Chapter 3

Stella stood on the balcony of Mac's apartment, gazing over the bright, illuminated landscape of New York. Every light in the city seemed to be ablaze: the sky was clear and moonless, and the fantastic light pouring upwards from thousands of buildings drowned out the stars. Tonight's glory was all of the human kind.

The night was warm, though not humid: her short, lawn dress was quite different from the business clothes she had been forced to peel off for Shepherd, and she felt open and free. Even Mac had succumbed to the heat, she noticed, not wearing his ubiquitous vest and actually untucking his shirt so that it hung loose around his hips. She thought of his smooth, soft skin, so available to her touch before, so hidden now. She longed to run her hands over his stomach, his back – to rest her fingers lightly on his waist as she had when she thought she might have just minutes to live. It would take such a small movement to slip her hand beneath the fabric: but it was a movement she would never make in the real world, not without permission.

Permission that, so far, had not been granted.

It was two weeks since the ghastly events downtown: two weeks during which she had been treated for concussion and shock and Mac for a bullet graze to the cheek, while Sid had taken an unprofessionally malicious pleasure in performing the autopsy on Dave Shepherd, pulling thirteen bullets out of him and enjoying every one. Mac had tried to haul her and Flack over the coals for putting themselves in danger but it was obvious his heart wasn't in it: he'd finally given up the official line and simply hugged them both, his eyes bright in a rare show of uncontrolled emotion, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to find the words to thank them. He'd sat silently in his office with her for hours, and she had allowed him to do it, wanting – selfishly, she knew – more, but understanding that he needed to find his own way through the horror.

He had sat thus in the hospital too, as she lay unconscious and unknowing, staring at her and wondering why he deserved such love. He had seen the footage from Flack's makeshift video: it could only have been love or madness that prompted Stella's actions, and he found his eyes and his heart overflowing with emotions that, he finally realised, had been within him for years, unrecognised and unacknowledged and now demanding release.

Stella knew nothing of this: she only knew that he had never been so gentle or thoughtful, so wanting to be near her, as he had been since she returned to work – too soon, of course, but what did he expect? They had shared a drink, a meal, and now an evening, and Stella couldn't remember when she had last been so nervous, uncertain and happy.

She heard Mac moving in his kitchen, tidying crockery and cutlery away and – she hoped – uncorking another bottle of wine. She wasn't usually a great drinker, but this evening she had been in such a strange, muddled state that she had drunk a generous half of the first bottle before she knew it. Now, finding herself growing slightly giddy with alcohol and emotion, she craved more.

It hadn't been at all the sort of evening she had expected. When Mac had suggested they have dinner, it had been no more than they had done many times before: but when she realised that he meant a dinner he had cooked, in his apartment, she knew something had changed. Like her, he guarded his privacy fiercely: for him to invite someone into his personal space was a very big deal indeed. So, stepping over the threshold and into the immaculate yet welcoming room, she was prepared for almost anything.

What she hadn't been prepared for, ironically enough, was nothing.

The meal had progressed as most of their previous meals had done: shared memories, serious discussions about ethics and morality, and flippant discussions about friends and colleagues. They had talked about Claire, and Frankie, and even Peyton, who Mac was never comfortable discussing, and Mac had seemed of the decided opinion that Stella's current single state was a good one. Whether his own state reflected or contradicted hers, he had not said.

The food was delicious: something Thai of Mac's own devising, and complemented by the crisp white wine which flattered both the cook and his cooking. Mac was courteous, funny – in the way he only ever was when they were alone – and kind, but that was all, and by the time she had walked to the balcony as he cleared the dishes, she was obscurely disappointed.

Standing in the evening warmth, she chided herself for expecting so much. What was she thinking – that just because she had realised her feelings for him, he would automatically discover similar feelings for her? Her nightmare-born resolution had faded in the devastating light of events in Shepherd's apartment: he had come so close to dying, at her hands and despite everything she had done to keep him safe, that she no longer felt sure of anything, least of all the impulse, so clear to her before, that she should tell him she loved him.

