Sleeping Beauty (24 page)
"No." Her voice shook as he carried her toward the bedroom. "I can't tonight. Please, Neill."
"Hush." He nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder. "I'm not going to try and make love to you." He set her on her feet beside the bed and bent to kiss her forehead—a soft, comforting touch. "Let me take care of you, Anne."
It occurred to her that, in the short time she'd known him, he'd spent more time taking care of her than anyone had ever done, but she was too tired to worry about it. She stood, obedient as a child, and let him undress her. Even when she stood naked before him, his touch remained so gently impersonal that it left no room for embarrassment. He found the rose-colored silk nightgown she'd brought to wear for their first night together and slipped it over her head, letting it fall in soft folds around her body. Then he sat her on the edge of the bed, and she felt his fingers in her hair, pulling out the pins until her hair fell to her shoulders. When he picked up her brush and began to pull it gently through her hair, Anne had to close her eyes against the sting of tears.
In her whole life, she'd never felt so cared for. So loved.
Anne watched the familiar buildings came into view with some regret. Now that they were almost home, she had to admit that the lovely weekend was really over. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. Neill had folded the top down for the drive home and she loved the feel of the wind rushing across her face.
It seemed incredible that she'd only been gone two days. She felt as if it had been a lifetime. She'd left a virgin and was returning a woman well loved. Whatever happened between them in the future— if they had a future—she would always be grateful to him for making her first experience so special, satisfying her not just physically but emotionally.
Last night he'd held her tenderly, asking nothing of her. She had been the one to wake him at dawn, her hands hesitantly exploring his body, testing powers she was only just discovering, until, with a smothered groan, he'd rolled on top of her, taking her with a long, powerful stroke that had brought her nearly to climax in an instant.
Afterwards, they'd slept again, not waking until mid-morning. Neill had swept her up off the bed and carried her into the shower, then had made love to her again while the water beat down on them.
They hadn't talked about their conversation the night before. He hadn't mentioned her family, and, oddly enough, she hadn't even thought about them. It was as if she'd been granted this single morning as a slice apart from the rest of her life.
They'd eaten brunch in a restaurant high atop the hotel, then had reluctantly started home. Now they were almost there, and real life was waiting. Still, real life didn't look too bad, either, Anne thought, smiling to herself. There hadn't been any promises between them, but she knew he felt something more than lust for her. He would pretty well have to, since she didn't have the sort of physical beauty that drove a man wild. He hadn't said he loved her, but that didn't mean he didn't. She hadn't said she loved him, either, and her heart was so full of it that it ached. She wasn't counting on anything, but, at least for the moment, life seemed full of possibilities.
Glancing at her, Neill wondered what she was thinking that had put that Mona Lisa smile on her face. They were almost home, and he wondered how much she would protest if he just drove straight through town and kept on going. Or maybe he could turn the car around and drive back to Chicago. They could lock themselves in the hotel and never come out again. Legends would grow up around the eccentric couple who never left their suite. Room service waiters would pass tidbits of information to the press, and Hollywood would eventually buy the rights to the story.
Then again, maybe he should just take Anne home, set her down and tell her that there had been a small misunderstanding about his career. He wasn't a struggling freelance writer at all, he was actually quite successful, and, in an amazing coincidence, he just happened to write books about the sort of thing that had happened to her family.
It really wasn't a big deal, Neill thought, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He hadn't known about Brooke's death when he met Anne.
He sure as hell didn't plan on writing about it. He was more and more sure that he'd had enough of exploring the dark side of humanity, of trying to explain things that couldn't be explained; of trying to understand acts beyond comprehension.
Anne would certainly understand when he explained it to her—how when he'd let her assume he wrote articles and such, it wasn't really a lie, because he had started out doing exactly that. Maybe she would be a little hurt. She certainly had reason to be angry. But it wouldn't be long before they were laughing about the whole thing. He was sure of it. So sure that there was no reason not to put it off until tomorrow, he decided, and then winced at his own cowardice.
When Neill pulled up in front of her gate, Anne thought the cottage looked odd—so small and tidy, hemmed in by picket fences and the neat beds of roses. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn't the cottage that had changed, but her. It looked different because she was seeing it through new eyes.
Wasn't there an old song about what a difference a day made? Well, certainly two days was enough to turn your world around, she decided as she led the way up the walkway.
"Have dinner with me tonight?" Neill asked as they stepped onto the porch. "I'll cook something simple. We can watch the moon come up over the parking lot."
"Sounds romantic." Anne unlocked the door before turning to look up at him. "It's Sunday."
