The Soldier, The Nun and The Baby (Anne Stuart's Greatest Hits Book 2)

by Anne Stuart

  The hotel room came equipped with thick terry-cloth robes. She pulled one around her, then went and lay down on the bed in the twilight gloom, listening to the deep, even breathing of the sleeping child.

  There was no noise from the adjoining room. Reilly must be sound asleep. Superhuman he might seem, but the past few days of running, little sleep, topped off with being shot, had to have taken their toll on him. He was probably dead to the world.

  Whereas she had slept too much—on the plane, in the back of the truck. She’d slept enough to last her for quite a while—she wasn’t going to sleep away the last few hours she had with Reilly and the baby.

  It took her a moment to realize the odd feelings shimmering beneath her breastbone. Despite everything, she was happy. For the first time in nine years she was free, of the guilt, the horror, the memory. She was free of the past, with its pain and despair. She was free of the present, with its rules and repressions.

  She was free of the future. It would be lonely, empty, without Reilly and the baby. But she’d survive. She’d survived so much already.

  But for this brief moment she was blissfully, gloriously free, and even if it hurt her more, made it even harder to get on with life, she wasn’t going to waste this moment.

  She’d made love with Reilly in despair and pain and panic, rough and quick in the back of a truck with death all around them. She was going to make love to Reilly in a huge bed, with clean white sheets and all the time in the world. The sin was committed, and she didn’t regret it. Now she needed something to help her through the long empty years.

  There would be no other man for her, she knew it with absolute certainty. There would be no other babies for her.

  What she would have would be a perfect memory. And it would have to be enough.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  He lay stretched out on the huge bed, his strong, tanned arms out flung, the white sheet covering his hips. She had no doubt he was naked underneath it. She moved to the bed, silent, unsure of herself, knowing this was foolish and wrong and terribly, terribly right.

  He was lying on his stomach, his face turned away from her, covered with a long fall of dark hair. But as she stood there his hand lifted and caught hers, and he turned to gaze at her, his eyes dark and gleaming in the murky light.

  He looked absolutely beautiful lying there, tanned skin against the white sheets, staring up at her. He’d shaved the rough stubble of beard, and it made him look oddly civilized, elegant, despite the hair and the scarred, wounded body. “Are you sure, Carlie?” he said in a soft, raw voice. “There are no excuses this time.”

  “No excuses,” she said, turning her hand to catch his, palm to palm.

  He rolled onto his back, reaching up to unfasten the loose belted tie of the robe, so that it fell open. And then he tugged her, gently, down onto the soft mattress, pushing the terry cloth off her shoulders, holding her against him, carefully, tenderly, as he kissed her mouth.

  It was a wonder of a kiss, sweet and searing, a promise of long dark nights and lazy afternoons. A false promise, she knew that, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was now.

  He rolled her over onto her back, leaning above her. “We’ll take it slow this time,” he murmured against her mouth. “We need to find out what you like. What you don’t like. What frightens you.” He bit her earlobe, gently.

  “I don’t know much about men’s bodies,” she said, feeling slightly awkward and shy.

  He smiled a gentle smile, free from mockery. “You can learn,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “I want you,” she said, breathless, honest.

  “You have me,” he replied, the words a kind of vow. “You can do anything you want. Nothing is forbidden.” He leaned back, watching her, waiting.

  She came up on her knees beside him, wondering where to start. She put her hands on his chest, on the smooth, warm skin, tracing the line of his ribs, the old scars, the definition of his musculature. She leaned over and kissed his throat, her tongue flicking out to taste the clean, soapy taste of him. He made a quiet growl that sounded like approval, and she moved her mouth downward, across his chest, kissing, tasting, biting.

  His hands were on her shoulders, gentle, encouraging but not forcing, his long fingers kneading her pliant flesh, as she reached his flat belly, and the barrier of the white sheet.

  She hesitated for only a moment. And then she pulled the sheet away, tossing it toward the end of the bed.

  He wanted her, though she’d had no real doubt of that. He wanted her very badly indeed. And yet he made no move to take her, to force her, to hurry and control her, simply giving her free access to his big, strong body that had protected her so well, loved her so well.

  She touched him, letting her fingers curl gently around the silken length of him. Once more it astonished her that she could accommodate him, but he’d already proved that she could. She would again.

  He seemed to swell and grow beneath her touch, even though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. She skimmed her fingers down the shaft, and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, almost like the purr of a man-eating tiger.

  She slid her fingers down, to cup him, and his muffled word was more a prayer than a curse.

  She stroked him, gently, amazed at the pleasure it gave her, as well. She was growing hotter, shakier, as she touched him, learned him.

  The purr turned to a growl as he reached up and caught her hand, pressing it down over him, increasing the pressure, showing her the rhythm and force he wanted, until he arched his head back with a groan.

  Nothing is forbidden, he’d told her. And with pure instinct she leaned down and put her mouth where her hand had been.

  He gasped her name and caught her head between his hands. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body as he tried to control his reaction, the strength in his hands as he tried to gentle his touch.