Normally so decisive, this crisis of confidence unsettled her. For the first time since she'd been a little girl and discovered that as a kid with no parents she had to do everything for herself, she wished someone else would take control.

She looked again at the landscape before her, taking in the dark lines of long, straight avenues, the choppy little voids that meant parks or gardens, and the graceful sweeping rise of some of the city's tallest buildings as they soared above older, stumpier blocks below. The variety of colours was amazing: reds and oranges vied with blues and whites in astonishing intensity, but her favourites were the rare shades – the greens and purples that touched the sky only infrequently, lending their subtle grace notes to the music of the artificial fires below.

It was too beautiful to watch alone, and she ached for Mac's company. The sounds from the kitchen had ceased, so he must be nearly done. And when he was, would she tell him then? What would she say? How could she say it? Mac, I love you. Mac, I need to tell you. Mac, there's something I have to say. Mac, Mac, Mac…

"Mac." She whispered the word aloud, then realised that she was speaking. She cringed, embarrassed despite being alone. At least, she thought, he hadn't heard.

But she was wrong. There was a movement behind her: he must have been standing there quietly for some time. "I'm here, Stella. I'm always here for you – you know that."

She knew. He'd told her enough times: had he, she suddenly wondered, been trying to tell her something more? All those invitations to stay when she'd needed a space: invitations that she had spurned in favour of hotels or other friends? All those wasted years…

"Come and look at the city," she said. She'd lived here all her life, but it still took her breath away. "I can never get over how beautiful it is."

She heard footsteps, then his voice, soft and close behind her. "Right now, it's the most beautiful place on earth." His words didn't entirely make sense, but she felt his breath stir her hair.

She wished he would touch her, but Mac's demeanour during the past fortnight had been that of a concerned friend and grateful colleague, not a romantic lover. Perhaps he was psyching himself up for a first move.

Perhaps he didn't care at all.

She was momentarily off guard, or she never would have whispered his name again. But the emotional roller-coaster had taken its toll, and Stella's shell wasn't yet entirely rebuilt.

"Mac…"

In response, as if he had been waiting for her confirmation, he slipped his arms around her waist, leaning into her so that his face was buried in her hair. The warmth of his body, so strong and so close, went through her like sudden fire, and she gripped the railing to steady herself. Not that she would have fallen: he held her too tightly for that. She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned forward to speak.

"I'm still here," he whispered. "You OK?" He smelt of lemon grass and wine, and her stomach turned to water.

"Yeah." The reply was automatic – typical of Stella the powerful independent woman who didn't want to be beholden to anyone. But although her mouth formed the word, no sound came out, and it occurred to her through her sudden dizziness that something more might be required. Trembling, unsure even now, she wrapped her arms around his, feeling the muscles and sinews beneath her fingers with something like wonder. Was this really happening at last?

Instead of trying to speak again, she turned within his embrace and, slipping her arms beneath his, hugged him to her as tightly as she could. Acutely aware that nothing stood between her hands and his skin save his thin, summer shirt, she rested her head on his shoulder, and felt him shift as he encompassed her in a living cage from which she never wanted to be set free.

She closed her eyes, feeling no need for words. This was all so – different… She hadn't felt this way with Frankie, even before he'd unravelled; she couldn't remember feeling this way with anyone. Was she so fickle – or was her memory so false? Surely – surely this wasn't the first time, in all her life, that she'd actually been in love? And if it was, how would she know?

A shiver suddenly ran through her: to think, that she had nearly lost this man… She gripped him tighter.

"Hey," he said. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to breathe."

"Oh!" Guiltily, she let him go, and would have stepped back except that he still had his arms around her.

He grinned – one of those rare, unselfconscious grins that lit up his whole face with soft, enduring flame. The bullet graze was hardly visible now: just a scratch, as though he'd been playing with a particularly boisterous kitten. He loosed one hand, and began to stroke her hair, running his fingers through its thick curls until she thought she might go mad with the sensation. Setting her back a little so he could see her face, he asked, "How do you manage this mop, Stella?"

She smiled, loving the fact that they were so close, but still unable to resist being mischievous. "I'm fussy about who I use as a comb." There was a moment's silence, and then she remembered Shepherd rubbing his greasy hands over her hair, and liking what he felt. She turned cold.

