by Lori Foster
He loved watching her move, the way she gestured with her hands or tilted her head or curled her toes. He'd been with a lot of beautiful women, stacked women, but she had the cutest body he'd ever seen, all soft and pink and petite, with an undeniable feminine strength. He was as enthralled with her as he'd been with his first naked woman. He remembered the fascination then, lying in the sunshine in a field with his junior high school sweetie being very accommodating, giggling as he'd explored with his fingers, moaning when he'd used his tongue to taste her. It had been like having the candy store opened, and everything was free.
He felt that way now, magnified about a thousand times, constantly needing to stroke her or nibble on her in some small way. The ice cream hadn't been dessert enough—he wanted to start at her toes and work his way up.
"I do astrological charts," she said, and even her voice, lyrical and soft, aroused him. "Tarot card readings, and things like that."
She swallowed another bite of strawberry ice cream, then licked her lips. "I do some fortune-telling and predictions of the future, too. Usually that can be based on something the client says." She grinned at him, a wicked, teasing grin. "In other words, a good guess."
"Where'd you learn all that stuff?" Zane finished off his ice cream, and reached past her to put his bowl in the sink. The sheet hung around her waist. He stepped up to her and brought her breasts against his chest. Her accelerated heartbeat kick-started his own. They'd been teasing one another for some time now; he wasn't sure how much longer he could wait.
"I've read books." She slid her hands over his back to his hips, tugging him closer. "I have a whole selection on each topic. When I first came here, I had to fight with the relatives to get rid of the more bogus stuff."
"Like?"
"Using the crystal ball—which is just decoration now. Special light effects, eerie music, incantations, all that. We compromised. I got to apply what I'd actually learned about the craft, and they got me to dress up in my silly costume."
Zane put his hands on her thighs. The thin sheet had absorbed her heat, and with her sitting on the countertop, she was just the right height to kiss. "Your silly costume makes me wild."
She laughed. "It does not."
"It didn't use to," he agreed, "but it does now. I keep thinking about all those rings on your little toes, and all that attitude you have when you're dressed up."
Her lips quivered with a suppressed laugh. "Rings on my toes, huh?"
Trailing a finger over her smooth shoulder, he made his way down the slope of her right breast, stopping just short of her nipple. He watched it pucker, draw tight, just from his teasing. "You're obviously popular with the men, so others must agree with me."
Her breath hitched. "I don't know. I do well enough, I suppose."
Removing all indications of jealousy, Zane tipped up her chin. "You were pretty busy this morning."
She stared at his mouth, and it was easy to know her thoughts now. "Arkin has become a regular only the past few weeks. He's a nice man. I like him."
Logic told him that plenty of women liked nice men. There was no reason for the spike of possessiveness. "And Boris?"
She made a face. "He's a little eerie, isn't he?"
"How so?" True, Zane hadn't liked him, not even a little. And he'd thought him an arrogant jerk, too pushy for his own good. But he hadn't really considered him frightening.
I don't know. He just made me edgy." She rubbed her arms and looked thoughtful, as if considering her own reaction.
Zane didn't quite understand her uneasiness either. Of course, he wasn't a woman playing at being a Gypsy, determined to stand alone no matter what. Tamara, with her eclectic ways and stubborn disposition, was more vulnerable than most, and from what he could tell, more sensitive than most. If the bastard had frightened her somehow. Zane didn't want him around her again.
With a small sound, Tamara wiggled out of his arms, scooting back on the counter and trying to escape his hold Zane felt her withdrawal like a punch.
He gripped her arms and lightly shook her. "What is it?"
"Nothing." She pressed away from him.
"Bullshit." He turned her chin toward him. Her green eyes were cloudy with distress. "I can see it on your face, Tamara. Don't shut me out. Tell me what's wrong."
"I don't want you to get mad."
"At you?" She nodded, and Zane automatically pulled her into a hug. She relaxed against him. "Baby, I'm not going to get mad at you. I want you to tell me what you're thinking."
