Dameon walked over to him and gently ruffled the fur on his head. Seemingly by sleight of hand, he pulled out a chew bone from his pocket. Cobbs jumped excitedly and grabbed the toy. A faint, self-mocking smile quirked at Dameon's lips as his eyes met Jen's questioning ones.
"It seemed I made a bad impression on him before." He reached to scratch Cobbs's ear. "A little bribery seemed in order." Cobbs wagged his tail harder .
"Cobbs is an old pushover, as you can see," Jen said, eyeing her mongrel affectionately. She wondered if she could take Dameon's interest in befriending Cobbs as interest in herself. She glanced at him from under her lashes. He looked cool and elegant. In your dreams, she scoffed at herself.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked, his voice soft and husky, rubbing against her like sleek fur. She shook her head, embarrassed that she hadn't suggested it first. She watched as he gracefully reclined into her embroidered, hard-backed chair. She winced, wondering why she'd bought something so uncomfortable and impractical.
Dameon smiled at her, his eyes lightly skimming her face. She had the uncanny feeling he'd read her thoughts. Her heart lunged and she felt unsure and awkward. Having Dameon in her house made the rooms seem smaller.
"Do you prefer cocoa or coffee?" she croaked, licking her dry lips as she backed her way into the kitchen.
"Whatever you’re having is fine. I am easy to please." His smile deepened. Jen felt her breath quicken.
She rushed into the kitchen. With trembling hands, she spilled water and instant cocoa from the packets into unmatching mugs. Was it gauche to serve instant drinks? And what did it say about her character that everything she had to eat was instant or packaged? Dameon would surely think her an uncouth American, coarse and tasteless. Hadn't she read about the elaborate tea rituals they had in Europe? Or was that just England?
Emerging, flushed and disheveled from the kitchen, she was surprised to see the sofa vacated. Cobbs was usually underfoot at any hint of food.
"He took his bone in the other room for a little privacy, I think," he explained from the shadows. It took Jen a moment to realize that Dameon's eyes were on her.
"I've never realized how poor the lighting is in here." She felt nervous laughter bubble up in her throat. She reached to hand Dameon his cocoa, unable to meet his eyes at such close range. Their fingertips brushed and her heart jumped so hard that her hand jerked, nearly spilling the drink onto his lap. With a swift movement, he caught the cup midair, preventing a disaster. How had he managed such a maneuver? No one could have reflexes that fast.
As she sank into the couch, Jen looked up, feeling his gaze still on her. His ability to remain absolutely motionless was uncanny. Her reflection in the ornate, gold-framed mirror shone back at her, her enormous hazel eyes startled as a rabbit's in her small face. She looked down at her lap and wished she was wearing something more flattering than faded jeans and an overlong sweatshirt.
"Is your cocoa hot enough?" she heard herself ask inanely. She shifted in her seat and winced. She reached to massage the back of her neck where the muscles were painfully tight.
"Perfect," he answered. He leaned back and gazed around him with narrowed eyes. "I've been admiring your home. It's very attractive, very warm and personal. I always end up living with some decorator's preferences—nice, but somehow sterile."
"Well, I just rent it, and everything in here came from a garage sale or flea market. But I always believe in making your home reflect your personal style," she rattled on nervously, sounding too eager and loud in her own ears. "You should choose your own furnishings. It's fun, and there's no one looking over your shoulder to tell you that you have terrible taste."
"Unfortunately, I've never had the knack for creating a homelike environment. So I must rely on others' talents." Dameon watched her through lowered lids, sphinx like.
Jen could think of nothing to say to that, and tried to unwind her clenched muscles. Hunching over her PC all day at work was torture on her back, which was she rarely even turned on her computer at home. Of course, the scene at the lake had only added to her tension.
She was relieved that Dameon was proficient at guiding the conversation, and she glowed as he persuaded her to talk about her interests and career. He was a very skilled listener, and before she could stop herself, she was confiding her dreams of being a professional photographer. As Jen paused to catch her breath, she started to feel she'd revealed too much. Her discomfort evaporated as he deftly switched topics.
