Together always (16 page)

**She had about all she could handle just surviving, I guess. Standing up to Jed was more than she could do."

**And you hate her for it, don't you?" Lily's perceptive comment pierced right to the heart of the problem. But Trace couldn't hate Addie. There had been times when he wanted to, but he couldn't.

**No, I don't hate her," he said at last. "It might be simpler if I did. She did the best she could. You can't ask more of someone than that. But there are times when I remember how scared I was all the months we spent living on the street with never enough to eat, always wondering if we were going to live through another day, and I can't forgive her for that."

He stopped, hearing the fierce anger in his own voice. It had been a long time since he'd thought about his feehngs toward his mother. He'd been home only once, after the car crash that killed Jed. He'd spent three days there, helping her pack up the house and then putting her on a plane for Florida. She had a sister there, an aunt he'd never met, and she seemed happy enough now.

**You weren't much more than a child yourself."

"I was all you had," he said simply. **There was no one else."

**And who was there for you?"

Trace shrugged. '*I didn't need anyone. Besides, I had you."

Lily was silent for a long time. *'You know, I never thought much about family," she said quietly. "I guess I always felt as if you were all the family I needed. And then there was Mike." She stopped, struggling to control her voice. *'Only now Mike's gone and it's just the two of us again. My parents are dead and I don't remember them very much. I think I was feeling a little sorry for myself. But I guess maybe just the two of us is more than a lot of people ever have."

Trace reached out, his thumb catching the teardrop that slipped down her cheek, a faint glimmer in the starlight.

**It's enough." For him, it would always be enough.

Chapter Ten

The gun was blued steel. Light caught on the barrel, giving it a cold gleam. All Trace could see was the gun and the hand holding it. There was no sound but the heavy thud of his own heartbeat. He had to get to the gun, had to stop it, but it was so hard to move. The barrel shifted slowly until it was aimed at a point somewhere behind him. He turned, so cautiously, to see what the gun was pointing at. His heart stopped and then started to pound again, the beat deafening in his ears.

Lily.

He screamed her name but there was no sound. She stood there looking at him, her eyes bright and trusting. Didn't die see the gun? Didn't she realize the danger? And then, somehow, he could see both Lily and the gun behind him. He could see the finger tightening on the trigger and he lunged forward, desperate to protect her. But his body moved sluggishly, as if caught in quicksand.

The sound of the shot exploded in his ear, echoing over and over again like a drumroll. He saw the bullet slam into Lily's body, saw her eyes widen in shock. He'd promised to protect her, promised to take care of her. It was all in her eyes.

His throat ached with the force of his cry but he couldn't hear anything. Bright red blossomed on the front of her blouse as she began to fall. He reached out to catch her but his fingers passed through her body as if through a mist. He stared in horror as she began to dissolve in front of his eyes, fading into nothing, until the only thing he could see was her eyes, wide and reproachful.

He looked back over his shoulder at the killer, rage clogging his throat. For a moment all he saw was a vague silhouette, and then the killer stepped forward so that the light hit his face. Trace was looking at a mirror. It was his own hand on the gun, his own finger that had pulled the trigger.

He woke with a start, sitting up in bed, his hand reaching out as if to catch hold of her before he realized it had been nothing more than a dream. He sat there, staring into the predawn darkness, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon. A fine layer of sweat coated his body, then dried quickly in the cool air.

It was just a dream. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing. Just a dream. He repeated the reassurance in his mind but it didn't help to fade the vivid images he'd carried into waking. Lily shot. Lily dying. He closed his eyes, trying to shake the pictures away, but that only made them more real, and he opened his eyes again. He shivered, more from nerves than chill, but he got up and reached for his robe anyway. It was clear he wasn't going to get any more sleep.

He belted the thick terry-cloth robe at his waist and padded barefoot to the window, where he tugged aside the curtain to look outside. It was still dark, that funny gray darkness that came just before dawn. It was possible to make out the outlines of things without really being able to see them.

,He let the curtain fall and shoved his fingers through his thick hair. Lily had cut it for him yesterday and his face

softened, remembering her look of concentration as she*d wielded the scissors. God, that had brought back memories. The first time she'd cut his hair for him had been during those nightmare months they'd spent on the street. He'd never forget that childish face puckered in an intent frown as she'd sawed the straggling ends from his hair with a pair of broken scissors they'd found in the trash.

His smile faded as the memory was replaced by the dream image. He flicked on a table lamp but the light didn't help to dispel the nightmare. Trace sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, stretching his long legs out on the rumpled covers. He didn't need an analyst to interpret the meaning of the dream. The fear that he was going to hurt Lily was something he'd been living with for a long time, but never more so than in the two weeks since Mike's death.

He reached out and touched the unused pillow, remembering the way her hair had spilled across the cool white linen, shining black silk on the plain cover. Lily had asked him if he regretted making love to her and he'd said no. It wasn't entirely a lie. He could never regret something that had felt so right. What he was afraid of was that Lily was going to regret it. He was all wrong for her. Maybe that was what his dream had symbolized—that, through him, she could be destroyed.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. It must be the hour that was making the dream seem so terribly significant. And maybe the fact that he was go-in^ back to work today for the first time since Mike's death. He'd have gone back sooner if it hadn't been for Lily. But she'd started working part-time at a school for handicapped children two days ago. She didn't need him home all the time, if she ever had.

He swung his legs off the bed. It was obvious he wasn't going to go back to sleep. There was no sense in lying there thinking. The world always looked a little better after a cup

of coffee. Maybe the caffeine would help evaporate the last vestiges of his nightmare.

When Trace came down the stairs half an hour later, he was shaved, showered and dressed. He hesitated at the foot of the stairs. There was a light on in the kitchen and the warm scent of coffee drifted out to tantalize his nose. It was just barely light outside, still too early to be day and too late to be night.

