She was back in moments, climbing down, one hand clasping a bottle filled with dark liquid. Her dark eyes were lit with a touch of mischief.
"Plum wine," she whispered. "Onkle wouldn't touch a drop, but Aunt Bernice put it up without him knowing it. It seemed such a waste to leave it behind."
She went to the shelves above the stove and took down two tin mugs. She handed them to him and twisted the cork in the bottle. There was a slight pop as it pulled free. Conor smelled the heady, summery scent of plums.
He held out the cups and she poured a careless measure into each. Her step seemed almost light, her touch flirtatious as she took her cup from his hand. Her warm fingers touched his, and the shock of her skin on his surprised him with its intensity.
She seemed not to notice. Instead she went to the far side of the room and settled into a chair. She motioned to the one beside her. "Won't you sit down?"
"I don't mind if I do." Conor took a sip of the wine, following her. The drink was potent, burning and sweet as it coursed down his throat. He looked at the cup in amazement. "Bernice made a strong bottle of wine."
"It was her one weakness." Sari's tone was fond. "After I was married, I'd come over to visit in the afternoons sometimes. She'd have a bottle waiting. I'm sure Onkle suspected we'd been drinking when he came in for supper, though he never said a word."
She leaned back in the chair. "We had some wonderful times," she murmured. She looked at him suddenly. "Do you ever wish you'd had a family?"
Conor winced. "I guess I have. I don't really remember."
She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.
"Liar," she said.
Conor looked at her in surprise. "What?"
"I don't believe you."
He deliberately laced his voice with coolness. "A small boy in a slum orphanage thinks more about staying alive."
"An orphanage?" She frowned. "I didn't know."
"I've never told anyone." His stomach felt tight.
Conor took another sip of the wine. It churned in his gut.
"Tell me," she said softly.
Conor gripped the cup in his fingers. God, she looked so intent, so fragile and childlike. The slender bones of her face looked elfin cupped by her long fingers. Her almond-shaped eyes were innocent and beguiling. But he knew better than that. He knew there was a strength, a worldliness, in Sari that belied her appearance. A strength that could easily best his.
She was so beautiful, and she was burning inside him; he'd spent too many sleepless nights dreaming of her clasped beside him, thinking of the way she sprawled across the bed lost in dreams.
She lowered her eyes and sat back in the chair, pulling her legs up beneath her, smoothing the dark brown skirt of her dress self-consciously. "There were times when I felt like an orphan, even when my parents were alive." She leaned her head on the edge of the chair. "I can imagine what it's like to have no one.”
He couldn't speak. He stared at her, unable to tear his eyes away, feeling his mouth grow dry. Conor inhaled deeply. Her eyes were tempting. He wished he could just fall into them. There was something so soothing, so comforting in her gaze. "You don't know..."
He saw her quick pain, the way she turned her face into her cup and took an anxious sip of wine. It knifed through him, and for the first time in his life he felt selfish for not sharing himself with her. She wanted to know about him, and God knew he'd wanted to tell her for days now. She would understand. She was the only one who would.
The thought of Michael flitted quickly through his mind, and Conor deliberately pushed it away. It didn't matter. Not now. The snow blocked out the world; there was nothing but him and Sari. And for some odd reason he wanted her to know who he was. Who he really was.
"Sari," he said gruffly, "the truth is much more complicated than you know."
"I'll understand if you don't want to tell me."
He smiled. "No, you won't. And I don't blame you." He glanced into the depths of his cup; the dark wine glinted with the lamp's reflection. "The part about the orphanage is true enough, believe me. My mother died when I was very young. I barely remember her. I don't know much about her actually. She was a whore, I do know that. An immigrant. Her name was Bridget. I never knew her last name."
He looked up, into Sari's wide eyes. There was warmth and concern in her face. "Did you ever try to find out?"
He shrugged. "Not really. I wasn't very interested in her, to be honest. I'm less interested now." The truth of his words burned through him. "It doesn't matter, Sari. She doesn't matter."
