by Rebecca York
“Alex.”
She threw the door open, her gaze taking him in as he stood under the dim utility light.
“Oh God, Alex, what happened?”
He stepped inside the condo and closed the door behind him. Then he felt the strength go out of his knees. As he collapsed back against the door, Sara propelled herself forward and reached for him.
She locked her arms around his middle, pressed her cheek against his shoulder and held on to him.
Nothing had ever felt so comforting as the reassurance of her tight clasp or the warmth of her breath filtering through his shirt and spreading across his skin. Once more he closed his eyes, his own arms coming up to gather her closer.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she murmured.
He tried. In short, disjointed phrases that hardly made sense to his own ears, he told her about the carnage—and about his brother.
She responded with soft exclamations. “Oh God, Alex. It must have been terrible.” As she spoke, her hands smoothed across his back, over his shoulders.
He felt a sob welling from deep in his chest, one heaving sob before he regained some measure of control. Still, he felt himself shaking with the effort.
SARA LIFTED her head, her eyes seeking Alex’s. She had been frightened for him the whole time he’d been away. She was still frightened. Sensing that he wanted to look away, she strove to hold him with her gaze.
“It’s okay,” she repeated. “It’s okay to grieve for him, to feel helpless and sad and angry. It’s okay to let yourself feel it.”
He swallowed convulsively as he brought his hands up and set her away from him. “I let him down. He got all screwed up, and I should have straightened him out.”
“You were just a kid. Kids can’t do that for each other.”
“What do you know about it?” he demanded, his voice rising in volume, his hands clenching into fists. “You never had a little brother.”
If he was trying to drive her away, it wasn’t going to work. “Alex, I know you’ve just been through a terrible experience. But stop beating yourself up,” she said softly. “You weren’t responsible for your brother’s problems. You had enough of a job being responsible for yourself. You’d dug yourself into your own hole, and you pulled yourself out.”
“No,” he answered, fighting her. Fighting logic.
The pain in his eyes was stronger than the defiance. Her own need to wipe away that pain was almost overwhelming. But she knew there was no way to breach the gap between them with words. She had already tried them and failed. In fact, the only time she’d really sensed that she was communicating with him was when they’d made love.
Desperate for him to understand that she would stand by him until the end of time and beyond, she closed the small space that he had put between them, lifted her head and brought her mouth to his.
His instant reaction was resistance, and she felt her spirit contract. Then, from one heartbeat to the next, his lips changed from hard to soft and she knew she had won.
On a groan, he gathered her to him, his mouth almost savage as it moved over hers.
Yes, Alex. Yes. Take anything you want from me, she silently urged, her hands clasping him to her as she opened for him, telling him every way she could that she was his.
She felt his need spiraling up. Need that matched her own. Dizzy with it, she angled her mouth, devouring him even as he did the same. Her hands began to move restlessly over his back, under his shirt, stroking the hot skin she found there, warming her palms on him, the heat sinking into every cell of her body.
He broke away from her and dragged his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the carpet before removing his gun and setting it on a nearby table. Then his hands went to the front of her shirt, pulling at buttons.
She helped him, starting from the bottom, their hands meeting under her breasts.
He pushed the shirt off her shoulders, then reached for the catch of her bra, and she knew that if she didn’t stop them, they’d be rolling together on the rug.
“Wait.”
He made a sound of protest, but she only took his hand and led him down the hall to the darkened bedroom.
There was enough light from the hallway to see the harsh lines of his face as she reached for him again.
The world seemed to contract around her. There was only this man, this place, this need.
She felt his hands trembling as they took up where they’d left off. Lifting her bra out of the way, he caught her breasts in his hands, cradling them, kneading them, pleasuring them.
Her own hands trembled as she pushed down her slacks and panties, then kicked them aside. He had done the same, so that they were both naked when he pulled her body against his and brought his mouth back to hers for a deep, hungry kiss.
She kissed him with equal intensity, wanting with all her being to give him what he needed tonight, to lose her identity in kisses and touches and soft sounds of desire.
When he pulled her down to the surface of the bed, she felt a fierce surge of joy as they rocked together, kissed each other, touched all the places that begged to be touched, building the fire to a white-hot, unbearable intensity.
He surged into her then, his hips setting a sharp frantic rhythm that carried her up one jagged incline after another, then sent her toppling over the edge, the shock of her release so intense that she gasped out her pleasure.
She felt his body shudder above hers, heard his cry mingle with hers. Then she was clinging to him, rocking him in her arms, trying to tell him without words what their joining had meant to her.
She thought he might leave her then and withdraw into himself the way he had the last time. But after what he had been through all that long, long day, he must not have had the strength. Moments later, she felt the even rhythm of his breathing and knew he was sleeping. She eased away from him enough to reach for the quilt at the bottom of the bed and pulled it over them. Then she settled down beside him in the darkness, feeling her own grip on consciousness loosened.
