Standing in the Shadows

She missed Connor. She started to pull on her jeans, and then looked down at her thin gauze summer nightgown with the embroidered pink flowers. She thought of his reaction to . her baggy Victorian nightdress. "A calculated cocktease," he'd called it.

Hmm. Well, then. She would just have to see if he liked the skimpier version just as well. No one was awake to see but him.

She crept barefoot down the stairs, disarmed the alarm, and stepped out onto the porch. The night breeze was damp and chilly, whipping the thin fabric around her thighs. She felt Connor's eyes lock onto hers, through the car window, across the dark lawn. She was very conscious of her nipples, pressing against the thin fabric.

Connor pushed the passenger side door open and beckoned to her. She ran across the dew-soaked grass and slid into the Cadillac, scooting over on the slippery leather seat to press herself against his warmth. Her feet were covered with clinging blades of grass.

His arms went around her. "What the hell do you think you're doing out here? You're half naked!" His voice was sharp with outrage.

"I wanted to show you my nightgown," she said. "I wanted to see if you liked it."

"Oh, Christ." He flung his head back against the seat. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"I just missed you, that's all," she said. "I was watching you from my bedroom window. My brave, noble knight in the shining Cadillac."

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it tenderly front and back, and then pressed it against the hard, thick length of his erection. "I like your nightgown, babe," he said. "How noble is that?"

She stroked him from base to tip. Her fingers tightened appreciatively around his thick shaft. "Oh, very noble, Connor. Very."

He covered her hand, held it still. "Don't, Erin. That's enough."

"Why not? Everyone's asleep. Open your jeans for me and I'll practice some of my bad girl skills. I've never done anything in a car before. Except for when you kissed me at the airport. That counts."

"I think it does, too. But still, no."

Her fingers tightened, rubbed Mm, insisting. "Don't you want—"

"You know damn well how much I want it, but I'm not comfortable letting down my guard in a car parked out on the street. I'm wide open when you do your sex goddess routine on me."

"So come up to my room." She pressed her lips against his hot face, rubbed her cheek against the rasp of glinting beard stubble. "We'll lock the doors, set the alarms. We'll be as safe as it's possible to be."

He clapped his hand over his eyes. "Yeah, right. That'd go over great with your mom. You saw what she did to that Jag."

"Don't be silly," she said. "You're no Billy Vega, and besides, she already likes you." She rushed over his snort of derision. "My bedroom is in the attic, on the opposite side of the stairs from Mom's bedroom. They're asleep, Connor. They're exhausted. No one will ever know."

"You are lethal, sweetheart," he whispered. "Like Eve in the garden. Come on, baby, just one little nibble. See how shiny the apple is? Yum, yum."

She nibbed against him so that her neckline gaped low. "The apple is juicy and sweet, Connor," she said. "I promise, you'll love it."

His hand slid up over her hip, her waist, and cupped her breast. She arched against him. "Come upstairs, and you can take this nightgown off me and make love to me, Connor. I never sneaked a boy into my childhood bedroom, ever. I need to make up for lost time."

"I'm not a boy, Erin," he said. "I'm a man. That makes it different. That makes it kinky."

She cradled his face and kissed the frown line between his brows. "And I'm a woman," she said quietly. "Which makes it OK."

He stared into her eyes for a long moment "Tell me what your bedroom looks like."

The odd question disoriented her. "Why don't you just come up and see for yourself?"

"Just tell me, so I can see if it's anything like my fantasies."

The longing in his voice silenced her, leaving her breathless. But only for a moment.

"Um… the wallpaper has a pattern of pink rosebuds," she began. "The bed is a maple four-poster, from my great-grandmother. There's a double wedding ring quilt in a million different shades of pink. Beneath it there's a dusty rose duvet. Dusty rose pillows with lace ruffles. There's a braided rag rug on the parquet floor, like the one in my apartment, but this one is in shades of peach and cream and pink. There's a washstand with a basin and pitcher. A maple dresser set and vanity, a matching armoire with beveled mirrors. Eyelet lace curtains. It's a very pretty room. I've always loved it."

