Heart of Gold (19 page)

“Oh? Was getting kidnapped good for you? Was getting shot good for you?”

“Is running away from love good for you?” Her question was met with a silence so tense it seemed brittle. Shane stared at her as if she had slapped him. She’d hit a nerve. Thank heaven. Oh, please, she prayed as she drew in a slow, deep breath. “That’s what you’re doing. Running. We have something special between us, Shane. It won’t be good for either one of us if you push that away.”

Retreating a step, Shane felt all the anger rush out of him. “I’m just trying to save you, Faith. Can’t you see that? The life I live doesn’t allow for love.”

“Then leave it,” she said softly, never taking her eyes from his face. “If that’s all that’s standing between us, leave it. I know your job is important, and I’ll share you with it if I have to, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it take you away from me.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. Didn’t she know how badly he wanted to take what she offered? Didn’t she realize he was doing the right thing by turning away?

Are you?
that inner voice questioned.

“Even if I did quit the agency,” he said, trying to answer his own doubts as much as he was trying to answer Faith’s, “the job would always be a part of me. The things I’ve done …” His words trailed off on a tight sigh, and he started over. “I’ve crossed swords with a lot of bad people, honey. I thought I’d left Adam Strauss in the past, but the past will never be entirely behind me. I can’t guarantee something like that won’t happen again.”

“And one of these days while you’re busy worrying about it, you’re going to step off the curb and get hit by a bus.”

Her strange statement pulled Shane away from his melancholy mood. He shot her an annoyed glance, his dark brows riding low over flashing silver eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means worrying about something that might never happen is irrational. We can’t know what the future will hold. All we can do is grab what we have now and hang on.” Taking a big chance that her legs were strong enough to hold her up, she let go of the bedpost and stepped toward him. She locked her earnest gaze on Shane’s wary gray eyes. Her heart beat a wild rhythm of hope and fear. “I love you, Shane Callan. You love me. Please don’t walk away from that. What we have is far too special to let ghosts and fears steal it away from us.”

Oh, Lord, Shane thought as he stared down into those soft dark eyes, I don’t think I’m strong enough to walk away from her.

Or was it staying that took more courage? This sweet, good woman was willing to share her life with him. Did he have the guts to put his past behind him and start a fresh new life? He had dreaded the bleakness of his future without Faith, but the idea of loving her and having her love him in return scared the hell out of him. What did he know of love and family? Nothing. Did he even deserve the chance to find out?

With a hand that was trembling slightly, Shane reached out and cupped Faith’s rounded cheek. She was so soft. His fingertips tingled where they rubbed against the fine silk of her dark gold curls. The desire to wrap her up and hold her forever was an ache in his chest he was certain would never leave him. She fit in his arms like a puzzle piece that had been missing from his life. He knew he would never feel complete without her.

“I’m a jaded, cynical cop,” he said. “I’ve seen too much of the ugly side of life. I’ve been a part of that too long. What do I have left to offer you, Faith?”

Her mouth lifted in a smile of infinite feminine wisdom. The love that shone in her eyes was warmer than the sun. “I can live with what you are, with who you’ve been, but I don’t want to live without you, Shane. Offer me your heart, your love.”

“You already have them,” he whispered.

“Then there’s nothing else I’ll ever need.”

The sense of deliverance, of salvation was so strong, it brought tears to his eyes. The taste of it as he bent his head and settled his mouth softly against Faith’s was like nourishment to his starving soul, it was like wine to a man who’d been through a desert. He drank deeply and slowly, savoring every drop.

Faith reached up with her good hand to clutch at Shane’s broad shoulder. Relief swept the last of her strength away, and she leaned into him, knowing he would hold her, knowing he would never let her fall. His strong arm banding around her back proved her trust was warranted. Safe in his arms, safe in the knowledge that he was hers, she concentrated on their kiss, on the warm, wild taste of him and the tenderness of his possession.