A deep breath and several seconds later, she said, "You still think I'm a charlatan."
"What?"
"I understand," she rushed to assure him, ignoring his surprise. "I mean, there's not a whole lot of legitimacy I can lay claim to. But Zane, I truly do want to help people, and a lot of times, I can. Just today, with Arkin Devane, I was able to tell him things he needed to know, important things."
Mired in confusion, Zane fought to make sense of her words. He didn't doubt her sincerity, and never had. "Honey, what makes you think I'm judging you that way?"
Her teeth sank into her soft bottom lip and her eyes were big, vulnerable. She swallowed. "Because I feel what you feel." Her hand touched his jaw, slid down to the pulse at the base of his throat, her fingertips lightly pressing. "When you're mad or annoyed."
"You feel what I feel?" He didn't mean to sound so incredulous.
"Yes." Hesitation was plain on her face, then she lifted her chin and forged ahead with a near belligerence. "When you're aroused, too. It's ... a little shocking, how turned on you get."
Her admission should have stunned him, but instead, it made sense. "You're . . . what do they call it? Empathic?" "To very few people."
Heart racing, Zane asked, "Those people you care about?"
Her gaze never wavered, and she whispered, "Usually."
Cradling her head in his palms, he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her delicious mouth that tasted faintly of strawberries and woman and sexual hunger. "Then know this, little Gypsy. It pisses me off that you won't open yourself to me completely, that you won't trust me to do what I can for you. It makes me madder than hell that anyone would upset you, especially a man. I want you all to myself, and if you left it up to me, Boris Sandor and Arkin Devane and any other man who wants to use your talents would never get within shouting distance of you again."
Tamara blinked at him, her lips slightly parted.
He opened himself to her, sharing as he wanted her to share. "If you know me so well, Tamara, what am I feeling right now?"
Unerringly her hand moved down his side, inward over his hipbones to his groin, and closed hotly around his erection. "Desire. Possessiveness."
His breath hissed at the gentleness of her touch. "I told you before," he said through his teeth, "and I'm telling you again. You're mine. Now more than ever."
He took her mouth, his tongue pushing deep, demanding. and Tamara dropped the sheet to hold him close to her heart.
Zane decided now was a good time to confide a few fantasies to her. His emotions were suddenly so raw, so explosive, it was all he could do to contain them. He had to get inside her, and soon.
He wanted to take her every way known to man. From behind, so he could slip his hands beneath her and stroke her between her thighs, cuddle her breasts. He wanted her over him, so he could watch her pleasure as she came, with free access to her sensitive nipples. He wanted her on her knees in front of him, and he wanted to hear her beg so he'd know he wasn't the only one twisting with need.
He wanted a lot, everything, and he intended to get it.
He lifted Tamara in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. They were both breathing hard, and Tamara frantically touched him everywhere she could reach, her small hands hot and busy, her mouth damp, hungry.
Zane strode to the bed, and just as he laid her on the mattress and stripped away the sheet, the lights went out. He heard Tamara's catch of breath, felt her shock of fear. Then she whispered, "Oh God,
he's back."
Fifteen
Through the open door, Zane could see how dark the house had gone, not a single light in evidence.
It was silent too, the hum of the refrigerator stopped, no buzz of electricity of any kind. It made his skin prickle and set his senses on alert. "Stay here."
He reached for his slacks and pulled them on, but didn't bother with the zipper or button. Tamara didn't reply, and h knew she was afraid, but he couldn't spare the time to reassure her.
He headed out of the room, enraged that anyone would come into her house when she might have been there alone. And he didn't doubt that someone had. She was empathic—that much he believed with a certainty that touched his soul. She'd know if someone had intruded—and not just any someone, but the same someone. There wasn't a power failure, there wasn't a blown fuse. Someone was in her house.
This was a direct threat to her, and he wouldn't tolerate it. Tamara might not want to admit it, but they'd come to an understanding. She was his to protect, and he'd damn well start tonight.