  It astonished her—his powerful response to her experimental caresses. But what amazed her even more were her own emotions. She was trembling with arousal, needing him, lost in a dark maze of delight and desire until she no longer knew what she was doing, it was all a blissful whirl of sensations racing through her trembling body.

  She was barely aware of him moving. He lifted her off him gently, turning her to lie on the bed. She was shivering with longing, and she tried to pull him over, onto her, but he resisted easily.

  “Your turn now,” he said in a rough voice, but his hands and mouth were gentle as they danced across her skin.

  She heard her quiet whimper from a distance, and she reached for him blindly, suddenly frightened, needing him. It was so strange and distant, this fear and trust, entwined around her like a vine, capturing her, so that all she could do was lie back and revel in the terrifying wonder of his hands on her body as he brought her to the screaming edge of completion.

  He came to her then, stretching over her, resting between her legs. She braced herself, but she was slick and damp, and his thrust filled her, deep and full and glorious no pain this time, just a stretching.

  She arched against him, lifting her hips to draw him deeper still. “Hold on,” he whispered in her ear. And then he flipped over, taking her with him, so that she was on top of him, his body still tight within hers.

  For a moment she panicked. But he simply arched his hips, thrusting up into her, showing her the rhythm, his big hands holding her hips, moving her in delicious counterpoint.

  “That’s right,” he murmured, his voice a tight whisper of sound. “Take me, angel. Any way you want me.”

  She learned it, so quickly. She arched, flinging her head back, as she sank down on him, and she felt powerful, splendid, magical. She moved with perfect, erotic grace, reveling in the power of his body beneath hers, the sweat-slick skin, the fierce, glazed look in his eyes.

  She felt it start, a shimmering tension that threatened to shake her apart, and suddenly she lost the smoot
h rhythm she’d mastered and began to weep. Not knowing why, awash in emotions and feelings and fear she couldn’t begin to understand. “I can’t,” she cried, but he simply took over, turning her once more so that she lay back against the mattress, fingers clutching the sheets.

  “You can,” he said, low in her ear. And he reached between their bodies and touched her.

  It hit her with the force of a hurricane, so fast and powerful she shattered. Blackness clamped down over her as her body convulsed. She heard him, felt him come with her, and she clung to him as tightly as she could, riding the storm.

  It seemed an eternity before she opened her eyes. She knew he was watching her. He lay beside her, holding her close, but there was no hiding from his searching gaze. She opened her eyes and met it.

  He looked somber, troubled. His long hair fell loose about his face, and his eyes were haunted.

  “Don’t look so guilty,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “I’m the one who came to you.”

  “Carlie,” he said, but she reached up and covered his mouth with her hand, her fingers stroking the firm contour of his lips.

  “It’s all right, Reilly,” she said. “The sin is mine, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though I expect you don’t even believe in sin. But it’s my sin, not yours. I just wanted to...wanted to...” Words failed her, and she dropped her head.

  “Wanted to what?”

  “To see what it could be like,” she said in an apologetic voice. “When it’s done out of love.”

  “Carlie...” he began, his voice dangerous.

  “Don’t worry about it, Reilly. I know you don’t love me. That’s perfectly understandable. I’m someone you were saddled with while you were trying to repay an old debt. But I’m afraid I looked at it quite dispassionately, and I realized I loved you.”

  She could see the stubborn denial in his face. “Every woman alive thinks she’s in love with the first man she screws,” he said flatly.

  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or weep. “You’ve got it wrong. I don’t think I love you because I went to bed with you. I went to bed with you because I love, no matter how annoying you can be. And I really believe that anything done in love isn’t a sin.”

  Timothy set off a distant wail, and she slid out of bed instantly. Reilly grabbed for her, but she was already out of reach. “We haven’t finished talking,” he said, his voice rich with anger and frustration.

  “Yes, we have.” She paused by the door. “There’s nothing more to say. I love you and the baby, and you don’t love me. Don’t make it harder for me, Reilly. I know how you feel. Just let me deal with losing both of you in my own way.”

  And she ran from the room before he could stop her.

  * * *

  Reilly lay back and began to curse. He knew curses in a dozen languages, though he usually preferred Anglo-Saxon words. His second favorite were Arabic curses, and he let go with a few choice ones, aimed directly at himself.

  It was her damned fault as well, he thought furiously. She hadn’t given him a chance to say a word, to even think about things. The past few days had been so crazy, it was no wonder he was absolutely out of his mind. The worst thing he could do was make some stupid, impulsive gesture that he’d wind up regretting for the rest of his life.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a place to go to. He could count on Wait Morrissey to see her safely back to wherever she wanted to be, and if Morrissey dropped the ball, then Reilly would damned well hand-deliver her to her precious Mother Superior.

  Of course, she’d be in slightly shopworn condition, and the thought of facing some stern old nun scared him more than seeing Endor Morales on the empty streets of Puente del Norte.

  But she’d made her decision, clearly. This was best for all of them. They’d all go their separate ways, and it would give him time to think. To consider. To plan.

  Except that he wasn’t that kind of man. He made snap judgments, spur-of-the-moment decisions, and he lived with the consequences. His instincts were almost infallible, and they’d kept him alive for more than fifteen years in some of the world’s most dangerous places.