When he lifted his head, she looked up at him and said, “I have something for you.”

Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out the ring Bryan had sent her and handed it to Shane. He examined it in the soft lamplight, his pulse skipping as he compared the intertwined golden hearts on the face of the ring with the delicate charm that rested against Faith’s creamy skin. He read aloud the inscription etched inside the gold band, his voice soft and smoky with emotion. “Two hearts, one destiny.”

“You can read Gaelic?” She sounded every bit as incredulous as she looked.

Shane merely blinked at her, as if to say “Can’t everyone?” She shook her head and stepped back into the circle of his arms, cuddling against him as best she could, considering her arm was in a sling.

“It figures,” she murmured with a soft, sweet smile.

And they held each other for a long time, neither one of them noticing the soft
ker-thump
that sounded in the hall as the bedroom door swung gently shut.

Don’t miss the next book in this
romance trilogy by Tami Hoag

Reilly’s Return

R
EILLY WAS GOING
to show up sooner or later. It was fate, destiny, an ominous portent that had appeared in her morning horoscope. She could feel it in the bottom of her belly, that deep, hollow sense of impending doom. She could feel it in the weight of the antique gold bracelet that circled her left wrist with tingling warmth. That was a sure sign.

It wasn’t going to matter a bit that she had left Hollywood and moved up the coast to Anastasia—hundreds of miles away from Tinsel Town in more ways than just distance. The year of waiting was over, and he was going to find her.

Jayne Jordan abandoned the wall she’d been washing, dropping her sponge in the metal bucket full of soapy water that sat beside her. Tucking her feet beneath her, she took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut as if preparing to dunk her head under water. Heedless of the fact that she was sitting on a scaffolding eight feet above the floor of the stage, she released the air from her lungs and willed herself to relax. Strains of a Mozart serenade floated through her mind as she attempted to banish the sense of dread from her body. Unfortunately, the sweet joyous notes that had poured unblemished from the composer’s soul did nothing to erase the image of Pat Reilly from her mind.

She could see him clearly. His image was indelibly etched on her memory. Those breathtaking sky-blue eyes, pale and opalescent, staring out at her from beneath straight dark gold brows; eyes set in a face that was ruggedly masculine. She could feel the intensity of those eyes penetrating her aura, burning through her veneer of restraint and searing her basic feminine core.

It had been that way from their first meeting, and she had cursed both him and herself for it. It had been that way at their last meeting, and it would be that way again, once he found her. And he
would
find her. Pat Reilly was many things, not all of them admirable, but he was nothing if not a man of his word.

Jayne could still feel the mist on her face. She could see the green of the hills and the gray of her husband’s headstone and Reilly as he’d stood before her with the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the wind. She could still taste his kiss, the only kiss they had ever shared, a kiss full of compassion and passion, wanting and guilt, sweetness and hunger. And she could hear his voice—that low, velvety baritone with the Australian lilt that never faded, vowing in a year’s time he would return to her. When they both had had a chance to lay Joseph MacGregor’s ghost to rest, he would be back.

The year was up.

Jayne sucked in another deep breath as a wave of panic crashed over her. In a valiant effort to fight off the feelings and the memories, she pinched her thumbs and forefingers together to make two circles, held her hands out before her, and began chanting. “Oooommm … oooommm … oooommm …”

The community theater was empty for the moment. Because she hadn’t been able to sleep, Jayne had shown up at the crack of dawn to begin cleaning up the building that had stood unused for the past six years. But it wouldn’t have mattered if there had been a hundred people present. She would have gone right on chanting had her entire staff of volunteers been gathered around. When a person needed to meditate, a person needed to meditate. It wasn’t good for a body to block out its spiritual needs.

“Oooommm … oooommm … oooommm …” She scrunched her eyebrows together in an expression of absolute concentration and
ooommmed
for all she was worth, but it didn’t do a darn bit of good. In the theater of her mind the memories played out, undaunted, in all their Technicolor glory. Memories of Reilly proved to be as stubborn as the man himself.

