by Grey, Shanon
“Don’t worry. You did.” He stood and unfastened his jeans.
She stepped back.
His blue eyes flashed. “Don’t get excited. I’m only going to show you my hip.” He pulled the one side of his jeans down, exposing his left hip. A crescent moon like hers rested lower on his hip, except it faced the opposite direction of hers. He hefted his pants back up and tucked in his shirt.
That flash of his golden skin tempted her to reach out, run her fingers across his hip, his abdomen. She didn’t realize that she had actually extended her hand toward him until his eyes drew hers. For an instant, she stood mesmerized. He took a step forward. She leapt back.
“The…the shocking thing?” she stuttered.
His lips curved into a smile, washing her in warmth. “Yeah, that. It hasn’t been so bad lately, has it?”
He was right. Since the accident, they had touched several times and a mild tingle was all she felt. Well, not all she felt, but he didn’t need to know that.
“We carry a current that, when combined, changes the harmonics of the stones, which in turn can open the portal. But, unless we’re aligned, we zap one another.”
“Then we can’t—” Her heightened color finished the thought.
“Yes, we can,” his voice was changing as he spoke. “In fact, the more we touch, the more in sync we are.”
He watched the flush move up her neck. There was innocence about her he couldn’t ignore. She drew him like a magnet, and he didn’t think it was the harmonics. The rebel in him still fought beneath the surface, not wanting her—or anyone—to be his mate by design or destiny. However, he wasn’t sure any more that he wanted her to leave.
Then there was Rob. He knew he didn’t like that guy. He wasn’t sure she liked Rob all that much, either. Something he saw. A flatness in her eyes. Not like when she looked at him. Dorian let his eyes draw hers. Her eyes met his. Sparkled. Yeah, she wasn’t doing that around Rob.
When he started talking again, Dorian’s voice was lower, huskier. He cleared his throat. Morgan did that to him—made hormones flood his system, made his brain turn to mush. He fought for control. This was too important to let attraction muddy the waters.
“I don’t know all the history. Abbott House in Atlanta has volumes of journals and information on the Gulatega, your lineage—”
“Does everyone here know about the creature? Why aren’t they frightened?”
He shifted in the chair, obviously uncomfortable, got up, walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. He took a long drink before turning around to face her, letting the liquid cool the heat building inside of him. “Actually, very few know about it. And since most people can’t see it,” he shrugged his shoulders, “why cause panic?”
He took a step toward her, held the glass out. She looked at it, then at him. He took another step and stood right in front of her—lifted the glass to her lips.
Mesmerized, she sipped. The water was ice cold. Delicious. She licked a drop from her bottom lip, still drowning in the ocean of his blue eyes. He was staring at her lips, his own mouth slightly open. His breath fanned her face, warm and inviting. If she leaned forward just a little….
Abruptly he turned away, inhaled sharply, and set the glass down with a thud.
“Aw, hell,” he cursed and spun around.
In one swift movement, before she could think or react, he stepped forward and swept her into his arms, enfolding her body fully against his. His mouth covered hers, seeking, asking. His tongue touched the seam of her lips.
Morgan’s hands moved to his sides. There was no zap, just heat. Her eyes closed as her lips parted, welcoming him into the warmth of her mouth, like a long lost lover. She grasped his shirt in both hands, pulling him even closer and felt his hands spread across her back, heat spreading a trail of fire across through her shirt. She heard herself moan and felt the staccato beat of his heart against her own.
She was drowning in the desire that was coursing through her body. She could feel her legs getting heavy and her head became a little fuzzy. A strange pulsing seemed to drag her forward, until she felt she was becoming one with the response demanded by the hard muscular body against her.
She couldn’t breathe. The room was spinning. She gasped. A soft blackness crept around the edges of her mind and she fell into darkness.
****
Morgan eyes fluttered open to the soothing coolness of a damp cloth over her forehead and eyes. Her arms felt as though they had lead weights attached. She took a deep breath, reached up, eased the cloth away from her eyes, and blinked at the brightness in the room. She was lying on the bed in the cottage. Light streamed in through the windows in the bedroom and the front rooms, suffusing the bed in sunlight. She blinked again and felt the weight of the bed shift. She glanced over. Dorian was sitting on the edge of the bed, a frown creasing his handsome brow.
“What happened?” Her voice sounded forced, husky.
“You fainted. Are you all right?” He reached up, took the cloth and set it on a plate on the bedside table.
Memories came flooding back. Morgan shook her head slightly to clear the cobwebs and raised up on her elbows. She looked at him incredulously. “You made me swoon?”
His face took on a boyish charm as a flush crept up. He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Can’t say that’s ever happened before.”
“Oh, good grief,” she huffed and shooed him off the bed. As soon as he rose, she swung her legs around and sat up.
“You might want to take it easy.” He automatically reached out to steady her.
