For Keeps Page 11

  Casey could not believe he was doing that. He wanted her so badly he could feel the tremors deep in his muscles, he could hardly think about anything except how badly he wanted her... but he was pushing her away. How simple it had all seemed this afternoon, when he asked her to spend the weekend with him. The only logical solution to the consuming need he felt for her: fulfill that need and it would go away.

  But she was a person, separate and distinct, with needs even more important than his own. He couldn't ignore that. And even though he surprised himself by doing so, he had to make certain she knew where this was leading, and what she was getting into if it went further.

  And maybe he needed a moment to be sure, himself.

  He held her face gently between his hands; the unsteady stream of his breath fanned across her heated cheeks. His eyes were alive with passion and dark with intensity. He said softly, "Lyn, think of what you're doing."

  Yes, she should think. This was not what she wanted. She could not get involved with him, she could not fall in love with him... and she could not make love to him without doing both. She had made so many mistakes lately; she could not add this to the list. She couldn't afford to hurt herself, or anyone else, anymore.

  She lowered her eyes, avoiding the penetrating, soul-stripping lights of his. She said hoarsely, "We'd better start back."

  He hesitated, then dropped his hands to her shoulders, massaging the suddenly tense muscles there briefly. Then he said, "No. Not yet."

  He took her hand, and led her toward the low jetty a few feet away. She did not protest when he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her up, seating her on the planks. He stood in the sand beside her, not touching her, looking up at her. He said, "Tell me about Philadelphia."

  Philadelphia. Where a job, a semifurnished apartment, and a life still waited for her. Where everything she had run away from was shrouded under dust covers and packed away in cardboard file boxes; not buried but in limbo. She couldn't pretend it didn't exist anymore. She couldn't just close her eyes and hope it would go away. Everything that was important to her was back there, and she was here, hiding. That was the problem.

  She began to speak lowly, and she would not meet his eyes. At first she kept her voice as matter-of-fact as possible, but her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She said, "I told you. I did a stupid thing. I was so sure I could set the world on fire, I was always right... but this time I was wrong. Very, very wrong."

  She took a breath, stiffening her shoulders. "I had only been in Protective Services a few months, and the case records I saw were appalling. You have to understand, that's a high-stress division, mostly child abuse and neglect, and people burn out pretty fast. The caseworkers were.. .well, hard. Almost disinterested. I saw something had to be done, and I thought I was the one who could do it better. So when I got my first case I was really gung ho. We were called in to investigate a child abuse case and..." With a great effort, she unclenched her hands. "It's a complicated story, but the mother kept pleading with me not to take the children away and the father seemed to be making a good start toward turning his life around so...in the end I recommended to the court that the children be returned to the home. No," she added forcefully. "I insisted. I was so damn sure I had the situation under control, that I was right..."

  Casey's hand rested lightly on her knee, calming, reassuring. Until that moment she had not realized that her muscles were trembling with fine, almost imperceptible quivers, throughout her body. She took another breath and tried to keep her voice even.

  "Anyway, on a follow-up visit a few days later.. .the father had a shotgun." Her voice tightened; she couldn't help it. . "He dragged me inside and tied my hands with a telephone cord and made me sit on the floor. The mother had run out on the family, God knows where. And the children..." Here her voice caught on an indrawn breath. "He had locked them in a closet. I could hear them, crying and screaming, but the worst was when I couldn't hear them at all. The oldest one was only four."

  A cool film of perspiration broke out on her body and she was back there, hearing the sounds, smelling the smells, choking on fear... "I—I kept thinking they would smother, or dehydrate, then I thought what it must be like locked in the dark and hearing their father threaten to kill them, to kill us all. Every once in a while he would fire the gun, blasting holes in the ceiling and the walls, and they would start screaming again...." She fought the tremors that threatened to rack her body, fought to keep her breathing even, fought off the nightmare that came back to her in wave after terrifying wave.

