The Return of Rafe MacKade

  wasn’t much humor in it. “Hell, I was usually in the mood to cause trouble. Nobody ever figured I’d amount to anything, not even me.”

  If he was trying to tell her something, she wasn’t sure she quite understood it. “It looks as though they were wrong. Even you.”

  “People are going to talk, about us.” He’d thought about it, as he watched her sleep, finding himself restless and edgy and needing to move. “You’re going to walk into Ed’s or Kingston’s Market, and conversation’s going to take a hitch. And when you walk out again, people are going to start talking about what that nice Bishop woman is doing with that troublemaker Rafe MacKade.”

  “I’ve been here three years, Rafe. I know how it works.”

  He needed something to do with his hands, so he picked up sandpaper and attacked the first dry seam. “I don’t imagine you’ve given them much to gossip about up to now.”

  He worked as if the devil were looking over his shoulder, she thought. It seemed he did everything with that controlled urgency just under the surface.

  “I was pretty hot news when I opened the shop. What’s this flatlander doing taking over old Leroy’s place, selling antiques instead of screws and pipe fittings?” She smiled a little. “That got me a lot of browsers, and a good many browsers became customers.” She angled her head, watching him. “Something like this should pick business up dramatically for a few weeks.”

  “I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”

  “It’s a little late for that.” Because she sensed he needed some prodding, she obliged. “Maybe you’re worried about your reputation.”

  “Right.” Dust flew as he sanded. “I was thinking of running for mayor.”

  “No, your bad-boy rep. ‘MacKade must be getting soft, hanging around that nice Bishop woman. Next thing you know, he’ll be buying flowers instead of a six-pack. Bet she’ll whip him into shape.’”

  Curious, he tossed the sandpaper aside, tucked his thumbs in his front pockets and turned to look at her. “Is that what you’re going to try to do, Regan? Whip me into shape?”

  “Is that what you’re worried about, MacKade? That I could?”

  It wasn’t a comfortable thought. “Legions have tried.” He walked over, skimmed a dusty finger down her cheek. “It’d be easier for me to corrupt you, darling. I could have you playing nine-ball at Duff’s Tavern in no time.”

  “I could have you quoting Shelley.”

  “Shelley who?”

  With a chuckle, she rose on her toes to give him a friendly kiss. “Percy Bysshe Shelley. Better watch yourself.”

  The idea of that was so ridiculous, his tensed shoulders relaxed. “Darling, the day I start spouting poetry’s the day Shane’s prize hog sprouts wings and flies down Main Street.”

  She smiled again, kissed him again. “You don’t want to make it a bet. Come on, I’d like to take a look at the work in progress.”

  He snatched her hand. “What kind of bet?”

  She laughed, tugged him into the hall. “Rafe, I’m joking. Give me a tour.”

  “Just hold on. MacKades never back down from a dare.”

  “I’m daring you to quote Shelley?” She sighed, shook her head. “Okay, I dare you.”

  “No, that’s not how it works.” Considering, he lifted her hand, nibbled on her fingers. The flicker of arousal in her eyes inspired him. “I say I can have you so crazy about me within a month that you’ll wiggle into a leather miniskirt. A red one. Walk into the tavern for beer and nine-ball.”

  Arousal turned quickly into amusement. “What odd fantasies you have, MacKade. Can you actually see me in some tarty little skirt, playing pool?”

  The smile turned wicked. “Oh, yeah. I can see that just fine. Make sure you wear those really high heels, too. The skinny ones.”

  “I never wear leather without stilettos. Anything less would be tacky.”

  “And no bra.”

  Her laughed puffed out. “Really into this, aren’t you?”

  “I’m getting there. You’ll do it, too.” He cupped a hand on her hip to nudge her closer. “Because you’ll be crazy about me.”

  “It’s obvious one of us has already lost his mind. Okay.” Not one to refuse a challenge, she put a hand on his chest, pushed him back. “I say within that same period of time, I’ll have you on your knees, clutching a bouquet of…ah…lilacs—”

  “Lilacs?”

  “Yes, I’m very fond of lilacs. You’ll quote Shelley like a champ.”

  “What’s the winner get?”

  “Satisfaction.”

  He had to smile. “That ought to be enough. Deal.”

  They shook hands on it. “Am I going to get that tour now?”