"She was your mother."
"Is there some law that says you have to care about your mother?"
Sari looked away uncomfortably. "No." She shook her head. "No."
"I spent the next eight years or so in an overcrowded orphanage in the slums of Chicago. There's not much education in those places, not much to eat unless you steal it for yourself. When I was ten or eleven, I left. There was no more room and it was mutually agreed that I could take better care of myself."
"At ten?" Sari's surprise was reflected in her eyes.
Conor grinned. "By then I was pretty proficient at stealing. It was no hardship. In fact I didn't know any other way. And then ... then, I got sick. Some kind of fever, something. They told me afterward that I was wandering the streets in a delirium. All I know is that I was having strange dreams, hallucinations." His hands clenched the cup in painful memory. He remembered those dreams too well, remembered the fear. Even now, at thirty-three, he felt those nightmares with the intensity of a twelve-year- old.
"They told me I almost died."
She was quiet for a long time, her brown eyes hooded, thoughtful. He wondered what she was thinking and was surprised to realize that he hoped she felt for him, that he wanted, yearned for, her concern for a bedraggled little boy whose eyes were bright with fever.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "Who are 'they'?"
His throat tightened. "The nuns," he said finally. "I ended up on the doorstep of a rectory."
"Thank God," she breathed.
He smiled at the irony. "Yes. Thank God. When I woke up, days later, well on my way to recovery, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I guess in a way I had. The priest who ran the parish decided, for whatever reason, that I had some promise, and he took me in. He treated me so much like a son, I even took his name."
"His name?"
"His name was Father Sean Roarke. He became a real father to me." Conor brought his wine to his lips, pausing before he took a sip. "He did everything he could for me. Educated me, fed me. Loved me.”
She frowned. "Loved?" she asked carefully.
"The Mollies bombed my house in July," he said bleakly. "He was sick—I was taking care of him." He paused. "He died before I could get him to a doctor." Conor caught her gaze. He fought to keep the emotion from his voice, but he heard it there, resonating from deep inside him. Anger and sadness and regret. "You said you watched the papers, that you waited to find out who I really was. That you were disappointed the sleepers didn't kill me." He swallowed. "Well, I felt dead, Sari. I felt dead."
"And now?"
He clenched his jaw. "Now I want them all."
The anguish in his eyes was so intense, Sari felt blinded. This was the anger. This was what he'd been hiding from her. He'd lost as much as she had—more, because he loved his father and she had not loved her husband for a long time and had lost her brother years before.
The thought brought a cold lump to her stomach. Even though she hadn't really believed it, she'd hoped he'd been telling the truth when he said he'd come to Colorado because he still cared about her. But now a deeper suspicion lodged in her heart. Sleepers had killed Conor's father, and there were only a few left who would have cared enough to search Conor out.
Her throat felt tight. Michael had cared enough. Michael had the means and the motive for vengeance. He had plenty of enemies, and Conor was one of them.
The street was deserted, and his whispered "Sari!" had seemed to echo through the air as she'd hurried back from trying to see Evan.
He'd pulled her back into the shadows between buildings, and in the dim lamplight his movements had seemed jerky and anxious, his eyes burned with suppressed emotion. Concern, she'd thought then, but now she wondered if maybe it had been excitement instead—or anger.
"I told you not to come back," she'd whispered. "I told you to stay away."
"Sari, don't nag me," he'd said, pulling her close—so close she'd felt the hot humidity of his breath against her hair, smelled the liquor scenting it. "How's Evan?"
"I don't know," she'd said dully. "He won't see me." She swallowed. "They're hanging him tomorrow."
He'd stiffened against her, and Sari had pulled away. The intensity in his eyes frightened her—she'd seen that wild light before, too often.
"They'll pay for this," he'd said slowly. "Trust me, Sari. They'll pay."
"I don't want them to pay," she'd said. "I want it to be over, Michael—do you hear me?"
