Paper Rose (25 page)

She laughed mirthlessly. “Everything you've said and done for the past eight years has shown me that you don't want a close relationship with a woman. Especially, me.”

He stuck his hands into the pockets of his slacks and frowned, searching for the right words. “You know why I pushed you away, Cecily,” he said quietly. “Not only were we, as I thought at the time, from different cultural backgrounds, I'd been in the position of a guardian to you. It would have been like taking advantage of an affection you couldn't help.”

She was staring out the window at the snow with her arms folded. Her back looked abnormally rigid. “I wasn't beautiful enough for you.”

Nothing had ever hurt him as much as that simple, painfully honest remark. He just looked at her, speechless. To him, she was the most beautiful woman on earth, inside and out, especially in her present condition.

She turned with a sad smile on her face. “If you're worried about whoever tried to run me down, I've had no problems since I've been here. I don't think there will be any more attempts on my life. You can safely leave me where I am. I'm happy here, Tate. I'll let you know when the baby comes,” she added quietly. “Certainly, you'll have access to him any time you like.”

Doors were closing. Walls were going up around her. He clenched his teeth together in impotent fury.

“I want you,” he said forcefully, which was not at all what he wanted to say.

“I don't want you,” she replied, lying through her teeth. She wasn't about to become an obligation again. She even smiled. “Thanks for coming to see about me. I'll phone Leta when she and Matt come home from Nassau.”

“They're already home,” he said flatly. “I've been to make peace with them.”

“Have you?” She smiled gently. “I'm glad. I'm so glad. It broke Leta's heart that you wouldn't speak to her.”

“What do you think it's going to do to her when she hears that you won't marry the father of your child?”

She gaped at him. “She…knows?”

“They both know, Cecily,” he returned. “They were looking forward to making a fuss over you.” He turned toward the door, bristling with hurt pride and rejection. “You can call my mother and tell her yourself that you aren't coming back. Then you can live here alone in the middle of ‘blizzard country,' and I wish you well.” He turned at the door with his black eyes flashing. “As for me, hell will freeze over before I come near you again!”

He went out and slammed the door. Cecily stared after him with her heart in her throat. Why was he so angry that she'd relieved him of any obligations about the baby? He couldn't want her for herself. If he had, if he'd had any real feeling for her, he'd have married her years ago. It was only the baby.

She let the tears rush down her face again with pure misery as she heard the four-wheel drive roar out of the driveway and accelerate down the road. She hoped he didn't run over anybody. Her hand went to her stomach and she remembered with anguish the look on his face when he'd put his big, strong hand over his child. She'd sent him away for the sake of his own happiness, didn't he know that? She supposed it was just hurt pride that had caused his outburst. But she wished he hadn't come. It would be so much harder to live here now that she could see him in this house, in these rooms, and be haunted by the memory of him all over again. He wouldn't come back. She'd burned her bridges. There was no way to rebuild them.

Tate got as far as the rented vehicle and slammed his hand hard against the roof, scattering the light covering of snow where his hand hit. He'd lost his temper. That was the last thing he should have done, especially with a pregnant woman who already felt rejected and unappealing. He sighed angrily, staring back toward the house. Well, he couldn't upset her any more than he already had, not today. He'd get a room at the local motel, stash his equipment and come back here on foot. He'd lived on instinct for a long time. He had finely honed reflexes and he sometimes played hunches that seemed illogical to his colleagues. But he sensed somehow that Cecily was in danger, that Gabrini was around, close, somewhere. Feeling that way, there was no chance in hell that he was going away until Cecily was safe. Cecily, and his baby.

 

He wondered if he could have been wrong for once as he huddled in a strategically placed appliance carton near Cecily's back stoop. Snow was falling again. He was cramped with his long legs shoved into barely half the required space, and it was cold.

He looked around him at the light covering of snow and regretted his first impression of the way the south behaved in a little icy precipitation. He'd been listening to his police scanner with an earphone and what he learned was a little humbling. There had been ten wrecks since he'd been in town, one of them fatal. It occurred to him that people in South Dakota learned to cope with snow because it came and stayed all winter. Here, where there were only a handful of days in the winter when ice or snow fell, people didn't know how to drive in it. He was sad for the families of the two people who had died in wrecks. He thought about how he'd feel if he lost Cecily, and his heart almost stopped in his chest. She'd been part of him for so long that it would be unbearable to contemplate the rest of his life without her.

A sound caught his attention. It wasn't much of a sound. Just a faint crunch, the sound a foot might make in a patch of ice. His hand went to the .45 automatic he carried in a shoulder holster. He tugged it out, gently, and waited for the loud noise of a passing truck to reach its peak before he cocked it and thumbed off the safety. Wearing black, even a full face mask, he was well camouflaged here by the garbage can.

It was a good thing that he was, too. A small man in dark clothing wearing a face mask like his was approaching the darkened house with an object in his hand that could only be a weapon.

He was good, Tate thought angrily. He moved like an animal, in short, uneven steps that wouldn't have alerted a deer deep in the forest, not the rhythmic movement of a human walk. He looked around him carefully and kept to the shadows. It was painfully apparent to Tate, who would know, that the man had stalked human game before with deadly intent.

He didn't bother to try the back door. He went to a low window where the kitchen was and, still watching stealthily, unfastened the screen and jimmied the window latch. On a moonless night, which this was, with only patches of ice to reflect the little bit of light coming from the street in front of the house, the man was practically invisible.