"Tell me about Detroit," he entreated. "I know little about this area of the country."
"Don't get the wrong impression—carjackings and animals being slaughtered are rare occurrences. And there's much more to the city than just the auto industry. We're proud of our many home-grown musicians—Bob Seger, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye...Of course, there's the whole Motown history," Jen said eagerly. "Plus, we have a great cultural mix here. In the summer, they hold wonderful ethnic festivals by the river." She stopped, feeling as if she'd been rambling on. "Detroit's not as dangerous or uncivilized as you might be thinking it is." Her voice faded and she quickly swallowed the last drop of cocoa.
"Cities become interchangeable after a while, no matter where you are staying," Dameon said, his expression hard to read.
"You sound like you've done quite a bit of traveling." Jen was wistful. "The most exotic locale I've ever been to is Windsor, Canada, which is only an hour away."
"You would like Europe. I see you appreciate diversity in art and culture." His eyes were taking in the arrangement on the wall: her Navaho sand painting, her Chinese rice paper painting, the Picasso poster and wood engraving from Spain—all bargain finds at flea markets. "The Pacific Rim is also very fascinating and beautiful."
Jen looked down at her cup unconsciously clenched tightly in her hands. For some reason, she was nervous. She was waiting for something to happen, though what, she couldn't guess. Dameon is certainly out of my league, she thought ruefully. "Grenville must seem provincial, especially compared to the cities you've visited."
"You would be surprised. People are amazingly alike no matter where they come from. All humans seem to have an endless capacity for cruelty." His expression was strange, faraway, almost sorrowful. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought—thoughts none too pleasant from the look in his eyes.
What an odd statement, she thought to herself. Silence fell between them and Jen studied his face. His words seemed to hold layers of meaning.
She'd never known anyone who could remain entirely motionless without any of the ordinary fidgeting and twitching that usually accompanied silences between people. The clock on the wall sounded too loud.
She set her empty cup down while he still slowly drank from his. We barely know each other, she reminded herself. She shifted. The movement caused her to wince in pain. She reached back and massaged her sore neck and rolled her stiff shoulders.
"Is something troubling you?"
"Oh, no. I'm fine." For some reason, Jen felt reluctant to explain.
"But I can see you're in pain—"
"Really, it's nothing."
"Perhaps there's something I can do," he coaxed.
She was swimming in the endless blackness of his eyes. She caved in. "It's my neck. I'm stuck on the computer all day long and my muscles kink up. It's nothing serious, but..." She shrugged and smiled, not wanting to sound as if she were whining for sympathy.
Dameon set his cup on the coffee table and walked over to her side. He had removed his long, black coat, and Jen could see he was elegantly attired in a maroon, knitted sweater over charcoal pants.. Close up, he was intimidating.
"Maybe I can give you some relief," he said. "I am knowledgeable about muscle pain, especially in the neck area." Looking up at him, she noticed that he was forcing back a tiny, strange smile. "Shall I?" He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Maybe a massage would help," she said, uncertainly. She sat straighter.
He moved behind her and she was so acut
ely aware of his sudden nearness that she was convinced he could hear every thump of her heart. His hands, long and slender, reached around her neck. The red stone ring on his finger glowed and flashed. A tantalizing mint scent filled her nostrils. A faint sense of recognition teased her brain. She released the breath she had been holding. He gently lifted her hair and moved it over one shoulder. As his hands brushed her bare skin, she shivered.
His hands began to work magic on her sore shoulder and neck muscles, moving firmly, yet with a lightness of touch. First, the pain dissolved—. Then, her nerve endings came alive, swelling and pulsating. A surge of warmth flooded through her. Her body wanted those hands to touch more than just her neck and shoulders.
Jen ached for more. Her flesh seemed to yearn, to reach for his touch. Her eyes flew open. What was happening to her? Her heart began to flutter madly. Could Dameon tell what she was feeling? He seemed unaware, massaging and kneading the muscles in her shoulders. Why was her body suddenly tight and heavy with a burning need? Horror and embarrassment froze her.
