Sunshine and the Shadowmaster (8 page)

Candace had called in their absence. She had finally managed to clear her calendar and would be flying in to Sacramento the following morning. She planned to rent a car and drive straight to North Magdalene.

“Great,” Heather said. “I'll make up the other bedroom for her.”

Since it was late, Lucas drove Tawny home. Heather climbed the stairs and spent some time changing sheets and straightening the extra room up there. When that was done, she was ready to go to bed.

She'd heard Lucas return a few minutes before, so she went downstairs once more and said good-night to him. He looked up from a phone conversation to mouth “Sleep well,” at her.

As she had been for days now, she was tired but keyed up. Still, she put on her pajamas and climbed into bed.

By then, it was nearing midnight. Downstairs, it was quiet. Heather closed her eyes.

But it was no good. She lay in the darkness as she had the night before, seeing Mark's face, picturing Lucas's haunted eyes—and remembering Jason Lee in his Sunday best, lying in his fine, expensive coffin looking like a stranger on the day that they buried him.

The minutes ticked by until they added up to an hour. It was now one in the morning. And she had to be up before five.

Someone had once told her that you couldn't die from lack of sleep. Eventually, when you got tired enough, you'd simply have to drop off. But personally, Heather was beginning to wonder. She'd gone three days now and maybe slept four hours in all that time.

She had to do something to make herself settle down.

Maybe a glass of warm milk would do it.

With a little moan of frustrated weariness, she climbed from the bed, pulled on her robe and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen.

She didn't realize Lucas was sitting there at the table until she put her hand on the light switch and his voice came out of the dark.

“Don't turn it on.”

Heather froze. “Are you all right?”

“Just don't turn it on.”

She dropped her hand. “Okay.”

He moved a little in the chair, then confessed, “I couldn't sleep. I came out here. To work.”

She made out the shape of the laptop computer on the table before him. The screen was dark.

Lucas grunted. “Hell, who do I think I'm kidding? There's no hope for work right now. I really came out here because I couldn't stand being alone with myself in the bedroom.” He let out an ugly bark of laughter. “But you know what? It doesn't matter where I am. It's just as bad one place as another. There's no rest and there's no peace.”

Heather knew exactly what he meant. She left the doorway and went to stand near him. He was watching her, through the darkness.

How she ached for him. And for herself. And for anyone and everyone awake and suffering in the depths of an endless night.

“What?” He sounded wary. “What is it, Heather?”

She felt so terribly drawn to him. And she longed so to touch him. Before she could catch herself, she reached out and pushed her fingers through his dark hair. The strands were silky, as she'd known they would be, silky and warm.

For a moment, he was very still. And then, slowly, he moved his head to the side, away from her caress.

His eyes shone at her, deep and knowing, through the dark. “Go back to bed, Heather.”

She knew he was right. That was what she should do: turn around and go back up the stairs to her room. And her lonely bed.

But she didn't move. She just stood there. His words of the night before came into her mind:
Making love can soothe pain, help you forget your loneliness for a while...

“Listen.” His voice was flat. “You don't want to do anything you'll regret later.”

“I won't—”

He cut off her denials. “Don't tell me lies.”

She dared to reach out once more, this time laying her hand against his cheek. It was wet, as she had known it would be, with tears he hadn't wanted her to see. He stiffened.

“Don't,” she murmured urgently. “Don't back away. Please.”

He took in a long breath and slowly released it. Then he was still, allowing her to touch him. She brushed at the tears, oh so gently, with her thumb. “Lucas, I...”

“What?”

“I...” Her throat closed off. She tried again and somehow managed to get the words out. “I don't want to go back to bed alone.”

He captured her wrist then. “Why?”

“Oh, Lucas.”

“Why?”

“Because...I hurt for you.”

“Pity.” He made a sound of disgust.

“No. Not pity. Understanding. And not only that. Not only for you. But for me, too. For my pain. And my loneliness. And for all the awful, endless nights alone.” She closed her eyes, seeking the words, finding them at last. “I guess in a way, I've been dead myself, since last winter. And with Mark gone, the world seems a grim and dangerous place. But when I touch you, I feel alive again....”

