---

---

 

Rafferty didn't want to sleep. When you only had forty-eight hours a year to live, you didn't want to waste it in bed. Alone, that is.

He rose from the sofa, kicked off his leather wing-tips and headed into the kitchen. He found the almost empty coffee jar but nothing as useful as a kettle. He wasn't going to risk the microwave—it still looked like something out of Buck Rogers to him, and he didn't want to risk waking Helen up by exploding the kitchen. He boiled some water in a saucepan, scraped the hardened crystals into a mug and drank the brew down without shuddering. He'd done tougher things in his life. But not many.

Ms. Emerson wasn't a great believer in food. He found cans of soup and a half-empty box of crackers, two things that hadn't changed much in the past sixty-some years. He stood in the kitchen while the soup heated, staring out the window into the darkness. Somewhere out there Drago waited. Somewhere nearby, and it was a cruel twist of fate that a maniac like Drago had the ability to maim and kill while Rafferty was helpless to stop him.

It made a kind of cosmic logic, one of the Scazzetti brothers had pointed out the second year they'd come back. If whoever was in charge of sending them back had any sense, he wouldn't allow felons back into society with the ability to continue committing crimes. They were getting a second chance all right, but the deck was stacked.

Which had been fine as far as Rafferty was concerned. Working for Moran had been a job, no more, no less. An exciting job, a dangerous job, a well-paid one, but hardly on the order of a religious calling.

Besides, with only forty-eight hours, he didn't have to worry about earning a living. Particularly when he returned each year with exactly what he left with. A package of Black Clove gum, a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a wallet crammed full of very crisp thousand-dollar bills that was supposed to pay for a shipment of Canadian bootleg liquor.

He leaned against the sink and closed his eyes, remembering Drago's malicious words. Maybe he just wasn't very lovable. During the intervening decades all of the others had found someone to love them, found a new life with all the trials and joys inherent. Even Drago seemed on his way to a decent life until fate once more stepped in.

But it hadn't happened to Rafferty. Of the seven men killed in that garage on that wintry February day, he was the one with the least on his conscience. The others, even Billy, had been involved in enforcing Moran's rule, in resisting Capone's efforts to take complete control. Rafferty had stayed out of that side of things.

Yet in the long run he was the one who was still paying. The others had made peace with their past and found new lives. Not Rafferty.

He'd come close a few times. Most particularly in 1946, when he met a smart, sweet woman named Carrie who fell in love with him. He believed her when she said she did. He believed her enough to ask her to marry him, and they set the date for February 16. But he wasn't around then.

He could have been happy with her, he knew it. But he hadn't had that chance. By the following year she was gone, moved back to her hometown in Indiana and Rafferty had realized that the rules didn't hold for him. He wasn't going to get out of this endless cycle, and the sooner he accepted that fact, the sooner he began to enjoy what he had, the better.

But Ms. Helen Emerson was stirring old feelings inside him, old and new. He was drawn to her, in ways he couldn't remember being drawn. And while he wanted nothing more than to strip off that clinging little dress and teach her about her body and his, something stopped him. The knowledge that he wouldn't be there in the morning. Sure, this morning he'd be there. But not the next. And for all the toughness she tried to project to the outside world, inside she was nothing more than a soft, vulnerable kitten, and he never hurt helpless creatures.

He didn't even taste the soup and crackers. When he walked back out into the living room the television was flickering, the movie long gone. Helen had shifted in her sleep, stretching her long, silk-clad legs out in front of her, and the short black dress rode higher, halfway up her shapely thighs. Rafferty looked at her and stifled a groan.

He could move silently, and he did so, rummaging through her bedroom, not quite certain what he was looking for. He tried to keep his eyes from the bed. Thank God it wasn't the same one he'd once shared with Crystal Latour, but it was almost as bad. The brass-and-iron headboard was adorned with fat cupids, and the pile of fluffy white covers looked both virginal and enticing. Why the hell did he have to get mixed up with someone like Helen Emerson?

He found an ivory afghan in a closet that was filled with the same, shapeless men's clothes she'd been wearing when he first met her. He found the loaded gun in her desk drawer.

