The Saint (4 page)

When she reviewed how it had all started, out there on the porch, she wasn't exactly sure how he had managed to insinuate himself into her apartment and turn the whole stilted evening into a living-room picnic, complete with music and liquor and laughter.

But that was Kieran McClintock for you. He was smooth like that. The woman didn't exist who could tell him no when he wanted to hear yes. He was born charming, and he'd just gotten better at it as he got older.

Wait… That wasn't quite right.
She
had put on the music, and
she
had unearthed the booze. Maybe she was putting the blame in the wrong place….

She'd done that before, hadn't she? When she had told Kieran that he killed Steve…that hadn't been completely true. Part of her still blamed him for his part in the accident—and always would. But part of her had finally accepted that there was plenty of blame to go around.

And that's why opening the wine had been such a mistake. She owed him an apology, and it wasn't going to be easy to say what she needed to say. It was two years overdue, and it was going to stick in her throat. Steve's name always did.

And it was definitely going to spoil what had become a rather nice evening. She hadn't had company in so long, she'd forgotten how pleasant it could be.

He came in from the kitchen now, holding an apple, a small knife and a paper plate. He sat down beside her, his back against the wall, too.

He hummed along with the old Beatles song on the radio. He never rushed into small talk. That was one of his most charming traits. He could let a silence rest easy in the room. Of course, when you were the gorgeous Kieran McClintock, beloved heir to the McClintock fortune, which included practically the entire town of Heyday, it probably wasn't difficult to be relaxed and self-confident and let other people do the impressing.

“Kieran, there's something I need to say,” she began.

He turned his head and smiled at her. “Okay,” he said.

Up close, even by this dim light, she was struck by how blue his eyes were. And how gorgeous. God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. When she'd first left Heyday, she'd drawn horns and evil, arched eyebrows on her mental image of him. Even after she admitted, much later, that he might not be the devil, her memory had been distorted.

Most of all, she'd forgotten his amazing charisma. She'd forgotten that he radiated power and masculinity and charm like a light. That was, of course, why teenage boys, fifteen-year-old girls, spinsters and old men and puppies followed him anywhere. The only people she'd ever met who didn't like Kieran were the men whose girlfriends openly lusted after him.

Suddenly the wine seemed to rise straight to her brain. And, as the warmth from his shoulder pressed into hers, she felt the edgy fingers of sexual tension feather at her spine.

Oh, God. She should have known this would happen.

When she didn't speak, he smiled easily and held out the apple he had been peeling.

“Want dessert? I washed it. It doesn't seem too banged up, though it did do a Slinky down two flights of stairs.”

“Sure,” she said, though she knew she was just stalling. She didn't want to talk about Steve, not tonight, not to Kieran. She felt all mixed up inside. It was nerve-wracking to hang here like this, caught between the building desire and the lingering bitterness.

He cut off a wedge of the apple and handed it to her. She chewed it slowly. It tasted sweeter than anything she'd had since she left Heyday. In fact, she thought, shutting her eyes, it tasted like Heyday itself. It tasted like her mom's apple pies and candy apples at the Ringmaster Parade. It tasted like green trees and blue skies and sunshine that slanted slowly over long afternoons.

When she opened her eyes, Kieran smiled and handed her another. As she took it, their fingers touched briefly, both of them slick with apple juice, and warm. Something sharply sweet jolted through her. Kieran would taste like Heyday, too, she thought. His lips would taste like home.

Oh, dear God, she still wanted him. But why should that surprise her? She had always wanted him, ever since she was fifteen years old and didn't even understand what wanting meant. Up until that very last, terrible day, she had always felt a little breathless at the sight of him.

And now here they were, after all that had hap
pened, after two whole years apart. Everything had changed between them—and yet, in this most primitive way, nothing had changed at all.

Just then the radio station began playing a love song that had been all the rage five years ago. She knew that song. It was corny and lilting and unabashed in its emotion. She had secretly loved it, but Steve had thought it was hilarious. He had wandered through the house, making up alternate lyrics, each more nauseatingly saccharine than the last.