  “Sure.” He draped an arm around her shoulders and entertained himself with the vision of those very fine legs beneath a tight red skirt. “We went with your idea of a kind of bridal suite.” He led the way down the hall, opened a six-paneled door. “Just about ready for trim work in here.”

  “Rafe.” Delighted, she stepped inside.

  The delicate floral wallpaper was nearly all hung. The coffered ceiling gleamed with fresh paint. French doors were in place, and would one day open onto the wide porch, overlook gardens in riotous bloom. The floor was covered with drop cloths, but she could imagine it glossy and accented with a lovely faded tapestry rug.

  She stepped around buckets and ladders, already arranging furniture in her head. “It’s going to be beautiful,” she murmured.

  “It’s coming along.” He lifted a tarp from the fireplace. “The mantel was shot. I couldn’t fix it. Found a good piece of yellow pine, though. The woodworker’s using the original as a guide.”

  “That rose-colored trim is going to be wonderful in here.” She looked through an adjoining doorway. “And this is the bath.”

  “Mmm…” He studied the room over her shoulder. It was good-sized, and the plumbers had roughed it in. “Used to be a dressing room.”

  She reached for his hand, gripped it. “Can you smell it?”

  “Roses.” Absently he rubbed his cheek over her hair. “It always smells like roses in here. One of the paper hangers accused his partner of wearing perfume.”

  “This was her room, wasn’t it? Abigail’s. She died in here.”

  “Probably. Hey.” He tipped up her face, watched uncomfortably as a tear trailed down her cheek. “Don’t.”

  “It’s so sad. She must have been terribly unhappy. Knowing the man she’d married, the father of her children, was capable of such cold-blooded cruelty. How did he treat her, Rafe? Did he love her, or did he only own her?”

  “There’s no way to know. Don’t cry.” Awkward, he brushed the tear away. “It makes me feel like I have six thumbs. I mean it.” For lack of something better to do, he patted her head. “There’s no use crying over something that happened more than a hundred years ago.”

  “But she’s still here.” Wrapping her arms around him, Regan snuggled into his chest. “I feel so sorry for her, for all of them.”

  “You’re not going to do yourself, or me, any good if you get tangled up every time you come in here.”

  “I know.” She sighed, comforted by the way his heart beat strong and steady against her. “It’s odd how you get used to it, a little bit at a time. Rafe, when I was downstairs alone…”

  “What?” Uneasy, he tilted her face toward his again.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “What?” he repeated, giving her chin a little shake.

  “Well, I walked into the library. What was the library,” she went on, torn between the need to tell him and embarrassment. “What will be the library. And I— Rafe, I could see it.”

  His eyes were sharp, narrowed, totally concentrated. “See what?”

  “The room. Not the stained floors and the new wiring you’ve put in. The room. Books on the wall, flowers on the table, drapes at the windows. I could really see it,” she repeated, her own brow creasing. “Not the way I do in my
head when I’m planning things out. Not exactly like that. I was thinking to myself, sort of projecting, I suppose. I imagined this, well, I thought I was imagining a Bible stand, with an old family Bible opened on it. And I could read the page, almost touch it. Marriage and births and death.”

  She took time to catch her breath. “You’re not saying anything.”

  “Because I’m listening to you.”

  “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “Not in this house, it doesn’t.”

  “It was so real, so sad. The way the scent of roses in this room is real, and sad. Then it was so cold, bitter, like a window had been flung open to the weather.”

  She moved her shoulders, laid her head on his chest again. “That’s all.”

  “That’s a lot for one day.” Wanting to soothe, he stroked his hand over her hair. “I can give Devin a call, have him come get you.”

  “No, I don’t want to leave. It shook me for a moment, but it’s just as I said before. You get to accept it. I can handle it.”

  “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t need to be guarded against grieving ghosts.”

  But he wanted to guard her. He wished she had called for him. It surprised him just how much he wished she had needed him enough to call out for him.

  “Next time you want to go in the library, let me know. I’ll go with you.”

  “The house is already changing,” she said quietly. “You’ve done that by caring for it. I like feeling I’ve had a part in that, too.”

  “You have.” He pressed his lips to her hair.

  “When people live in it, make love in it, laugh in it, it’ll change again. The house needs people.”

