Megan Chance (20 page)

"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."

S
ari 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 fullness 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.

Sari moaned, unable to do anything but press herself against him, arch her back in response to his ceaseless movement. Oh, he knew just what to do. She threw back her head, felt her own hair, warm and soft and heavy across the naked skin of her back. And then his mouth was on her breast, his tongue laving the sensitive peak, curling and teasing.

"Sari, love." His whisper was hot and moist against her flesh. "Ah, Sari, how I need you."

She heard the whimpering and didn't realize it was her own. She heard the sound of the snow beating against the house, screaming in the wind, and it echoed the sound of her own mind, of the need that swirled around her, overwhelming her, controlling her.

She took a deep breath, then leaned her head back, offering her throat to him. Offering her soul, if only he knew it. He was holding his breath, it sounded harsh and drawn out as he released it. The sound sent shivers through her body, and Sari gripped his shoulders. His heat was burning her, her breasts, her hands, her mouth were aching for his touch. "Please," she moaned breathlessly. "Please."

His hands left her, tightened on her hips and pulled her down. She gasped as he sank into her and Sari's eyes flashed open. She met his gaze, blue with desire, burning with promise. She tried to move, but his hands kept her still, held her prisoner.

"Slowly, love," he whispered. "Take it slowly. Make it last for both of us."

She slid her hands downward, through the thick hair on his chest, over muscles tight with tension, and began the slow, twisting movement. His eyes closed, his fingers tightened on her buttocks.

She writhed against him, twisting beneath his hands, pressing down, wanting him deeper, deeper, where she could feel him against her very core. She clutched his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, closing her eyes against the feelings sweeping through her. There was nothing like this, there never had been. How could she fight it? Why did she want to?

Her questions fell away in darkness. There was only the excruciating, peaking pleasure. Her words were incoherent, her pleadings vague murmurs as the release tore through her. Sari felt her body throb and tremble, felt her own hot rush in the same moment she heard Conor's hoarse cry, in the same moment she felt him shudder against her. His fingers dug into her back, pulling her into his chest, and Sari collapsed against him, cradled in his arms as the aftermath throbbed around them, caressed them.

And in that moment, safe and secure in his arms, with the sound of the snow whirling around them, Sari knew that nothing had changed.

She was still in love with him.

The feeling had never really disappeared, never been beaten into submission by lies and hate and betrayal.

She'd denied it, and if she were wise, she would go on denying it. Her feelings for Conor didn't blind her to what he was; they didn't take the past away.

She heard his deep breathing, felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. The soft hair curled against her skin scratched at the corner of her mouth.

"Ah, Sari, how I need you."
His words came circling back to her through the daze of repletion. She remembered how his face had looked then, how she'd searched his eyes and seen into his very soul.

What she would have given to have found love there.

C
onor rolled onto his side, gathering Sari into his arms, smiling at her soft murmur when she curled sleepily against him, nestling her round buttocks into his groin. He had missed this. Missed waking up in the middle of the afternoon to find her tangled in the blankets, missed the curious ways she twisted her body on the mattress. His chest tightened at the thought that he should savor it now. Once the storm stopped, this interlude would be over. It would be time then to finish this job one way or another and get out.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in its clean scent, closing his eyes against its softness. How nice it would be to stay like this for the rest of time, without Pinkerton's constant demands, without the never-ending threat of danger and death. Perhaps it would be better to be a farmer.