The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (15 page)

Tyler chuckled softly. Mallory felt his chest move beneath her cheek. But still he didn't let go of her.

“Now, if you lovebirds and lunatics will be so kind as to step out of my way,” Aurora said, waving her hand regally as she began to hobble forward, “I believe my ambulance has arrived.”

 

I
T WAS ALMOST TWO
in the morning.

Mallory leaned against her balcony railing, letting the cool breeze blow over her. Maybe it could wash away the stress of this incredible day. She had never been so tired in her life. She wasn't sure she could even summon up the energy to go back inside and go to bed.

After hurrying to the Chronic Care Center to be sure her mother was all right, Mallory had spent the past eight hours helping her fellow shopkeepers board up broken windows, salvage whatever merchandise wasn't destroyed and vacuum water from sodden carpets. They had done as much as they could for her.

Then, when they'd accomplished all they could on Hippodrome Circle, they had driven to the hardest hit
neighborhoods and helped there, too. Tarpaulins over gaping holes in roofs, chainsaws on trees that blocked the streets.

It was a sad sight, all that destruction. But thankfully no one in town had been killed, or even seriously injured. The X-rays showed that Bryce's arm was indeed broken, but as soon as they set it, he joined the cleanup crew and did more with one hand than some men could do with two.

Tyler's cuts turned out to be fairly superficial. The hospital washed and dressed them, but no stitches were required. He, too, had returned to wield a chainsaw by battery-operated torchlights and haul massive sections of tree trunks to the flatbeds of waiting pickup trucks.

In fact, he worked so hard and fit in so seamlessly that no one would have guessed he didn't belong in Heyday.

There had been no time for the two of them to talk in private. And she'd been glad of that. After their impulsive embrace when they'd first found each other, a strange shyness had set in. She was self-conscious, aware that those few moments had revealed a lot…to both of them.

And she wasn't sure she was ready to explore those revelations yet.

Her emotions were so conflicted. The last time she'd seen him, last Saturday, when the blackmailer had called, she'd been so angry. She'd resented his interference, his authoritative tone, the hateful things he'd said about Mindy. She'd felt used, exploited, as
if every generous gesture he'd made over the past week had just been a cold-blooded scheme to butter her up.

To soften her up so that, when the time was right, he could get a good story, or a good roll in the hay. Or both.

But did she still believe that?

Had she ever really believed it?

When she'd seen him today, she had run to him without thinking. At that moment, her anger and her suspicions hadn't even existed. She had welcomed his strong arms around her. She had found a profound relief as she rested there, as if she were a storm-tossed boat and she had finally made it to harbor.

And, though she was almost ashamed to admit it, she had also felt an awakening. No matter how inappropriate the timing was, with mud and blood and broken bones all around them, she felt it. A stirring of something sexual between them that wouldn't die, no matter how many storms blew through, no matter how many times they quarreled, no matter how many years they were apart.

But what did that mean? Did it mean that he
wasn't
planning to exploit her? Or did it just mean that she was so attracted to him that she had ceased to care what his motives were?

She closed her eyes, unable to support the mental struggle anymore, and leaned over the balcony, putting her face into the wind. Fingers of cool air feathered her hair and plucked at the shoulder straps of her thin nightgown. It felt probing and sensual. She had a sud
den urge to take the gown off and bare herself to the night.

It would be crazy.

But she felt a little crazy tonight. Maybe nearly dying did that to people.

Though the electricity was still out and the street-lights were dark, the tornado had blown away the last of the bad weather, and moonbeams lay liquid on the damply shining park. She could see the fallen tree trunks, but even they had a certain strange sensuality, as if they were bodies lying there, basking in the moonlight.

She heard a soft footstep. She drew into the shadows. Tyler had come out onto his balcony, too.

She should slip back inside. She was barefoot, and her doors were already open. He'd never hear her, never know she'd been out here just inches away from him in the moonlight, with only a wrought-iron rail between them.

But she didn't. She kept telling herself to, but she didn't.

He bent forward, the mirror image of what she'd done just minutes ago. With no power, it was stuffy in the apartment, and he probably craved the cool breezes.

His chest was bare and caught the moonlight. Over his heart a white bandage glowed.

