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They drove back to Helen's building in silence. Rafferty paid less attention than usual to his admittedly erratic driving, but even a few near misses couldn't force a protest from Helen. She sat with the seat belt fastened tightly around her, staring blankly out the window, the tracks of her dried tears on her pale face.

She probably got freckles in the summer, he thought irrelevantly. Not too many, just a smattering across her pert nose, maybe a dusting along her cheekbones. He'd never see her with freckles. He'd never feel the summer sun again. Funny, but up until this time he hadn't minded. But right now he minded like crazy not seeing Helen Emerson's freckles.

There was no sign of Drago following them, but he took a circuitous route just to be certain. By the time they reached Crystal's old house Helen looked as if she was on the ragged edge of control, and Rafferty knew he had no choice but to push her over, once they got inside, if he hoped to have any chance at all of saving her life.

She climbed out of the car before he had time to even turn off the key, running up the stairs and disappearing into the apartment. He half expected to find the door locked, but she'd left it ajar, and he closed it carefully behind him, using all three locks and the security bar as well. He wasn't going to let Ricky Drago in without a hell of a lot of trouble, and he didn't want to give Helen the chance to run off again, perhaps straight into another trap. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight until he had her safely delivered into the arms of someone who could protect her.

He found her in the kitchen, staring into the half-empty refrigerator as if she were looking for the meaning of life. "The cupboards are bare," Rafferty said, his deep voice startling in the quiet.

Helen still leaned on the refrigerator door. "I'm not hungry."

"If you're too hot we could always open a window," Rafferty drawled.

She slammed the door shut, turning on him, and he was glad to see that the frightened, listless expression had vanished, replaced by one of sheer wrath. "What the hell is going on?"

He held himself very still, watching her. It was amazing to him, his total inability to terrorize her. Most people had only to come face-to-face with his impassivity and they'd back down. Not Helen. She was tough in ways unimaginable for such a vulnerable woman. It was little wonder that he was undeniably obsessed with her.

"What do you mean?" He stalled.

"Who are you? Why have you moved in on me, so that I can barely go to the bathroom alone? I must have been stupid not to have noticed before, but Willie Morris very kindly pointed it out to me before he tried to kill me," she said, her voice acid. "Who are you, who is Billy Moretti, who is Willie Morris? Do you all want to kill me? What in God's name is going on here?"

Her voice was rising in agitation. She heard it as well as he did, and with a great effort she took a deep breath, calming herself. "I want you to tell me the truth, Rafferty. No more science fiction stories, no more time travel, no more fairy tales. Just the plain, unvarnished truth."

"I told you..."

"I know what you told me. You're a dead gangster from 1929, and so was Billy Moretti. Perfectly believable," she snapped, and he could see the edge of panic dart behind her warm brown eyes. "So how does Willie Morris fit into all this? Who was he, Elliot Ness?"

"That's the second time you've mentioned Elliot Ness, Helen, and I don't have the faintest idea who you're talking about," Rafferty said wearily.

"Stop it!" Her voice broke, and she turned away. "I want to know what you're doing here, and what you want from me. Are you going to kill me?"

He wanted to touch her. He wanted to reach out and clasp her shoulders, pull her back against his strong body and warm her, soothe her, protect her. He clenched his fists to keep them at his side.

"If I wanted to kill you I've already had a dozen chances," he said. "I'm trying to protect you."

She turned back. "Why?"

"Ricky Drago plans to kill you. I'm doing my damnedest to stop him."

"Who the hell is Ricky Drago? And where does Willie Morris come into this?" she asked fiercely.

He'd forgotten Drago's new identity. "Drago and Morris are the same man," he said, trying to come up with something believable for a woman who didn't want to believe. "I knew him a long time ago...you might say in another lifetime."

"Why does he want to kill me? And for that matter, why do you want to save me?"

"He blames you for his wife's death."

"What?"

Rafferty shrugged. "Don't expect me to explain. I wasn't even around when it happened. Apparently you brought him in for questioning, and he was in such a rage about it he drove into a cement bridge. He wasn't hurt but his wife was killed."

"God, I remember," she said, some of her ferocity fading. "But that was almost two years ago. Why would he want to come after me now?"

"Drago...er...Morris is a very methodical, very meticulous man. He never forgets a grudge, and he's not quite ... sane. Knowing him, I expect he always planned to get around to you in his own good time. That time is now."