THE SMELL OF COFFEE brewing and bacon cooking woke Alex. His eyes opened and he peered around at the unfamiliar bedroom.
Then memory came swooping back. Sara. Warm, generous Sara. He had taken everything she’d offered last night, and he wasn’t sure what he was capable of giving in return.
He remembered the pain of seeing Billy dead. Remembered his guilt. Remembered Sara taking him in her arms and wiping all the bad stuff away. More than that she replaced it with lovemaking so good that he had to stop and catch his breath even now.
And this morning she was out in the kitchen making him breakfast. Either that or she’d hired a caterer.
He pushed himself up and saw his overnight bag sitting on the floor. Apparently, she’d brought it in from the SUV. His hands clenched. Had she looked in it and found the letters he’d hidden there?
He pulled his mind away from that direction. She wasn’t Cindy! She wouldn’t snoop.
But she would take chances—like going out to buy groceries. His face contorted. One of the militiamen might still be out there stalking her. But they hadn’t talked about that last night. Actually, they hadn’t talked about much.
He wanted to stride down the hall and upbraid her for leaving the condo. But he wasn’t sure he could face her yet, and he wasn’t sure a tongue-lashing was even justified.
So he climbed out of bed and took the overnight bag into the bathroom. The papers he’d taken from the trunk in Lee Tillman’s attic were still on the bottom where he’d put them.
After showering, shaving and dressing, he couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer. When he entered the kitchen, he found Sara looking expectantly toward the door. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her hips as he approached, and he couldn’t stop himself from following the gesture with his eyes.
She wasn’t dressed in the slacks and shirt from last night, he noted. Instead, she was wearing a soft cotton shift with a paisley pattern that flowed around her body when she w
alked.
“Where did you get the dress?” he asked.
“At one of the shops in town.”
“Going out wasn’t such a good idea.”
She cleared her throat. “With the militia…uh…disabled…I figured I could take the chance.”
“Some of them are still on the loose. At least one that we know of.” Tripp Kenney, the leader, was still at large.
She gave a tight nod, then pointed toward the coffeepot. “You want some?”
“Yeah. You bought groceries, too?”
“Uh-huh.” She poured him a mug and set it on the table.
“So half the town saw you this morning. Anybody could have figured out where you were staying.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them I was shacked up with you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She turned back to the stove and began transferring scrambled eggs to a serving plate that already held the bacon.
The table was set, so he pulled out the nearest chair and sat down, watching her bring the food. The easy domesticity made him nervous—as if she was making some sort of claim on him.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like hell.”
“You didn’t sleep well?”
“I slept fine, thanks to you. The point is, you’re not supposed to leave the scene where your brother was shot and go home and have great sex.”
As soon as he saw the softening of her features, he regretted the hasty observation.
“Was it?” she murmured.
“You know damn well it was. And we both know—”
She cut him off before he could finish. “And one of us understands that it’s okay to turn to somebody who cares about you when you’re in pain.”
“So she can administer emotional first aid?”
“Stop it!” she said, her voice rising. “I’m getting tired of your acting like we don’t mean anything to each other.”
He rocked back in his chair, then let the front legs hit the floor with a thump.
He felt trapped. And guilty. And at the same time, he felt like a rat.
He was looking down into his coffee cup when she pulled out her chair and joined him at the table. He watched her dish up eggs and transfer a slice of bacon to her plate.
She took a small bite of eggs, chewed and swallowed before saying, “Alex, I care about you. And I want to be here for you. If you can’t accept that from me, I’ll deal with it.”
“Sara, it’s not you. It’s me.”
“I think I’ve heard that brush-off before,” she said in a low voice.
“It’s not a brush-off. I’m going through some stuff that’s made me…cautious.” He dragged in a breath and let it out slowly, thinking that stonewalling wasn’t doing him much good. “I caught my wife with another man. That kind of makes you careful about leaping into new relationships.”
“I can understand that,” she said in a low voice.
He studied her face. She didn’t exactly look surprised, more like relieved.
“Did you already know that?” he demanded.
She sighed. “I’m not much good at lying. Your friend Dan Cassidy told me.”
“Did he? So this is a case of mercy screwing. The poor guy walked in on his wife with another guy so you want him to think he’s not a total loser.”
“I was pretty sure you’d jump to that conclusion,” she snapped. “But you’re dead wrong. I wasn’t screwing you. I was making love with you—in case you can’t tell the difference. Which apparently you can’t. So I might as well quit while I’m ahead.”
She pushed back her chair and started for the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded, climbing to his feet.
“Home.”
His reaction was swift and primal. “No, you’re not. Not with a possible contingent of militiamen still on the loose. You’re staying where I can protect you. And that means somewhere safe—now that you’ve blown our cover with this apartment.”
She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “You’re not ordering me around! Not with your attitude.”