He wondered if she knew how to use it. Probably. With a protective family of cops behind her, she would have been given more instruction than the average rookie. She'd probably be a better shot than he was. He'd never been crazy about guns, even though he'd carried one, and used one, out of necessity.

Hell, who was he kidding? Of course she'd be a better shot, considering the fact that if he tried to cock it and pull the trigger the damned thing would simply refuse to fire.

He used to wonder if the same thing would happen if he pointed it at his own head. If there was a way out of this endless cycle.

But that wasn't his style. He didn't believe in weakness, or self-pity. If he was doomed to come back year after year then he could just make the best of it. Enjoy what pleasures were offered him.

The only problem was, Helen Emerson wasn't offering him any pleasures, and he wasn't about to take them.

He tucked the compact little gun in his jacket. He wasn't quite certain why—Helen stood a greater chance of using it to keep Drago at bay, if things got that bad. But he couldn't bring himself to let go of the small sense of power it gave him.

She didn't move when he draped the white coverlet over her body, covering her long, luscious legs, her surprisingly curvaceous body. She sighed, snuggling deeper into the soft old sofa, and he stood there, staring down at her.

A strand of hair had fallen over her face, caught against her lower lip. He wanted to see her face. He reached out a gentle hand and took the thick lock of hair, moving it away from her mouth. And then he let his fingers trail, feather light, against her lips.

They moved against his skin. He didn't know whether she was saying something in her sleep. Or kissing him. He didn't want to know.

He didn't trust himself on the sofa with her, big as it was. He moved back across the room, sinking into the old chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and watching her. He wanted a cigarette, but he was afraid it might wake her. He wanted a drink, but he'd already ascertained that Ms. Emerson didn't carry anything more than a vinegary-smelling bottle of white wine, and after all these years he still had some standards.

He didn't want to sleep. Somehow, sitting in the darkened room, with only the glow of the flickering television set and the faint scent of Helen Emerson's perfume surrounding him, he began to feel at peace. It didn't matter that a crazy man was lurking outside, ready to kill the woman he'd decided to protect. It didn't matter that impossible desire was eating a hole in his gut. It didn't even matter that he'd gone more than an hour without a cigarette. Alone with Helen Emerson, he felt oddly serene. And within moments, he followed her into sleep.

He dreamed of Elena. He hadn't thought of her in years, had done his very best not to think of her. Even fifty-some years after her death, sixty-some years since he'd seen her face, her memory still had the power to bring forth emotions he wanted to stifle.

He remembered the first time he saw her. He'd been with Moran himself, an unwilling part of his entourage as he made a social call on a store owner on the South Side. The store owner hadn't been interested in buying Moran's watered-down liquor to sell under the counter, hadn't been interested in paying the alternative, a large sum for protection from Capone's rival organization. Rafferty had stood to one side, his face blank of all emotion, as Ricky Drago had systematically broken Giuseppe Petri's hands. Only making a move when his daughter had burst on the scene, screaming with rage.

Drago would have killed Elena, given half the chance. He hadn't liked the fact that Rafferty had stepped between them, pushing Elena behind him. Most people were terrified of Drago's lightning temper and violence, but they were equally in awe of Rafferty's legendary control.

Moran had watched the stand-off with interest and amusement, finally calling Drago off when it looked as if one of them would wind up dead. "Cut it out, you two," he'd said. "I need both of you too much to let you get into fights. If Jamey wants the girl, let him have her. God knows, he could probably use a little action on the side.''

Drago had backed off, staring at Rafferty out of hate-filled, crazy eyes, and if Capone's men hadn't intervened on a cold Valentine's Day less than a year later, Ricky would have put a bullet in his head when he least expected it.

He'd watched as Moran and the others drove away. He'd been left with one of the Packards—Moran was a gentleman in such matters, and Rafferty drove Petri to the hospital himself, with Elena crooning comforting words to her father as she rode along.

He waited until Petri's hands were splinted and bandaged, waited until he'd paid the bill in full from the thick wallet of Moran's money he always carried, waited until he drove the two Petris back home and Elena got her father settled in bed.

And then he'd tried to kiss her.

