Moonrise (28 page)

“Change your mind?” he taunted.

“Is this a test?” she shot back furiously.

“Life’s a test, Annie love. You’re about to fail this one.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you’re free to go. Back to the States,
where you can tell your story to the newspapers before Carew decides to put a contract out on you. You’re already in enough trouble with your father’s old confederates, but people like Carew and Martin aren’t going to want you spilling your guts to the media.”

“Then why are you telling me to do it?”

“Because they’re going to try to shut you up before you do. Once you talk to enough people, it’ll be too late.”

“You think Martin would try to kill me?” she said, disbelief and contempt in her voice. “I thought he was the one man I could trust.”

“Of course. He’d regret it. As I’d regret it. But he’d do his job.”

“What if I tell him you killed my father?”

“He already knows.”

In a day of shocks it was just one more. “And Carew?”

“They all know, Annie. Carew placed the order.”

“And you followed those orders.”

“You want excuses, Annie? Reasons?”

“No,” she said. She still knelt at his feet, looking up at him in the darkness. She could rise, step back, walk away from him. The time of death had passed, the dance of death was over. He wouldn’t hurt her, he would let her go.

And that was precisely why she couldn’t
leave. She reached her hands up and unfastened the brass snap at the top of his jeans.

He still didn’t move to touch her. In the dim light of the room she couldn’t see his expression, but she could sense the waiting tension in his body. Just as she could see the unmistakable bulge beneath the zipper of his jeans.

She touched him. She placed her hand over the rigid length of him, letting her fingertips glide over the denim. He didn’t move, but his flesh jerked against her hand.

She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his groin. He didn’t make a sound, but she could feel his sudden sharp intake of breath.

It made her feel oddly powerful. He was testing her, playing a game with her, but it was a game he was losing. His body grew hotter, tighter against her, and she moved her face to press her mouth against his cock.

It was barely a sound. A strangled murmur, quickly bitten back, but it was enough. Triumph swept over Annie, triumph and desire. She sat back, looking at the damp spot her mouth had left on his jeans.

“All right,” he said with a deliberate drawl. “You pass the test, Annie. You love me enough to force yourself to do despicable acts in order to prove it. Or maybe you’re afraid enough of
death. You’re reprieved, Annie. I’ve changed my mind.”

She ignored him. She pressed her mouth against the opening at the top of his jeans, tasting the hot flesh there.

“Stop it, Annie!” he said, the drawl gone, tension in its place. “I told you, I don’t want this.”

“I do,” she said.

He hauled her up against him, ignoring her struggles, plastering her tightly against his body. He threaded his hand in her hair, trying to hold her still, and when he kissed her it seemed to shock him as much as it shocked her.

And then he was gone. Slamming out of the room, running from her. She heard the sound of the car engine, and she wondered if he’d come back. Or if someone else would come instead, and finish her.

She crossed the room, weary, aching, hot, and restless. She picked up the fallen light and turned it on against the murky darkness. She took the bottle of brandy and poured herself a full glass, drinking it down with a shudder. She filled it again, and then she lay down on the bed, wide-eyed, empty, waiting.

He didn’t dare go far. There was a shirt in the back of the car, too small for him, but he
pulled it on anyway. It smelled of hay, and he wondered whose car he’d stolen. Some sweet, innocent farm boy?

Ah, but he didn’t believe in innocence anymore. Except in Annie Sutherland’s troubled eyes.

He’d almost gone too far. Even he had his limits, and he’d come close to exceeding them. The list of his crimes was carved in what was left of his soul, but while he might have killed, he’d never wantonly, cruelly destroyed. Until tonight, when his rage and lust had almost driven him over the edge. Annie Sutherland might very well think she loved him. She might think she could barter anything away to save her life, to ensure his protection. And he’d been angry enough at her distrust to push her, test her.

He’d thought his self-hatred couldn’t reach any deeper, but he found he was wrong. He knew his options, and they were thankfully clear.