His eyes glittered like a wolf's in the moonlight. "God, Erin. That just makes me want to explode."

She stifled a giggle. "Eyelet lace curtains turn you on?"

"No. You turn me on. You, in the middle of all that fluffy chick stuff. Lace and rosebuds. I could come in my pants just thinking about it."

"I have flower-scented candles," she offered. "And there's ajar of rose petal potpourri on the vanity. The whole room smells like roses."

"Any stuffed animals lying around?" he demanded. "Dolls? I'll feel like a sleaze if you've got dolls in there."

His suspicious tone made her giggle. "There are some antique dolls, but they don't bite. They just sit on the shelves and watch you."

"Yikes," he muttered. "That's creepy."

"I'll keep you too busy to notice them," she said. "I can even put on ankle socks, and do my hair in two braids, and suck on a striped lollipop, if you like. Just say the word."

"No thanks, Lolita," he said. "I like women, not little girls."

She put her arms around his neck and trailed soft, seductive kisses from his high, sharp cheekbone down to his rigid jaw. He was still resisting her, as hot and hard and eager as his body was.

Time to bring out the big guns.

"I'm naked underneath this nightgown," she whispered.

"Yeah, like I hadn't noticed," he said roughly. "I can see your nipples and your crotch right through that damn thing."

She tugged up the flounced skirt until it cleared her knees, then her thighs. She bunched it up under her breasts so that he could see her belly, her sex, the whorls of silky dark hair between her thighs. She opened her legs and lay her hand between them, brushing her fingertips against her labia. "Don't you want to touch me?"

"Goddamn it, Erin," he said hoarsely. "This isn't fair."

"I know," she whispered. "I can't help myself. I would never have dreamed of making a spectacle of myself to turn a man on before, but I'll do it for you. I want to drive you crazy." She slid her fingers into her cleft, tightened her thighs around the trembling ache of arousal.

He jerked her onto his lap. She almost sobbed in relief, and gave herself up to his strong hands, his ravenous mouth. His fingers slid inside her, and she whimpered and lifted her hips, desperate for the relief that only he could give. She had wanted to make him helpless with desire, but now she was the helpless one.

Connor's slow, seductive kisses made her lose all sense of gravity. His thrusting hand, his demanding mouth were her only points of reference. His fingers teased and caressed her until she splayed herself wide, shaking. Pushing herself against his hand in a silent demand for release. He withdrew his hand and set her down on the seat.

"OK. You win," he said. "You've got me right where you want me, but I've got you, too. Take me up to your room and fuck me, Erin."

She drew in a sobbing breath and got out of the car. Her legs shook so hard she could barely stand. "On the first flight of stairs, the fourth step creaks," she said breathlessly. "Be sure to skip it."

His eyes narrowed. "You realize, of course, that if your mother walks in on us, I will have a heart attack on the spot."

"There's a hook latch on the door," she told him. "Mom's not the type to kick in doors. Dad would have, but not Mom. She's the type to wait until later and then look at you with big, hurt eyes."

"Yeah, and then bash in my skull with a cast-iron skillet."

"Oh, don't be such a scaredy-cat," she chided.

They crept in the front door. Erin reset the house alarm, and beckoned him up the stairs. She listened for his footsteps, but she heard nothing, not even the brush of fabric against fabric. She turned, expecting to see him still at the foot of the stairs.

He was right behind her.

He smiled at her gasp of surprise and put his finger to his lips. He followed like a ghost, floating over the squeaky parquet floor to her attic bedroom. He closed and latched the door as she searched through a drawer for the matches.

She began to light her candles, and without conscious intent, the action took on a ceremonial reverence. She was gathering power, lighting an altar to love. Rose, lavender, hibiscus, and jasmine on the vanity. Heliotrope, lilac, lily of the valley, and vanilla on the dresser. Natural scents, not overpowering, but delicately effective. Candle flames reflected into the mirrors, dancing in the currents of subtly perfumed air that moved through the room.

