Together always (12 page)

"Trace, now. Please, now." Her words pierced the last of his control and he rolled to pin her beneath him, his hips nestling between her waiting thighs.

He rested his weight on his elbows, winding his hands in the heavy length of her hair, staring down into her face as he arched forward, finding her waiting warmth with his hard strength. Her eyes widened in the moonlight, staring up at him. Her lashes flickered uncertainly and he froze, staring down at her.

"Lily." The name was not quite a question, only half a protest. He might never have felt it before but there was no mistaking the thin barrier that halted him now. Her hands tightened on his shoulders.

"Don't stop. Please, Trace. I want this. I want you. Don't stop now." The words tumbled over themselves.

"As if I could, sweetheart. As if I could." He bent, his mouth closing over hers as his hips arched heavily forward. He tasted her quick sharp gasp of discomfort as if it were his own, but then it was over. He lay still, reining in his own pounding need, giving her body time to adjust to his.

He started to move, slowly at first, a shallow thrusting movement. Lily echoed the movement. Trace thought he would surely die of pleasure. Her body fit his so perfectly, as if they'd been made for each other. The pleasure built. Her soft whimpers slid over his skin like hot caresses. She twisted beneath him, demanding things she couldn't name, feeling needs she couldn't control. And he answered those demands, those needs. They moved together like two halves of a whole—heat and friction, shadow and light.

The explosion, when it came, was like nothing he'd ever known before. Lily arched, her body taut with pleasure, his name on her lips a soft cry of fulfillment. Trace shuddered in her arms, burying his face in the pillow as waves of sensation racked his body, leaving him at once weak as a kitten and filled with strength.

The slide back to earth was slow and gentle. Lily murmured a protest as he lifted himself from her and moved to the side.

"Don't go."

"Fm not going far." He slid an arm beneath her, drawing her close, pillowing her head on his shoulder. She lay against him, her body lax and satiated.

Long moments slipped by. Neither of them spoke. There didn't seem to be any need. In all his life Trace had never felt so right, so complete. For the first time in his memory, he felt as if he belonged somewhere, really belonged. With Lily's body cuddled so close to his and the scent of her filling his head, he felt as if he'd come home.

In the back of his mind he knew the feeling couldn't last. Reality would intrude sooner or later. He'd have to think about right and wrong and the future. But for this short space in time, he wasn't going to think about any of that. He wasn't going to think about anything beyond how totally right he felt at this moment.

He stroked Lily's shoulder, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. "Are you all right?"

She stirred, rubbing her cheek against him like a well-fed kitten. '*rve never been more right in my life."

"Why didn't you tell me this was your first time?"

"You didn't ask," She tilted her head back and he caught the gleam of her smile in the darkness.

"Brat." But it was a loving complaint. He was quiet, his hand moving softly on her. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why now and why me?"

She was quiet so long that he began to think she wasn't going to answer him.

"Now because I need you. We needed each other. I wanted to feel alive again and I wanted to be close to you. And it had to be you. Always. It couldn't ever be anyone else."

Her quiet words fell like warm rain on his soul. He caught her close, burying his face in her hair. Emotion welled up in him and was tamped back down. It wasn't possible. She might think it now, but he knew that their lives had to follow different paths. Dreams only came true in fairy tales— and this was real Hfe. But for just a Httle while, he wanted to pretend that maybe some dreams could come true.

"Trace."

"Hush." He stopped her before she could say something to shatter the dream. "It's late. Go to sleep."

She hesitated for a moment and then relaxed against him. After a while her even breathing told him that she slept.

Trace couldn't see a clock from where he lay but he knew it must be late. He eased his arm out from under Lily and sat up on the side of the bed. The lights were still on downstairs and he couldn't remember whether he'd turned the television off or not.

Not that it really mattered whether the lights or the television stayed on all night, but he wasn't going to go to sleep just yet anyway. It took only a few minutes to turn off Ughts and make sure the door was locked. The wind still battered at the small house and Trace stood in the darkness listening to it for a long time before he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Lily stirred as he slid back into bed, gravitating to him as if to a magnet. She cuddled up against his body, curving herself to him as if made to be there. Trace stared up at the dark ceiling, listening to the wind lash outside and wondering if he'd ever know another moment of such supreme peace.

