his eyes.
“Should we keep going?” she breathed at his ear, licking the sensitive flesh of his lobe.
He felt drugged. It was all he could do to nod. His throat was too dry to form words. He felt her slip the condom in place and smooth it down, down the shaft.
With a groan deep in his throat, he rolled over and kissed her. Long, electrical kisses that sent him spiraling over the edge. He felt her take hold of him again, guiding him toward her, inside her.
He almost came right then, but he held himself back, biting down hard on his lower lip. She clung to him, whispering his name, her hips grinding, thrusting against his. They fell into a rhythm as old as time, but it felt new to Angel, so new. With incredible effort, he held his need in check, bringing her closer and closer to the brink….
He felt the tiny pulse of her climax and he was lost. His own release was a shuddering explosion. Afterward, he thudded down on the rug beside her, his breath coming in hacking gasps.
“It was never like that when we were teenagers,” he said.
She smiled, snuggling closer. “Not quite. It was more like ‘Beat the Clock’ back then.”
They laughed together and lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, remembering so many things. He rested his cheek on the swell of her breast and studied her naked body in the writhing, golden firelight, tracing the flat surface of her belly with one finger. She was so beautiful…
He didn’t ever want to leave her. He wanted this moment, this intimacy, to go on and on, his soul cradled in the warmth of her touch, her smile.
But how did a man like him say that to a woman like her? What were the magic words that would make her believe that what they’d just done was special and that he’d finally grown up enough to realize it?
There were no words that he could think of, and so he used his body to tell her that he loved her, that he couldn’t get enough of her. His hands, his lips, his tongue—he used them all to worship her body again, until she cried out with pleasure and then slumped against him.
They lay entwined forever. Then, with a trembling laugh, she tried to draw away. “We’d better get going…”
“No way.” He drew her closer, until their bodies were a sweaty, seamless whole. “It’s probably not even midnight.”
She rolled over and smiled down at him. Her hair spilled in a messy pile of honey brown, caressed by firelight, and her lips were puffy and swollen from his kisses. Her nipples caressed his bare chest. “Welcome to dating a single parent.”
The words were like the tiny flick of a knife. He winced. “Is that what I’m doing, dating you?”
A frown darted across her face. Nervously she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well… what would you call it?”
He lifted a hand to her face, touched her cheek, traced the pink outline of her upper lip. He wondered suddenly how a man could survive, loving a woman this much; if she wanted to, she could rip his soul out and smash it beneath her foot. Just like he’d done to her.
For the first time, he understood—really understood—what he’d done to that beautiful, trusting sixteen-year-old girl, and the shame was almost overwhelming. And more than shame, there was regret, deep and aching and unquenchable.
He gazed up at her, loving her so much it hurt. “I’d call it falling in love.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I’d call it falling in love.
For a second Madelaine couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. She lay beside him, still naked, the bear rug damp beneath her body. She bit her lip, afraid suddenly that she would say the words she shouldn’t say, the words that, once spoken, couldn’t be taken back, could never be unsaid.
She didn’t want to think about the past now, but it came back to her, creeping into her mind on tiny, whispering feet. All the things they’d ever said to each other billowed up between them, hanging in the air above them. So many of her dreams had been tangled up with this man, and she was afraid—so afraid—to let him have the power over her again. And yet he did, already he did.
She twisted around to look at him. Her lips parted in a silent plea, an invitation.
He lifted himself from the floor and reached out for her. She knew he was moving slowly, as if he were scared she would turn away.
She remained motionless. His hand breezed down her bare arm, setting off a flurry of goose bumps. “Angel…” His name fell from her lips on a breathless whisper of longing.
She stared into his green eyes, mesmerized by the possibilities she saw there. She knew then, as certainly as she’d ever known anything in her life, that he wasn’t the boy he’d been at seventeen anymore. There was a depth of pain in his eyes that was new, a fear and a regret that she understood. He was, in his own way, as terrified in this moment as she. And seeing that, his fear and his insecurity, was like the brush of a warm, soothing wind on her own uncertainty.
He kissed her then, a light, breezing touch of lips that somehow stamped her soul more deeply than any of the lovemaking ever could. Her arms curled around him, held him close. One by one the years of loneliness and loss seemed to fall away from her. When he drew back, she saw the same
dawning sense of wonder in his eyes that swelled in her own heart.
“Ah, Madelaine,” he said. Just that and nothing more; yet it felt like everything.
At twelve-forty Lina clicked off the television and stood up. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. The red and brown papier-mâché turkey she’d made in kindergarten huddled alongside it, a yearly reminder that Thanksgiving was just around the corner.
Where in the hell was Mom?
She crossed her arms and paced back and forth in the room. She had every light in the room on, but still it felt dark in here, a little lonely. It was the first time she’d ever been in her house this late alone. Whenever Mom had an emergency call at the hospital, Francis always came buzzing right over to keep Lina company.
The thought reminded her again of how much she missed Francis, and she sighed heavily. She plopped into the big overstuffed chair by the front door and sat there, waiting, her foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor.
Her mother had no right to be out this late—didn’t she know that Lina would be worried sick? When Lina had spoken with Angel earlier, he’d said he had to talk to her mother tonight. Talk, So where were they?
She glanced at the phone and thought about calling the hospitals. She was just about to stand up when she reined herself in. It was ridiculous, worrying this way. Her mother was thirty-three years old; she could certainly stay out all night if she wanted to.
But it wasn’t like her mom. Madelaine was way too responsible for something like this.
It was Angel’s fault.
Suddenly she wondered about Angel. After all, what did they know about him, really? He’d come into their lives on a whirlwind, all smiles and promises and fun. But he had a horrible reputation—what if he’d earned it, what if he slept with anyone and forgot their names in the morning, what if he was really a serial killer and the police looked the other way because he was Angel DeMarco, what if—
“Get a grip, Lina,” she said aloud, trying to shake the worry from her mind. “Mom is fine. She’s probably making him drive at twenty-five miles an hour and wear a crash helmet.”
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