He entered the kitchen quietly but Lily turned immediately, as if sensing his presence more than hearing it. For an instant he remembered his nightmare, the picture of her fading away. He frowned, trying to block it out. Lily's smile faded.

*'I heard you get up and thought you might like some company. If you'd rather be alone, I could go away."

**No, don't go. I wasn't frowning at you. It was just something I thought of."

She smiled, relieved. "It didn't look Hke something pleasant."

"It wasn't anything important." He smiled. It didn't matter how often he told himself that it would be best for her if he stayed away, he couldn't help but savor the way her eyes lit when she saw him. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep and then I heard you stirring around. The coffee should be ready in a minute."

"Smells great." Trace got down a mug and set it on the counter.

"How did you sleep?"

The nightmare flickered through his mind but he ignored it. "Not too bad, if you don't count the fact that I woke up about an hour too early." The light on the coffee maker came on and he reached for the pot, pouring himself a cup

of steaming black brew. Lifting the cup, he inhaled deeply. "Heaven.*'

Lily smiled and sipped at her cup of tea. **That stuff is terrible for you. You know that, don't you?"

"That's a false rumor started by tea companies. Coffee is the fifth basic food group. The human body actually needs it to survive." He took a swallow and sighed with exaggerated pleasure. "Guaranteed to put hair on your chest."

"I think you have plenty of hair on your chest already." The light comment brought a new element into the conversation. Trace's eyes met hers over the rim of his cup. Maybe it was the house. Maybe it was the lingering effects of his nightmare. Maybe it was the fact that he was going back to work today and everything was going to be different. Whatever it was, it suddenly didn't seem so important to keep a distance between them.

"You do, huh?" Lily's eyes dropped away from the gleam in his.

"I do."

"I'm glad you approve."

"I approve. I definitely approve." Her eyes swept up to meet his and Trace felt a sudden hard knot of desire in his stomach. How was it possible for one look to combine so much innocence and sensuality? Saint and sinner in one expression. His fingers tightened on the cup and he looked away.

"How do you like your new job?"

"It's nice. The children are wonderful to work with. Heartbreaking and uplifting all at once. The other teachers have been really helpful."

She continued to talk but Trace lost track of what she was saying. He was watching her mouth, remembering the way it felt beneath his. It wasn't until she licked her lips nervously that he realized she'd stopped speaking and he had

been standing there staring at her mouth. He dragged his eyes away again.

'Tm glad you're settling in so well."

''Me, too. What about you? Are you looking forward to getting back to work?*'

'*Yes. I feel like I've been gone for months instead of a couple of weeks."

"You really like being a cop, don't you?"

*'I can't imagine doing anything else for a living."

''It's pretty dangerous, isn't it?" Her tone was casual but he saw the way her eyes avoided his, studying the counter as if she'd never seen it before, and he knew there was nothing casual about the comment.

"Sometimes. But it's not as bad as it looks in the cop shows. And I'm not working downtown L.A. or anything. All in all, it's probably not that much worse than working construction."

"People don't shoot at you when you work construction," she told him, her voice muffled.

"They might if you did a lousy job." Her smile was perfunctory at best and he knew he wasn't going to be able to laugh away her concerns.

"Look, nobody has taken a shot at me yet. Contrary to television, most cops retire, they don't get shot. Maybe it's a more stressful job than most but the rewards are worth it. There's a lot of frustration but there's no better feeling in the world than seeing a criminal off the street or helping someone settle a family dispute without anyone getting hurt. The times when you feel like you really made a difference are what keep you going."

He stopped abruptly, flushing as he realized how impassioned he sounded. He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get on my soapbox."

"You didn't," Lily protested. "I think it's wonderful that you love your job but—" She stopped, looking down.

"But what?"

**I can't help but wish that you really loved being an accountant or a bank teller or something a little safer. I worry."

**Do you?" He reached out to tuck a shiny strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her skin. '*Don't worry about me. I'm very good at taking care of myself. Remember?"

"I remember." She leaned her cheek against his pahn, her eyes half-closed. "I've never forgotten the way you took care of me. But I know you're not invincible and I can't help but worry."

One of them—it was impossible to tell which—had shifted forward so that they were almost touching. Lily's head was tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. Somehow Trace's fingers were tangled in her hair and it seemed impossible to move them.

"Did you know that statistically speaking, accountants have one of the earliest death rates of any profession? And there are more bank tellers in therapy than there are actors."

His lips feathered along her cheekbone before finding her earlobe and nipping gently. She moaned softly, her body melting into his. Trace reached out blindly and set his coffee cup on the counter before disposing of her tea in a similar manner. His hand shd around her back, pulling her closer still as his mouth found hers.

Her arms came up to circle his neck, her lips opening beneath the demand of his. Trace felt his whole body tighten with hunger too long denied. He wanted her with a sudden fierce need that took his breath away. Lily gasped as his hands caught her around the waist, lifting her onto the counter.

He stood between her open knees, their bodies pressed together as intimately as was possible with the barriers of

clothing still between them. His arousal strained at his jeans and he heard Lily moan softly as he pressed against the heart of her. His open mouth slid down her arched throat.

Passion raged out of control. He couldn't get enough of her. Her taste, her scent, the feel of her against him. He was reaching for the buttons on her blouse when something penetrated the fog of need that was blinding him to everything but her.

He couldn't have said just how far it might have gone if the shower hadn't come on upstairs, reminding them that they weren't alone. The muffled sound acted like a dash of cold water in his face and he realized how close he'd come to taking her on the kitchen counter, half-dressed, their clothes tugged open and pushed aside.