Chapter Eight

Trace came awake suddenly, aware that something wasn't right. Lily slept peacefully beside him, one arm thrown across his chest, her face buried in the pillow. The wind still roared outside, coming in gusts but never really stopping, and he could almost believe that it was some sound borne of the wind that had wakened him. But that wasn't it.

There was someone else in the house. He knew it as surely as if he could see the person standing right in front of him. He lifted Lily's arm and slipped out from beneath it, aware of her mumbled complaint before she relaxed back into sleep. He slid off the bed, reaching for his jeans with one hand and his gun with the other.

He crossed to the door, automatically avoiding the floorboard that squeaked. The door eased open with a faint click and he moved into the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. Flattening himself against the wall, the gun held ready, he slipped down the staircase, a shadow among shadows. Any small noise he might have made was swallowed in the ever-present howl of the wind.

Despite himself, he thought of Mike suddenly, lying in a pool of his own blood, all the life drained out of him. Trace shook the image away. Mike's death had nothing to do with this. Someone had broken into the house and he had to find

out who. But there was still a coppery taste in his mouth and his heart beat a Httle too fast.

The hallway was dark and empty. Trace hesitated there, straining his ears for some sound, a clue as to the location of the intruder. It came in the form of a faint thud and then a quiet curse from the direction of the living room. Trace slid into the doorway, careful not to silhouette himself in the opening. His eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, picked out a vague shape.

**Don't move. Put your hands up and stand very still." His voice echoed in a sudden lull in the wind. He cocked the gun for emphasis, his hands steady. The figure, only dimly seen, froze. For the space of several slow heartbeats, the tableau remained.

"I was just going to turn on a light." The voice was low and husky.

Trace hesitated a moment. A light would do him as much good as the other.

*'Go ahead but be careful. A forty-five leaves a very nasty hole."

*T'm aware of that." A small lamp snapped on and Trace narrowed his eyes against the sudden light, keeping the gun trained on the intruder. The man straightened away from the lamp, his expression cabn. It was hardly the look to be expected from someone who'd just been caught breaking and entering.

He was a tall man, almost matching Trace's own six-two. Trace guessed his age to be somewhere around forty or so, give or take a few years. His hair was dark and his upper lip was concealed by a thick dark mustache. There was a niggling sense of familiarity about the man, though Trace had never seen him before.

*'I suggest you hold real still while I call the police." He shifted toward the phone.

"Time was when this was the police. Or at least part of them."

Trace stared at him, nagged by that vague familiarity. "Who are you?''

"John Lonigan, Mike's son. Who are you?"

Trace studied him for a long moment before easing the hammer back into place. He didn't lower the barrel.

"Mike's son was named for him."

The intruder shrugged. "John Michael Lonigan. Nobody but Dad ever called me Michael."

"How did you get in?"

Michael Lonigan—if that was who he really was—held up a key. "Dad never changed the locks."

Trace looked at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. Maybe that nagging sense of familiarity was caused by some resemblance to Mike, though it wasn't readily apparent. Mike's shorter-than-average red-haired figure bore little resemblance to the man standing before him. Still, Trace was inclined to believe the guy.

"Do you have some identification?"

"Sure. I've got my passport." He cocked one eyebrow at the gun. "You going to shoot me if I reach for it?"

"Not if that's all you pull out of your pocket." Trace moved forward as the other man drew a folder from inside his jacket. The photo matched and the identification did indeed state that he was one John Michael Lonigan, American citizen. Trace flipped it shut and started to hand it back but the movement was never completed. A floorboard creaked behind him and the passport hit the floor with a splat. In the split second it took him to half turn and bring the gun up. Trace had time to wonder why it hadn't occurred to him that the man might have an accomplice. If he was about to die, what was going to happen to Lily, still sleeping upstairs?

