The Return Of Rafe Mackade tmb-1

by Nora Roberts

  He'd have suffered torments from hell before admitting that his heart skipped several beats. To cover the lapse, he muttered oaths under his breath, rubbed his suddenly damp palms on his spattered jeans. From memory, he fumbled his way toward the door. It swung open fast and caught him full in the face.

  He wasn't muttering oaths now, but spewing them. Stars were revolving in front of his eyes. And, with disgust, he felt blood trickle from his nose.

  He heard the hoarse scream, saw the ghostly figure in the shadows of the hall, and didn't hesitate. Pain and fury had him shooting forward like a bullet. Ghost or not, anything that gave him a bloody nose was going to pay.

  It took him several furious seconds to realize he had warm flesh wriggling in his arms, and little more to recognize the scent

  She was haunting him all right, he thought bitterly.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Rafe?" Her voice squeaked out. In the dark, she threw up her arms, one flailing hand catching him sharply on the chin before she managed the wholehearted embrace. "Oh, my God, you scared me to death. I thought— I don't know. I heard... I came up. Oh, it's you."

  "What's left of me." Swearing, he set her firmly aside. There was enough light from the lamp hooked at the top of the stairs for him to see her pale face and hugeeyes. "What are you doing here?"

  "I picked up some things at auction and thought I'd put them— You're bleeding."

  "No kidding." Scowling at her, he swiped a hand under his nose. "I don't think you broke it again. Quite."

  "I—" She rubbed a hand over her heart to make sure it hadn't exploded from her chest. "Did I hit you with the door? I'm sorry. Here." She dug in the pocket of her jacket and found a tissue. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, and began to dab at the blood herself. "I was just..." Helpless, she tried to disguise a laugh as a hiccup. "I didn't realize." She gave up, wrapped her arms around her aching stomach, and slid to the floor.

  "It's a real laugh riot."

  "I'm sorry. I can't stop. I thought—I don't know what I thought. I heard them, or it, or whatever. I just had to come up and see, well, if I could see. Then you came barreling out."

  "You're lucky I didn't punch you," he said, with relish.

  "I know. I know."

  His eyes narrowed as he watched her fold with mirth. "I still could."

  "Oh, help me up." Still chuckling, she wiped at her eyes. "Let's get some ice on that nose."

  "I can take care of it myself." But he took hold of her wrist and hauled her, none too gently, to her feet.

  "Did I scare you?" She tried to keep her voice meek and apologetic as she followed him to the stairs.

  "Get real."

  "But you heard—you heard it, didn't you?" She braced, held her breath as they passed through the cold spot.

  "Sure, I heard it. Goes on every night. A couple times during the day."

  "And it doesn't... bother you?"

  It boosted his ego to be able to flick a disdainful glance over his shoulder. "Why should it bother me? It's their house, too."

  "I suppose." She looked around the kitchen. It was all but bare, and still grimy. There was a small, dented refrigerator, a stove that was down to two working burners, and an old door propped on sawhorses that served as a table. Rafe went directly to the pitted cast-iron sink and ran cold water. "Do you have a clean rag?"

  In lieu of an answer, he bent over and scooped icy water onto his face. Adopting a shamed pose, Regan folded her hands.

  "I'm really terribly sorry, Rafe. Does it hurt?"

  "Yes."

  He snatched up a frayed towel and dried his face. Without another word, he strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

  "If s stopped bleeding."

  He twisted off the top, tossed it aside, then downed a third of the bottle. Regan decided that, under the circumstances, she could try again.

  "I didn't see your car. That's why I didn't think anyone was here."

  "Devin dropped me off." He decided that, under the circumstances, he could give her a break. "I've been putting in some extra time at night, camping out here. We're supposed to get hit with a snowstorm tonight, so it didn't make any sense to have the car. I can walk into town if I need to."

  "Oh. Well. That explains it."

  "Want a beer?"

  "No thanks, I don't drink beer."

  "Fresh out of champagne."