The theater was dark and dank, an unpleasant contrast to the sunny spring morning outside. Pat Reilly ignored the atmosphere. His mind was on more important things than the musty state of the auditorium. He ignored the clutter of junk that had been piled haphazardly backstage, stepping over and around the stuff when necessary, but barely sparing it a glance.

He had followed Jayne Jordan’s trail to Anastasia, wondering how long it would take actually to track her down once he got there. But luck had been with him. Driving into the picture postcard coastal village, he had spotted her car—a vintage red convertible MG—slanted drunkenly into a parking spot on a side street with one chrome-spoked wheel on the curb.

If he’d had any doubts about the vehicle being hers—and he hadn’t because only Jayne would desecrate the beauty of an antique car with a Save Catalina’s Wild Goats bumper sticker—the building the car was parked beside would have settled the question. The marquee was missing several letters, making the building look like an old crone whose teeth were dropping out one by one, but there was enough of the words left so they were understandable. It was the Anastasia Community Theater—a fitting place to find the woman he was looking for.

Now he wound his way through the rubble to the stage proper, following a weird chanting sound. That would be Jayne, he thought, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. The glue beneath the false beard he wore pulled at his skin and he winced. Damn, he probably should have taken five minutes to peel off the disguise. It was his fans he was trying to hide from, not Jayne.

He’d done enough hiding from Jayne and his attraction to her. The time had come for both of them to face facts. Mac was dead and there was nothing standing in their way. It was time to face this damnable attraction that had burned between them from the first time they’d laid eyes on each other, this attraction both of them had denied and cursed and fought against. She had been his best friend’s bride, and Lord knew Pat Reilly would have sooner died than betray a mate. But Mac was gone now. A year had passed since they laid him to rest. And there was no reason for the living to go on feeling guilty.

He stopped in the wings, stage left, his booted feet spread slightly. He jammed his big hands at the waist of his well-worn jeans and shook his head as he got his first look at the woman he had come there to find.

Jayne sat atop a rickety-looking scaffolding, her legs twisted into an impossible pretzel design that probably had something to do with yoga or some equally mystical malarkey. She was just as he remembered her: pretty in a way that had nothing to do with cosmetics or fashion. Especially not fashion. Jayne’s outfits would have made any other woman look like a refugee from Goodwill. This morning she wore gray thermal underwear bottoms, a purple T-shirt, and a man’s gray plaid sport coat that swallowed up her petite frame.

Still, she looked damned appealing to Reilly, proving that hers was an inner beauty that was enhanced by delicate features and eyes like huge pools of obsidian. Her hair was spread around her shoulders in a dark auburn cloud that was nearly black in this light and so wild, Reilly would have bet she couldn’t get a comb through it to save her life. But it was soft and silky. He knew that because he’d once buried his hands in it. He’d dreamed of it nearly every night since; every night for a year.

“Oooommm … oooommm …,” she chanted, her face a study in concentration as Reilly moved closer.

She had a beautifully sculpted mouth. It was wide and expressive with full, ripe lips. Painted a lush shade of mulberry, those lips curved seductively around the
O
sound she made and closed softly on the
M
. Reilly’s skin warmed and his mouth went dry as he stared. He could remember exactly the texture and taste of those lips, though he’d sampled them only once, and he had certainly kissed a dozen women since. It was Jayne’s taste that lingered on his tongue, sweet and sad and frightened, full of longing and guilt and loneliness. He had craved that taste as if it had been wine. Its memory had haunted him just as the memory of her sweet Kentucky drawl had haunted him.

Memories of Jayne had haunted him more than memories of Mac had, but the thing that had haunted him most was guilt. Now that he saw her, he was all through feeling guilty.

Heart of Gold
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1990 by Tami Hoag

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in paperback in the United States by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1990.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90744-5

www.bantamdell.com

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