  "And I couldn't do anything. I was so scared. Scared he was going to kill me, or the kids, or himself, scared that it would never be over... Six hours. He held us hostage for six hours. And when the police finally got him to come out... He opened fire on them, and they—they shot him. Killed him."

  Then she couldn't fight any longer. The shudders broke through, and the sobs, dry and almost soundless, desperate little gasps for breath. Casey's arms were around her, shielding her, giving her strength, letting her relive what she had to and struggle with what she had to, and holding her until the terror had spun itself out.

  The silence was long and dark, and the ocean in the background sounded like whispering voices of accusation. Her face rested against Casey's shoulder, and his arms were warm around her. Her voice sounded strained when she spoke again, barely audible above the murmur of the ocean. "I keep thinking... if I had acted differently, if I had been more careful, more in control. If I hadn't been so damn determined that I could change the world..."

  But she didn't finish. Long ago she had learned that what-ifs made no difference; none of it mattered now.

  She stepped back and looked at Casey bleakly, trying to force a smile. "So. Now you know my story. I don't deal well with failure, so I came here to escape. Not very brave, not very gallant, not very noble. But that's me, the way I am."

  He touched her shoulder in a tender, soothing gesture, and let his hand trail down her arm until his fingers entwined with hers. "You didn't do anything wrong, Lyn," he said. "Nobody can set the world on fire. Sometimes the best we can do is try to light a single candle. You tried, and you have nothing to be ashamed of."

  She leaned forward, dropping her head until it rested on his shoulder. She felt weak, drained, yet strangely light inside. Free. It was true, as Casey must have always known, that a burden shared was a burden diminished. He had waited, with patience and insight, until she was ready to talk, knowing that the telling would take away the terror. That was his gift to her.

  "Oh, Casey," she whispered, "you were right. You are the best thing that could have happened to me."

  He lifted her face, and the look in his eyes was uncertain, disturbed, as though he wanted to say something but did not know how. It unsettled her. Then he smiled, and kissed her lips gently. "I hope so," he said.

  ********

  The drive home was mostly silent, but it was a gentle quiet, compassionate and unrestrained. It was as though the closeness that had developed between them over the space of the evening left no room for words, elevating their relationship to a new level that each felt compelled to explore within themselves. Lyn rested her head against Casey's shoulder and closed her eyes, not really dozing, but examining the sense of rightness and contentment she felt with cautious wonder, like a fragile treasure she was afraid to grasp too tightly for fear it would break. She felt secure in his nearness. Lying against him drifting on the edge of sleep, feeling his warmth around her and the flex of his muscles against her cheek as he moved his arm, she knew that she wanted it to last for more than an hour.

  Lyn turned on a single lamp as Casey walked her inside. It was almost midnight and the neighborhood was quiet; the lamplight cast gentle bluish shadows over the family room and left the rest of the house still and sleepy. Rabbit jumped up on the sofa, yawned loudly, and closed his eyes.

  Casey smiled. "It's late," he said, "and you're tired." He touched her cheek with his forefinger, guiding h
er face to his, and kissed her softly. "Good night, Lyn."

  He turned to the door, and opened it. Lyn's heart was beating hard as she watched him. And then-she said, "Casey... don't go."

  He hesitated. She thought he would ignore her, or that he hadn't heard, or that he would pretend to misunderstand. She knew she wouldn't have the courage to ask again.

  Then he turned around, and closed the door softly. His eyes were quiet and gently probing, but he did not cross the room toward her. He asked, "Why?"

  Her heart was pounding so now that it hurt her throat. She answered, almost steadily, "Does it matter?"

  He came over to her, placing his hands lightly upon her waist. Not drawing her close, not embracing, merely touching. He said, "To me it does."

  She placed her hands on his forearms, searching his eyes for something she could not even name. „. knowing only that, when she looked at him, she found it. And she said, "Because... I've been afraid for so long. And you make me feel strong."