  "Well, then, I really should be getting back. Actually, it's already starting to snow." Feeling awkward now, she pushed at her hair. "Ah, there were these candlesticks, and a really wonderful set of fire irons I bought today. I just wanted to bring them by, see how they looked."

  He lifted the beer again, watching her. "So, how do they look?"

  "I don't know. I set everything down in the hall when I came in and heard the, ah, evening performance."

  "You decided to go ghost hunting instead of decorating."

  "Looks that way. Well, why don't I set them up now, before I take off?"

  Taking the beer along, he went with her. "I guess you've cooled off since this morning."

  "Not exactly." She spared him a brief look as she headed to the main hall. "Though giving you a bloody nose, even inadvertently, was satisfying. You acted like a jerk."

  His eyes narrowed as she picked up the box she'd left in the hall and sailed into the parlor. "I was giving it to you straight. Some women appreciate honesty."

  "Some women like jerks." She set the box on a drum table she'd had the movers place at the window. "I don't. I like simplicity, manners, tact. Which, of course, you're completely without." Then she turned, and smiled. "But I think, under the circumstances, a truce is in order. Who broke your nose before?"

  "Jared, when we were kids and fighting in the hayloft. He got lucky."

  "Hmm..." She supposed she would never understand why brotherly affection meant bloody noses to the MacKades. "So this is where you're camping out." She gestured toward the sleeping bag tossed in front of the fire.

  "If s the warmest room in the house right now. And the cleanest. What circumstances equal a truce?"

  "Don't set that bottle down without a coaster." Heaving a sigh, she walked over, took one from the silver-plated basket and offered it. "You can't treat antiques like..."

  "Furniture?" he finished, but he used the coaster. "What circumstances, Regan?"

  "Our ongoing business relationship, for one." Because her fingers were tense again, she busied them by unbuttoning her coat as she walked back to the window. "We're both trying to accomplish the same thing with this house, so it doesn't make sense to be at odds. These are nice, aren't they?" She took the fire irons from the box, stroked a finger over the curved handle of the coal shovel. "They could use some polish."

  "It ought to work better than the crowbar I've been using." Tucking his thumbs in his pockets, he watched her carry the irons to the fire, set them carefully and individually in their stand on the stone hearth.

  "Whatever you used, it's a nice fire." Torn between courage and doubt, she stared at the flames. "I'm still looking for the right screen. This one doesn't really suit. It would be better in one of the rooms upstairs. I imagine you'll have them all working. The fireplaces."

  "Eventually."

  He'd only known her for a few weeks, he realized. How could he be so sure she was arguing with herself? With the firelight flickering over her, her back so straight, that sweep of hair curtaining half her face, she looked relaxed, confident, perfectly at-ease. Maybe it was the way she had her fingers linked together, or the way she wasn't looking at him. But he was certain some small inner war was being waged.

  "Why are you here, Regan?"

  "I told you." Dragging her fingers apart, she went back to the box. "I have some other stuff from the auction in my car, but you're not ready for it. But these..." With care, she unwrapped heavy crystal candlesticks. "I could see them in here, right on this table. You'll want flowers for this vase. Even in the winter."

  She fussed with the
arrangement, placing the candlesticks just so on one side of the Doulton vase she'd already sold him.

  "Tulips would be lovely, when you can get them," she continued, carefully unwrapping the two white tapers she'd brought along. "But mums would do, and roses, of course." She put a smile on her face again and turned. "There, what do you think?"

  Saying nothing, he took a box of wooden matches from the mantel and walked over to light the tapers. And watched her over the delicate twin flames. "They work."

  "I meant the whole effect, the room." It was a good excuse to move away from him, wandering the space, running a finger along the curved back of the settee.

  "It's perfect. I didn't expect any less from you."

  "I'm not perfect." The words burst out of her, unexpected on both sides. "You make me nervous when you say so. I was always expected to be perfect, and I'm just not. I'm not carefully arranged, like this room, with every piece in place, no matter how much I want to be. I'm a mess." She dragged nervous fingers through her hair. "And I wasn't, before. I wasn't. No, stay over there." She backed up quickly when he stepped forward. "Just stay over there."