"Why you?"

He reached for his cigarettes. "What do you mean?"

"Who appointed you Sir Galahad, to come to my rescue like a knight in shining armor? Why do you care whether I live or die?"

He toyed with a dozen answers, some of them plausible, some of them truthful. He went for the most painful. "It was a favor to Billy."

He might as well have slapped her. Her face turned even paler, and she leaned against the refrigerator to steady herself, then straightened.  "And why does it matter to Billy?"

Rafferty shrugged.  "He figures he owes you. You were right about him—he's trying his damnedest to go straight. Drago decided to put a monkey wrench in the works, and it was simple enough to get Billy to play along. All he had to do was threaten his wife. You had the wisdom to see that Billy was worth another chance, and he's not going to stand by and let Drago gun you down."

"And if it weren't for the baby's unexpected appearance he would have been the one in my apartment?" she asked coolly.

"Until he found someone to protect you," Rafferty agreed. His cigarette tasted foul, almost as foul as his temper, and he tossed it in the sink. She was looking at him like a whipped dog, still ready to bite, and he knew he needed to demoralize her further.

"But he did, Rafferty. He found you."

"I'm only a stopgap. I'll be gone by tomorrow morning, and there won't be anyone between you and Drago."

She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting his. "That'll be just too bad, won't it?" she said.

"You come from a family of cops, Helen. I want you to call up one of your brothers and go stay with him until Billy can figure out what to do."

"No."

He stared at her incredulously. "A man tried to kill you," he said, biting off the words. "It wasn't the first time. Did you get a close look at the fur coat? There are bullet holes in it. Drago wants you dead, and he's not going to stop until he accomplishes that goal. Or until someone stops him."

"But that's what you're here for, right? As long as the ghost of Valentine's Past is around, how can he hurt me?"

"Damn it, Helen!" He slammed his fist against the refrigerator, not even flinching as the force of his blow reopened some of the tiny cuts on his lacerated hand. "I can't save you!"

"Why not?" she demanded coolly. "Don't you have superpowers, or something like that?"

"Hell, I don't have any powers whatsoever," he snapped. "I can't shoot Drago. As long as I'm living in limbo I can't harm another living being."

"Guess what, Rafferty," Helen said softly. "You already have." She pushed past him, walking out of the kitchen, and for a moment he stood there, absorbing the force of her blow.

She was standing in the living room, staring out into the snowy evening, her back straight and narrow beneath the baggy sweatshirt when Rafferty finally followed her.  He  had never understood modern women's predilection for baggy men's clothes, but at that moment he couldn't imagine anything more desirable than Helen Emerson.

"I can't save you, Helen," he said again, more quietly. "And I don't want to watch you die."

She didn't turn. "Cheer up, Rafferty. You'll be back in limbo by the time Drago or Morris or whoever he is gets to me."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't know what to think. If you expect to convince me you're a bootlegger who returns from the dead every Valentine's Day then you're expecting a lot."

"Call your family. I'll drive you there."

She laughed then, but the sound was almost without humor. "I thought you wanted to save my life, not kill me. Your driving is the closest to death I've come in years."

"Helen..."

"Don't worry about it, Rafferty. I won't make any more demands on you." She turned and sank into the corner of the sofa, staring at her knees. "You should have made it clear sooner that you were here under duress. I suppose it was only logical to pretend you were attracted to me in order to keep an eye on me, but really, you should have told me the truth. I'm a big girl, I can take it. I would have called the State's Attorney and—" She halted. "I don't know what I would have told him."

"Stop it, Helen."

She shrugged, and he could see the effort it was taking her to appear cool and collected. He despised himself, more than he'd ever hated himself before, and he didn't know what to do. He wanted to soothe her, to comfort her, to kiss her,  he wanted to make love to her, and yet any act of kindness, or desire, would be the worst possible thing he could do.

"He probably wouldn't have believed me," she said in a low voice. "I don't believe it, either. You know, Rafferty, I think you'd better leave. You don't want to be here, and if you have to leave Chicago by tomorrow morning I imagine you have better things to do than baby-sit me."

"There's only one thing I hate more than babysitting," Rafferty snapped. "And that's self-pity."