  His instincts were telling him he’d be a fool to let her go.

  He climbed out of bed, in a thoroughly bad mood that his satisfied body didn’t seem to share. He wanted to go after her, to grab her and shake some sense into her. Why didn’t she make demands, demands he could give in to? Why was she making this so damned difficult?

  He needed breathing space, and so did she. He’d give her time to think things through. A couple of hours for her to consider the alternatives. And then he’d go in search of her and inquire very politely whether she might be interested in spending a little time in Montana. To see whether the climate might suit her.

  He was just coming out into the living room of the suite when he heard the knocking. Maybe Carlie had ordered room service. Then again, maybe she hadn’t. The door to the other bedroom was still tightly shut, and there was no sign of her or the baby.

  For a brief moment he wondered whether she’d run, taking the kid with her. He wouldn’t blame her, but he didn’t think it was likely. Sister Maria Carlos had a bit too much honor to take that route. Even if her heart was breaking.

  The pounding on the door continued, and he strode toward it, yanking it open. “Yeah?” he snarled.

  “Reilly!” Wait Morrissey stood there, glowering at him, looking so damned much like Billy that Reilly wanted to punch him.

  “Wait,” Reilly said in his most noncommittal voice, blocking the door. “We weren’t expecting you till later.”

  “We have an important cocktail party tonight, so Grade insisted I charter a plane and get here early. She would have come with me but there were too many last-minute details she had to take care of. She’s hired a lovely Mexican gal. Doesn’t speak a word of English, but then, neither will my grandson at this point. Where is he, Reilly?”

  “Here.” Carlie’s voice came from directly behind him, and Reilly had no choice but to move out of the way and let the old man in. He didn’t want to. He wanted to tell Wait Morrissey to go to hell and take his wife with him, but he clamped his jaw down.

  Wait was staring at Carlie with undisguised doubt. “You’re not Caterina Morrissey,” he said in an accusing voice. “What the hell’s going on here, Reilly?”

  “I’m Carlie Forrest,” she said. “Caterina was my friend.”

  “Was?” Wait echoed. “She’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. She died in childbirth.”

  Morrissey bore down on Carlie. He was an impressive man, bulky, powerful, with the ability to intimidate most people despite the overbearing charm he wielded like a weapon. Billy had been scared shitless of him, and even Reilly watched his step.

  Carlie didn’t move. “So you got Reilly to give you a free ride out of the country at my expense,” Walt said. “Well, forget it. You’re responsible for any extra passengers you pick up along the way. I’ll take care of any debts my grandson incurred.”

  “I told you, I don’t need any money,” Reilly snapped, but Walt ignored him, staring down at the baby.

  “We can sort that out later,” he said grandly. “I take care of my own. Assuming he even is my grandson.”

  Timothy didn’t like the sound of the old man’s voice. Reilly didn’t blame him. The baby let out a loud, furious wail, the likes of which Reilly hadn’t heard in the past four days, his little face turning red with temper.

  “What do you mean by that?” Carlie asked calmly over the noise of the screeching kid.

  “I mean we’re going to have tests done. Reilly should have made that clear. He’s going straight into the hospital so that they can check him out, run some DNA samples, that kind of stuff. I want to make sure he’s in good shape before we take him. And I want to make damned sure he really is my grandson.”

  “And if he’s not?” Reilly said in a deceptively polite voice.

  “If he’s not? Well, there’s no way i
n hell I’m raising some bastard as my grandson. And you can kiss your expenses goodbye.” Wait Morrissey took a deep, calming breath. “No offense intended, Reilly. I know you wouldn’t try to pawn off some brat as Billy’s. But who’s to say this girl’s telling you the truth?”

  Reilly tilted his head sideways, considering him. “No way I’d do that, Wait. Which is why I hate to tell you, but he’s not your grandson.”

  Fortunately his simple words drew all of Wait’s attention, and he didn’t notice Carlie’s shocked expression. She tried to say something, but Timothy’s wails drowned out her attempt, and Wait wheeled around, storming towards Reilly, already dismissing them.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded at full volume. “What are you trying to pull?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Caterina died in childbirth, and so did the baby. By the time I got to the mission the only person there was Carlie. She’d given birth a couple of weeks before Caterina, but she hadn’t been strong enough to be evacuated with the others. I was there, I had the baby supplies. I brought her out with me.”

  “I’m not paying for it,” Morrissey said instantly.

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “Can’t you shut that brat up?” The old man snarled back at Carlie. “I can’t hear myself think.”

  “You don’t need to think, Wait. I’m sorry it worked out this way, but there’s nothing to be done. Just tell Grace what happened. I think she’ll manage to survive.” He tried to keep the wryness out of his voice. Gracie Morrissey wouldn’t have let an infant grandson interfere with her social life, and she certainly wasn’t going to let the loss of one she’d never even seen affect her.

  For a long moment Wait stared at him. For all his bluster, he was an intelligent man. He looked at Reilly, then glanced back toward the baby and the woman holding him so protectively.

  “All right,” he said suddenly, nodding. “It’s probably just as well. Gracie and I weren’t very good parents the first time around, and we’re too old to change our ways. It’ll work out better this way.”