Of course she'd slapped him. When he kissed her the second time she slapped him harder. When he kissed her the third time she kissed him back.

But it hadn't worked. Not with her hot-tempered father screaming imprecations at Moran's head and at anyone connected with him. Not with Elena's old-fashioned values warring with her undeniable passion for him. Not with the escalating gang war that had taken the Petris' store, their house and the life of Elena's younger brother.

He'd even offered to quit. To go away with her, from the city, from the gangs, from the memory of grief and blood.

She’d told him no. Even as she told him she loved him, she kissed him goodbye on a cold February morning. "Not in this lifetime," she'd said, her husky voice filled with implacable sorrow. And he'd never seen her again.

She'd never married, he knew that. She'd died of meningitis a few years after the massacre, and he used to wonder if she ever regretted her choice, the values that he couldn't live up to.

Because he sure as hell regretted them. He'd loved that woman, with a mindless, blind passion, and he'd had it thrown back at him for failing to measure up. He'd vowed then never to make that mistake again. And he never had, not even with Carrie.

But still, every now and then he thought about Elena. She was very, very different from the uptight Ms. Emerson. Full of old-world values, Elena had been dependent on the men in her life, a dutiful daughter, a passionate lover, a grieving sister. She'd been short, and plump, and luscious, and she'd made no demands on him. Except that he be someone he wasn't.

He'd tried to keep away from good women ever since. It was a waste of his time, and time was one thing in short supply. He was stuck here with Helen Emerson, a far cry from either Elena or Carrie, but a good woman just like those two. And he wished to hell it was February 15, and he no longer had to think about it.

Helen awoke with a start. It was pitch black, her back hurt, her bra was digging into her rib cage and she had to go to the bathroom. On top of that, she wasn't alone.

She didn't move, lying there trying to orient herself. It came back to her in stages. She was lying on her sofa, her skirt indecently high. Someone had covered her with her grandmother's afghan, and that someone was the other person in the darkened room: Rafferty.

She could see his shadow in the oversize chair by the window. He was asleep, soundly, she hoped as she carefully edged from underneath the cover. She tiptoed into the bathroom, closing the door silently behind her before turning on the light, and then stared at her reflection in shock.

She looked like a wanton, there was no other word for it. The knowledge should have distressed her, except for the fact that she looked like a very pretty wanton. She'd lost her glasses somewhere, but she didn't really need them for much, and her tangled hair, smudged makeup and clinging dress made her look sleepy and sexy.

Dear heavens, the man hadn't even kissed her, and yet all she had to do was be in the same room with him and she started thinking about things she'd never thought before. It was a good thing he was leaving in another day. If things went on this way she'd end up seduced and abandoned, and while the first part sounded delightful, the second wasn't nearly as appealing.

It was a fluke that she'd reached the advanced age of twenty-nine in a relatively pristine state, a fluke and the presence of her overprotective family. While she'd been brought up in the strict Catholic church of her ancestors, she'd always kept an open mind, and if she'd ever fallen in love with someone she would have made the next logical, physical step.

But she hadn't. There had been no one to set her heart to racing, her pulses to quivering, no one to cause that dull ache of longing in the pit of her stomach that had begun to plague her in the last twenty-four hours. No one but Rafferty.

Maybe it wasn't lust, maybe it was an ulcer, she told herself wryly as she washed the makeup off her face. Maybe it was the fact that for once her family wasn't there to scare the man away. Not that Rafferty struck her as the type who'd scare easily. If he wanted her, really wanted her, then the entire Chicago police force couldn't stop him. Only she could.

And she wouldn't. She knew that full well. The brief touches, on her back, when he'd taken her elbow, when he'd plowed into her on the sidewalk outside her office, still made her skin tingle. She wanted him to touch her again. Softer this time. And harder.

She shook her head at her reflection. She was crazy, there was no doubt about that whatsoever, and she could thank her lucky stars that Rafferty was both a gentleman and apparently uninterested in her, despite his protests to the contrary. She was perfectly safe with him. Damn it.

She turned off the light before creeping back out into the living room. Rafferty hadn't moved from his spot in the chair. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady, and even if it was dangerous, she couldn't resist moving closer.