From his car parked in a vacant lot across the street, Joe saw the house go black in the blink of an eye. He shook his head. Hell, Zane had been at it for hours. His respect for his cousin grew, though after having seen the woman, Joe had to wonder about his choice. She wasn't quite the type he'd always figured Zane would settle on.
Using his finger, Joe stirred the lukewarm coffee in his cup, trying to distribute a packet of sugar. Hell, he was hungry and tired and bored out of his mind. He should just head back to the motel, but some vague intuition nagged at him. That sixth sense had saved his ass more than once, so he wasn't about to start ignoring it now.
The coffee went down in two long gulps. Boredom was a bitch. For a while there he'd entertained himself with thoughts of what Zane might be doing with the black-haired woman who wasn't really black-haired at all but wore a wig. Weird. A little fascinating, but still weird. Zane had never struck him as the type to go after the strange ones.
But even pondering sexual acrobatics had grown old after a few hours. There sure as hell wasn't anything Zane could do that Joe hadn't already done himself. Several times. And likely with more skill.
He smiled. Hell, lately none of it interested him all that much.
Joe studied the building. He looked at the dark upstairs windows where he presumed Zane was going another round. What a stud. Personally, he'd have left the lights on. There wasn't anything prettier than a woman waiting naked for a man.
Unless, of course, they were finally settling down to sleep. It was a little early yet, but hey, sex could be an exhausting business when a man gave it his all.
Joe was smiling at his own sense of humor when it struck him that the faint lights from the downstairs had gone out as well. The entire house was pitch black.
Neat trick, he thought, cursing his slow perception while wondering who had just killed the electricity and why.
The car's interior remained dark and shadowed, the lights disengaged earlier, when he opened the driver's door and slid out. He moved silently, his gun already in is hand, his gaze constantly scanning the area, watching for even the slightest movement. At times like this, he forgot his damn knee and ignored the nagging discomfort. His movements were fluid, as practiced as any human could make them.
The front door of the shop was locked when he reached it so he slipped around to the side of the building, keeping his back to the brick wall, inching along without so much as disturbing a piece of gravel or stirring up dust. He stuck is head around the corner, trying to locate the back door. There wasn't one.
A faint scraping sound reached his ears, coming from the other side of the house. Joe moved, running flat-out and circling around the back. The security lights from Zane's computer business were bright enough to carry cross the alley, but faded as they reached the metal stairs leading to the upper story of the building. Joe had great night vision, or he'd never have seen that the door at the top of the stairs was ajar.
"Fuck" Nothing made Joe madder than realizing he'd made a mistake. Here he'd been watching the front of the house—hell, Zane was upstairs for Christ's sake!—and someone had slipped up the side stairs.
He'd taken two somewhat hobbling, pain-filled steps toward the stairs when he heard the whoosh of movement behind hind him. Joe turned, his eyes zeroing in on a moving shadow. Too far away to chase and catch, a body dashed into the darkness. There was little for Joe to commit to memory. The person had dressed all in black, and even the face was covered.
Joe looked back at the upstairs door. More cautiously now, in case the runner hadn't worked alone, he climbed the stairs. They were rickety, and some noise was unavoidable. He flattened himself against the outside wall, peeked inside and detected nothing but darkness. He slid his bad leg in, felt the way was clear, and ducked his body inside.
With the help of the moonlight, his eyes were quickly adjusting. He could make out a couch, a table. To his right, an interior door stood open, probably the door that led to her downstairs shop. He glanced at it, but kept his eyes moving, searching, unwilling to let anything else get past him. He'd learned through experience that staring too hard, especially in the dark, shattered your awareness. A little focus was good, too much could be deadly.
Through the open door he heard a noise, that of shuffling feet, and a muffled curse.
Zane.
Joe took a hasty step in that direction, then ducked as his instincts screamed a warning. A whistling filled his ears and something whooshed past his head, coming far too close for comfort. Another swing, but the aim was off and the object—something flat and hard—smashed into his shoulder.