The fiery hunger was cooled. Every seething emotion drained from her body. She was soothed, relaxed, and abruptly tired. Dameon's hands released all of tension within her and blurred away the rough edges. Jen's senses swam. The light from the swing lamp melted into a blur.
She closed her eyes, feeling a rising vertigo. And yet, it was not an unpleasant feeling at all. Jen wondered why she wasn't nervous. After all, he was a man she barely knew, and he had his hands on her neck.
She felt so good that time was forgotten. Reality began to slip away. She forgot all about the sudden, urgent swell of desire that had just nearly overwhelmed her. She was in soporific daze by the time Dameon stopped his massage. Her body missed the touch of his hands. She didn't want him to stop.
Her eye lids felt heavy when she tried to raise them to look up at him.
"That was very...”—she stumbled over the words—"therapeutic. You're a great masseuse." She yawned. She leaned back against the sofa pillows, feeling rag doll limp, eyes closing. Jen thought she heard him answer her, but wasn't sure at the moment what was real and what wasn't. Her body felt curiously formless, as if she could float through the air.
"You know, Dameon," she confided, covering a second yawn with her hand. "I've been having the most terrible time getting a good night's sleep this past week. I've been so exhausted...I hope…" Her words slurred drunkenly. "I hope, tonight, I'll fall asleep without the dreams keeping me awake...maybe your massage will be the cure." She forced her eyes open.
He gazed down into her dilated, unfocused eyes. He was already in his coat, ready to leave. He spoke softly. "I have a strong feeling, chérie, that you will sleep well tonight. No more dreams, I promise." His words fell light as rain drops against her skin.
She thought she felt him kiss her forehead and whisper, "Forgive me," but couldn't swear that it wasn't a dream. As the door softly shut behind him, Jen pulled the afghan around her and fell immediately into a deep sleep, surrendering to a heavy, velvet darkness, which carried her off to oblivion.
* * * *
Tatiana was in the owl body again, using the large elm tree as her lookout. She wanted to spit. Or scream. She could barely contain her disgust, and longed to lash out and destroy something or someone. What a nauseating, insipid little scene. How could Dameon play the fool? Play court to that stupid little human? Just watching the spectacle of him stroking the woman's neck made her want to howl with need and hunger. She could see—no, smell—the human's blood pumping through the artery in her throat. Not once had he seemed tempted.
But what could one expect from a vampan? Dameon didn't have a clue as to what was going on. Her one satisfaction was that she was able to conceal her presence for so long from him, he, who was usually so alert and vigilant. His silly little fancy for the human had dulled his wits. How furious he would be when he learned he had been bested. He was as vulnerable as a mewling human. Delicious, unholy glee filled her being, momentarily displacing the hunger in her blood. Her plan would work and he would pay. To think for a weak moment, she'd been tempted to call the whole thing off.
* * * *
When Jen opened her eyes the next morning, she found herself snug in her bed with no recollection of how she’d gotten there. Wild, fuzzy images of last night spun through her befuddled brain. Sliding out from under the covers, she pulled on her robe. Feeling undeniably refreshed and rested, Jen stretched. The picture of herself asleep on the couch while Dameon watched made her groan aloud. What if she'd been snoring?
"Terrific, he's going to think I'm a complete boor. We barely know each other, and I end up falling asleep in front of him."
Swiftly and mercilessly, Jen was jolted by another memory; .With biting clarity, she relived the incredible desire and excitement she'd felt when he began his massage. Squirming, she recalled vividly her almost controllable need to have him touch her.
And how, right in the middle of it all, she suddenly turned sleepy and dopey. Every sensation had been turned off except for exhaustion. How could she explain it to herself? You don't, she told herself firmly. Just put it out of your mind. It was just one of those things. Dameon's a nice guy, a handsome, sophisticated man that you've developed a crush on. You practically begged him to touch you. He was probably embarrassed to see you getting turned on by a simple massage.