She caught her breath. He was a gorgeous man.
All
man, with smooth, perfectly proportioned muscles and long, powerful arms. The moon caught one side of his
profile, outlining it in shades of silver and black. It eliminated all color, all nuance, all expression. It stripped him down to the bare, male essentials.

He had never looked more like a McClintock.

She ought to go inside. But…

“Tyler,” she said softly.

He turned, and the movement threw his face into shadows. She couldn't tell whether he was surprised. Perhaps he'd known all along that she was there.

“Hi,” he said. “You can't sleep, either?”

She shook her head. “No. It's hard to relax.”

He didn't say anything to that. He just looked at her, his eyes the only gleaming spots of light in a face made of shadows.

“I—” She stopped. She wasn't sure what to talk about. Everything she considered sounded fake, when what she really wanted to say was
I can't stop thinking about how it would feel to have your arms around me right now.

“I heard the tornado destroyed a couple of the properties your father left you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” He shrugged, which made moonlight move like silk across his shoulder. “Actually, the tornado did me a favor. The land is easier to sell when it's undeveloped anyhow.”

“Oh, yes, that's right. I remember. You did say that before.”

God, didn't she have a single interesting sentence in her head? He was probably wondering how he could escape without being rude. She sounded like a fool.

But then, why shouldn't she? She
was
a fool.

Because, in spite of a thousand powerful reasons why it would never work, why it could only end in heartbreak, she had done the most foolish thing she could ever do.

She had fallen in love with Tyler Balfour.

H
E OUGHT
to go inside.

If he stayed out here, they would end up making love.

He could see the yearning on her beautiful face. He could see, in every self-conscious movement of her perfect body, that restless need. She wanted to be touched. She wanted to feel alive after this terrible day spent facing the possibility of death.

But…he tried to be honest with himself. That wasn't completely true. While today's fear and exhaustion had certainly raised the stakes, the desire that arced between them hadn't been born in the tornado. It had begun three years ago, over a piece of blueberry pie. It had simmered for years, and if he didn't go inside right now it was going to end here on this balcony, in a storm of passion that would put the tornado to shame.

His body was already hard, ready for her. He turned back toward the street. He didn't dare move out of the shadows, or she would know everything.

She was stumbling over her words, trying to start a
normal conversation. She was miserable. Oh, God, he should go inside and put them both out of their misery.

But he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough.

Suddenly she gave up the charade. She stopped talking, mid-sentence, made a soft, helpless sound, and walked slowly over to the railing between the two balconies.

“Tyler,” she said. She stopped at the edge, but he could feel her there. He could smell her bath soap and her shampoo. She was so close now that he could have reached out and touched her. So close that, when the breeze blew her gown through the bars of the railing, the cool fabric licked at his feet.

“Tyler, look at me.”

He turned his head slowly. He bit back a groan. The moon spotlighted her, as if offering her up to him. He could see each strand of golden, curling hair, aglow with moonbeams. He could see the outline of her legs under her nightgown. He could see the soft, pale curves and dusky tips of her breasts barely concealed by the flimsy cotton.

He gripped the cold iron and tried to hold on.

“I don't want to be alone.” Her voice was very soft. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Mallory.” He closed his eyes and tried one last time to fight the building heat in his body. But he was drowning in it. It was pulling him down, with its heavy, throbbing, molten weight. “I'm sorry. I can't be with you like that tonight. I'm not that strong.”

She put her hand on his arm. “I'm not asking you to be strong.”

He opened his eyes and instantly he knew he was lost. Her lips were parted, the inside edges shining like dew in the moonlight. Her eyes were starry with need.

He shook his head once, and then he bent over and, after scooping her into his arms, swept her over the ridiculous wrought-iron barrier. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his chest where the glass had cut him. It was pain and pleasure all at once, and he tilted back his head, letting it go through him.

He eased her slowly to the ground, groaning as her body slid across the part of him that was already hard and aching. She made a small sound, too, and he knew that she was ready for him.

She looked down at the sleeping bag and pillow he'd brought out onto the balcony, and then, with surprise on her face, she looked back at him.

“The security system went out with the power,” he said. “I was going to sleep out here so that, if anyone tried to get in, I would be more likely to hear.”

She smiled. He wondered if she didn't believe him.

“It's true,” he said simply. “I promise you I wasn't planning. I didn't know that this would happen.”