"So?" He arched his brows. "You can't watch the moon rise on Sunday?"
"I always have dinner with my parents on Sunday."
" Always?" He reached out to trail the tip of one finger along the scooped neckline of her T-shirt, making her skin tingle everywhere he touched.
Anne swallowed. "Always. Why don't you come with me?" she asked, and then had to smile at his pained grimace.
"And let your mother chew on my leg as an appetizer? I've got a better idea." He slid his arms around her, bent to nuzzle her ear. "Why don't you invite me in for dinner? We'll take the phone off the hook, and I'll make love to you in front of the fireplace."
She leaned back against his hold, letting him support her. "It's the wrong time of year for a fire, and the floor is oak."
"I let you be on top!" he said, loving the way color flooded her cheeks.
"It would be hard on my knees," she said primly. She reached out to toy with a button on his shirt. "I'd really like you to come to supper, Neill. I know it seems like a silly tradition, but it means a lot to my mother. I know she can be difficult, but she's lost a lot. I don't want to hurt her if I can avoid it."
Privately, Neill thought Olivia Moore was iron all the way to the core, impervious to hurt. But Anne wasn't, and, if it meant that much to her... "Sure. Just let me slip into my chain mail."
"I'll call and let them know you're coming."
"To give your mother a chance to put crocodiles in the moat?" he asked politely and kissed her before she could protest.
As it happened, Olivia was at her most gracious. No crocodiles, no arsenic in the pasta salad. Though there was little conversation, what there was was civil, impersonal. Neill couldn't help but compare it to his own family gatherings and wonder why Anne's family clung so stubbornly to a ritual that seemed to give them so little pleasure. But perhaps, when there was not much substance, you were willing to cling to at least the pretense of closeness.
"Do you have any idea when your motorcycle might be repaired, Mr. Devlin?" Olivia asked as she served dessert.
"No. Soon, I imagine."
"I'm sure you must be looking forward to getting on your way."
Neill looked at Anne and smiled slowly, unaware of how much the look revealed. "I'm in no hurry," he murmured. Anne flushed and lowered her eyes, afraid of what they might reveal.
***
To anyone looking—and everyone was—the intimacy in that brief exchange was unmistakable.
Across the table, Lisa felt Jack tense and put her hand on his arm, squeezing in sharp warning. He didn't look at her, but she felt him ease back in his chair. She shot a cautious glance toward the foot of the table and was unsurprised to see the sharp fury in Olivia's eyes. Lisa wondered if she was angered by the idea that Anne might have taken a lover or simply outraged by the possibility that she might be losing her stranglehold over her daughter. Either way, she didn't envy Anne. Or Neill Devlin, though he looked like he could take care of himself. She hoped he could also take care of Anne— and that he wanted to.
"Did you see the way he was looking at her?" Jack exploded half an hour later, barely waiting for the car door to shut behind him. "Like he was...like they were—"
"Lovers?" Lisa supplied dryly.
"Yes, goddammit." He jabbed the key in the ignition and started the engine. "What the hell right does he have to look at her like that?"
"They spent Friday and Saturday in Chicago," Lisa said calmly. "If he looks at her like they were lovers, I suspect he has reason."
Under other circumstances. Jack's look of stunned disbelief might have been funny. As it was, she could only marvel at his blindness.
"The car goes faster if you take your foot off the brake and put it in gear," she pointed out after a moment
Jack responded automatically. He didn't speak until they'd reached the bottom of the drive. Neill and Anne had left shortly before them, and the sight of Anne's cottage, a single light glowing cheerfully from the bedroom, seemed to send him out of his shock. His foot shifted to the brake, bringing the car to a shuddering halt.
"I'll kill the miserable bastard," he said furiously, shoving open the door. "If he's with her now, I swear to God—''
"Don't you dare set foot out of this car, Jack.'' Lisa grabbed hold of his arm, her nails digging into muscles iron-hard with tension. "It's none of your business if he's with her now or any other time."
"None of my business?" He turned to look at her, the overhead light slanting over his features, revealing the glittering anger in his eyes.
"None of your business," she repeated, suddenly every bit as angry as he was. "Anne isn't a little girl. She's twenty-five years old. Now shut that damned door before she hears the car and wonders what's going on." When he hesitated, she hissed between her teeth and tightened her grip on his arm until he winced. "He's not there, you idiot. Unless he parked that stupid car of David's in town and walked back. And there's no reason for him to do that, since there's no reason on earth why Anne shouldn't have a man spending the night with her."