“Steve made such fun of this song,” she said. “I never had the nerve to admit how much I liked it.”

Kieran smiled. He didn't even seem to notice that she had finally brought up Steve, although that was probably another example of how smooth he was.

“I bet Steve loved it, too,” he said. “Teenage boys do that a lot. They aren't comfortable expressing emotion yet. Eventually they grow out of it.”

She looked at him, feeling the sadness come streaking through her. No, she thought, tightening her shoulders to resist the pain. Steve wouldn't grow out of it. Steve would never get the chance to grow up.

Kieran's face tightened, and she knew he could read her thoughts. Or maybe he had just recognized his own insensitive blunder.

He put out his hand and touched her face.

“I'm sorry, Claire,” he said. “Oh, hell. I'm so sorry.”

She turned away. She looked down at her apple. She'd been holding this piece too long. It was starting to turn brown where her fingers pinched it.

“I think—I think maybe it's time for you to go,” she said.

“Claire, don't. Don't close off again—”

But she had to. Didn't he understand that? When she left herself open, open to wanting him, open to remembering Steve, then the pain came charging in, like an enemy rushing a breach in the defenses. She couldn't endure it. It simply hurt too much.

She tried to climb to her feet, but he was so close. It was hard to get leverage without reaching out and touching him.

“Really,” she said. “It's late—”

“Claire, talk to me. Please…tell me what you're feeling.”

What she was feeling? She got to her feet somehow and stood staring down at him. She tried to find her earlier numb indifference, but it was gone. Something had stolen it. Kieran, with his blue eyes and his sexy smile and his knotted, inextricable ties to Steve, had stolen it, as he had stolen so many things in her life.

“What do you think I'm feeling? I'm hurting. Is that what you wanted me to say? I've lost everyone I ever loved, and it hurts. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He rose, too, but she shoved away from him and moved toward the radio. She flicked it off just before he reached her.

“No,” he said. “I never wanted you to hurt.”

“Oh, that's right. What was I thinking? You'd much prefer to hear that everything is fine, that I'm okay and you're forgiven. In fact, that's why you're here, isn't it? That's why you came. So that you can be forgiven, and you can get on with your life.”

She was right. She could see it in his face. He didn't deny it. He just stared at her, looking exhausted and guilty as hell.

Somehow that drained all the fury right out of her. She went limp. “All right, then, you're forgiven,” she said. “And I'm fine. Now please go home. Please.”

Her voice cracked, and she felt something warm, like blood, on her cheeks. She reached up and touched the liquid, but it was clear. It was tears—the first she'd cried since Steve's funeral. She tried to choke them back. She didn't want to do this. Not now, not ever. She lifted her chin and swallowed hard, but still they poured down her face.

Kieran stood in front of her, his face dark. “Don't fight it,” he said. “It's all right. You need to cry.”

He brushed the tears with his fingers. And then, very slowly, he kissed the damp places where they had been. She didn't resist as he pulled her into his arms and bent his head close to hers. She could feel his heart pounding.

He was so strong, she thought. And she was not. Once, she had been…but now she was being helplessly drained by this flood of tears.

So she let herself rest against his chest. Just for a little while, she thought. Just until she borrowed enough strength to stand on her own again.

When he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his, when he bent his head and kissed her, she thought at first it was just another kind of comfort. His lips were tender, moving slowly, as if he hoped he might be able to stroke new life into her.

And it
was
comforting. His kiss was sweet and warm, and she had been right, he did taste of Heyday. He opened her lips gently and breathed the sweet air of home, the pure memory of Steve, of happiness, of innocence, of love, into her mouth.

With a soft groan, she accepted it all, grateful but passive, still helpless to resist or participate.

Somewhere, though, her body had already begun to answer him. A subtle heat in the small of her back. A warm, honeyed liquid trickling through her veins. It must have begun very deep, so deep that she wasn't aware, because by the time it reached her conscious mind, her heart was racing, and she was on fire.