She turned around to face him. She felt ridiculously shy, after all her seductive posturing. The room seemed to turn back time. It made her feel younger, more unsure. More vulnerable, if that were possible.

His eyes were soft with wonder. "You're straight out of a fairy tale, Erin. That perfect body, in silhouette, and the candles behind you that turn your nightgown into pure light. My enchanted princess."

"Princess?" She blushed rosy red. "Oh, please."

"That's how I've always thought of you," he said quietly. "A beautiful princess in a tower too high to climb. Wall of thorns, magical spells, dragons, the whole deal."

If he kept up with this sweet talk she was going to start crying again, she just knew it. She sniffled, and tried to laugh. "My tower was only so high because you were the only one I ever wanted to climb it."

The power games and seductive wiles and playful banter had evaporated. They had no place in the reverent hush. Time collapsed, and she was seventeen again, the first night she met him. She had lit her candles and lain awake for hours, tossing and turning. Troubled by sensual dreams and fantasies, by a restless ache in her body that sharpened, grew delicious and agonizing when she thought of his smile, his laugh. The shape of his hands. The breadth of his shoulders.

A crazy, fanciful thought began to form in her mind.

"Would you play out a fantasy for me?" she asked.

"I would do anything for you," he said.

The stark hunger in his eyes emboldened her. "I want to go back in time," she faltered. "I made a mistake once. I want to try and fix it."

He nodded in silent encouragement.

She gathered all her courage. "I picked the wrong man to lose my virginity to. I didn't have the guts to go after the man I really wanted."

"Oh, Erin—"

"It should've been you, the first time." She rushed on, desperate to get the thought out before it fragmented. "But it wasn't. And it was awful. It closed me down for years. I didn't even want to try to have sex again. Until I made love to you."

His fists clenched. "What did he do to you?"

The steely anger in his voice frightened her, and she shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, nothing like that," she assured him. "It wasn't his fault he was the wrong man. It wasn't his fault that I didn't love him, and I didn't really want him. It was more my mistake than his."

"I don't buy it, Erin," he said. "You have a real bad habit of taking responsibility for things that aren't your fault."

She threw up her hands. "Maybe, but so what? I don't want to think about that, or about him. Tonight, there's magic. Tonight, I think I could go back in time. Be nineteen again. And have the first time be with you. Beautiful and perfect. Even… holy."

He moved toward her, and took both her hands in his. "I love you, Erin." His voice was a fierce whisper.

She struggled to respond. Language had utterly deserted her.

"I didn't want to scare you off," he said. "I didn't want to say that too soon. But if you want me to make love to you like that, then it has to be said." He lifted her hands, kissed them reverently. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she burst out. "I always have, Connor. Always."

The truth was out, naked and stark and beautiful. Revelations unfolded inside the secret places in their hearts, like flowers blooming wide, releasing their sweetness to the wind.

"You know what this means, Erin," Connor said. "This is like our wedding night. You're mine, I'm yours. Forever."

Flickering shadows danced and swirled in her vision as tears welled up and flashed down her face. "Yes," she whispered.

Their lips met, in a solemn, reverent kiss. Not a kiss to coax or to conquer, but a kiss to seal a pact. A kiss to break an enchantment.

Or to unleash one.

Connor gave himself up to her fantasy, with all his longing and passion and generous tenderness. He pushed the nightgown off her shoulders, and followed its sliding path with his mouth and hands.

He made love to her with lips and tongue, with the soft warmth of his breath. He sank to his knees and tugged the nightgown over her hips until it pooled around her feet, and hid his face against her mound, worshiping her very essence. They were poised in perfect balance on a knife's edge of awe and bliss, suspended by grace. With no fear of falling.

Even the struggle to get his clothes off, the muffled laughter, was imbued with reverent wonder. They were as awkward as if it truly were the first time. Connor's fingers trembled so much that he dropped the condom. When Erin knelt to retrieve it for him, she got sidetracked, allured by his phallus: hot and smooth and hard to bursting, weeping delicious, salty drops of passionate need. AH hers to caress and cherish. He gasped with agonized pleasure when she took him in her mouth, but after only a few tender, sliding strokes he pulled her back up.