She flinched.
“Don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll zap you again.”
Morgan looked up into his concerned eyes and hesitantly reached out a finger, touched his arm and jerked back. Nothing. He didn’t move. She slowly reached out her hand and laid it tentatively on this bare arm. Nothing. Except the feel of his well-formed muscle moving slightly at her touch.
She looked up and found herself staring into darkening pools of blue. A streak of lust rushed through her. Good God, she had to get a grip.
Sensing her unease, he stepped back, but stayed closed enough to catch her if she fell. He watched her. Her hair had come loose and cascaded over her shoulders. She reached up in an automatic motion, undid the clasp, pulled her heavy tresses up, twisted it and refastened the clasp. Dorian found himself spellbound by such a simple task. The upward movement of her arms gently lifted her breasts beneath her shirt, the nipples hardening as they brushed the fabric.
His eyes moved downward to her small waist and the gentle flair of her hips and thighs as she sat on the side of the bed. He swallowed, knowing he wanted nothing more than to push her back on the bed and cover her body with his. The flicker of movement brought his eyes up to her mouth and he watched as her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. His groin tightened. He swallowed.
So much for his angst about her resemblance to Melissa. From this vantage, she bore little resemblance to Melissa and, probably, never would again. Yes, there were similarities, but they were so different. And this woman—Melissa’s daughter—was driving him to distraction.
Morgan watched him and watched his eyes change as his thoughts drifted away from her. Given a moment of reprieve, she stood and stepped around him, walking into the front room. Now where were they—before he’d knocked her socks off with that kiss? Oh yeah, the Gulatega. Playing back that part of the conversation, she rounded on him.
“This Gulatega thing. Just how dangerous is it?” she found herself looking around, searching for it. She went into the front room and settled at the table by the window.
He followed and sat across from her. “Depends. To us—not at all. We seem to be immune. And, before you ask, I don’t have any idea why.” He heard Meesha whine, walked over to the door and let her out. Looking out he saw Meesha chase a butterfly, not catch it, and wander off to the side of the gazebo. He turned back to Morgan.
“For those who are susceptible, it
can progress until, like Alzheimer’s, the individual’s personality disappears and the body degrades.”
“Is it Alzheimer’s?” she asked, thinking ahead.
“No. We wish it were. We could run around, put those creatures through the portals and be done with it.” He shook his head. “Melissa and Thomas tried. They had a dear friend who developed Alzheimer’s at an early age. They didn’t see a Gulatega but they tried to “flush” the portal anyway—that’s what they call it when a creature can’t be seen but seems to be playing havoc in an area.” His eyes went distant, remembering. “They tried repeatedly, over the years. Nothing helped. Mrs. Lawson is now in a nursing home. She doesn’t have much longer.”
She could see his pain. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. He looked down at her and smiled. “She used to babysit me. I adored her.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Anyway, with Melissa and Thomas here, there weren’t any creatures to speak of. If they came through they would be drawn to Melissa, and she and Thomas would send them packing.”
“Drawn to Melissa?” Morgan couldn’t help the unease that statement brought. She shivered.
That sheepish grin appeared. “Must be the irresistible charm,” he teased. “But women such as yourself and Melissa draw them like bees to flowers.”
She squirmed. “Gee, thanks.”
He shrugged. “No problem. Morgan, I mean it. They won’t harm you. And we can send them back.”
Morgan had so many questions. Creatures. Harmonics. Dimensions. She sat, staring out the window into the gorgeous play of colors in the garden, trying to grasp everything. Then she remembered. He’d said portals. Multiple. She turned her head, her eyes wide.
“You said portals, as in more than one. How many are there?”
“I don’t know. The Abbott House could probably tell you. I only know of two others on the east coast.”
“And these are watched by…?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
“People like Melissa and Thomas.”
Then it struck her. “Or you and I.” It was a statement, not a question. She got up from the chair and walked over to the sink, picked up the glass he’d set down, and took a drink of water.
She stood, staring out the window at the gazebo. Her fingers tightened on the glass. She set it down before she broke it and whirled around to confront him. “We’re their replacements, aren’t we?”
She watched him close his eyes. He opened them and she saw sadness. He nodded. “I’ve known for a long time that I was. I didn’t know about you.” He shook his head. “Not until recently,” he amended. “I found a picture of you. You were in your teens, I think.”
“They had a picture of me? In my teens?” She walked back to the table and slumped down. “I don’t understand. They knew where I was but they never tried to contact me. Why?”
Tears welled. “I don’t understand.”
Pain tugged at her. She tried to console herself with thoughts of her parents—her adoptive parents. A door opened in her heart and the pain rushed in. She would never know the people in that picture upstairs. She got up and went to the bedroom, pushing the doors closed behind her. She crawled onto the bed and let the tears fall. She cried for herself. For not ever knowing them. She cried for Dorian. For the situation their deaths had thrust them into. The tears turned to sobs.