Tate's heart pounded violently. An adrenaline rush tautened every muscle in his body. He wanted to fire now, to prevent there being any small chance that Cecily would be harmed. But he had to have proof. So far the man had done nothing except force open a window. He had to be in the house before Tate could act. And then he'd have to act quickly, or perhaps cost Cecily her life. The thought stiffened his resolve. All his training, all his covert skills, had combined to lead him to this one brief span of time, when he alone could save the mother of his child from certain death. He couldn't afford one single lapse now. He watched, waiting for the moment to strike.

Inside the house, Cecily was lying in bed in her pretty pink flannel gown wide-awake, her eyes still red from crying. Tate had come after her, and just when she'd thought there might be a real chance for them, he'd admitted that he was only here out of a sense of responsibility. He didn't love her. He wanted the child, perhaps, and he felt it was his duty to provide for Cecily. It was the old, old story again. Tate, running interference. He would never love her. He would never let himself love her. He had excuse after excuse, but it all boiled down to the fact that he didn't want to share his life with anyone. That wasn't going to change, and the sooner she realized it…

She froze. There had been a sound, like wood being broken. She sat up in bed, her heart racing. Could Tate have come back? She got out of the bed and padded softly on the cold linoleum floor to the hallway. She listened, but she didn't hear anything. There was a faint slither, like someone moving in the darkness. Her heart pounded like crazy as she thought of the shadowy person who'd tried to run her down in Washington. Someone from the gambling syndicate, out for revenge? But how would he have found her? Tate had found her, she realized. Someone up to his neck in organized crime could have found her, too.

She swallowed. Her hand went to the swell of her belly as she thought of her child and what could happen. She shouldn't have let her pride force her to do this stupid thing. She'd never run away before in her life. She should have stayed where she was, where she could be protected. In normal circumstances, she could take care of herself. But she had no illusions about her ability to save herself from a professional criminal. She could shoot a gun, but she didn't own one. She had a few karate lessons, during which Tate, who had a belt in tae kwon do, had shown her that sometimes even a lifetime of lessons wasn't enough against a gun or a knife. Her eyes closed as she listened, shivering, for more noises. As a last resort, she could scream, or run. But she had no really close neighbors, and how would she outrun a bullet if the man was armed?

Tate was probably on his way back to the nation's capitol right now, she thought miserably. He would have protected her, and her child, but she'd sent him off in a fury. Great going, Cecily, she told herself. What a headline they'll have now! Former Teenage Love Slave Killed By Vengeful Gambling Syndicate. That would give people something to read with their morning coffee!

She drew in a slow, shaky breath, listening. Something rocked, as if her intruder—she knew it was an intruder now—had knocked against the little telephone table where the living room connected to the dining room. There was another faint noise, and then a jerking sound. There goes the telephone cord, she thought, and almost panicked. What could she do?

She didn't have anything in the bedroom that would serve as a weapon. Her furniture was mostly of the antique sort, because she'd rented this old house furnished. If only she had a club of some sort, it might give her a chance.

She was at the wall beside one of the long, low windows that had disturbed her a little when she'd rented the house. Her sharp eyes focused on the homemade window lock in the bedroom. The metal thumb-latch had broken in here, and the house's owner had taken a broomstick and cut it to fit vertically against the top section of the window to keep it from being opened from outside. It was just right to knock a gun out of a man's hand, perhaps, if she could get it quickly and silently and not get herself killed in the process. She was on her own. She had to help herself. Oh, please, God, she prayed silently, give me strength. Help me!

Swallowing the nausea in her throat, she slid to the window soft-footed and reached up to tug at the stick. It came away smoothly into her hand and she let out a faint sigh of relief. The feel of the wood in her hand gave her confidence. It was heavy and thick, and if she used it properly, it might save her life.

She eased back to the door and bit her lower lip hard to keep panic at bay. She heard soft footfalls in the hall now, coming closer. The bedroom door was standing wide open. She was just beside it and her heartbeat was so loud that she feared her attacker would hear it. She closed her eyes, swallowed again and ground her teeth together. She could do this. She could…!

A shadow moved in the hall. It hesitated. Her teeth ground together harder as she waited. Her hands were trembling on the stick. She couldn't let her nerve fail now! Her mouth was so dry that she could barely swallow. Her hands were sweating on the stick. She gripped it tighter.

The shadow began to move again. It came closer. She held the stick just at shoulder level, waiting, waiting…

A hand holding a pistol came suddenly into view and Cecily acted without even thinking. She brought the stick down so hard that the gun went flying. There was a cry of pain in a strange voice, a loud curse, and she found her hand in a merciless grip as the stick was wrenched from it and raised.

A dark streak came flying at her assailant, knocking him free of Cecily and carrying him headlong to the floor. There was a quick, fierce struggle on the linoleum. The smaller man was suddenly dragged to his feet and knocked down again, with such ferocity that Cecily knew her number was up. There were two of them, and the one still standing was coming toward her.

She cried out, all her courage gone as she realized the skill of this new intruder. She had no weapon. He would kill her…!

“Cecily!”

That voice! She shivered with mingled relief and horror as she found herself pulled into a fierce embrace, locked to a hard, muscular body, safe.
Safe.
Her arms went under his and around him and she burst into tears.

“Tate,” she whispered brokenly. “Oh, Tate!”

He kissed her hungrily, his lips cold from the time he'd spent outside. “I was afraid I wouldn't be in time,” he ground out. “I'm bigger than he is, and I had to force the window up. It stuck. God, what a close call! You disarmed him!”

“I hit his arm with a stick,” she said, choking. She shuddered. “He had a gun.”

“Yes.”

He let her go and fumbled for the light switch, throwing the room into brilliance. On the floor, the smaller man was huddled with his hands against his chest, groaning.