"None of that, sweetheart. Tonight's all about you," he said. He rolled the condom over himself, pulled down the duvet and pressed her into the cool sheets. His body shook.

She stroked his hair. "Are you OK?" she asked.

"I'm scared." His voice was low and tense. "This has to be perfect for you. This sets the tone for the rest of forever. I think I'm entitled to be a little nervous."

She pulled him tighter. "But you can't go wrong," she assured him. "It's like you were made for me. Everything you do is perfect."

"God. You are such a sweetheart." He smiled at her. "The way you stroke my ego. Stroke away. Let it swell up like a hot air balloon. I love it. Can't get enough of it."

"But it's true, Connor," she protested. "Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me, I—oh, God…"

Her words choked off as he pushed her legs wider and nudged himself inside. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Do you want me now?"

Pleasure bloomed around his gentle invasion. Every point of contact glowed, incandescent. She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he pushed inside. The yielding rush of emotion was so strong, so sweet. It echoed in his eyes, reverberating between them until she wanted to cry out at the sheer beauty of it. Her man, her mate.

She reached up to brush away the hair that had fallen across his face. Her hand came away wet. She pulled his face to hers and kissed away his tears, moved beyond words. She tasted their hot, salty magic, and the spell was complete. They were bound for all eternity.

They began to move, rocking together in delicious, liquid accord.

He froze. "Oh, no. Not possible. This is so fucking cruel."

Her eyes popped open, alarmed. "What's not possible?"

"This bed squeaks!" He was outraged. "You didn't tell me you had a squeaky bed when you lured me up here with salacious promises!"

"I didn't know," she said defensively. "I've never had sex in this bed! How would I know? And what do we care?"

"Easy for you to say," he scoffed. "You're not the one who gets bludgeoned to death if your mom hears us."

She started to shake, with soft, helpless giggles that could melt into tears in an instant, and Connor clapped his hand over her mouth.

"I hate to put a damper on our romantic fantasy, because I was really getting off on it myself, but we have to make some modifications," he said. "Parental participation would seriously wreck the mood."

He pulled himself out of her clinging body with a groan of pleasure and slid off the bed. He tossed the comforter onto the rug, and arranged it into a soft, puffy nest. He grabbed a pillow and sank down onto his knees, holding out his hand to her. His smile was radiant and beautiful. "The floor doesn't squeak," he said. "Come here."

She scrambled into his arms. They both cried out with pleasure at the sweet shock of contact. She had no barriers at all, nor did he. He had offered his whole self to her with extravagant, childlike abandon, and it almost frightened her, how vulnerable he'd made himself, how enormous his trust. It was a vast responsibility, but she couldn't examine the thought. It exploded like a shower of sparks and gave way to the next wave of pure emotion.

"You want to be up or down?" he asked between kisses.

"Do I have to choose? Can't we do them all?"

"You're the enchanted princess. I am yours to command."

She leaned back against the pillows and pulled him down on top of her. "I want this, for now. I like your warmth, and your weight."

"Anything," he muttered, and he scooped her body up tightly against his, cradling her. He entered her again, and pulsed against her hips with lazy, sinuous skill until passion seized them and they heaved and writhed together, twining around each other like flames.

It was everything she could have desired More than she had ever dreamed of. Each kiss, each worshipful caress and whispered word of love deepened their surrender to each other. They made love until she was limp and soft, her whole body one glowing smile.

She must have dozed at some point, although the whole night seemed like a sweet, feverish blur. She opened her eyes and found him gazing at her, a small piece of folded paper in his hands.

"You're not sleepy?" she asked.

"I can't sleep," he said, smiling at her. "I'm too happy."

"What's that you're doing?" she asked.

He made one careful, final adjustment, and handed it to her.

It was an origami unicorn. She gazed at its miniature, angular perfection, astonished. "It's beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Davy taught me, when I was recuperating. Davy goes for that slow, meditative stuff. Tai chi and meditation and cosmic harmony, yada yada. I was going nuts with boredom, so one day he comes in with some paper and a book on origami. He said hey, it's about time you learned to concentrate, Con. So I did. I had nothing better to do."