  Frustrated, she waved her hands to ward him off, then paced. "You scared me this morning. You made me angry, but more, you scared me."

  It wasn't easy for Rafe to keep his hands to himself. "How?"

  "Because no one's ever wanted me the way you do. I know you do." She stopped, rubbing her hands over her arms. "You look at me as though you already know how it's going to be with us. And I have no control over it."

  "I figured I was giving you control, laying it out for you."

  "No. No," she repeated, flinging up her arms. "I don't have any control over the way I'm feeling. You have to know that. You know exactly the way you affect people."

  "We're not talking about people."

  "You know exactly the way you affect we." She almost shouted it before she fisted her hands and fought for composure. "You know I want you. Why wouldn't I? It's just as you said, we're adults who know what we want. And the more I backpedal, the more stupid I feel."

  His eyes were shadowed in the shifting light. "You're going to stand there and say these things to me and expect me to do nothing about it?"

  "I expect to be able to make a sane and rational decision. I don't expect my glands to overwhelm my brain." She blew out a breath. "Then I look at you and I want to rip your clothes off."

  He had to laugh. It was the safest way to defuse the bomb ticking inside of him. "Don't expect me to stop you." When he stepped forward, she jumped back like a spring. "Just the beer," he muttered, lifting the bottle. "I need it." He took a long, deep gulp, but it didn't do much to put out the fire. "So, what have we got here, Regan? Two unattached, healthy adults who want pretty much the same thing from each other."

  "Who barely know each other," she added. "Who've barely scratched the surface of any sort of relationship. Who should have more sense than to jump into sex as if it was a swimming pool."

  "I never bother testing the water."

  "I do. An inch at a time." Ordering herself to be calm, she linked her hands again. "It's important to me to know exactly what I'm getting into, exactly where I'm going."

  "No detours?"

  "No. When I plan something, I stick to it. That works for me." She was calmer now, she told herself. Rational now. "I had a lot of time to think, driving to Pennsylvania and back. We need to slow down, take a look at the whole picture."

  If she was calm, why couldn't she stop fiddling with her blazer, twisting her rings?

  "It's like this house," she continued quickly. "You've finished one room, and it's beautiful, it's wonderful. But you didn't start this project without a complete plan in mind for the rest of it. I think intimacy should certainly be as carefully thought out as the renovating of a house."

  "Makes sense."

  "Good." She drew in a breath, released it. "So, we'll take a few steps back, get a clearer view of things." Her hand was still unsteady when she reached for her coat. "That's the sensible, the responsible route to take."

  "Yeah." He set down his beer. "Regan?"

  She gripped her coat like a lifeline. "Yes."

  "Stay."

  Her fingers went numb. Her breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh. "I thought you'd never ask."

  With a jittery laugh, she threw herself into his arms.

  Chapter 6

  "This is crazy." Already breathless, she curled her fingers into his hair to drag his mouth to hers. Everything in her strained into the kiss, the heat of it, the danger, the promise. "I wasn't going to do this."

  "That's okay." He dragged his lips from hers to race over her face. "I'll do it."

  "I'd thought it all through." When her knees trembled, she gave a quick, helpless laugh. "I had. Everything I just said made perfect sense. This is just chemistry. It's just superficial attraction."

  "Yeah." In one fluid movement, he yanked her blazer down her shoulders, locking her arms, trapping her body to his. Her gasp of alarm stirred his blood. The huge, wary eyes tightened his loins. "Stop thinking."

  A smile curved his lips as he tugged the bunched material, pressing her against him. He watched her eyes glaze, heard the ragged moan when his mouth fed on hers. Then his lips rushed down over the line of her throat. It was as smooth, as scented, as he'd imagined it. So he feasted.

  Her hands clutched at his hips, her head falling back to offer him whatever he chose to take. All the while the heat coursed through her painfully, forcing her breath out in harsh, ragged moans.