"Stella?" Mac still held her hair in his hand – a world away from the gesture that Shepherd had made, but not so divorced from it that she had been able to avoid the memory.

She buried her head in his shoulder once more, not wanting to be strong. "Shepherd," she mumbled.

"What?" Gently, he lifted her face clear. "What is it?"

"He – he did that. He touched my hair."

She felt Mac grow still. "You said he never touched you."

"My hair – just my hair. Oh God – my hair…"

Instead of speaking, Mac raised the handful of curls to his lips and kissed it. Then he took another, and kissed that too. He worked his way around one side of her head and, when that was done, moved to the other. By the time he had finished, she felt he had kissed every curl she had. Dropping his hands back to her shoulders, he looked at her steadily. "All gone now," he said softly. "Washed away. Better?"

Stella stared at his eyes, dark in this uncertain light, and felt tears beginning behind her own. Suddenly, from nowhere, she felt scared. This was all so new…

But Mac was still speaking. "I want you to make me a promise, Stella" he said, and his voice was deep with emotion. She gazed into his eyes and felt like a little girl. "Never, ever, no matter what the situation, do that for me again." Something in her was strangely hurt, and she dropped her gaze. "No, Stella – listen to me. I – you know I'm no good at this stuff – if I ever lost you…" His voice cracked, and the sentence trailed off into nothingness. He tried again. "What I mean is, if it had all gone wrong in there – God forbid, but if it had – I – " he swallowed, clearly finding this an ordeal. "I don't think I'd want to go on if I lost you. I – I've already lost one woman I loved. I couldn't stand to lose two." His voice had dropped to barely a whisper, but she heard every word. And then, as if he couldn't bear the sight of her any longer, he pulled her to him again, burying his face in her now cleansed and beautiful hair.

Stella processed his words as best she could: the physical effects of being held so closely by the man she desperately wanted to make love to were beginning to cloud her mind. But she understood enough to realise that Mac was lost here: capable or not, she had to take the initiative, so she'd better get her feet back on the ground and running again.

She tore herself away from the close contact. She saw the question in his eyes – the worry that something he had said had angered or upset her – but she saw too the struggle to veil his fear. Even now, he was trying to be strong.

But she was stronger: toughened by years of self-reliance and the power of her love, she knew she could carry them both. She cupped his face in her hands, framing his features in her long, fine fingers, and leant forward to kiss him. Pressing her lips to his, she prepared to pour herself into him, to fill him up with her love – but was met with an impenetrable barrier. Opening her eyes and drawing back in confusion, she saw that Mac's lips were clamped tight shut, proof against any gentle invasion of hers.

Did he not want her? After all that he'd just said, did that mean he didn't love her? Or just loved her as a friend? She felt suddenly sick: had she misjudged everything, and ruined it all? "Mac?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"

He was breathing shallowly and trembling slightly, but he still held her like a lover. Without thinking, she slipped her hands beneath his shirt, pressing them to his broad, cool back. His skin was as beautiful as she had remembered, and she drank in the sensation like wine, making her light-headed with elation and disbelief.

She felt his muscles flex beneath her fingers in an involuntary response to her touch. Slowly, his gaze focussed on her again, and his lips opened slightly. She knew he was about to tell her some fundamental truth, and almost dreaded what she might have to hear. He muttered something: but she didn't catch it, and he had to repeat himself.

"I'm scared."

She looked at him in amazement: this powerful, authoritative man, scared? Of her? With infinite tenderness, as one might speak to a terrified child, she asked, "Why?"

"I can't make this work. I'm no good at this kind of thing."

"You were good at it with Claire."

She saw the softness leap into his eyes. "Claire was good at it."

"I'm good at it." His face showed his scepticism. "With you. I'm good at it with you."

She let that sink in, and saw it work its way through his frightened, muddled brain. His brow creased. "With me? Can you – can you really… You could have anyone, Stella."