"Go away, Rafferty. You've made it more than clear you don't want me. Let me sulk in peace."

"The hell I will!" It was the last straw. He'd wasted almost his entire stay, blown it on an impractical, self-centered, abysmally untried girl, and now she was sitting there feeling sorry for herself. He was the one who'd been suffering, and all for the most noble of reasons. Suddenly he'd had enough.

He crossed the room, reached down and hauled her to her feet. She was so startled she tripped against the coffee table, falling against him, which suited him just fine. "I'm sick of this," he said in a furious voice. "I've been going through the most miserable time of my life, all in some stupid, misguided effort to spare you, and all you can think about is that I don't want you. How damned stupid can you be? What do you think this is?'' He took her hand, yanked it down and pressed it to his groin.

She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn't let her. "I've been going crazy, trying to do the decent thing," he went on, his voice bitter. "I'm trying to save your life, I'm trying to leave you in the state I found you, no matter how damned much it's killing me. I want you more than I've ever wanted a woman in my life, but I don't want you wasting your innocence on a man like me, a man who can't offer you anything more than a night."

For a moment she didn't move. "Maybe a night is worth it," she said in a rough voice. And her fingers pressed against him.

He shuddered. "Damn it, Helen."

"Stop saying damn it," she said, "and kiss me."

He couldn't, wouldn't fight it any longer. When he finally emerged from the bathroom earlier that afternoon, marginally cooled down, his lacerated hand roughly bandaged, only to find her missing, panic had swept through him. He'd raced out into the street after her, just in time to see her taking off into the darkening afternoon, and it had been sheer instinct that had led him to Clark Street. Instinct, and a car it had taken him approximately four minutes to hot-wire and steal. There were certain talents that never grew rusty, even after sixty-four years.

He'd seen Drago from a distance, and he'd learned one thing. He might not be able to pull a trigger, but he could slam one car into another. Drago had been knocked to the ground, his gun went flying and by the time Rafferty had disentangled Helen from the furious dog owner he'd taken off, and Rafferty's hands hadn't stopped shaking until he'd gotten her back to the apartment.

They were shaking again, this time with longing. He was going to take her, and to hell with scruples, and her future, deserving husband. To hell with everything but the need that had been burning a hole inside him.

"Sir Galahad, eh?" he said, scooping her up into his arms, holding her high against his chest.  “Knight in shining armor?" He started through the apartment, kicking open the door to her bedroom. “Fuck that.”  He'd never used that language in the presence of a lady, and he didn't care if he shocked her. The sight of that unmade, clean white bed made him harder than ever, something he wouldn't have thought possible.

He set her down on the rumpled sheets, disentangling her clinging arms as he stood back to watch her. And then he began stripping off his tie, kicking off his shoes.

She didn't move, her eyes wide and still in the shadows. "What happened to your hand?"

"It collided with your bathroom mirror." He stripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto a chair. "It's better known as acute sexual frustration."

"You really want me?" The notion still seemed to amaze her, and he wondered what she'd gone through in her life, to be so unsure of her powerful attractions.

"I'm about to demonstrate just how much," he said, reaching for his belt buckle.

She closed her eyes when he shucked off his trousers, and he almost called her bluff. But he didn't. Instead he climbed onto the bed, taking her face between his hands, gently, and kissed her lips. Slowly, delicately, tasting the softness, the tremulous dampness, as her eyes opened in the darkness. "You can change your mind," he said in a soft voice. "Anytime you want, I won't force you."

"You don't want me that much?"

"Damn it," he said, and then managed a wry smile. "Okay, no more damn its. I want you. I thought I made it clear how much. But there's one thing more important than how much I want you, and that's you."

"Rafferty, I love..." she said, but he covered her mouth with his long fingers, afraid to hear the words again. The more she said it, the more real it became. He couldn't afford to believe she loved him. It would make it too hard to leave.

So he simply kissed her again, teasing her mouth open, using his tongue, feeling the tremulous response as he deepened it. He kissed her with slow, deliberate thoroughness, leaving no part of her lips, her mouth, her teeth untouched, kissed her until she couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, and neither of them cared.

The baggy sweatshirt came off easily enough, followed by the thin scrap of bra. That was one improvement in modern times—underwear was far less cumbersome and a great deal easier to dispose of. The same for clothes in general, even though he felt damned funny unfastening the pair of men's jeans she wore. But there was nothing masculine about the pristine white cotton panties, nothing masculine about the soft mound of flesh that he put his hand on, feeling her arch against him.

