Nightfall (29 page)

When Mabry joined them, her face was pale, tears streaming down her face. Cassie reached for her, but then Bridget was there, appearing out of nowhere, folding Mabry against her ample bosom, murmuring soft, soothing words as she drew her away. "You go on in, Cass," she called over her shoulder. "I'll see to your stepmother."

She couldn't help it. She allowed herself a brief, worried glance up at Richard.

His face was entirely impassive. "Do you want me to go?"

She hadn't expected it. "Do you want to see him?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why are you waiting?"

"For you."

It was that simple, that complicated. More than she could cope with. She simply nodded, then followed the nurse down the long, silent hallway.

"Ten minutes," the woman whispered, ushering her inside. "He probably won't know you, but you never can tell."

The door shut silently behind her, closing her in. The noise was constant, jarring, machines beeping, ticking, wheezing, breathing for Sean, pumping blood through his veins, living for him.

She walked over to the bed, steady, calm. "You always have to make a production out of everything, don't you?" she said in a quiet voice. "Did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Collapsing at your own party?"

His eyes were closed, sunken in his paper-white face. He looked bruised, skeletal, already drained of the vibrant life that had washed through him. Cassie reached out and touched his hand, the one without the IV. "You aren't finished yet. I don't know why you think you can just give up, when there are so many things left undone. So you finished the book. So what? What if I told you it was all a bunch of lies? Would you care?

"Probably not. You were always more interested in a good story than the truth. It'll make a fortune. That's why you did it, isn't it? To make sure Mabry is taken care of."

There was a faint tremor behind one eyelid, but the monitoring machines kept their steady, relentless drone. "Of course, you wanted a masterpiece as well. I wouldn't make the mistake of thinking you were capable of a selfless act," she said wryly. "You'd be insulted if I did. You want to go out on a blaze of glory, don't you? You want another Pulitzer, even if it's posthumously. Or better yet, how about a Nobel? I could pick it up for you, make a touching speech about you and Richard. He'll be dead as well, you know. Do you believe in hell? If you do, you'll be there together."

She almost thought she saw a faint reaction on Sean's face. She clutched his hand, leaning closer, angrier than she'd ever been in her life. She didn't know why she was crying—probably just a leftover symptom of jet lag. "Don't you dare die," she said furiously. "You haven't told me you love me. Damn it, you haven't let me tell you I love you."

He didn't move. "Listen, you son of a bitch," she hissed, "I'm not going to let you die without some goddamn sign."

His eyes opened. Only for a brief moment, resting on hers. His nose and mouth were covered with a respirator, he couldn't say a word. But she could see the gentle, bemused expression in his eyes. Feel the faintest pressure on her hand. And then his eyes closed once more, and his hand went slack beneath hers.

She let him go. Backhanding the tears from her face, she walked from the room, back straight, shoulders squared, hoping to God she wouldn't see anyone, hoping that Richard had abandoned her.

He was alone, standing in the middle of the waiting room, watching her. She stopped in the doorway, disoriented. "The bastard," she whispered beneath her breath. "He's dead."

He watched her for no more than a heartbeat. And then he was across the room, pulling her into his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder, holding her so tightly her bones ached. It was no wonder she sobbed, she thought absently. She was only clutching him so tightly because she wanted him to release her. Only weeping against him because… because…

It no longer mattered. She needed whatever comfort she could find. And the dangerous comfort of Richard Tiernan was the only thing she wanted.

«
^
»

He took her back to the apartment. She didn't say another word, and neither did he. He didn't know when she'd eaten last, he didn't know when he had, either. What they both needed was a decent meal, some time alone, some sleep.

He locked the door behind them and kissed her, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She didn't fight. She went to him, openly, willingly, trustingly, and he didn't even want to consider the ramifications of that willingness, that trust.