He was still holding her wrist. Her heart seemed to stop as he turned her hand over, carefully pried open her fingers and placed a kiss in the center of her palm. A shiver coursed through her at the touch of his lips and her heart started beating again.

“What about tomorrow?” His breath was warm against her palm. “How will you feel then?”

“I...don't know.”

He gently closed her fingers once more. “Go back to bed.”

“Oh, please...” she whispered, shameless in her need now. “Try to understand. I...only know how I feel right now. That I want what you said last night. A little comfort. And forgetfulness.”

He was silent. Her heart sank. But then he asked, “You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Another silence. She felt her nerve deserting her. He was right. She would feel differently, come morning.

But then a miracle happened. He whispered to her, the sound as soft as velvet, through the dark.

“All right. If it's what you want. Come closer, Heather. Come here.”

L
ike a woman in a dream, Heather stepped between his knees and touched his tear-wet face again.

Lucas remained perfectly still. She let her hand stray, allowing herself the indulgence of tracing his features, all those sharply cut planes and angles. His eyelids felt so thin and delicate beneath her fingertips. They quivered a little. She stroked them, each in turn, very lightly, until they seemed to relax.

He caught her hand again. His eyes came open, seeking hers. “I don't have anything...for contraception.”

“It's all right,” she heard herself whisper. “It's my safe time.”

Holding her gaze, he brought her fingers to his mouth. His tongue came out.

Heather moaned a little as his tongue touched the pad of her middle finger. He took her finger into his mouth. She moaned again. It was like silk in there. Wet silk. His teeth scraped her knuckle. She felt her knees going wobbly.

She swayed a little before him. He reached out the hand that wasn't holding hers and clasped her waist.

She thought he meant to steady her, but then she understood that he was after something else. He pushed her backward just a little, and brought his knees together. His hand slipped in below the sash of her robe. He traced the inside of her thighs, a quick, brushing, upside-down V. Even through the fabric of her pajamas, it was a stunningly intimate caress. With a small, sharp gasp, she took his meaning and parted her legs.

He pushed the robe away a little and clasped her waist again, urging her forward now.

“Oh,” she said, as she found herself sitting on his knees, facing him, her legs apart and her bare feet dangling just above the floor.

He smiled, then. She could see his white teeth and the lifted curve of his mouth. He took both of her hands and put them on his shoulders. She returned his smile, tremulously, feeling steadier now that she had his hard, strong shoulders to hold on to.

And then he put a hand on her throat. “Warm,” he said. “Soft.”

He began to caress her. He touched each of her earlobes in turn, taking them between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing them and setting off sparks that seemed to trail down into the center of her. He cupped her nape, beneath the fall of her hair, then brought his hand forward again to follow the shape of her jawline. He touched her lips, rubbing them lightly. She smelled her own floral scent on his fingertips.

And then his hand strayed downward. His fingers slid inside her robe again.

She shivered.

He withdrew his hand. “Afraid?” he asked.

She nodded, since she couldn't have spoken right then for the life of her.

He put both hands on her waist for a moment, another steadying gesture. And then he went to work, untying the sash of her robe.

The knot gave way. He pulled the sash free and dropped it to the floor. The robe fell open. He pushed at it, until she slipped her arms out of the sleeves and it, too, was gone.

He started on the buttons of her pajama top. They fell open quickly. Too quickly. Her heart was beating painfully against her ribs, a scared rhythm, but a hungry one, too. Heat flared in the center of her and seemed to pulse outward, so that it felt as if ribbons of flame arrowed down to her toes and out to her fingertips.

He parted the top.

And he said a word that was deep and husky and crude as well.

He touched her nipple, and she felt how hard it was, aching with want.

Heather couldn't bear it. She wrapped her hand around his head and pulled him toward her.

His mouth closed over her breast.

She cried aloud, a needful, famished sound. He kissed one breast and then the other, taking the nipples deep into his mouth, where it was so silky and so wet.

Down inside her, the fire went molten, a slow, delicious, burning ache.

And then he was lifting his head, looking in her eyes. “I've never kissed your lips.” He whispered the words tenderly, with a touch of humor and no small amount of wonder.