Over the barrel of the .45, he met Lily's startled eyes. She was standing in the doorway, his shirt covering her ahnost to the knees, her hair spilling down her back. One hand pressed against the base of her throat, and her wide eyes shifted from him to the gun he held.

Trace lowered the gun, his thumb easing down the hammer he'd automatically drawn back. In some distant part of his mind he wondered if anyone else could see that his hands were shaking.

"Dammit, Lily! You should have said something to let me know you were there. I could have shot you."

She smiled weakly, pressing one hand to her chest. "Sorry. But I knew you wouldn't shoot if you didn't know what you were shooting at." Her utter confidence in him left Trace speechless. She looked past him to where John Loni-gan was standing. "What's going on? Who is that man?"

Trace turned, running a hand through his rumpled hair. "He says he's Mike's son. His passport agrees." He scooped the passport off the floor and handed it to John. "This is Lily. I'm Trace."

"Trace and Lily." John's eyes widened for a moment before he took the passport. "You live here?" •

"We have for the past fifteen years or so. You'd have known that if you'd ever come home." Trace didn't try to conceal his feelings.

John nodded. "You're right. I should have been home a lot sooner. You must have been the one who sent me the telegram about Dad. Thanks."

"It was a case of too little, too late, don't you think?"

Lily frowned at Trace, obviously trying to discourage his hostilit>^ and then smiled at John. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, believe me." John took her hand, his palm engulfing hers. His eyes flicked downward, taking in the man's shirt and slim bare legs before sweeping upward to the tousled black hair that lay about her shoulders.

There was nothing offensive in the look. Trace noticed, so why did he want to punch the other man in the jaw? It was blatantly obvious that he and Lily had just climbed out of the same bed. If Lily realized what John must be thinking, it didn't seem to bother her.

**I gather you and Trace have already met?"

"Not formally, although a forty-five is a hell of an introduction."

He smiled and Trace was struck by that familiarity again. He dismissed it and slid the safety on his gun before holding out his hand. They shook hands, each measuring the other. Trace saw a man past his first youth but with eyes that seemed much older. He was solidly built, and in his jeans and denim jacket he made Trace think of cigarette commercials.

"Sorry I startled you. The place was dark and I assumed it was empty."

"No problem." A gust of wind hit the house with a giant fist and no one said anything for a moment, as if in respect for nature's fury. "You must have a lot of questions."

"Quite a few," John agreed.

Trace ran his hand over his bare chest, looking down at his own half-dressed condition before glancing at Lily. She was modestly covered but he had to admit that he'd feel better if she had on something a little more conventional. She looked altogether too tousled.

"Look, why don't you let us get some clothes on and then I'll make some coffee and we can talk."

"Why don't I make the coffee? If the kitchen hasn't been moved, I suspect I can find my way around it well enough to manage that."

"Fine. We'll be down in a couple of minutes." Neither of them spoke on their way upstairs, though Trace didn't doubt that Lily was as aware of him as he was of her. He walked a little behind her, watching the way his shirt clung to her

slender body, hinting more than revealing. But he didn't need more than a hint to remember the way she'd felt in his arms.

His bedroom door shut behind them. Trace flipped on the light before crossing to his holster and sliding the gun back into place.

"I'm sorry I startled you," Lily said quietly.

Trace turned to look at her, trying not to notice how beautiful she was. "No harm done, but you shouldn't sneak up on a man holding a gun."

'T didn't know you were holding a gun." She sat down on the edge of the bed. The movement tugged the hem of the shirt up, exposing a length of thigh. Trace looked away. He went to the closet and pulled out another shirt, shrugging into it with his back to her.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Any idea how much he wanted her? Seeing her sitting on the rumpled covers, her hair like black silk against his shirt, it was all he could do to resist the urge to tumble her back onto the bed and make love to her, ignoring the fact that he shouldn't have made love to her in the first place, ignoring the fact that Mike's son was waiting downstairs for them. Ignoring everything but the hunger that gnawed at his gut.