He wanted to make love to her, slowly, tenderly, kissing every hollow and pulse. He didn't stop to consider that doing just that was the most dangerous thing in the world for him. He was past that point. All he could think of was Cassie, her need, her pain, her sorrow. He wanted to soothe her, heal her. Even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

He didn't pick her up, though he wanted to. He wanted to give her every chance to escape. He took her hand in his and drew her down the hallway, past the kitchen, the row of bedrooms, down to his own. He didn't want to make love to her in her Victorian funeral parlor of a room. He wanted her in sunlight and warmth. Failing that, he wanted her in his bed, where he'd slept alone, thinking of her.

She closed the door behind them. The apartment was dark, only the streetlights illuminating the room. A light rain was falling, but he paid no attention. She leaned back against the door and looked at him, quiet, vulnerable, waiting.

He reached out and began to unfasten the row of tiny buttons that traveled down the front of her denim shirt. She'd dressed quickly before they left for the hospital, and she hadn't bothered with a bra. There was a God, after all.

He pulled the tails of the shirt out of her jeans and let them hang, as he began to undo her zipper. She didn't stop him. Her eyes were wide, shocky, her mouth pale and resigned. Suddenly he couldn't help it. He sank to his knees in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her belly.

She never hesitated. She put her arms around his head, holding him close, and he could feel the despair and love pulse through her body.

He was adept at undressing women—he had done more than his share, and he'd mastered the art of denim when he was still in his teens. For some reason his hands shook when he wanted to be so deft, and her jeans, loose on her hips, suddenly decided to cling, so that he had to tug, leaving her in no blissful doubt as to what he was doing.

She didn't stop him, didn't help him. She simply leaned back against the door and let him strip her clothes off her.

Her body was flushed pink, trembling, when he finally managed to get her naked. He stripped off his own clothes, quickly, and then he did pick her up, carefully, and set her down on the unmade bed. She looked up at him, and there was no doubt, no fight, in her beautiful green eyes. Only quiet acceptance.

He kissed her then. He tasted her mouth, slowly, carefully, drawing her response with all the expertise at his command. He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered closed beneath his mouth, he kissed the side of her neck.

He slid his hand between her legs, and she was damp, weeping for him. She arched back again, and he covered her mouth with his, silencing her, as he slid his long fingers deep inside her, using his thumb, driving her toward an oblivion she desperately needed.

He didn't give her a chance to fight him. She came almost immediately, convulsing in his arms with a wild cry, burying her face against his shoulder as her body shimmered with fierce response.

He wanted to be noble enough to leave it at that. To soothe her down, to calm and love her, and then to walk away. But he couldn't do it. He needed her, needed her far more than life itself, and when he eased her onto her back she went willingly, pulling him with her, legs spread to cradle him, to take him deep inside, to drain and renew him, to make him alive again, when he'd wanted so much to die.

There was such sweetness in it, when he hadn't known it existed. They were together in the darkness, a slow, tender joining that was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It was love, not sex, and that knowledge shattered him more than his powerful climax.

She must have heard the voices first. Her body was soft, warm, pliant, covered with a sheen of sweat, and then suddenly it was stiff with anxiety. For a moment he thought it was the inevitable second thoughts, until he heard the voices. Coming closer.

He didn't recognize them. A man and a woman, though the man was low-voiced and scarcely able to get a word in edgewise as the woman declaimed in the loud voice of someone just faintly drunk.

"We'll take Colin's bedroom," her voice announced. "I'm sure Mabry won't object, and I wouldn't be caught dead in that Victorian mausoleum. I don't know what got into Mabry to choose such a ghastly decorating scheme. Her interior designer must have been crazy."

"Don't be ridiculous," the voice continued, after a mumbled protest. "Colin's in Africa, and God only knows when someone will get word to him that his father has gone to his just reward. In the meantime I know that Mabry wouldn't think of having us go to a hotel. It's a good thing I have a key. Besides, Cassie will want her mother around for comfort in her time of mourning."

Richard raised his head, looking down at Cassie's stricken face. "Your mother?" he inquired in a whisper that he couldn't keep free of amusement.