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. "I love it."

"It's yours," he offered. "I'd better go on out to the car."

She reached out in blind protest, but he blocked her words with a kiss. "This is all we get for tonight, sweetheart," he said. "It's almost five o'clock. God. I feel like a horny teenager, sneaking around like this. What's the password for the alarm?"

"It's katherine323jane," she said. "Katherine with a k, mind you. Those are our middle names. Mine and Cindy's."

He extricated himself from their tangled nest and scooped her up into his arms. "Erin Katherine," he murmured. "That's so pretty."

She was utterly limp and smiling as he carried her to the bed and tucked her in. "What's your middle name?" she asked.

He spread the duvet over her. "I don't have one," he said. "I'm just Connor. It was my mother's maiden name. Jeannie Connor."

He kissed her again like he couldn't bear to stop, sending diffuse ripples of pleasure through her exhausted body.

He pulled on his clothes, shrugged on his coat, bent over to blow out her candles. She hated to see him leave, but the second the door clicked shut behind him, something inside her finally let go.

Sleep rolled over her like a shadowy tide and carried her away.

The man who was no longer Novak hung up the phone, stared at it blankly, and went looking for Tamara. He could have summoned her to him, but he wanted to catch her unaware.

It was not every day that a man got news of his own death. He observed his feelings with detachment. The news did not elate him. He felt lost, drifting. The flip side of freedom. The price he must pay.

He found Tamara in her office, wearing a pair of glasses, of all things, as she peered into a computer screen. She gasped, whipped the glasses off, and assumed her most seductive expression. Obviously she thought she had fooled him. She could keep her illusions. They cost him nothing.

"I just got some news," he told her. "Kurt Novak is dead, together with his employees, Ingrid Nagle and Matthieu Rousse. They were murdered some hours ago, near Marseilles. The building was blown up. A crime lord, Pavel Novak's rival, striking a blow at him through his son, they say. Live by the sword and die by the sword, as they say."

Her sensual mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Oh… I'm not sure whether I should congratulate you or offer my condolences, boss."

He considered the question for a moment. "You may congratulate me, Tamara, by removing your clothing."

Fifteen sweaty minutes later, Tamara's office was in considerable disarray, and he was feeling somewhat better, for a man six hours dead.

Tamara slid down the wall onto the floor when he detached himself from her body. She started to say something, and stopped.

It piqued his curiosity. "What? Ask me anything," he urged.

She eyed him warily. "I was wondering… how you did it."

"Ah. My transformation into Claude Mueller, you mean." He sank down beside her, naked, and threaded his arm through hers. "I met him at the Sorbonne, years ago. He fell in love with me, and became tiresome, but he was so rich, I was sure he would come in handy one day, so I tolerated him. One night, when drunk, he confessed that he wanted to be me." He smiled at her. "And the idea was born. It's never too early to plan ahead."

Tamara was rapt. "You just… stole his life?"

"Claude was sickly, and naive. He had no friends but me. It was easy to cut him off from his few social contacts. A doctor with a shady past was enlisted to make him ill, with the aid of a criminal cook. And then I arranged for his parents to be removed from the picture. No one seemed to care what happened to him then. He was weak-willed, forgettable to look at. When I finally put him into a coma, no one noticed. But I, posing as Claude, have become quite a personage on the Internet. Everyone knows of Claude's generosity, his passionate love for collecting. Everyone loves him and courts him."

"Brilliant," she murmured.

"Claude's wish has come true. He is me. And I will live his life for him. Far better than he ever could have lived it himself."

She was silent for so long that he turned and looked. Her eyes looked haunted. "What?" he demanded. "What is it?"

She swallowed several times before she answered, a sure sign that she was going to risk telling him the truth. "When you tell me so many details, I'm afraid that you're planning…" Her voice trailed off.

"That I plan to kill you?" He was touched by her honesty. "Every man needs someone with whom he can speak freely, no?"