He wasn't the most handsome man she'd ever seen. His face was narrow, his mouth thin, his eyes, when they were open, were too mocking. But there was something about him that drew her, more intensely than if she'd been confronted with a combination of Brad Pitt and Richard Gere. Except that he reminded her more of Humphrey Bogart crossed with Cary Grant. With a touch of John Garfield on the side.

She reached out a tentative hand. A lock of dark hair had fallen on his forehead, and she pushed it back, lightly, carefully, letting her fingers skim his heated flesh for a brief moment. And then she moved away, out of harm's reach, out of temptation's way, stumbling over a pile of old newspapers as she went, banging into the wall, before she turned and ran, lightly, silently, into her room, closing the door behind her.

 

Rafferty waited until he heard the door close. He sat up in the chair, and cursed, silently, fluently, in words that hadn't changed in more than sixty-five years. Good Anglo-Saxon words that were probably around six hundred and fifty years ago as well.

It had been a close call. He'd woken the instant she had, keeping himself very still as she tiptoed into the bathroom. He'd never had a problem before, but when she'd approached him, when he felt the soft, minty sweetness of her breath, the feathery brush of her fingers on his face, he almost caught her wrist and yanked her down into his lap.

He wasn't a man of violent urges, but she brought violence out in him. He wanted to smother her, cover her with his body and push between her legs. He wanted to take her, in heat and passion and furious desire.

And he wanted to make love to her. Slowly, gently, seducing her away from her virginal fears, he wanted to bring her the kind of physical pleasure that would wipe everything else from her mind, so that when he left, she'd remember. Always.

But he'd controlled himself, and she'd backed away in time. Helen Emerson wasn't the woman for him. If he took her, he might as well let Drago finish her. She knew her needs very well—she wasn't the kind of woman for casual sex and brief affairs. She was a forever after kind of woman, and if he made love to her and then disappeared, a part of her would die. He was man enough to control himself and keep that from happening. Wasn't he?

The problem was, he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone in his entire life, up to and including Elena Petri. The more he fought it, the more he needed her.

He rose, far more quietly than she had, and stretched out on the sofa. The cushions still held the imprint of her body. The afghan still held the trace of her scent. White roses. He'd never see a rose again without thinking of her.

He stared out into the darkened room, knowing that this time he wasn't going to sleep. This time he was going to lie awake and try to control his unruly body, try to control his unruly mind. He only had another twenty-four hours or less to get through. He could do it.

He stared at the blank television screen, wondering if he could find some more home shopping, maybe even one of those hour-long shows selling car wax. Anything to keep his mind off the woman in the next room.

But even the wonders of modern television couldn't distract him in his current state. All he could do was lie there on the sofa, imaging Helen beside him. And in the distance he could hear Ricky Drago's high-pitched giggle.

Saturday, February 14 was cold and blustery, not unlike another February 14 long ago. Rafferty watched the flakes of snow swirl down outside the window as the sun came up and he thought about the woman in the other room. He hadn't been able to think of anything else for the past few hours, and the slow lightening of the city couldn't distract him.

The sudden scream tore through the apartment, sharp, shrill, panicked. Surging off the sofa, he kicked over the coffee table, yanking the gun from his waistband as he raced toward her bedroom. He smashed open the door, then stood frozen, staring at her.

She was alone, sitting up in the middle of that fluffy white bed. The curtains were drawn, there was no sign of any intruder. She simply sat there, her eyes wide with fear, her hands covering her mouth as if to stifle the screams, and then she looked at the gun he held in his hand and the fear in her eyes turned to panic.

He put the gun down, carefully, on the dresser beside the door. "What happened?". He sounded deceptively calm, when inside his heart was racing.

"A...a nightmare," she managed to choke out, still staring at him in shock. "I get them sometimes. They 're... very real.''

He stepped inside the room, knowing he shouldn't. "What did you dream this time?"

“It's always the same. I hear something that sounds like thunder, or a thousand drumbeats. A roaring, terrifying kind of noise. And then nothing. Silence. And the howling of a dog."