After a long, tense moment. Jack pulled the door shut and put the car back in gear. Lisa released his arm and sat back, wishing she could believe that sanity had prevailed but knowing that, if the Corvette had been there, nothing would have stopped him from storming up to the door to protect his sister's virtue. It would have been sweet if it hadn't been so damned irritating.
Neither of them spoke until Jack pulled the car into the driveway next to the house Lisa rented. He shut the engine off, but neither of them moved to get out
"Anne's not like most people," he muttered. "I know she's twenty-five, but she's been...sheltered,"
"I think the word is smothered."
There was a short silence, and then she saw Jack nod slowly. "Maybe. Maybe we have been too protective of her. But whatever the reason, she's young for her age, and I don't want to see her hurt. I don't like this Devlin. We don't know anything about him."
"We know he makes her happy," Lisa said quietly.
"Happy?" Jack laced the word with contempt. "A quick roll in the hay may put a smile on her face now, but what's going to happen when this bastard walks out on her?"
"I don't know that he will. But I do know that I've seen Anne smile more in the last two weeks than she has in the last two years. Have you ever really looked at her, Jack? Have you given any thought to what her life is like?'' There was something about sitting there in the shadowy darkness that made the truth not only possible but imperative. "Do you think about her future at all? Or do you just have this vague idea that things will go on the way they are, with Anne living in her pretty little doll's house, all safe and secure, making everyone feel better because, as long as she's tucked away in cotton wool, we know it can't happen again. No one is going to take her and hurt her the way they did Brooke." Her voice cracked on the name, and she saw Jack shift, his hand coming up as if to touch her face.
"Don't!" She shook her head fiercely. "This isn't about Brooke. Just for once, let's keep Brooke out of it."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Anne. I'm talking about Anne and the way your family—the way this whole damned town— hovers over her like she's made out of spun sugar. She's a flesh and blood woman, Jack."
"I know that." He sat back in his seat, his lean body vibrating with frustration. How the hell had they gotten into this discussion? When had it veered away from the fact that his sister—his little sister—had taken a lover? Just thinking about that miserable bastard touching her made his blood boil.
"What the hell is she thinking of?" he burst out, smacking his palm against the steering wheel. "What in bloody hell is she thinking of?"
"Herself, for a change. Did you expect her to die a virgin?"
"No." Jack shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about this, didn't want to think about it "I figured she'd get married some day."
"To whom?" Lisa's tone was one of polite inquiry. "Frank Miller? Is that what you want for her? A man you once told me was so boring that he could provide the ultimate cure for insonmia."
"There's nothing wrong with Frank," Jack muttered. "He's solid. Decent. He'd keep Anne safe."
"From what?" Lisa spread her hands in question. "From having someone to talk to? To laugh with? From actually having a life? What you really mean is that he'd keep her alive. Is that all that matters? That she's safe? What about being happy? Don't you want her to be happy?"
"Of course I do."
"Then stop trying to shelter her. Life doesn't come with any guarantees. Maybe Neill Devlin will break her heart. Maybe he won't. But being hurt is better than never feeling anything at all. Do you really want her to settle for good old Frank? Is that what you really want for her?"
Jack shifted restlessly, the car keys jangling as he pulled them out of the ignition and then shoved them back in again. "Maybe I am a little overprotective of Anne," he said finally. "But after...what happened to Brooke, I felt like I had to make up for not being there."
"That wasn't your fault." This time it was Lisa who reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, settling on his arm. "What happened to Brooke wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" The muscles under her hand blanched and shifted. The silence stretched between them. Somewhere a dog barked twice. "I was late," Jack said, his voice thinned by the effort of saying the words, "That day when Brooke...when it happened. I was supposed to pick her up after school, but I was late. Afterward, I said I'd lost track of time, but that wasn't the truth. I was playing basketball with some buddies, and I knew I was going to be late, but I didn't want to quit until we finished the game. I figured she could walk home if she had to. And she did. And someone took her and killed her and cut her to pieces."
His arm was like iron beneath her touch. The silence was so thick that Lisa could hear the sound of her own pulse beating in her ears. She could feel the pain in him, a pain so huge that it was eating away at him, destroying him from the inside out.
"Brooke—we all —walked home as often as not," she said finally. "You couldn't have known that there was any reason why this time should be any different."
"But it was different, and she died because I didn't want to interrupt a damned basketball game."
She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him, offer him comfort, but instinct told her that wasn't what he needed. She made her voice cool, faintly impersonal.
"She's been dead for fifteen years. Jack. How many more years are you going to spend feeling sorry for yourself?"