He'd smiled down at her, his teeth white and glittering through the darkness of his beard. "It's too late for that, Sari, darlin'," he'd whispered. "It's too late."
Too late. Sari swallowed. A slow, uneasy dread filled her. What had Michael meant by that? Had he been planning, even then, to bomb Conor's house?
Something inside her told her he had, and though Sari tried to deny it, the thought wouldn't go away. It was like her brother to take his fanaticism to the most violent ends. It was why she wanted nothing more to do with him.
She wished she didn't know, that she could go on pretending there might be a future for her and Conor. But now she knew how much Conor had loved his father, the price he'd paid. She knew how badly he wanted vengeance. If it had been Michael, if Conor knew the role she'd played ... that future didn't exist. It couldn't exist.
She winced. "I'm so sorry."
His gaze sharpened. "Sorry?" he asked. "Why?"
"Because." It was hard to speak through the lump in her throat, and she didn't know what to
say anyway. "Because ... of what you've ... been through."
He shook his head; there was still that anger in his eyes. "That's not why, Sari. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you're sorry."
"You wouldn't understand."
"No? Try me."
She couldn't put words to the thought. How could she say it? I'm sorry, Conor, because I think my brother killed your father, and I know it means you '11 never love me? What would he say to such a thing? What could he say except that she was right?
He was staring at her, his eyes demanding truths, the blue fire in them as intense as the burn in Michael's had been, in its own way as fanatical. There would be no forgiveness there, she knew, just as there had been none in her brother's eyes.
She couldn't tell him, and she couldn't lie to him. In his eyes she saw the little orphan boy he'd been, the boy who'd nearly traded his soul to survive. She wanted to touch that in him, wanted to heal it, if only for a moment, a day. At whatever cost to herself.
"Conor," she said slowly. "I'm sorry because of what the sleepers cost you. I'm sorry for my part in it. But mostly ... mostly I'm sorry because I can kiss you, I can make love to you, but I'll never be able to make that pain go away. And that... that makes me sorry."
He looked up at her, and the fire of anger faded in his eyes, replaced by a bigger, deeper fire—one that took her breath away.
"Don't be sorry, love," he said slowly, in a low, deep voice that sent shivers up her spine. "Don't be sorry, just. .. just kiss me. Just... love me. Please. Make love to me tonight."
Chapter 15
Sari felt frozen to the chair. Make love to me tonight. She didn't misunderstand him. He wanted comfort and understanding, he wanted the mindlessness that came when they touched. But he didn't want love. He didn't want forever.
After the storm ended, they would go back to the way they had been. She would be distant and controlled, he would be the emotionless Pinkerton agent, here only to do a job. She would try to forget what he'd told her. She could not expect that tonight would change anything between them.
But what if it did? What if she took the risk of loving Conor? How much pain could she go through again if she was wrong?
The answer came quickly: as much as it took. She couldn't deny him, couldn't deny herself. Besides, she told herself, this time she'd be ready for any betrayal. The pain would be less if she was prepared for it. And in the end it didn't matter anyway. When he looked at her that way, she couldn't walk away from him, couldn't say no. She didn't want to say no.
She set aside her cup, uncurled her legs. He was watching her every movement with selfish fascination. "As if he wants to drink your soul." Miriam's words. Or Conor's words? They mixed drunkenly in her mind.
"It feels like I've wanted you forever." The velvet gravel of his voice caressed Sari's nerves. "I've dreamed of you so often. Nothing seems to stop it. Nothing."
She waited on the edge of the chair as he rose. He held out a hand, and she took it, feeling weightless when he pulled her to her feet. His hands rested at her waist, drawing her close. His lips were warm and urgent as he nuzzled the sensitive spot below her ear.
"Tell me, Sari," he whispered. "Tell me why I can't seem to get you out of my blood."