Gently, carefully, he leaned forward until his mouth touched hers. Briefly he brushed her lips. He pulled back, then kissed her, quickly and softly, once more.

And then he wrapped his hard arms around her and pulled her up tight against him. Her eyes widened. She could feel him intimately, even through their clothing.

His mouth found hers.

It was a long, deep, brazenly carnal kiss. In her whole life, Heather had never known its like. It went on and on, as his hands roamed her back in smooth, knowing strokes. She never, ever wanted it to stop.

But at last, he pulled back. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said as he stood. Heather did as he bid her. He carried her swiftly through the dining room and into the downstairs bedroom.

Once there, he lowered her to the bed. Then he went to the windows and pulled back both the curtains. Starlight bathed the room in its faint, silvery glow.

He turned to her, a silhouette against the night. Very quickly, he removed all of his clothes and dropped them on the chair in the corner.

When he was naked, he came to her, reached for her and swiftly slid away the pajama top and the bottoms, too.

Then he lay down on the bed with her, in the silvery light. He pressed his hard, lean body against her soft one. And he stroked her—long, arousing caresses that made her whimper in surrender long before he rose above her, parted her legs and settled himself between them.

She moaned as he entered her. He slid in very deep.

The feeling of having him there was so good, so right, that tears filled her eyes and overflowed, running down the sides of her face, into her tangled hair. She moved with him, by instinct it seemed, as if she'd been born to do this act with this man.

And she thought, in a far-off sort of way, of her family, of the deep, dark streak within all of her grandfather's sons. Hell-raisers, all of them. Her uncles and her father. It took each of them so long to make their peace with life.

And she herself, so different, she'd believed, from the rest of them. Born happy. And living happy. Marrying a man of light and goodness, settling down at nineteen, having neatly escaped the dangerous darkness that ran in her blood.

Or so she'd thought. Until recently. Until she lost everything.

And now there was tonight.

She'd stumbled upon fulfillment. In this time of fear and sorrow. Here, in the darkness, as it never should have happened. Yet it
was
happening.

A dark miracle, this night. It was lifting her outside herself, for the first time in so long. So that what her mind kept whispering was wrong, was somehow good and right—and so utterly, unbelievably sweet.

Lucas pushed in deep. Heather moaned.

“Come with me.” It was a command. And a challenge. And a sweet, beguiling taunt.

She looked up at him. There was only one answer. “Yes, Lucas. Anything. Anything you want...”

And he moved faster, deeper, on and on. She went with him, wrapping her legs around him, holding him to her so that what they shared became a passing back and forth of energy, white-hot—and expanding to encompass all the earth.

She cried out. And so did he. They both stiffened, pressed tight together.

And then, with a long, shared sigh, their straining bodies went limp in tandem.

Lucas didn't withdraw, but held her close, rolling a little so they lay facing each other on the rumpled chenille spread. One of the windows was open partway and a gentle night breeze blew the gauzy undercurtains, cooling the sweat of their passion and making Heather shiver a little.

“Cold?”

“Not very. It'll pass.”

His hand strayed up, to smooth her hair off her cheek. She knew he felt the wetness of her tears, though he said nothing about it.

She tucked her head beneath his chin and stroked the sleek muscles over his ribs, wondering idly how his body could be so hard and fine when he sat at a chair for a living, inventing awful tales that Linda Lou Beardsly couldn't make herself stop reading.

He murmured, “Could you sleep now?”

She nodded against his throat. “Yes, I think so.”

“So could I,” he said. “But I don't want to sleep.”

She knew exactly what he meant. This was their time, this night, this moment. The world was a perilous place. Who could say what the morning would bring?

He slipped out of her then. She made a small sound of disappointment at the loss.

But he quickly put his hand there, at her feminine heart. She gasped.

He said, “Yes.” And his hand began to move.

Heather responded mindlessly, raising her hips to give him better access.

“Yes,” he said again. She moaned. His hand went on doing those shocking, wonderful things.

He whispered to her, “I want to touch all of you. To know every inch of you. I want to turn you inside out, between now and morning. And I will....”