He jerked as if she'd slapped him, and, even in the dim light, she could read the shock in his face.
"I don't feel sorry for myself!"
"Yes, you do. You gave up medical school to become a sheriff. You're drinking too much. Oh, maybe you're not a full-blown alcoholic yet, but you're heading in that direction. I know the signs. You can't bring yourself to commit to marrying me or having a family." Her voice cracked, but she steadied it and went on, rushing the words, as if afraid she might not get them all out. "Your sister died, and you've spent the last fifteen years turning yourself into some kind of martyr on her behalf." Lisa's voice began to climb, and she let it, not sure she could have stopped it if she'd tried. "You don't even remember Brooke anymore. Your whole family has turned her into some sort of plaster saint so you can spend your lives mourning her perfection. Well, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of this town, and I'm sick of you. I'm leaving as soon as I can pack, and I hope Neill Devlin has the sense to get Anne away from the lot of you before you manage to sacrifice her life, too."
She practically screamed the last words at him, her hand fumbling for the door handle.
"Lisa." Jack reached for her, but she jerked away.
"Leave me alone. Just leave me alone." Shaking with sobs, she nearly fell out of the car in her haste to put some distance between them. Blinded by tears, she stumbled up the walkway and onto the tiny porch. The keys were in the bottom of her purse, of course. Where else would the damned things be when she needed them?
"Lisa." Jack was suddenly behind her, his hand on her shoulder, ignoring her attempts to pull away. "Don't. Don't cry because of me. I'm not worth it."
"You're damned right you're not," she sobbed. "And I'm not crying over you. I'm crying because I can't find my damned keys."
"I'll break a window," he murmured, pulling her into his chest and holding her despite her weak struggles. "I never meant to hurt you. I just...I guess I didn't think I deserved you."
"You're right, you don't deserve me." But she let her cheek rest on his chest.
"I...maybe you're right. Maybe I have gotten in the habit of feeling sorry for myself. I don't know. It's...I've felt guilty for so long. Maybe...maybe it helped to be able to blame someone, even if it was myself. When Brooke was killed, one of the hardest things to deal with was the randonmess of it. It wasn't that someone wanted her dead, it was just that she was handy. And the fact that she was handy because I was late—it ate at me."
Lisa closed her eyes and spoke without lifting her head from his chest. "You were twenty years old, Jack. How many twenty-year-old boys do you know who would sacrifice a basketball game to pick up their sister when she was perfectly capable of walking home? Okay, so it was bad of you to let her wait. It was even selfish, but you didn't kill her. She wasn't dragged kicking and screaming into the killer's car. If she had been, someone would have seen or heard something. Whoever he was, he offered her a ride, and she took him up on it. Does that make it Brooke's fault?"
She lifted her head and looked up at him. His face looked gaunt and haunted in the yellowish porch light. "Do you really remember her at all. Jack? Do you remember the way she liked to play tricks on people, get everyone riled up? If someone—a pleasant-looking stranger—stopped and offered her a ride home, or even to the next town, and she was annoyed with you for not showing up, she'd have taken him up on it"
"She knew better than to—"
"Take candy from strangers?" Lisa's mouth twisted in a half smile. "Sure she did, but there was nothing Brooke liked more than stirring things up a bit. She would have loved to call home from thirty miles away and tell your mother that she'd hitchhiked there. The fact that your mother would tear a strip off you for being late would have been a bonus, but the main benefit would have been to show Olivia that she wasn't the one in control."
Jack shifted uneasily, and she reached up to cradle his face between her hands. ''If that's what happened, if Brooke got in his car thinking that she was just going to stir up a little trouble, if she did something that stupid, that careless—that young— does that make her to blame for her own death?"
"Of course it doesn't."
"Then why is it different for you?" When he shook his head but didn't answer, she sighed and let her hands drop to her sides. She took a step back and faced him. "I love you. Jack, but I'm not going to let myself become a part of this thing your family has going. I'm not going to hang around and watch you move from heavy drinker to fullblown alcoholic. And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you to decide that you've been punished long enough and maybe you can grab a little happiness. I want a home, and I want babies, and I want them before I'm too old to enjoy them. I wanted them to be your babies, but, if that's not going to happen, I'll find someone else and I'll be happy. It's your call."
When he didn't say anything, she scooped up her purse and found her keys just where they were supposed to be, in an outside pocket. Without looking at iiim again, she opened the door and went inside, closing it behind her and leaning back against it, waiting to hear the sound of his footsteps moving off the porch.