She caught her breath against the piercing pleasure.

Pulling away, she turned her face toward his neck, where she could feel his heart pounding, just as hers was. She moved her mouth against him, until he was wet with her tears, and skin slid easily on skin. His arms jerked and tightened, and the pulse throbbed harder against her lips.

He made a low noise in his throat, more vibration than sound.

“I want you, Claire,” he said, turning his face to capture her lips again. His breath was still sweet, but fiery now, an extension of the flames inside her. “I want you so much I can hardly see straight.”

“I know,” she said. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I know.”

His hands moved over her back, down to her hips. He pulled her closer. “I didn't come for this, I swear I didn't.” He cupped his hands around her buttocks and tilted her into him. “At least I don't think I did. I honestly don't know. I don't know anything anymore.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said.

And it didn't. Little frozen bits of her body were melting, and the warm flood was carrying her away.
She might have regrets tomorrow, but tonight she didn't care.

After all she had lost, didn't she deserve this? Didn't Kieran owe her this? Didn't he owe her one night when she didn't have to feel so dreadfully alone?

And tomorrow?

But she shut the question out of her mind. No one should live for tomorrow. It might never come. It might fly away in the gray, speeding hour before dawn. And then it would be too late.

“Please,” she whispered, putting her lips against his throat. “Make love to me.”

He hesitated one last second. And then, with a low groan of surrender, he eased her down onto the tablecloth. He unbuttoned her yellow dress, and when she was naked and waiting, taking shallow breaths to hold the tension at a safe distance, he slowly removed his own clothes.

He was even more beautiful than she had imagined. His golden skin, his powerful proportions, his hot blue eyes devouring her and his silken blond hair dangling in his face…

No wonder everyone loved him. She could love him, too, if she let herself.

He skimmed his fingers down her body, from collarbone to hip. She shivered and shifted against the tablecloth hungrily.

He knelt over her, positioning himself carefully so that their bodies met at every possible point. He brought his mouth down and took the tip of her breast between his warm lips. Arching with something that was too lovely to be pain, too piercing to be joy, she threaded her fingers through his soft hair
and said his name, his beautiful name that sounded a little like a cry.

He touched her then between her legs, touched her as if he already knew her, as if her body spoke to him in a secret language only he could hear. He went slowly. He listened as her muscles quivered, as her breath trembled and moaned and snagged on its own panting pace. And then, when he was sure he understood, his fingers stroked their complicated, fiery response.

She cried out and twisted, instinctively trying to escape the terrifying thrill of such a profound intimacy.

What about tomorrow?
Something frightened inside kept crying out the question.
What about tomorrow?

But there was no tomorrow.

“Kieran,” she cried, pulling at his hand. He understood—he moved quickly. He rose above her. He pressed himself into her, pushing softly at first, then harder….

“Claire?” His face was tense. He hadn't expected that he would be the first. It clearly was an agony to hold back.

Tomorrow?
But the word was only a shadow now.

“It's all right,” she said. She dug her fingers into his hips and pulled him in, until the barriers broke and he filled her with a groan and a flash of searing pain.

He kissed her then, and the fiery, rhythmic sparkle began all over again. She opened, and he drove into her mouth just as he was driving into her body. And in that sweet, hot wetness, she realized she had been wrong.

Kieran McClintock's lips didn't taste like home.

They tasted like heaven.

And for one taste of heaven tonight, she'd gladly face hell tomorrow.

T
HE
H
EYDAY
H
IGH
S
CHOOL
Cheerleaders had picked the hottest June morning in Heyday history to hold their annual car wash. But at least Eddie Mackey had the consolation of knowing he wasn't the only boy dumb enough to have crawled out of bed to help them.