  He lowered his eyes, and she could not see the expression there. Her heart was straining, bursting, slamming in her chest as his hands left her waist and she thought he would move away. But instead his hands came to her hair, tugging at the combs that held it away from her face. One by one he loosened the combs and let them drop to the floor. He threaded his fingers through her hair, combing the curls over her shoulders, holding them to the light. His eyes were soft with wonder at the effect. And then he looked at her face, cupping one palm against her cheek. He said huskily, "Let's go into the bedroom."

  She did not turn on the light in the bedroom, and the only illumination was the misty flow of moonlight through the louvered shutters. Casey closed the door softly behind them and it wasn't until she heard the muffled snap of the latch that the reality of what was about to happen leaped through her nerves with a jolt. In a moment she would be naked with this man, his body wrapped around hers, vulnerable to him, open to him. There would be no more hiding, no more uncertainty. Nothing would be the same after that.

  She turned to him. Her throat was dry, her stomach tight with anticipation. She could feel her pulse fluttering like sparrow's wings against the back of her throat.

  He slipped his hands beneath her hair, caressing the back of her neck. His warmth flowed through her, heightening the nerve endings along her spine, spreading a flush across her skin. Without moving an inch, her body seemed to expand and yearn toward him.

  The rich deep light in his eyes held her as he said softly, "You make my head spin. I can't think straight."

  "I've never been able to think when I'm with you."

  "I wish I could resist you. Something tells me you are very dangerous."

  His fingers whispered along the curve of her collarbone, following the sweeping neckline of her dress. He took the first small button and unfastened it, and the second.

  There were twenty-two buttons, and Lyn counted every one with a catch of her breath, a new, startled leap of her pulses. When she lifted shaking fingers to help him he gently brushed them aside, releasing the buttons one by one, inch by fraction of an inch. His fingers brushed against her breasts, trailed along her sternum, feathered across her waist and her abdomen until the buttons ended in a narrow point just below her navel. He lifted his hands and pushed the material off her shoulders, tugging the sleeves over her hands, and the gauzy garment fluttered to the floor around her feet. Slowly he slid the straps of her slip off her shoulders and down her arms, his eyes followed the drifting fabric as it exposed her breasts, the length of her rib cage, the slim indentation of her waist, until she stood before him clad in nothing but her panties.

  She was trembling as he hooked his fingers into the scrap of material and gently tugged them over her hips. He knelt to lift her feet, one by one, to free her of the garment. His hands drifted upward along her legs as he straightened, caressing the shape of her calves and her knees, and the long line of her thighs. When his hand slipped between her legs and cupped that most sensitive part of her she felt a flare of dizziness that left her weak; she clutched his shoulders and gasped his name.

  He pulled her into his embrace, his mouth covering hers. She felt the hardness of his body through his clothes, his muscles straining. She tasted the heat of his neck and the roughness of his jaw as her hands tangled in his hair and then pushed impatiently at his jacket, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His shirt was open and his bare chest pressed against her, flesh against flesh, flame fanning fire.

  They tumbled together on the bed, their clothes discarded, as a medley of sensations seared Lyn's consciousness and blazed away, only to be replaced by more vivid, demanding impressions. The shape of his back and shoulders beneath her exploratory fingers, the texture of his skin, smooth and damp and hot. His calves, twining around hers, the softly furred strength of his thighs, the sharp bones of his ankles. His taste, his warm, rich scent, and the ache that wound inside her and threatened to explode.

  She was endlessly, wholly enveloped in him, in what they were together, in what he made her feel. Life, as intensely as she had ever known it, was what he gave her. He made her feel new, filled with power and the certainty of need. With him, anything was possible. And when at last they lay tangled together, drained and drifting in wonder, the only thing she knew was that this was right. If everything else in her life had been wrong, this night with Casey was right, and she only wondered how she could have failed to know it for so long.