She was beyond noticing, lying beneath him, his body still tight within hers. "My mother," she said in a strangled whisper.

"Did you lock the door?"

"No."

"Neither did I. And I don't think I have time to get up and do so now." He reached down and flicked the sheet over them, still keeping her pinned to the mattress, her face rosy from love and embarrassment.

The blasted woman was still talking when she opened the door. There was a dead silence, but Richard wasn't interested in taking a glance at his unwanted visitors. He was far more concerned with the mute, stricken expression on Cassie's face.

The silence, unfortunately, didn't last long. "Good God!" the woman shrieked. "Cassidy Roarke, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

He rolled off her then, though he didn't want to, keeping the sheet around her. He looked up at the harridan standing there, in her designer suit and real pearls, her flushed face and glittering eyes, and the pale man behind her.

"What do you think she's doing?" he inquired mildly enough, putting his arms around Cassie's head, letting her turn her face into his shoulder.

"I hardly think
that
is an appropriate activity at a time like this. Her father has just died." She managed a convincing sniffle. "And just who the hell are you?" the woman demanded, taking a slightly staggering step into the bedroom.

Faced with a mother like her and a father like Sean, it was no wonder Cassie had developed a habit of running away when things got rough. It was even more surprising she'd held still long enough for him to penetrate her defenses.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at her with a deliberate smirk. "The man who just made love to your daughter," he said blandly.

Cass made a soft little sound of distress, and then was quiet. He suspected that if she could, she would have dived beneath the covers.

"And who may that be?" she demanded.

To his amazement Cassie stirred, emerging from her haven. "Go away, Alice," she said. "This is hardly the time for introductions, and if you think Mabry wants you here, you're crazy. There are any number of decent hotels in the area.
Go away. "

Alice turned with majestic rage, only slightly marred by the wobble in her gait, and stalked toward the door. She paused, leveling an accusing gaze at her daughter. "I must say I would have thought better of you, Cassie. I thought you cared about your father. Obviously I'm the only one who ever really loved and understood him. It was no wonder our relationship was doomed. We were too young, too much alike."

"You were twenty-three when you got married, Alice, and he'd already been through one wife. You were old enough to know better," she said wearily.

"I must say," Alice was weaving faintly, as the man behind her tugged on her arm, "that I am sorely disappointed in you." She slapped at the restraining hand. "Leave me alone, Robert. Can't you see I'm having a discussion with my daughter?"

"Not the time or place, Alice," the man muttered, obviously much embarrassed.

"Yep, Alice," Richard said in a deceptively mild voice. "Go away, or I'll climb out of this bed and throw you out the window."

"Don't be ridiculous. You wouldn't dare lay a finger on me." Alice yanked her arm free, stormed back into the room and sat her ample butt down on the chair.

"Er, Alice," the man referred to as Robert said nervously. "I wouldn't count on that."

"Why not?"

"Because the man your daughter's in bed with is Richard Tiernan. You know, with the murder trial and all? I doubt he'd think twice about getting rid of an interfering old woman." There was just a trace of satisfied malice in the man's voice, as Alice surged to her feet in horror.

She sputtered, but nothing intelligible came out. By the time she began making sense, Robert had led her all the way down the hall, and her shrieks of outrage echoed through the apartment until the front door slammed.

Richard looked down at Cassie, wondering what he'd see. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, with two bright spots of color on her cheeks.

"You've got a helluva mother," he observed calmly enough.

Her eyes shot open. "Tell me about it," she said in a strangled voice. "Between her and Sean, it's a wonder I survived."

He wasn't sure what he expected. That she'd dissolve in tears once more. That she'd run screaming from his bed. Instead she simply lay there, looking up at him, steadily, expectantly.

He cupped her face. "Are you all right?" It was the best he could offer. He couldn't say the words—there was too much at stake, and they were both too vulnerable.

She smiled, a sweet, sad smile, and her hands covered his. He kissed her then, before she could answer, and she kissed him back. "Go to sleep," he whispered against her mouth.