He would take Annie back to the States. Back to Washington, to Carew. And there he would barter. Not for his own life. But for Annie’s.

He sat in the car, watching her window, shivering slightly in the cold night air as he held the heavy silver frame in his hand. He glanced down at the tormented martyr, being
eaten by a snake, and for the first time he noticed the resemblance. The face of the suffering saint bore an uncanny resemblance to Winston Sutherland.

His surprised laughter was bitter. Such a symbol of Ireland’s fate. The snakes had been driven out, but they’d returned with Winston Sutherland. To eat them all.

Shards of glass sliced into his hand as he smashed it down against the steering wheel. He ignored it, peeling back the rough painting of the holy martyr to reveal a thin slip of paper covered with Win’s precise, delicate handwriting.

James peered at it in the darkness. What good was an assassin who needed reading glasses? he thought wryly. He couldn’t read more than a word or two of the paper, but he knew what it contained. The hierarchy of Win’s little world. And those who were left behind to run it. The names were there, some he didn’t know, one he recognized. It took all his fierce fury not to crumple the paper in a rage.

He waited until she turned off the light, waited still longer, until he was certain she was asleep. Tucking the paper into his jeans, he made his way silently back up the narrow
stairs in the carriage house, determined not to wake her.

He needn’t have worried. She lay sprawled out on the double bed, wearing only a T-shirt and panties. The bottle of brandy was almost empty, and he could hear the heavy, drugged sound of her sleep.

He stretched out on the bed beside her, careful not to jar her. She slept on and he lay next to her, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth, the slight weight of her body on the bed. He’d almost gone over the edge tonight, and it was a rare mercy indeed that something, maybe something as simple as Annie Sutherland’s eyes, had stopped him from taking one more soul to the dark, empty place where he’d thrown his own.

He shut his eyes. He wasn’t going to sleep. He was going to lie beside Annie and drink in the sensations of her, the scent and the texture. And in the morning he’d take her back to Washington, back to Martin, who’d protect her, and love her, and make her forget all about James McKinley.

He’d overestimated his resources. He hadn’t slept, or eaten, in days. He didn’t have righteous indignation or primal rage to fuel him—he had only fear for Annie’s life, fear that he might make some stupid mistake that would
end up killing her. He didn’t dare relax, even for a moment.

But his body had other ideas. And when he opened his eyes, hours later, it was to see the morning light streaming in the casement window over the bed. His jeans were unfastened, and Annie Sutherland’s hand was on him. With his hand covering hers, holding it against him.

Her hair spread out over his chest, her face was buried against his shoulder. She was hot, shivering, and he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do this, but he was beyond words, as she moved her head down and took him in her mouth.

She didn’t know what to do. That was immediately, endearingly clear. Her teeth scraped him, she almost choked, and her very awkwardness was so erotic he almost climaxed before he was fully awake. He gripped the soft white sheet beneath him, struggling for an almost vanished control, and took a deep, shaky breath, letting her experiment. Taste him, learn him. Love him.

She was a fast learner. When he thought he could control himself, he lifted his hand to thread through her tangled hair, guiding her gently, showing her a tender rhythm that she picked up immediately. She made a soft, growling sound at the back of her throat, and
he knew that this was no sexual sacrifice, no barter for her life. She wanted it as much as he did.

He stopped her, pulling her away from him, and she cried out in wordless protest. “Not yet,” he said, pushing her back against the bed. She slid up against the old iron bedstead and the welter of pillows, watching him out of dark, cloudy eyes, and he pulled off her meager clothing.

He kissed her mouth, hard and deep, thrusting his tongue inside. He kissed her breasts, with their tight, pebbled nipples. And he kissed her between her legs, cupping her hips, holding her as he used his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, against the sleek, hot folds of her body.

She was shivering, shaking, and he could feel her fists on his shoulders. He didn’t care. His tongue caught her clitoris as he slid his fingers inside her, and she arched off the bed with a choking sound as her entire body convulsed.

He made it last. Prolonging it, until she was sobbing, breathless. And then he sat back, wiping his mouth with his arm, watching her.