For the same reason I can't get you out of mine. Sari closed her eyes, wishing she could tell him. Wishing that it mattered that she loved him. But the only important thing was the warmth of his breath on her throat, the heady smell of him.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, running her hands over the plane of his back. His flannel shirt was smooth against her skin; she felt the play of his muscles as he shifted into her.
He brushed her lips lightly with his own, and she shuddered at the warm tenderness of the kiss. She arched into him, impatient for more as he flicked the corners of her mouth with his tongue, tracing the outline of her lips, urging her mouth open so that he could explore the sweet taste of her.
She tasted sweet, and her mouth was hot and wet and urgent. Conor wanted more of her, wanted to draw her inside him. He groaned into her mouth and she answered him, twining her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, pressing her breasts into his chest. The screaming of the snow battered the house, wrapping itself around them, removing all the walls they'd erected, leaving only two people who had nothing but each other.
It was true, he realized. He had nothing but Sari and her warm, sweet body. He wanted her more than he ever had. Wanted to bury himself inside her and take surcease in her giving. And more than that, he wanted to show her that she was his and that he wanted it no other way.
He fumbled with her dress, unfastening the inner lining. He peeled the material from her shoulders, urging it over her hips until it fell in a pile at their feet. He caressed her hips, the indentation of her waist, the full breasts straining against her muslin chemise. Conor curved his hands around her buttocks, pulling her closer, settling her over his hips.
She tore at the buttons on his shirt, spreading it open, running her fingers through the hair on his chest. Memories of lying with her in bed, tumbling together in tangled sheets damp with lovemaking, jumbled through his mind. God, how he wanted that again—skin on skin, making love far into the night, without neighbors, or the past, or responsibilities intruding.
He shrugged out of his shirt; the material fell with a soft swish to the ground. He pulled away then, searching her face, but she kept her gaze lowered, and he wanted her to look at him, wanted to see the emotion he craved—passion and longing and something else, that same unconditional love he'd always seen in the past.
But she didn't look at him, and he knew it was unfair of him to ask when he could offer her nothing in return. So instead he ran his hand up her side, cupping the f
ullness of her breast before he stroked her shoulder with his finger, looping the strap of her chemise and letting it fall. The muslin sagged, catching on her erect nipple, and with deliberate slowness Conor bent, kissing the top of her breast, the side, snagging the fine fabric with his teeth and pushing it out of the way so that he could curl his tongue around her nipple. Her scent was intoxicating. He'd never known a woman like her, never been so ensnared by the perfume of woodsmoke and soap or the sheer, beautiful softness of skin.
Conor pulled back, tangling his hand in her coiled hair. He strung it through his fingers, pulling her head back so that he could take her mouth. He'd meant it to be a gentle kiss, but the longing that racked his body consumed him. She was like fire, hot and soothing at the same time. She tasted of plum wine and forgiveness, and the combination was almost more than he could bear.
"Touch me," he whispered into her mouth. She complied with an eagerness that left him weak, tearing at the buttons of his pants, trailing her finger slowly over him. Damn, this wanting was like an obsession. All he could think about was how good it felt to be inside her, how much he wanted the balm her soul gave him. Her hair was soft against his hands, her breasts brushed his chest as she leaned closer.
He backed against the chair, suddenly too feeble to stand. He sank down, pulling her with him until she was sitting in his lap.
With a quick curse of impatience he lifted her slightly. Her eyes were so dark, they looked almost black in the lamplight. He grabbed at her skirt, bunching it in one hand over her thighs, fumbling at his pants with the other.
Sari couldn't look away. His eyes held her locked in place. His fingers dug into the smooth softness of her thighs, the muscles of his chest and throat were taut with control as he urged her upward. She felt his hand drag at the ties of her drawers and then a sharp tug brought the material down around her hips.
Her knees dug into the coarse fabric of the chair, but before she could move, his hands were on her again, his fingers curling in the soft hair at the juncture of her thighs, his thumb caressing her. Stroking, dipping, driving her insane with need.
Megan Chance Page 15