His mouth left hers, to trace a path down her body. He wanted to kiss her breasts again. How could he have ever thought they were too small? They were perfect, in his hands, in his mouth, and he let his tongue swirl around each small, tight nub, reveling in the shiver of reaction in her slender body, reveling in his own fierce pleasure.

Her stomach was flat, white and smooth. He kissed her navel, he kissed her hips, he kissed the white cotton covered core of her. He kissed her long thighs that writhed beneath him, he kissed her knees and her calves, he kissed the delicate arch of her feet.

"Rafferty," she said, and her voice was strangled, distorted with need.

"Not yet." He slid his long fingers underneath the panties and pulled them down her legs, tossing them across the room so that she lay there, naked, aroused and frightened. He didn't want to scare her further, but he already knew what he wanted, and nothing short of mass hysteria could stop him.

He leaned forward and put his mouth on her. She jerked, and he heard her quiet little shriek of shock and protest, but he ignored her, cupping her hips with his big hands, spreading her legs, kissing her, tasting her, loving her, ignoring her shock and uncertainty, ignoring everything but the flowing response he was eliciting, a response that flowered and built, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her heels dug into the mattress, and her whole body convulsed against him.

She was shivering, sobbing, gasping for breath, but he wasn't finished with her. He knew how to prolong it for her, how to make her cry out in the darkness, and he did so, drinking in her pleasure with such intensity that he almost came, too.

"Jamey," she said, her voice raw and weak. His mouth left her, and he moved up her body, to lie on top of her, careful not to crush her, his desperate, massive hardness in the cradle of her thighs as his hands framed her shocked face.

He kissed her lips, knowing she could taste herself on his mouth. He kissed her eyelids, her throat, tasting the rapid, erratic pulse beneath his tongue, as he pushed her legs apart beneath him. She was still too weak and trembling from the aftermath of her climax to help him, but he didn't mind. He needed all his strength to control himself, to control his mindless need to surge into her damp heat, to push and thrust and burst.

He could feel the sweat cover him as he poised himself at the untried entrance. His muscles were clamped with the effort to slow himself, control himself, as he began to push inside. She was wet, and sleek, and very tight, and her eyes flew open, meeting his as he stopped.

Rafferty thought he might just possibly die. It was too hard, too good, and he didn't know if he could stand it. He looked down at her, the flowing veil of hair spread out around the white pillow, the wide dark eyes, the soft bee-stung lips, and he pressed, slowly, feeling her pain, feeling her pleasure.

"Don't stop," she whispered, and her hands were digging into the sheet. "Please, Jamey, don't stop."

"I couldn't," he said simply. And with a short, sharp thrust of his hips he broke through, sinking fully into her tight, milking warmth.

Her arms came around him, holding tight, and he could feel the tremors rocketing through her body, and he didn't know if they were tremors of pain or desire.

He tried to pull away, but her arms were tight around him, holding him against her. He reached up and cupped her face, his thumbs gentle on the soft planes. "This doesn't work if we don't move," he whispered.

She opened her eyes. "I know," she whispered back. "I've read books."

"Naughty girl. Did I hurt you?"

"Not much." It was a lie, he knew it, but only a little one.

"I'll make it feel better," he promised, pulling away from her, just slightly, and then thrusting back in. She lay passively enough beneath him, and he let her, doing all the work, content to prolong it, intent on taking every last ounce of delayed pleasure from her, as her hands dug into his shoulders, her hips began to meet his measured thrusts, and he could feel the tremors of response begin to ripple and build within her.

He wanted, needed to come inside her so badly he was shaking with it, but he needed her there, with him, even more. It didn't matter that he'd already given her pleasure, it didn't matter that he deserved his own. He couldn't find it without her, and even as he felt his body shake apart he knew he had to bring her with him.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders. Her hips arched beneath him, milking him, calling to him, and her breath was sobbing in his ear. Even through the swirling mists of his own fierce need he could taste and feel the nuances of her response, could feel her balance at the very precipice, ready, trembling, terrified.