He forced himself to calm down, forced himself to speak in a normal voice when he still wanted to shout at her. “You said you care about me. Well, I care about you, too.” It was difficult to say the words, but he got them out.
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
He turned his palm upward. “Okay. I’m not in such great shape. Remember, I just saw my brother’s dead body laid out in a pool of beer and blood.”
She winced, her face instantly filling with concern, and he hated himself for using underhanded tactics. Yes, he’d been pretty shook up yesterday, but this present conversation had nothing to do with his brother. He was using Billy because he understood on some deep, instinctive level that he’d use anything to keep her from walking out the door.
“Alex,” she murmured, taking a step toward him.
He couldn’t admit that he wanted anything from her besides keeping her safe. But as she came toward him, he opened his arms and reached for her, folding her close.
For long moments he simply held on to her as she leaned into him. Then he muttered, “I’m asking you to let me stay with you.”
His pulse pounded in his ears as he waited for her to say yes or no.
“If that’s what you want to do,” she finally answered, and he let out the breath he was holding.
“Yes.”
“Then you have to let me help you.”
“With what?” he answered, instantly on guard.
“With anything you need. Like planning Billy’s funeral. Can I help you with that?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He’d only been nineteen when his mom had died, and he’d let Aunt Greta take care of the details. He hadn’t known how to handle the arrangements back then. He still didn’t. Relieved and grateful to have someone share the responsibility, he let Sara start making phone calls. After talking to one of the local funeral directors, she was able to offer him options and give suggestions, although she always let him make the final decisions.
But he was too restless to sit still. Too restless to stay in the same room with her for long. So two days later he told her he needed to make a research trip to Baltimore. Then he left her with her father for eight hours, feeling guilty but at the same time relieved to have some breathing space. When he finally got to the city he started working on the envelopes he’d found in the trunk. They were to a woman named Callie Anderson from her father, saying he was sorry and begging her to come home because her mother was dying.
First he tried the address on Blackwood Street, where Callie had been living when she’d received the letter. But the whole block of buildings had been torn down. So he went back to the return address, where he assumed she’d lived before she moved away from home, since the letter was from her father. The residence was a redbrick row house in Canton, near the Baltimore waterfront. From what he could gather, the Anderson family had moved away long ago. He started knocking on doors, anyway, up and down the street, around the corner and across the alley. When he was about ready to give up, he found a crotchety old man, a Mr. Simmons, who remembered the family.
What he had to say was unsettling. According to Simmons, the father had been abusive to his daughters, Callie and Lacy, beating them and taking them to task verbally at the slightest excuse.”
“Physical and verbal abuse?” Alex asked.
“Yes and maybe worse.”
“Sexual abuse?” Alex pressed.
The old man nodded. “Back in those days, nobody talked about stuff like that. But the way those girls acted, I thought something was going on with their father.”
“How did they behave?”
“Shy one minute, seductive the next—like they didn’t know how to deal with men.”
Alex nodded, picturing it as the old man added more details.
“They both ran away from home. Callie took up with some ric
h guy who got her pregnant and then abandoned her. She died. Maybe Lacy did too. Or she moved far away. I haven’t seen her in years, I know that. But some other guy came around here asking about Lacy once—about ten years ago.”
Alex’s ears pricked up. “Another guy?”
“Yeah. A little fellow. He was kind of gruff. Kind of strange, you know. Like he knew more about the girls than he was saying.”
Who the hell was that? Alex wondered.
He tried another question. “What happened to the baby?”
“I guess she was put up for adoption. I don’t know anything about that.”
“You know it was a girl?”
“That’s what I heard. Don’t know for sure, ’cause we never saw her around here.”
Alex asked a few more questions, but Mr. Simmons had given him everything he could.
“Well, I appreciate the help.”
The old man nodded. “It was a long time ago. But I remember right well.”
Alex’s next stop was back at 43 Light Street, where he visited the offices of Birth Data, Inc. Erin Stone gave him an exasperated look when he said he was still trying to track down the girl baby from St. Stephens. “Alex, I can’t tell you who it was,” she said.
“Just a couple of questions. Weren’t most of the babies put up for adoption by their mothers?”
“Yes.”
“So was this case different? Did a man put the child up for adoption?”
She got up, went to a file cabinet and consulted some papers.
“It was a woman.”
“Thanks,” he said, sighing.
“That wasn’t any help?”
“I was hoping I was on the trail of the father. I guess not.”
THE FUNERAL WAS three days later, on one of those raw spring days when you wished you were inside watching flames dance over burning logs in the fireplace, Alex thought as he stood under a cold, leaden sky staring at his brother’s plain wooden casket.
He’d known that Billy would want as little fuss as possible, so he’d arranged a simple graveside service.
Of course, since he hadn’t been to church in years, Alex hadn’t even known whom to ask to officiate. Sara, a member of the Methodist church, had arranged for her minister to say some words over Billy’s grave in the family plot next to their mother.