Her eyes were tightly closed, tears streaming from beneath the lids. He could see the ripples of reaction dancing across her body,
and he wanted to run his tongue along those shivers.

He hadn’t expected her to move. To try to run again. He half thought she’d drift back to sleep rather than face him, but suddenly she rolled away from him, off the bed, scrambling across the floor.

He dived after her mindlessly, landing on top of her, and she lay facedown on the hard wood floor. She was sobbing, panting, and he had to be inside her, he couldn’t even wait long enough for her to turn over.

He slid his arm under her waist, hauled her up, and entered her that way, sliding in deep, so deep, and her guttural cry was a heartbreaking pleasure.

He couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t let him. She twisted her head around and kissed him, and he wanted to keep on and on, to fill her mouth, her body, her soul with him. To have her take everything and then want more.

She was gasping for breath now, covered with a film of sweat, and she dropped her head on her arms, shivering, sobbing. “I can’t, James,” she said in a choking voice. “Please, no more …”

He reached between her legs and touched her. He came when she did, emptying into her, wrapping his arms, his body tightly around her trembling frame as he filled her.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and the last bit of strength left him. He collapsed on the floor, falling backward, taking Annie with him so that she sprawled on top of him, clinging to him, shuddering.

He wondered vaguely how long it would take him to regain a tiny portion of his strength. Or whether he ever would. Whether Annie would come to her senses, scramble away from him, and probably try to shoot him for good measure.

She didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Her breathing had slowed, but her hands still clung to him, and she had turned her face against his shoulder, burying it there against his skin. He could feel the wetness of her tears, and it would have broken his heart—if he’d had a heart.

And then he heard her voice, small, quiet, asking the question he dreaded. “How could you do it, James?” she whispered, still curled up tightly against him. “You loved him. How could you kill him?”

He’d known, he’d always known the answer. “Because I did love him, Annie. Despite everything he did, and everything he was.”

“And what was that?”

It was past time to spare her. “A murderer. A pimp. A man who played with people’s lives, people’s deaths, for his own amusement. He
didn’t give a damn about politics, patriotism, or even money. He just liked to move people around like pieces on a chessboard. You included.”

He waited for her protest. None came. “Couldn’t you have asked them to assign someone else? You said there were others who did what you do.”

“I asked for the job.”

She rose up, staring at him. “For God’s sake, why?”

“Because it was what he would have wanted. You heard the tape, Annie. He knew someone would come for him, and he knew it would be me. Win always had an impeccable sense of dramatic justice.”

“Is that why he wanted you to be the one?”

“Among other reasons.”

“And what were those?”

She was like a terrier shaking a dead rat. But he was tired of lying. “He wanted me to kill him because he loved me as well. Because he knew it would pain me the most. And it was the last thing I could do for him.”

He waited for her denial, but none came. Instead she put her head back down against his shoulder, letting her body flow against his, and the sweetness of it gnawed at his gut. And made him hard again.

“What are we going to do, James?” She
sounded almost forlorn, his fierce, brave Annie.

It was a long time before he could speak. “I’m taking you back to the States,” he said, his voice only slightly hoarse.

She didn’t move, but he knew she’d heard him. Her body grew still and cold. “Are you?”

“I’m turning you over to Martin. He’ll take care of you as well as anyone can. He has my training but none of my liabilities.”

“What liabilities are those?” She sounded no more than distantly curious, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew her too well by now. He recognized each hidden nuance.

“He doesn’t have a hundred people trying to kill him. He’s a practical man—he’s done his job and paid the price. For what it’s worth, your father would have approved.”

“And that’s supposed to convince me?”

“I’m not arguing, Annie. You can hand over the information to Martin, and he’ll see that it gets to the right place. That whoever was left over from Win’s little sideline will be neutralized.”

“And then you’ll be safe,” she said in a quiet voice. “No one will want to kill you.”

“Given my history I expect someone will always want to kill me,” he said lightly. She wasn’t amused.