He put his hand between their bodies, stroking her, as he surged into her, pushing her hard against the soft white mattress. He felt her explode around him, gripping him with a thousand tiny tremors, and he lost himself, filling her with his body, his soul, drowning them both in a vast storm of helpless, hopeless love.

He knew he was heavy, but he didn't want to get off her. He cradled her head in his arms, kissing the dampness from her face as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He wanted her arms and her legs wrapped around him, tightly. Maybe if they just stayed this way he wouldn't have to leave her.

But he was a man who faced the unpleasant things in life, and clinging to Helen wouldn't keep him here, and it wouldn't keep her safe. He moved to one side, pulling her with him, wrapping her around him, and she came willingly, burying her head against his shoulder, her face hidden against his skin. He stroked her hair, gently, soothing her, listening to her shuddering breathing slow, listening to her thudding heart as it regained a normal rhythm. He waited until he thought she was ready, and then very carefully tilted her face up to his.

She didn't want to meet his gaze, and he realized with heartbreaking amusement that she was feeling shy. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

Even in the darkness of the bedroom he could see the blush that covered her face, and he wished he had enough time to spend with her to show her enough that she was well past blushing. But that would be up to someone else. "Okay," she said.

"Okay," he echoed, not bothering to disguise his amusement. "That's not much of a recommendation. Was it worth the wait?"

Her eyes flew up to meet his then, and there was such deep emotion in them that he almost wished she were still shy. "Don't you know?" she asked.

The humor fled. "I know," he said, brushing his lips against her, running his tongue over her swollen mouth. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"You didn't. Not much," she added with characteristic honesty.

He kissed her then, a brief, hard kiss, before he pulled away from her, climbing off the high white bed. She watched him leave, not saying a word, and a moment later he was back with a cool, wet washcloth.

"What are you doing?" she demanded warily, her defenses already returning.

He pushed her gently down on the bed. "Taking care of you," he said, pressing the cool cloth against her. She jerked against the touch of the cloth, the touch of his hands, but she quieted immediately, watching him out of dark, wondering eyes.

"You didn't use anything," she said after a moment

"Use anything?"

"Protection," she said, her voice low. "A condom. I should have thought..."

"It's okay."

"Okay for you, maybe."

He pushed her hair out of her face. "Okay for you," he said gently. "You won't get pregnant. You won't get any diseases."

"What makes you so certain?" she asked in a disgruntled tone of voice, pushing her face against his hand like a kitten searching for affection.

For a moment he said nothing. He didn't want to argue anymore, or try to convince her. He hadn't wanted to make love to her for any number of reasons. He hadn't wanted to steal her virginity from some man who'd treasure it and deserve it, though God knows no man could treasure it more than he had. He hadn't wanted to love her, knowing he would have to abandon her without warning. And he hadn't wanted to get so close, knowing that he was living a lie, simply because the truth was so unbelievable.

"I can't harm you," he said wearily, knowing she wouldn't believe him. "No pregnancies, no diseases."

"Does my virginity magically return as well?" she asked tartly.

He found he could smile. "Counselor, I wish I could say you'd be the death of me, but it's already too late for that."

"You aren't going to tell me the truth, are you?"

“You aren't going to believe the truth,'' he replied. He reached for his shorts, pulling them on with a spare movement, both to protect her uneasy modesty and to try to control his still lively reaction to her.

It was a mistake. She stared at him, her eyes wide with sudden shock. "What are you wearing?"

He looked down. They were common enough, baggy white linen shorts that came almost to his knees. He had his custom-made in Ireland, with a row of tiny pearl buttons he was in the midst of fastening. He smiled wryly. "Men's underwear. Made in 1929. They've worn well, haven't they?"

"Rafferty..."

He wasn't in the mood to argue. "Why don't you take a long hot bath? I'll see if I can find something for us to eat in your empty icebox."

" It's not an icebox," she said mutinously, her dark eyes anxious, and he wished she hadn't been a virgin and didn't need time to recover, wished he could push her back down on the bed and start all over again.

He had to content himself with pressing his mouth against the corner of her eye, feeling her arch up against him, feeling her hands reach for him. "It is to me," he said. "And you're a mouthy dame." He kissed her lips, for good measure, before he headed for the bedroom door.

"I just wish I knew what you were, Rafferty," she said, her voice forlorn.  He closed the door behind him, trying to shut out temptation.