Feeling her face heat up, Jen peered at her red-cheeked self in the vanity mirror and noticed how bright and clear her eyes were. Her face looked very young and excited. She looked great. Bits and pieces of conversation last night, so seemingly casual and ordinary, floated through her brain, but the evening had felt so intimate.
Most men would have tried to take advantage of her last night, but then, Dameon obviously wasn't attracted to her.
She had slept peacefully last night without the tormenting dreams. Jen wasn't sure that she was completely happy about the dreams ending. Their intensity had been addictive.
As if in a trance, she slowly lifted her hair off her neck as Dameon had done before, and stroked the sensitive skin on her throat lightly. The memory of his touch sent a feverish shiver through her. Frightened, she took a deep breath, and sternly marched herself into the shower.
Stop it, she ordered herself. Come back to earth. The hot jets of water pulsated down her, and she felt alive and energized. Closing her eyes, she felt the uncanny sensation that someone was in the shower with her, lips caressing the back of her neck.
She snapped off the faucet abruptly and hurried out of the shower, drying herself with a healthy roughness. Dressing quickly in black stirrup pants and a long, black jersey, Jen lectured herself severely. She was simply hungry and feeling a natural high from getting a good night's sleep after nights of feeling exhausted. And, that was all. Dameon La Faim isn't interested in you, she reminded herself. Mother was right. I do let my imagination run away with me. If he was interested, he would have called by now...
Jen brushed her hair briskly and secured it in a ponytail with a purple, velvet-covered band, trying to feel calm and matter-of-fact. She was herself again. Dry kibble for Cobbs and a muffin and apple juice for herself. Now, all was back to normal. She had the whole Saturday before her. Jen reached for a folder from work, curled up on the couch, and munched dreamily on her apple-nut muffin. She forced her mind onto the mechanics of proofreading. Dreams were fine, but Jen had to remember what reality was—and her reality didn't happen to include Dameon LaFaim.
* * * *
Dameon watched out of his window, the sun blazing down on the fall landscape, trees and ground richly aglow in autumn colors. He could tolerate the sun. It had taken centuries for those like him to build a resistance. Living like a mortal, however, took its toll. Though, the drug helped. But it was agonizing in a manner unfamiliar to the humans busily and thoughtlessly living their lives down below. Still, it was nothing like what he had been forced to endure years ago when he had, from time to time, thought that he was insane to continue the treatments. H
e could never give up, not with the hope of a more normal life before him.
His eyes helplessly sought one house in particular, searching for her. Calvin, his butler and manservant, was sitting opposite him in a large, wing chair. This study was well used by both of them, and it was shut off from the rest of house and afforded much needed privacy with its heavily paneled walls and extra locks on the doors. Not that he'd had many guests to worry about stumbling on his secret.
He turned back to the window and felt guilt surge within him. He had caused her discomfort. Massaging her shoulders, he'd only intended on giving her medicinal relief, but then, his hunger, his passion, had sought out hers. She had been frightened and disturbed. Quickly, he had turned off his emotions and quieted hers. It was unethical, what he'd done. Not right. First arousing her, and then quelling her feelings. In a sense, he had sedated her.
"I've been selfish," he said out loud. "I have no business involving myself in her life."
Calvin didn't have to ask who he was talking about.
"I've never lost control of my mental powers before," he said, frowning. "It could be dangerous." Dameon had always felt it despicable to use his psychic abilities on humans for selfish gain.
Calvin shook his head silently.
A faint smile curved Dameon's lips. "I know you think I should pursue this, that it could actually work." He went to the teak sidebar and poured them both two glasses, his was water, Calvin's, wine. He turned around. "You're a romantic, dear friend. But we have to face facts. Jen and I could never work."
Sighing deeply to himself, Dameon lapsed into thought as Calvin drank his wine, his expression solemn. Dameon allowed himself the luxury of memory, of how silken her hair was, how warm and soft her skin felt. How hard it had been not to do more than just massage her neck and shoulders. It was lucky he had such self-discipline.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 6