  She shifted, lifted her mouth to his. “Make love with me.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, deepened the kiss. When he picked her up, carried her from the room, the scent of roses followed. She looped her arms around him, pressed her lips to his throat. Already her blood was heating, already her pulse was pounding.

  “It’s like a drug,” she murmured.

  “I know.” He stopped at the top of the stairs, found her mouth again.

  “I’ve never been like this before.” Swamped with emotions, she turned her face into his shoulder.

  Neither had he, he thought.

  As he carried her down, neither noticed that the air had remained warm and calm.

  He laid her in front of the fire. Levering himself up on his elbow, he traced the shape of her face with a fingertip. Something kindled inside her, simmered with desire and flamed around her heart.

  “Rafe.”

  “Ssh…”

  To quiet her, he brushed his lips over her brow. She didn’t know what she would have said, was grateful he’d stopped her. The wanting was more than enough. She could be relieved that neither of them needed words.

  She should have been relieved.

  Her mouth was ready for his, and it warmed beautifully under the pressure of lips and tongue. Though desire remained, poised and trembling, everything in her seemed to soften.

  Here was tenderness, so sweet, so unexpected. Her sigh whispered out like a secret.

  He felt the change, in her, in himself. Marveled at it. Why had they always been in such a hurry? he wondered. Why had he hesitated to savor, and be savored, when there was so much here?

  He loved the flavor of her, that quietly seductive taste that clung to her skin. The feel of her, soft curves, long lines. The smell of her hair, her clothes, her shoulders.

  So he savored it now, all of it, with long, slow kisses that clouded his mind and made him forget there was anything beyond this room for either of them.

  His hands were careful this time as he drew her sweater off, slipped the trousers down her hips. Rather than touch, rather than take, he kissed her again, drawing out the simple meeting of lips until her body went limp.

  “Let me.” With a dreamy murmur, she shifted until they were both kneeling. Already clouded, her eyes stayed on his while she unbuttoned his shirt. Trapped in the silky mood, she slipped it away and, with her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, swayed to him.

  They held each other, moving only for quiet, sipping tastes, soft, gentle caresses. She smiled when his lips brushed her shoulder, sighed when hers tasted his throat.

  When they were naked, he drew her down so that she lay over him, so that her hair fell to curtain them both.

  She could have floated on this whisper-thin cloud of sensations endlessly, with the winter sun slanting cold light through the windows, the fire crackling, his body strong and hard beneath hers.

  The feel of his hands on her, stroking, soothing even as they aroused, was like a gift. She felt the wonder of it in every pore, in every nerve, with every pulse.

  There was no clash and fury now, no desperation, no vicious drive to mate. Now she was aware of everything—the dust motes spinning in the sunbeam that rayed over the floor, the sedate hiss of flame on wood, the scent of roses and man.

  She could count his heartbeats, quicker, stronger, as her lips trailed over his chest. The bunching and quivering of a muscle beneath her hand, the sound of her own thickening breath.

  With a sigh that caught in her throat, she wrapped around him as he rolled her to her back.

  Time spun out, stretched, quivered. The clock on the mantel ticked the seconds away, and the minutes. But that was another world. Here there were only needs lazily satisfied, and hearts quietly lost.

  For pleasure—his as well as hers—he eased her gently to the edge and over. His name was only a murmur on her lips as she arched, tensed, softened to silk. She opened for him, drawing him close with a velvety moan as he slipped into her.

  Overwhelmed by her, by the simplicity of it, he burrowed his face in her hair. The tenderness shattered them both.

  They didn’t speak of it. When they parted in the morning, both of them were determinedly casual. But they thought of it. And they worried.

  Rafe watched her drive off as the sun struggled over the mountains to the east. When she was gone, when there was no one to see, he rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart.

  There was an ache there that he couldn’t quite will away. He had a very bad feeling that she was the cause of it, and that somehow, in a matter of hours, he’d gotten in over his head.

  God, he missed her already.

  He swore at himself for that, then swore again for reaching like a trained dog for the cigarettes that weren’t there. Both were just habits, he assured himself. If he wanted, he could just go buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke his brains out. Just as he could snatch her back anytime.

  Sex was a powerful bond. It wasn’t surprising it had caught him, as well.

  It didn’t have to be any more than that. They’d tidied that up, hadn’t they? A man was entitled to be a little shaky after thirty-odd hours of sex and solitude with a gorgeous woman.