* * *

They did sleep, hours later.

And Heather was the first to wake, not long before dawn. She woke smiling, because right then all she felt was a warm glow of satisfied contentment. She looked over and saw Lucas sleeping beside her.

He lay on his stomach, one hand flung out and the other under his head. The curtains were still open, letting in enough light that she could see him fairly clearly. He was very pleasing to look at, Heather decided. So she stared at him rather shamelessly for a time, admiring his hard buttocks and sculpted back, his lean, beautifully shaped legs and feet. And she blushed a little, thinking of the things he had done to her, the things she had begged him to do.

But soon enough he groaned and stirred and opened an eye. “‘Lo.”

“Hello.”

“What time is it?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the nightstand by her side of the bed. “Almost five.”

“God.” With another groan, he rolled to his back and sat up. “Back to real life.” He reached across her and flicked on the lamp.

“Oh!” Heather blinked at the sudden brightness, and put her hand over her eyes.

“What is it?” Lucas asked.

“Nothing. Just the light. It surprised me, that's all.”

“Shall I turn it off again?”

“No. No, of course not.” She made herself lower her shielding hand.

But it wasn't easy. For now all the soft shadows had hard edges. And the full impact of what she and this man had done in the night seemed to be bearing down on her like a runaway train.

“Heather.”

She clutched the sheet close against her breasts and looked at him, a look she tried to make bright and alert. “Hmm?”

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, biting her lip, wondering where her pajamas had ended up. “I want to take a quick shower and then—”

“Heather.”

“I...what?”

He touched her face then, trapping a stray lock of hair with his finger and guiding it behind her ear. “I smell regret.”

He was right, of course. Daylight was coming. Real life, as he had said. She didn't want to regret what they had done. It had been beautiful.

But in the bright light of day, she knew what she would think about it.

Yes, it had been beautiful. It had helped them both survive a night that otherwise would have been close to unbearable.

But it had still been wrong.

His hand fell away. “I'm right, aren't I?” His voice was gruff.

Heather didn't know what to say to him. And there wasn't really time now to talk about it, anyway. “Look. We should get moving, don't you think? The search crews always get started right at dawn.”

“We're going to talk about this.”

“Not now.”

“All right. Tonight.”

She gestured with her hand, a futile movement. “Sure. Over dinner. When your ex-wife is here.”

“What are you getting at? Candace and I are Mark's parents, but that's all. There's nothing else between us anymore.”

“I know that. I understand that.”

“Then believe me. She'll leave us alone if we want to be alone.”

He was very close to her, virtually backing her against the headboard. The scent of him beguiled her. He looked at her earnestly. And he didn't appear quite so haggard as he had last night. That doomed, dead look was gone from his eyes.

Had what they'd shared done that for him?

“Lucas, I...”

“What?”

“This is all just so...confusing to me.”

“You weren't confused last night.”

“I know.”

“Then what's the matter now?”

She raked her tangled hair back with her fingers. She kept remembering the things they'd done. The things she had felt. She'd never felt like that before.

Not with her own husband. Not with Jason Lee.

And that seemed a horrible admission to make. A betrayal, in a way, of all that Jason Lee had been to her and of the love that was supposed to have lasted both of them a lifetime.

“Heather?”

She blinked, and came back to herself. “Yes? What is it?”

Lucas pulled away, enough that she no longer felt trapped by his nearness. “Look.” His eyes were hooded once again, his tone reserved. “You're right. There's too damn much to worry about now. We'll let it be.”

Relief swept through her—followed by a strange, sad wave of regret.

He went on, “And you're right about the search crews, too. We'd better get up and get going.”

She nodded, eager to agree with him, eager to put more distance between the two of them. “Yes, yes, we should.”

He rolled off the bed on his side and scooped his clothes from the chair. “I'll hit the shower.”

She looked away from his slender, sculpted nakedness. “Me, too.”

He turned and left for the bathroom.

The minute he was out the door, Heather jumped from the bed and scrambled around on the floor until she found her pajamas. She pulled them on swiftly, ran to the kitchen to collect her robe and then headed for the stairs to her own room.