She smiled again, a strangely sad smile, he thought. Taking his hand, she placed it on her collarbone, just above her breasts. A pulse beat quickly at the bottom of her throat.

“I knew,” she said. “Not that it would be tonight. But I knew that someday, somehow, this would happen.”

She looked so beautiful there. He would have liked to make love to her in the full, streaming beams of the silver moon, but he knew it wasn't wise. The street seemed deserted, but, if someone stood quietly in the shadows, they would never know.

So he pulled her back, deeper into their own shadows, where the sleeping bag lay, spread out and waiting. But was even this much exposure wise? He glanced toward the interior of his apartment. It would be safer there.

“Out here,” she said, obviously aware of his thoughts. “Please. I can…I won't make noise. No one will ever know.”

He smiled. “No noise at all? Are you so sure about that?”

She nodded. “Test me,” she said, her eyes shining.

And so he did. He took the straps of her gown and slid them over her shoulders, baring her high, round breasts.

She gasped as the cool air found her, and he covered her with the warmth of his hands. He stroked slowly, building heat, and then he bent his head and put his lips against her skin. She reached up and held on to his wrists, as if she might need to stop him if the intensity overwhelmed her.

But she was true to her word. Though he could tell she struggled, she never once whimpered or let a single moan escape.

He pushed the gown farther, past the gentle slope of her hips, until it fell to the balcony floor with a rustling whisper, like a leaf falling from a tree.

She was so perfect, so much more beautiful than he'd ever imagined, all smooth, enticing curves and dark, tempting hollows. He removed his own clothes, somehow forced patience into his throbbing body and lowered her to the sleeping bag.

He knelt in front of her. She reached up to touch him, but he pressed her back against the pillow. He shook his head.
Not yet.

She nodded and let her hand fall to the side. While she watched him, he stroked her stomach slowly, over and over, letting his fingers go a little lower each time. Within seconds, the muscles of her abdomen were trembling and she was breathing a light, fast rhythm that told him she was on the edge.

It would have been so easy just to drive into her then, to take what they both needed. But he didn't want it to be easy. He wanted it to be long and slow and hard to endure.

He wanted it to be hard to forget.

He opened her gently, and lay the tip of his finger against her. She lifted her hips, asking for more in the only way she could, since he had denied her words.

He gave her a little, enough to make her writhe and lace her fingers through the wrought iron behind her head for strength. But he wouldn't give her all of it.

Not yet.

When she subsided, and he could tell the heat had receded enough, he started again. And then again.

But he couldn't go on forever. Each time he brought her to the edge, he went there with her. Before long,
his body was nothing but pain, nothing but thrust and need. As if he had finally pushed himself beyond his own control, he moved forward and entered her fast, without warning.

She cried out, shocked, her body buckling, her hands reaching up to grab his shoulders. She tossed her head, racked instantly with involuntary, pulsing shudders.

His own climax followed quickly, a helpless release that was both fierce and joyous, both breathlessly violent and blissfully easy.

He didn't understand it. He'd never felt anything quite like it before.

It frightened him a little. Because, as he sank down beside her and pulled her limp body up to his, he recognized one thing. This moment would, as he'd hoped, be hard to forget.

But it would also be hard to live without.

 

W
ITHOUT THE COCOON
of electricity, Mallory realized, you were more aware of the natural rhythms of the world. When the sun rose, its warm light touched your face and stirred you out of sleep, the same way it woke the birds and squirrels in the park across the street.

She lay there as long as she could, savoring the misty, glimmering morning and the gentle weight of Tyler's arms around her. They hadn't slept long, spooned together in that sleeping bag, but it had been a deep, sweet sleep. His lovemaking had left her so weak that when the waves of pleasure had finally
moved through her, she found she couldn't move her arms or hold her eyes open.

He had pulled her body against his and kissed the nape of her neck. She'd sighed, drained and yet aware that she wanted more. Deep within her, a tiny interior vibration had still tingled, ready to throb to life at the slightest invitation.

Besides, he had done all the giving this time. She had meant to turn to him, to tell him that he should lie back, that she wanted to seduce him now, the way he had seduced her.

But when she tried to move, he made a soft “shh” sound, and held her closer. He stroked her back rhythmically, blurring the line between waking and sleeping, between lovemaking and love. She dreamed a graceful collage of hands and lips and quivering skin wet with moonlight, but she never woke up again.