  He didn’t want anything more. Neither did she.

  It was a relief and a pleasure to find a lover who wanted no more and no less than he did himself. A woman who didn’t expect him to play games, make promises neither expected to be kept, say words that were only words, after all.

  Scowling, he grabbed a shovel and began to deal with the snow that piled the walk. The sun was strengthening, and he worked fast, so that even with the bite of the northern wind he sweated satisfactorily under his coat.

  She’d probably head straight for the shower, he mused, tossing heavy snow off the path. Wash that pretty doe-colored hair of hers.

  He wondered what it looked like wet.

  She’d dig some of those neat, classy clothes out of her closet. Nope, he thought, correcting himself. Regan would never dig. She’d select. Quiet colors, simple lines. One of those professional-woman’s jackets, with a pin on the lapel.

  She’d fix her face, nothing too obvious. Just hints of blush along the cheekbones, a touch of color above those ridiculously long lashes. Then lipstick—not red, not p
ink, a kind of rose that accented those full lips and that sassy little mole beside them.

  Halfway down the walk, he stopped, leaned against the shovel and wondered if he was losing his mind. He was actually thinking about her makeup.

  What the hell did he care what paint she slapped on before she went down to open the shop?

  She’d put on the kettle for tea, or have cider simmering so that the place smelled of apples and spices. Then she’d go through the day without giving him a thought.

  Snow flew as he attacked it. Well, he had plenty to do himself, and no time to brood about her.

  He’d reached the end of the walk, and the end of his patience, when Devin rattled up the lane in the sheriff’s cruiser.

  “What the hell do you want?” Rafe shouted. “Haven’t you got somebody to arrest?”

  “Funny how a little blizzard quiets things down.” Leaning on the open car door, Devin watched his brother with amusement. “Saw Regan’s car was gone, figured it was safe to drop by.”

  “I’ve got men due any minute. I don’t have time to chat.”

  “In that case, I’ll take my doughnuts and go.”

  Rafe swiped a hand over his chilled face. “What kind?”

  “Apple and brown sugar.”

  Some things were sacred, and an apple doughnut on a cold morning topped the list.

  “Well, are you going to stand there all morning with that idiot grin on your face? Give me a damn doughnut.”

  Obligingly, Devin took the bag out of the car and sauntered over. “Had three fender benders in town yesterday from people not smart enough to stay put.”

  “Antietam’s a wild town, all right. Have to shoot anybody?”

  “Not lately.” Devin took out a doughnut for himself before passing the bag to Rafe. “Broke up a fistfight, though.”

  “Down at the tavern?”

  “Nope, at the market. Millie Yeader and Mrs. Metz were going at it over the last pack of toilet paper.”

  Rafe’s lips twitched. “People get a little nervous over necessities when a big snow hits.”

  “Tell me about it. Miz Metz conked Millie with a bunch of bananas. Took a lot of diplomacy to keep Millie from filing charges.”

  “Assault with tropical fruit. Could’ve done hard time for that.” Calm again, Rafe licked apple from his thumb. “Did you come by to give me the latest trials and tribulations of Antietam?”

  “That’s just a bonus.” Devin polished off his doughnut, reached for a cigarette. His grin was wide and unsympathetic when Rafe groaned. He lit it, inhaled lavishly. “I hear food tastes better when you quit.”

  “Nothing’s better,” Rafe shot back. “But some of us have real willpower. Blow it over here, you bastard.”

  “Secondhand smoke’s the real killer,” Devin told him, and blew a stream in Rafe’s direction. “You look a little out of sorts, Rafe. Trouble in paradise?”

  Rafe gave some thought to beating his brother to death with the snow shovel and stealing all his cigarettes. Reminding himself it was all a matter of self-control, he leaned on the shovel, instead.

  “How long did it take Shane to open his big mouth?”

  “Let’s see.” Considering, Devin smoked and studied the landscape. “The way the roads were yesterday, I’d say it took him, oh, about seven minutes to get from here to my office.” He flicked ash aside. “Let’s say seven minutes and ten seconds.”

  “Now you’re here to offer your sage advice?”

  “Hey, it was pretty sage to talk those two snarling women into splitting the six-pack of pink toilet paper. But no.” With a self-deprecating smile, he took a