Without so much as a grunt of pain, Joe turned for a tackle, his gun held tight. He collided with a small, slim body and they went down in a clatter of disrupted furniture and knocked-over knickknacks. His hands encountered bare skin—silky bare skin—but before he could get a good grip, something toppled onto his head with a resounding thunk. Stunned, he slackened his hold, and the body slithered away and up.
"Tamara!"
Zane's roar would have scared a dead man out of his grave, if the thunderous footsteps racing up the stairs hadn't already accomplished just that.
Joe reached out and caught a piece of material as it drifted over his arm. It snagged in his fist, then went loose and empty. "Goddammit." He struggled to his feet, his eyes search--and a flashlight came on.
Joe found himself staring at a woman.
Small, blonde, wide-eyed and sweet.
Buck naked.
Well hell, talk about shattering a man's focus.
He couldn't hear over his madly drumming heartbeat. Was someone -following, hands reaching out, ready to catch him even now, despite his rapid flight? Fear, disgust, was a bitter taste in his mouth, making his stomach churn. Puking was a very real possibility.
When he could run no more, his lungs burning, his heart straining, he slowed, labored for breath as his ears continued ringing. He ducked behind an old abandoned truck parked in an alley and waited. Silence. Nothing but dead silence, thank God. He shook all over.
She was supposed to be out! He'd heard her say so with his own two ears, so what was she doing at home? It was a long minute before he accepted that he was truly safe yet again. His heart gradually slowed, but his thoughts churned. Holding his side, cramping, feeling the sweat on his face and back, he came out of his hiding place and began hobbling home, defeated, frustrated.
He was wrong, so wrong to do this to her. He knew it, accepted his guilt. But then, when in love, the heart and mind knew no conscience.
He would do what he had to do.
Tamara's teeth chattered, she was so afraid.
The flashlight's beam bounced wildly around the room when Zane shoved the tall, intimidating man staring at her. The man stumbled and went down on one knee, wincing in pain, but he still stared. Hard. Unrelenting. Of course she recognized him.
She didn't know what to do, how to help Zane. She clutched the j
ournal, ready and more than willing to use it against the man's head if necessary. But then Zane stepped in front of her. She was in the shadows again.
"He's the man from the bus stop," she told Zane urgently, her breath catching in small gasps. She struggled to peek over his shoulder, to keep the man in her sights while Zane struggled to get the sheet around her and still hold the flashlight in one hand. She didn't want Zane to turn his back on the big bruiser. He was quiet now, but he had a gun, which he clutched in a large fist hanging loosely at his side. He looked more than capable of murder or any other number of misdeeds.
"Hold still, damn it."
Confusion closed in on her. Zane didn't act the least worried about the man—all his concentration was on covering her. Who cared if she was naked, if the man planned to shoot them anyway? And why did he just stand there, watching as Zane covered her?
When Zane was satisfied that she was decent, he turned and shone the light directly in the man's face.
He flinched away. "Hey, damn it, knock it off!"
At his gravelly tone, Tamara stepped forward to swing the book again, and to her surprise, though he was blinded by the light, the man caught the book in midair, wrapping the long fingers of his left hand around it and wrenching it away from her. She heard the aged fabric cover rip, saw a section of pages drop out.
She hastily backed up again, and scowled. "You're ruining my journal!"
"Lady, you're the one trying to bludgeon me with it!"
Zane smirked. "I see your reflexes are still good."
"Lucky for me, or she'd have knocked my damn brains out."
"Quit cursing." Zane now sounded more amused than annoyed.
"Go to hell. But first, tell me what's going on." His gaze, when it landed on Tamara, was flinty—but quickly softened. Speculation flared in his eyes, then interest. She squirmed.
Zane puffed up in renewed outrage. It was rather amazing to see, even in her state of confusion. "I swear to God, . if you don't stop leering—"
The man shook his head. Tamara got a glimpse of a small gold hoop in his ear and longish, silky, blue-black hair that matched the beard shadow on his lean jaw.