Rafferty felt his skin crawl. He knew exactly what she was talking about, even if she didn't. He'd been there. He'd heard the thunder of the tommy guns as the bullets ripped into flesh. He'd lain there in a welter of blood, dying, and listened to the mournful howl of Scazzetti's old mutt, still chained to the wall, the only survivor of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.

"It's just a bad dream," he said, hearing the harshness in his own voice. "Forget about it."

"But why does it keep coming back? Why can't I remember more of it? Why is it always the same? Why do I keep hearing that dog...?"

"Will you shut up about the damned dog?" Rafferty said savagely, crossing the room to the side of the bed. "It's just a dream.”

She shook her head, as if to rid herself of the nightmare.  “You know what I think it is,” she said after a moment.  “I think I was dreaming about the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.  It only makes sense, considering it’s Valentine’s Day in Chicago."

He stared at her, wondering if his horror showed on his face.  “How the hell do you know about that?”  he demanded harshly.

She gave him a look, calmer now. “Don't be ridiculous, Rafferty.  Everyone in the country knows at least something about the massacre – Chicago kids memorize the ghoulish details.  It's even more legendary than Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.  Or haven’t you heard about that one either?”

“Of course I know all about the great fire.  I know about the massacre as well – I just didn't think it was common knowledge.”  

“What planet have you been living on?”  she scoffed.  “Oh, yeah, Saturn.”

He shook his head, both bemused and slightly horrified to think his death had attained the level of folklore. “Sounds like you're right,” he said carefully.  “The thunder of bullets, the roar of the tommy guns.  That's what the witnesses said about it.  If it wasn't for the dog howling no one might have found them for hours.”

“What witnesses?”  Helen said.  “There weren't any.  Chicago kid, remember?  I know all the details.  Capone’s men dressed as cops and gunned down seven of Bugs Moran’s hoodlums, and no one saw or heard a thing until someone came to check on the dog.”

He wanted to sit down on the bed beside her, he wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and draw her to him. She'd changed into some sort of oversize shirt; more men's clothes when he'd fantasized about white lace lingerie. He still found her irresistible, he still had to resist. He didn't move.

“So do you dream about it every Valentine's Day?”

She was trying her best to convince him she was taking her nightmare in stride, but he could see through her bravado to the uncertainty in her eyes, the subtle sharing of her hands.  The slightest bit of quiver in her ripe lower lip, like a child determined not to cry.

Her eyes met his then, and she looked so damned vulnerable.  She shuddered, making a small sound of infinite distress, and it was all the excuse he needed.

He climbed onto the high bed and reached for her, pulling her against him. She came readily enough, and he could feel the icy fear in her flesh, the terrified pounding of her heart beneath the thin cotton of her T-shirt. He'd just hold her for a moment, he told himself. He'd control himself, certainly he could do that. He'd just allow himself a minute of holding her, to calm her down.

And maybe one brief kiss wouldn't make things worse. He could brush his lips against her forehead, against the thick, sweet-smelling hair, and she might not even notice. It wouldn't do any harm. Even if he threaded a hand through the thick hair at the back of her neck, tilting her face up to his, it wouldn't cause irreparable damage. Even if she looked up at him, her eyes wide and solemn and waiting, her lips pale and damp and slightly parted. He didn't have to kiss her, did he?

Yes, he did. He put his mouth over hers, and all his good intentions vanished. She had the sweetest mouth he'd ever tasted, shy, slightly uncertain, but more than eager. She slid her arms around his neck, kissing him back with enthusiasm that was astonishingly innocent, but then, he'd already figured she hadn't had that much experience. When he pushed his tongue between her lips she jumped, and he waited for her to pull away.

But she didn't. She simply clung more tightly, following his lead, her own tongue shyly touching his, until he thought he might explode with longing.

He pushed her down on the bed, covering her body with his, no longer caring about the consequences. Beneath the layers of fluffy white covers he could feel her body, slight and soft and trembling, and he wanted to push the covers away and lose himself in her slender body, her wonderful mouth. He was tired of thinking about the consequences—he only had another twenty-four hours, damn it, and he wanted this woman, needed this woman, with a longing so fierce it made his bones shake. And she was shaking, too, with the same kind of need, and it made no sense whatsoever for him to reach his hands behind his neck and catch her arms, to pull them away, to break the kiss and move away from her, so that she looked up at him in wide-eyed shock and desire and frustration.