All the guys were here. Joe and Carter and Jeff and Mark…and even Cullen, their star quarterback, who had said last night that if his girlfriend Jana thought he was gonna be her trained lapdog, she could by God kiss his cleats. Now he was on his knees, scrubbing hubcaps, the worst job of all. In fact, as far as Eddie could tell, the boys were doing every bit of the work. The cheerleaders were just bouncing around in their wet T-shirts and waving posters to pull in the cars.

What a bunch of suckers they all were. Eddie, who had been stretched out on the leather bench seat of Doug Metzler's Cadillac, vacuuming linty bits of petrified French fries off the floor, finally got sick of the smell and rolled over with a sigh.

And found himself staring up at Binky Potter's breasts.

Binky had leaned in to wipe down the Caddy's windows, leaned right smack over him. Oh, man. She was the finest girl out here—and not just because she
had the best body. She was pretty, too. All the guys were after her.

But she was his. She had been his girl for two whole months tomorrow.

He swallowed hard and decided it was all worth it—French fries, heat, sweat, stink, everything. Nothing on earth could have prevented him from being here today.

“Well, cowboy, what you looking at?”

Grinning, Binky leaned down an inch or two more, just close enough so that her necklace tickled his upper lip. He'd given her that necklace. It was a silver lariat—their little joke, because she always called him cowboy. Of course, he'd never been within spitting distance of a cow, and if anyone handed him a lariat he'd be more likely to hang himself with it than rope a steer, but so what? It sounded sexy as hell.

He caught the tip of the necklace between his teeth. “I'm looking at you, hot stuff,” he said, tasting the cold sting of silver against his tongue. “Wasn't that what you had in mind?”

“Don't flatter yourself, cowboy.” She pretended to try to pull away, but the lariat merely pressed lightly against his teeth, so he knew she didn't mean it. A drop of sudsy water was making its slow path down the firm mound of her left breast. If he leaned forward, he could lick it off….

His jeans suddenly seemed to become a size smaller.

He lifted his chin. His nose grazed the wet edge of her shirt. But he couldn't quite reach the drop of water.

Which, of course, was the story of his relationship with Binky. Close—so close. But then…nothing.

“Hey, Eddie, guess what? I was at Morrison's the other day, and guess what I saw?”

Morrison's was Heyday's most expensive jeweler. Binky loved jewelry. And nothing fake, either. She liked the real stuff. Eddie's jeans began to fit better as he thought of his empty wallet. He let go of the lariat.

“I don't know. What?”

“The cutest little earrings. They match my necklace exactly. Little ropes that dangle. Little ropes for big, strong cowboys to tie things up with…” She leaned down and kissed his chin, which meant that the soft flesh of her breasts momentarily pressed warm against his chest. “Anything you'd like to lasso, cowboy?”

He felt so hot and tingling all over he could hardly think straight. Hell, yes, he'd like to lasso her. Of course, she'd said the same thing when she had first seen the necklace. Some small, clear part of his brain told him that if the necklace hadn't secured her, the earrings weren't going to.

But it would be worth a try. He still had $27.50 left from last week's pay. If that wouldn't cover the earrings, well…maybe he could get another lawn job. Mrs. Tremel had said something the other day about needing help.

“Hey, get your tongue out of her cleavage, Mackey. Mr. Metzler wants his car, and besides, Coach is watching.”

At the sound of Cullen's voice, Binky jerked back. Eddie twisted into a sitting position, banging his elbow hard on the steering wheel. Coach McClintock was cool, but even he wouldn't stand for Binky draping herself all over him like a human blanket.

“Hi, Coach,” Binky said, twisting her lariat around her index finger and smiling so that every one of her dimples was showing. “Don't be mad at Eddie, Coach. It was my fault he took so long on the car.” She tossed her blond ponytail. “I distracted him.”

Coach McClintock laughed and turned back to Mr. Metzler without a real answer. Eddie growled and, putting his hands behind Binky's bare knees, tugged her toward him.

“Stop flirting with him,” he said. “You've got a boyfriend, remember? Besides, he's too old for you.”

Binky ruffled his hair with her pink-tipped fingers, but she was still staring at Coach. “Yeah,” she sighed. “But he's just so hot, you know?”