"Of course," she said automatically. "But—is this wise? To risk this new identity, just to punish Connor McCloud for—"

"Do not question my wisdom ever again."

He got up and began to pull on his clothing. Tamara reached for her blouse. "No," he said. "Stay that way. I like to see you naked."

The blouse dropped silently from her trembling hand.

He glanced at her computer. "What were you doing, at this hour?"

"I was checking McCloud's car," she said. "I got a call from Marc. The McCloud brothers descended upon Billy Vega tonight like avenging angels. They snatched Cindy and left Vega in a bloody heap."

He blinked. "Ah. That changes things."

"Yes. It also appears that McCloud has undermined what you were trying to accomplish with Barbara Riggs. She's rallied. To the point of smashing all the windows out of Vega's car with McCloud's cane."

He began to laugh. "You can't be serious."

"I promise, I am. He's at the Riggs house now. The house vidcams showed him creeping up the stairs, to play with Erin."

He stared out the window as he buttoned his shirt, letting his plans shift and flow into new patterns. Barbara and Cindy Riggs were doomed anyway, a few days more or less hardly mattered. But this news of Billy Vega's defeat gave him an amusing idea that could move the whole thing briskly forward. "Call Georg, Tamara," he said.

She rummaged on the devastated desk for her communicator, and pressed the button. "Georg? The boss wants you in my office, please." She clicked the line shut, and reached for her skirt.

"No," he said silkily. "Stay just as you are, please."

Her constant smile faltered. It was faltering quite often lately.

When Georg walked into the office, she gasped, so startled that she forgot her nudity. Georg had shaved his head and brows, and plucked out his eyelashes. Blue veins traced across his smooth skull; his blue eyes were feverish in deep, bruised pits. He seemed a ghoul, a misbegotten thing that had crawled out of a sewer. The man who was no longer Novak nodded in approval. "I see you have followed my instructions. Did you exfoliate?"

"Three times a day," Georg said. "Just as you said. I am ready."

He embraced Georg, and kissed him on both cheeks. "Excellent. You are a vicious, loyal hound, and tonight, you will taste fresh blood."

After Novak explained what was expected of him later that night, Georg turned to Tamara. Scarred lips drew back from his ruined teeth as he looked her up and down. "When I return, I will want sex," he said.

The man who was no longer Novak shrugged. "Obviously," he said. "You will be happy to oblige him, of course, Tamara?"

Tamara hesitated, longer than usual. He waited… ah, there it was. That bright smile, ever at the ready. "Of course," she said faintly.

He advanced upon her again once Georg departed. Tamara's smile was a challenge. She tried to hide behind it, but he knew how much she loathed being intimate with Georg. He knew that power and danger excited her, that she was testing her limits, that she was too intelligent not to sense how close she was to death. Layer upon layer of lies, and twisted motives. Her complexity aroused him.

He opened his clothing and availed himself of her body again. He wished to get past all of Tamara's layers, all the way to her tender, shrinking center before he added her to his legions of angels. She must be punished, for thinking she could hide her secrets behind a smile.

Punishment exalted. His angels knew this, and so would she. The Riggs family would learn it, the McCloud brothers would learn it.

Just as he had learned it. The day was always with him, frozen in his memory. The day that his father had strangled his mother. She had betrayed him. He had been five years old, too young to understand the nature of her betrayal, but not too young to understand empty eyes, slack limbs. He understood death. He understood punishment.

His father had not been a heartless man. He had wept, had cradled his dead wife's body in his arms and sobbed.

"Never betray me," he had begged his small son. "Never."

"Never," the little boy had whispered. "Never."

Someone was clutching, clawing at his hands. Wild-eyed. Red hair, green eyes, gasping mouth wide open. Tamara. He realized, with a start of surprise, that his hands were clamped around her slender neck.

He let go of her, and got to his feet. These odd fugue states occurred when he was under stress. But after all, he had died only six hours ago. That was a stressful event.

Tamara lay curled and gasping on the floor, clutching her throat.

He fastened his trousers. "Be ready for Georg when he returns," he said as he left the room.