"I don't want anyone," she said, with perhaps a little more acerbity than she'd intended. "I want you." Her voice softened. "I want you, Mac – I…" Here was the moment, suddenly arrived, and she wasn't prepared for it at all, but had to plough on because if she stopped now it would never come again. "I love you – I think I've loved you for years, but I've only just found out." She shook her head, trying to lighten the mood, desperate not to trap him in a place from which rejection would be his only escape. "How dumb is that?"

He swallowed. "I think maybe we've both been a little blind." He began to stroke her face, her hair – to caress her back, and run intense, hungry eyes over her body. She was dizzy with the sudden, solid knowledge that he wanted her, and without thinking reached down to touch him through his pants. As she did so, she realised that this was the first time, in reality or imagination, that she had ever dared do such a thing: and she found to her shock that, diffident as he was, he was entirely ready for her. The knowledge sent twisting waves through her stomach in a visceral reaction of need.

At her touch, a small whimper escaped him, and his eyes half-closed in something like ecstasy. His breathing became ragged, and his hands on her body more urgent. "Come here," she whispered. "I want to kiss you."

He looked into her eyes as if seeking a final confirmation before unlocking the door to his soul. He must have found what he sought, for when Stella's lips touched his, he opened himself to her completely, and she sank into him, losing herself in his need and his passion, plumbing the deepest pit of animal lust and soaring to the heights of angelic ecstasy.

She heard a moaning within the kiss, and realised that the voice was hers.

When they broke apart, he held her to him and murmured wordlessly into her hair. Then, looking at her with a wild, untamed mixture of love and lust, he moved away, holding her hand. "Stella…"

His eyes were as black as the night around them, reflecting the lights of New York behind her like stars, and his smile was a mixture of shyness and desire that melted her heart. She stepped forward, away from the balcony and towards somewhere that a part of her had dreamed of finding for fifteen years. His face had an expression of wonder, as if he could hardly believe what was happening: he looked happy, vulnerable, and young.

As she followed him into the dark, she thought that she had never seen anyone so beautiful.

* * *

Stella Bonasera, naked in the hottest summer she could remember, was sweating freely into the stifling New York night. She had long since flung the clothes from her bed, and tossed and turned restlessly, unable either to sleep or wake.

She became aware, in the milky haze of half-consciousness, of something pressing down on her chest, and struggled to escape: it was suffocating her in the damp, sticky dark, but despite tugging and straining for release, it would not budge. Her frantic efforts finally woke her, and she felt the thing holding her down: it was soft and almost warm, but a dead, dead weight.

Grunting with the struggle to get free, she became aware that it was moving, and as she pushed at it in her panic, it moaned. She froze. Not again. Dear God, not again…

And then, like monsoon rain at the end of a dry season, she remembered, and sighed in relief. Mac – the thing weighing her down was Mac – beautiful, groggy-with-sleep-and-exhaustion Mac…

Mac, who not six hours ago had become her gentle, longed-for lover.

She lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling, a grin as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge on her face. Mac's head was heavy on her shoulder, his arm flung across her waist, his breathing quiet with contentment. She twisted slightly beneath him, and cradled his body against hers: his tenderness and care had overwhelmed her, and his skill and subtlety had taken her on a journey the like of which she had never known. She wanted to laugh out loud at the unexpectedness and astonishment of it all.

The man beside her stirred: she must have disturbed him in her semi-conscious panic. He lifted his head and clumsily propped himself up on half an elbow so he could look at her. "Hey," he whispered, stroking her damp face and pushing away wet strands of hair. "How you doing?"

She bit her lip and grinned. "Pretty good. You?"

"Pretty good." He paused. "Is there dirt on my face?"

"What? No."

"You're laughing at me."

Her grin became wider, and she wrapped her arms around him. Memories of the previous night swirled through her mind in glorious, jewel-rich colours, and she shuddered as the remembered sensations became almost physical again. She shook her head. "Did I tell you at any stage last night that I love you?"

Now it was his turn to grin. "Several times."

"Ah – good. Wouldn't want you to forget." She kissed his forehead, finally wriggled out from under him, and turned over. "Going back to sleep now…"

He kissed her shoulder, and settled her against him. "Sweet dreams, Stella," he whispered. "Sweet dreams."

The End