  She lay with her face against his heartbeat, her arm stretched across his body and her fingers entwined with his. She could feel his breathing, and the gentle tugging motions his fingers made in his hair.

  He said, "I used to lie awake at night, imagining what it would feel like to have your hair tangled across my throat like this."

  She turned her face a little to look at him. "You never told me."

  A slight hesitance. "No. I never did."

  "And? Does it feel like you imagined?"

  "Better." His voice was low and drowsy, a rich vibration that seemed to go through her soul. "It feels... too good to be true." His fingers tightened on hers. "Ah, Lyn, I wish..."

  "What?"

  But he didn't finish. Instead he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly.

  "Casey," she whispered, and lay her face against his heart again. "I'm falling in love with you."

  She felt his deep inhalation of breath, and the brush of his lips across her hah-. "I know," he said softly. And he lay back against the pillows. "God help me, I know."

  ***************

  EIGHT

  Atop the plaster of Paris boulder the cougar crouched, twitched its tail and prepared to spring. On the ground below the man rolled over and fumbled for his gun. The cougar roared and launched itself into the air.

  Casey shouted, "Sheba, cut!"

  Sheba landed gracefully on the ground and began to lick her fur. Casey walked up to her, snapped on her collar and chain, and gave her a treat from his pocket.

  The same sequence had been repeated six times so far today, but this time the director announced, "Okay, great. Perfect. Let's get a shot of the dead cat and then we can wrap it up for today. Makeup, get some blood over here. Casey, you need any help?"

  Casey waved and replied, "I've got it under control." The director, as well as the makeup staff, looked immensely relieved.

  Casey grinned as Lyn came over to him. "I wonder what he'd do if I said yes?"

  Lyn returned his grin and cautiously stroked Sheba's head. "Hire you an assistant, probably."

  "I've already got one." Casey ran a brief affectionate hand along her back and for the moment that their eyes met the crowded set disappeared, the clamor of voices and equipment receded to the background, and there was only the two of them. Then the makeup girl appeared with a canister of fake blood and Casey turned his attention to her as she explained, somewhat nervously, how to apply it.

  Sometimes it worried Lyn, how much she had begun to depend on those secret moments, th
ose shared looks, over the past week. The days were a blur, lost in the euphoria of newfound passion, punctuated by the memory of Casey's touch, the smile in his eyes, the nights spent wrapped in his arms. They worked together, they played together, and there had been no question of her coming with him to Orlando for the shoot. To be apart from him, even for a few days, would be an unbearable jolt to the rhythms of her life.

  Yet there was an uneasiness within Lyn that she could not define, a restlessness that haunted the back of her mind. Though life had never been more beautiful, she sometimes felt as though she were still in limbo, passing time, waiting. And she did not know what she was waiting for.

  Casey handed Sheba's leash to Lyn as he began applying the artificial gore to Sheba's shoulder and neck. "Hold her still, honey, don't let her lick it off. This is why I vote against realism in the movies. This stuff is going to be a mess to clean up.'”

  Lyn smiled ruefully as she tightened the chain and reached into her own pocket for a liver-flavored treat. "Who would've thought a month ago that I'd be holding this cougar and feeding it out of my hand?"

  Casey's eyes sparked as he glanced up at her. "You've changed," he agreed.

  And perhaps that was it, Lyn realized slowly. She was changing, growing out of the cocoon of fear and uncertainty that had brought her here, feeling things she had never allowed herself to feel before and becoming stronger every day. Because of Casey, she was different in a thousand subtle ways. And because of Casey, she needed more than she ever had in her life.

  Casey must have noticed an alteration in her expression, because he said, "So, how do you like the big-time movie scene? Not quite as glamorous as the magazines picture it, is it?"

  "Oh, I don't know." She smiled. "Glamour is in the eye of the beholder, I guess. And I'm glad I came." She paused to blot her forehead with the back of her hand. "It's hard work, though, isn't it? And hot."

  "You think this is something, wait until July."