Cullen, who had come over to work on Metzler's tires, picked up the hose and, putting his finger over the nozzle, aimed it in Binky's direction. “Down, girl,” he said.

Binky squealed and dodged the spray gracefully. It fell short, and lay on the hot, dirty pavement, shining in little oily rainbows. You could almost smell the steam coming up around it. Binky stuck out her tongue at Cullen, blew a kiss to Eddie, then headed over to chat with her friends.

Eddie watched her go with mixed emotions. He could get more done if she weren't within touching distance. On the other hand, he wasn't that crazy about being alone with Cullen. The other boy had said something earlier about needing a favor. Eddie had a pretty good idea what kind of favor it was.

“So, Mackey. I was wondering.” Cullen didn't look up. He stared hard at the tire he was washing
and talked out of the corner of his mouth. He'd probably seen some gangsters talk that way on television. Cullen was a genius with the football, but his brains didn't work all that well off the field.

Eddie ducked his head and fiddled with the vacuum hose, trying to wind it back around its canister. He didn't say anything. If only someone would come up right now and interrupt them, God, what a break that would be. But Coach McClintock and Mr. Metzler seemed deep in conversation, and everyone else was working on cars.

“I was wondering,” Cullen started again. “You know, about English. About the paper.”

“What paper?”

Cullen finally looked up. He had a strong-boned face, and when he was irritated he looked mean. “What paper? You trying to be funny? Don't get the roles mixed up here, Mackey. I'm the funny guy. You're the smart guy. Remember?”

Eddie hesitated. Cullen was big, handsome and athletic, and he had the world's most extensive repertoire of sarcastic put-downs—which he loved to use on geeks who weren't cool enough to be on the football team, like Eddie.

Eddie felt like telling Cullen that Coach McClintock wanted Eddie on the team next year. That might shut him up a little. But Eddie wasn't sure yet whether he was going to say yes, so he forced himself to stay silent.

Everybody liked Cullen, though, or at least pretended to. His dad owned the local imported car dealership, and that meant he had a fancy house, a fancy car, a gorgeous girlfriend and the coolest clothes. The
only thing he didn't have was a passing grade in English.

“Tennyson,” Cullen said with a grin, as soon as he realized Eddie wasn't going to attempt a comeback. “Five hundred words. Not too perfect, don't want Mrs. G to smell a rat, right?” He laughed. “A C paper, that's all. Do I get a discount for a C paper, Mackey? I should. You can write a C paper in your sleep.”

“I don't know, Cullen. I'm pretty slammed right now. I'm mowing about a hundred yards and—”

“I already flunked English once, Mackey. I don't intend to flunk it again.” Cullen's face hardened and became all jutting bone. “What is it? You want me to pay extra? Because it's summer school? Getting kind of greedy, aren't you?”

“I don't want you to pay extra.” Eddie wiped his hands on his jeans. He cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, I really wasn't planning to do any more of that. Papers, I mean.”

“Say what?” Cullen stood, and his big, beefy body blocked the sun. “You're not writing any more papers? Hey, man, that's not funny.”

“I'm not trying to be funny. I'm just saying I think it's time to stop. I mean, it's cheating, and sooner or later we're going to get caught, and—”

Cullen bent over, putting his face so close to Eddie's the threat was unmistakable. “Listen, Mackey. If you want to suddenly get religious about all this, you do it after summer term is over, understand? Sure it's cheating, but you're in it up to your big red ears already, and you're not pulling out until I've passed English.”

Eddie stood up, too. He didn't like being threat
ened. He wasn't as big as Cullen, but he worked out, and besides, he was smarter. He liked his chances against the big oaf any day. “Watch your tone, Cullen, because I don't take orders from—”

But maybe Cullen wasn't as dense as Eddie thought. His face changed suddenly, as if he'd realized there might be a better way to handle this.

He lifted his big hands and rested them on Eddie's shoulders. His fake smile was somehow more unsettling than his scowl had been.