Until now. And now it was too late.

Though it couldn't be eight o'clock yet, already she heard the deep rumble of trucks approaching—power trucks, tree surgeons, roofers, street sweepers. The army of specialists that were right now being deployed all over Heyday, so that order could be restored.

The businesses were first on the list—their presence kept the little town's economy alive. On a normal day, Mallory would have felt lucky to get help so soon. But today she felt an irrational resentment. Why should she have to rush to return to normal? Her one enchanted evening had been far too short.

Behind her, Tyler's face was still in shadows. The sun couldn't penetrate that far, couldn't touch his dreams and tell him to wake up. She was glad. Perhaps, as she had done, he would dream of making love.

She slipped out of the sleeping bag, found her crumpled gown and pulled it over her head. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she stepped over the low railing, back onto her own balcony. Back into her own world.

She looked back one last time, to the soft shadows where he lay sleeping. She tried to ignore the pinch in her chest. She had no right to feel sorry for herself now. When she had asked for this, she had known it would be brief and beautiful. She hadn't deluded herself that it would outlive the night.

The first thing she did was check her cell phone messages. She had nine, mostly from friends, like Claire McClintock and Lara, offering sympathy and offering to help. A few others were from her fellow merchants, suggesting a noon meeting to discuss joint cleanup efforts.

Nothing from Mindy.

Mallory decided that, though she didn't want to badger, if she didn't hear from Mindy by the end of the day, she was going to make the call herself. It had been five days. She was really starting to worry.

She showered and dressed quickly, work clothes only, as this would undoubtedly be a sweaty, grungy day. And then she went downstairs to face the damage.

The bookstore hardly even looked like the same place. Her friends had screwed sheets of plywood over the broken bay window, to protect against the elements and intruders. But it shut out almost all the light, and turned the interior the dim yellowish color of dirty water.

To brighten things up a little, she left the front door open. That was better. She might actually be able to see what she was working on. At least five hundred books lay scattered on the floor, their pages fluttering in the breeze from the door. She'd have to inspect each one carefully to see if it could still be sold as new.

She could hear the trucks, their gears grinding more loudly now as they made their way down the street. Across Hippodrome, a chain saw started whining as someone went to work on the trees, and within seconds the sharp scent of sawdust drifted in through the door.

She glanced through the side window at the staircase that led to the apartments. The world was bustling noisily toward recovery. How long would it be before the chaos woke Tyler, too?

She should start reshelving the books. But she couldn't make herself settle down and focus yet. She knew what she was waiting for. She was waiting to see Tyler, to gauge the expression on his face, to see if she could guess what, if anything, last night had meant to him.

So she wandered the store, trying to absorb the extent of the damage. The children's area hadn't been touched, thank goodness. The stuffed animals still
smiled from their perches on small plastic chairs and brightly colored pillows. The jeweled tones of the painted calliope, visible even in the minimal light, looked as cheerful as ever.

But on the other side of the cash register, she saw with dismay, her case of antique and collectible books had fallen over. Its contents were spilled all over the floor.

She hurried toward it, frowning. She could swear that case hadn't fallen during the tornado. Or had it? Things had been crazy, and her attention had been focused on Aurora, and then the McClintock men, and then, of course, the cleanup.

But she distinctly remembered the keen relief she'd felt when she saw it standing intact. Those were her most precious books, the ones that meant more than money. Some of them were so rare she'd have no way to replace them even if she could afford to.

And yet now the case was on its side, just as the others had been. The beautiful books lay at all kinds of weird angles, their spines bent backward and straining, their pages torn and bent.

She knelt and picked up the nearest one.
Lorraine and the Little People.
Though it wasn't the most expensive book in her collection, it was one of her favorites, full of color and fantasy. But now several of the illustrations were bent and almost ruined.

She folded them out carefully, closed the book and set it on the counter. She was steeling herself to check the next one when a shadow fell across her. Someone was standing in the doorway.

She looked over her shoulder, feeling an adrenaline flush shoot through her. She knew it had to be Tyler.

And it was.

He must have been up for quite a while. His dark hair was wet and he was neatly dressed. He showed no signs of having camped out in a sleeping bag on the balcony all night. He showed no signs of—