  With a jerk, he freed her arms. Before she could reach out, his hands, his wide, clever hands, streaked under her sweater to mold, to possess.

  Flesh and lace, curves and shudders. He found everything he wanted, and wanted more. His mouth continued its relentless assault, while his fingers tortured her skin, and her skin tortured him.

  With a flick of his wrist, he unsnapped her trousers, then skimmed the tips of his fingers along her quivering belly, under the edge of more lace. She moved against him, pressed urgently against him, her teeth scraping along his neck in. greedy bites.

  He could take her now, fast and hot, where they stood. The speed would release this terrible pressure that burned inside him.

  But he wanted more.

  He dragged the sweater over her head, tossed it aside and filled his palms with her breasts. The lace covering was smooth, delicate, and the flesh beneath already flushed and warm with desire. Ruthlessly controlling the pounding need to rush, Rafe watched her face, the flicker of light and shadow over it, while he rubbed his work-roughened thumbs over the points of her breasts.

  "I've imagined you like this."

  "I know."

  His lips curved again, and his eyes were focused keenly on hers when he nudged a slim strap down her shoulder. "I don't think you've imagined what I've thought of doing to you. I don't think you could. So I'm going to show you."

  His eyes stayed on hers, watching, measuring, as he skimmed a finger along the valley between her breasts, up over the curve, then back to flick open the center clasp.

  So he saw that lovely sky blue gaze darken with the storm he set off inside her. And he felt it quake, in both of them.

  Her breath caught in her throat when he jerked her off her feet and set his hungry mouth to work. Shocked, she arched back, her hands fumbling in his hair, over his shoulders, tugging desperately at his shirt. His teeth nipped into her, just short of savage, just short of pain. His tongue tormented, and aroused needs too violent to bear.

  Wild, frantic, she clawed at him. Even as she felt herself failing, she tore and ripped at his shirt. She was on her back, on the thin cushion of the sleeping bag, and bucking desperately beneath him.

  Finally she tugged his shirt away, cursing when she found yet another layer separating them. She wanted flesh, craved it with a mindless hunger. The moment he'd dragged the thin undershirt aside, she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  "Touch me." Her words were ra
w and urgent. "I want your hands on me."

  They were, everywhere at once. Her world became primitive, dangerously exciting, pumped full to bursting with unspeakable sensations. Each rough, impatient caress sent fresh shocks erupting, until her body was nothing but sweaty flesh over sparking nerves.

  Beside her, the fire shot hissing embers against the screen. Inside her, flames leapt and burned.

  She could see him through the haze that blurred her vision. The dark hair, the fierce eyes, the muscles that glistened with sweat in the dance of light. Her moan of protest when his mouth left hers turned to one of giddy pleasure as his lips streaked down over throat, over breasts and torso.

  He levered back and, blind with need, she reared up, her arms circling possessively, her lips searching for each new taste.

  His oath was brief and vicious. "Boots," he managed, fighting to pry hers off while his blood screamed. She was draped around him, that wonderful body sliding over his, her hands... Those incredible elegant hands.

  Boots thudded where he heaved them aside, then, quick as a snake, turned to take her.

  She was tangled around him, all long, silky limbs. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him. He wanted to hear her scream his name and watch the jolts and shocks of pleasure glaze her eyes. Breath ragged, he dragged the slacks down her hips. In one reckless swipe, he tore the lace to shreds. Even as her gasp echoed off the walls, he shoved her back. And used his mouth.

  The climax slammed into her, a bare-knuckled punch that knocked her senseless. Reeling from it, she sobbed out his name. And, shuddering, shuddering, hungered for more.

  He gave her more. And took more. Each time she thought he would end it, must end it, he found some new way to batter her senses. There was only him, the taste, the feel, the smell of him. They rolled over the floor in a wild, glorious combat, her nails digging ruthlessly into his back, his mouth searing hers.

  Nearly blinded by need, he gripped her hands, fingers vised. He thought his own breathing must tear his lungs apart. Her face was all he could see as he drove himself into her. Twin groans mixed. A log shattered thunderously in the grate.