"You know as well as I do this is a bad idea," he said, surprised at the shaken sound of his own voice.

Neither of them moved. She still lay in the center of the bed, and he could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. He didn't climb off the bed, when he knew he should. Some masochistic part of him made him stay right there, within reach, just to prove he could do it.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice small and brave.

"Because I'll be gone tomorrow morning. I don't want to leave, but I don't have any say in the matter. You'd be alone, figuring you'd been a fool, and you'd hate me, and even worse, you'd hate yourself."

"No, I wouldn't." She sat up, slowly, and she was too damned close to him. "Don't you know that people spend a lot more time regretting the things they don't do, and not the things they do?"

He sighed.  "Helen, you're not the type for a one-night stand. You're the kind of woman who needs commitment, who needs tenderness and a future. I can't give you any of that.  Hell, I don't want to give you any of that.”  And wondered if he was lying.

The tentative smile that curved her pale mouth was almost his undoing. "Why am I trying to talk you into this?" she asked. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

He made himself touch her, just to prove that he could, cupping her face with his hands and staring down at her. "Lady," he said, "I'll break your heart."

"My heart, Rafferty? Or is it your own you're worried about?" she said, humor warring with the faint trace of anxiety in her eyes.

It came to him then with the force of a blow. He could love this woman. This impossible, shy, fierce, brave woman, and the thought terrified him. Up until now he hadn't been that reluctant to leave when his time came, simply because he hadn't been leaving anyone behind. If he let himself care about her, love her, then leaving would destroy him, and he might end up seeing whether he could turn a gun on himself.

He smoothed the sides of her face with his thumbs. "I have no heart, Helen. No heart to break."

"Prove it," she said. And she kissed him, brushing her lips against his, lightly, lingering, and he knew he should pull away, but he couldn't. The sweetness of her mouth was more erotic than anything the professional Crystal Latour had ever come up with, and he slid his hands down her shoulders, down her arms, pulling her tight against him with a groan of despair.

She was unbuttoning his shirt, her hands clumsy and nervous and wonderful when they slid against his skin, touching him. She was pulling him down on the bed, and he told himself he'd been gentlemanly enough. Maybe she wasn't as inexperienced as he thought. There was one surefire way to find out.

He took the hand that had slid around his waist and pulled it down to the front of his trousers, to the row of tiny buttons that were straining over his rock-hard cock. He held her hand there, even as she tried to pull away, and he knew he hadn't been wrong.

He moved fast then, pulling away from her, climbing off the bed and standing at the far end of the room. His shirt was unbuttoned, he was having trouble catching his breath and his entire body throbbed. Damn her and her innocent eyes and her luscious mouth.

"Chicken," she said softly.

It was the final straw. If there was one thing James Sheridan Rafferty was not, it was a coward. He'd been about to button his shirt, but he left it hanging, reaching instead for the mashed pack of cigarettes that still survived. "No one calls me chicken."

"You must have seen Back to the Future," she said.

Her words gave him a start of surprise, before he realized she must be referring to a movie. "No," he said with a trace of wryness. "But I think I'd like it."

"Rafferty..."

"I'm not going to bed with you, Helen. Because I'm not going to be here tomorrow morning, and you deserve better than that." He tried to keep his voice flat and unemotional.

"Can't you call your boss and tell them you need a few extra days?"

He grimaced at the notion. "No."

"Can't you just miss your plane?"

"I didn't come here by plane."

"Well, how did you get here?" Helen demanded. "And for that matter, since we've already ascertained that you're not Billy's lawyer, what is it you do for a living?"

He looked at her. He'd never told a soul, never even been tempted. But he knew if he didn't come clean, didn't warn her exactly who and what he was, then he wasn't going to be able to resist.

He lit the cigarette, taking a deep, deliberate drag off it, and she wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "I don't do anything for a living, sweetheart," he said. "And I haven't for sixty-four years."