“Hey, sorry, man,” he said in a hearty tone. “I didn't mean to come on too strong. It's just that I like you. And I know Binky does, too. I mean, we'd all hate it if you weren't part of the group, you know? We'd miss you, man.”

Eddie opened his mouth. But nothing came out. This wasn't an empty threat. Cullen Overton had more social power in his meaty little finger than Eddie Mackey had in his whole body. If Cullen decided Eddie was Out, then he was so Out he might as well live on Mars. And Binky Potter would be draping herself over some other guy by the end of next week.

Cullen's small green eyes were bright with triumph. He patted Eddie's shoulder a little too hard. “So it's a deal. Tell you what. I'll pay double, you know, because it's summer. And you'll write me a seriously C-type Tennyson paper. Thanks, man.”

He began to walk away. But then he turned around with one last, fake smile so big his white teeth glinted in the sun. “Oh, and Jeff said he might need one, too. I'll tell him to get with you soon, so you have plenty of time, okay?”

He didn't wait for an answer.

Eddie sat back down on Mr. Metzler's front seat.
He was tired suddenly. The party hadn't wound down last night until about two in the morning, and they'd had to be out here by seven. He still had three lawns to mow this afternoon. Maybe being booted into social outer space wouldn't be so bad, really. At least then he could get some sleep.

But Binky… He heard her laughing with her friends. She had a sweet laugh, throaty and mellow, not shrill and sarcastic like the other girls. She might be a little greedy about jewelry, but he believed there was something special about her. Something worth fighting for.

Fighting for, maybe. But was she worth cheating for?

He wiped his hand over his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw that Coach McClintock was walking over to him. Oh, great. Eddie was sure he was going to get a lecture for taking so long with the Caddy, but to his surprise Coach just leaned one hip against the front fender and seemed to be admiring the sparkling windows.

“Nice job,” Coach said casually.

“Thanks.” Eddie hoped his voice didn't sound as pooped as he felt. He didn't want to sound indifferent. He cared what Coach thought of him. A lot.

“I hope the girls appreciate how hard you guys are working to buy them new uniforms,” Coach said. “Think they'll come out and wash cars when the football team needs new helmets?”

Eddie cast another look toward Binky and her friends. One of the girls was trying to make some complicated braid thing out of Binky's long blond hair, and the others watched breathlessly, as if it were brain surgery.

“Yeah, right,” he said. He looked at Coach, and the two of them smiled in perfect harmony on the subject of girls. Well, at least these girls. They were definitely not the future astronauts and Nobel Prize winners of the world. They were born to be pretty and pampered—and pointless. Like really expensive, slightly dangerous pets.

He suddenly wondered why he was killing himself trying to raise money to buy one of his own. He couldn't really imagine wanting a pet for a wife.

But damn it, he was seventeen. He didn't want any kind of wife. He wanted to get laid, just like everybody else.

“So how are things, Eddie? Everything going okay?”

Eddie looked up at Coach. His tone was weird. Did he sense something? Did he
know
something? Had he overheard what Cullen had said?

“Things seem fine.” Eddie chose his words with care. “We're getting a lot of cars.”

Coach gazed at him with a quiet, oddly gentle expression. “I don't mean the car wash. I mean you. You seem a little down. Everything okay?”

God, if he only knew!
Nothing
was okay.

For one insane minute, Eddie thought he was going to blurt out the whole sleazy truth. Thought he might say that he was selling his soul for a chance to get into Binky Potter's pants. That he had finally found a way to run with the big boys, and it was damn near killing him. That he was tired and trapped and sick of the whole thing.

But how could Coach help? Coach had been
born
one of the big boys. He practically owned Heyday,
as his father had before him. He had no idea what it felt like to be on the outside, straining to get in.

Besides, he was so damn straitlaced. Everyone around here called him the Saint. He'd never allow the paper-selling thing to go on—and he'd never let Eddie get away unpunished.