She heard the doors open and felt Dorian’s weight settle on the bed before he gathered her into his arms. She tried to turn away, but he pulled her back against her chest. His breath caressed her hair and he whispered soothing words to her and let her cry. She held on and let the sadness and doubts wash out of her.
Finally, the tears stemmed; she closed her eyes and slept.
Dorian eased her back onto the bed and pulled a blanket over her. As he walked out of the room, he turned back and looked at her. He could only imagine the hell she was going through. He’d been rescued from his life and raised by two loving people as though he was their son. When they died, the people of Ruthorford wrapped their arms around him and gave him comfort. Ruthorford was more than his town, it was his family. He wished he could impart that love and warmth to her. He wished he could erase all the pain and fear the last few days had wrought. He shook his head and gently closed the doors.
He walked over and looked out the window at the gardens in all their magnificence. He remembered the look on Morgan’s face when she realized her part in all of this. A beautiful prison was still a prison.
Chapter Seven
Morgan awoke to the sun casting late afternoon shadows across the bed. The French doors were pulled closed but not shut. Her eyes stung. She reached up to rub them and caught herself. Remembering the bottle of ibuprofen on the bathroom shelf, she eased off the bed and trod into the bathroom. She filled the glass with water and glanced at her image in the mirror. Slightly swollen orbs, the green accentuated more than normal by a tinge of pink stared back at her. Great. She smirked at her reflection. I look as bad as I feel. She tidied herself as best she could. The shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, the jeans not too bad. She tucked the shirt firmly into the waistband, hoping to pull out a few of the wrinkles, and headed to the front room.
Dorian sat at the table by the front window, hunched over a laptop, papers strewn on either side. Hearing her, his typing stopped and he looked up. “You okay?”
“My eyes are bothering me a little, but I’m okay.” She crossed over and sat opposite him.
“I thought they might be.” He rose and picked up a small bottle. “Lean back. Let me put some drops in them.”
She did as he asked and tried to relax as he gently pulled her lid back and dropped a couple of drops in her eye. Relief was instantaneous. She tilted her head slightly for the other eye. When he was done, he smiled at her and handed her a tissue. “Blot gently,” he reminded her. She nodded and obeyed.
He went back to where he had been sitting.
“What’re you working on?” she asked as she dabbed a remaining drop on her cheek.
“A short paper for Dr. Yancy. He was very pleased with the effectiveness of the compounded salve I used and the drops. He asked me to write it up and send it to him for ‘The Herbal Apothecary’.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
He raised a brow and looked at her.
“Snob,” she countered his look. “For your information, I’m a bit of a geek when it comes to herbal magazines and journals,” she defended. “I thought I knew most of them.”
“Well, I will have to put you on the list. This is actually an in-house magazine that the Abbott House publishes for distribution among its various sites.”
“We are back again to the size of this…consortium...or whatever.”
“Hungry?” he changed the subject.
“Famished. What time is it?”
“Almost six.” He raised his hand at her gasp. “Don’t. You’ve been through a lot. You needed to rest. Oh, by the way,” he began, reached in his pocket, and pulled out her phone, “I brought this over when I went over to check on the shop. It was ringing when I went in. I didn’t answer it.”
The shop. Things had been so convoluted that she had completely forgotten that he was running a shop. “I am so sorry. I completely forgot about the shop,” she said as she flipped open the phone. She had three messages, two from her mother and one from Jenn.
“Not a problem. The Shoppe of Spells is kind of an institution around here. We seldom close.” He laughed as he shut down the computer. “And when we do, people actually tape notes to the door.”
Morgan remembered the bevy of little old ladies that had surrounded her in the shop. She could imagine them peering through the windows and taping notes on the door. She laughed and watched him lower the computer lid. She was taken by the elegance of his long tapered fingers and wondered how a man with such large, albeit beautiful, hands could type on such a small keyboard.
He held up a yellow sticky note. “One of the notes was
from Miss Grace. She has a pie waiting for us. She left it at the B & B. Guess we should face the music.” He rose and tucked the computer under his arm.
Morgan looked down at her shirt. Pinching the front she pulled it outstretch and looked at him pleadingly. “I don’t want to go anywhere looking like I slept in my clothes.”
“But you did,” he teased.
Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open and saw her mom’s pretty face in the caller ID. “I’d like to take this, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Come on over when you’re ready. I’m sure we can find you another shirt in the closet upstairs.” With that, he walked out the door, closing it behind him, leaving her alone in the cottage.
With a small shiver, Morgan answered the phone. “Hi, Momma,” she said, eyes still darting about the room, anticipating something creeping across the floor.
“Hi honey. I tried earlier but couldn’t get you. Everything okay?” Morgan could hear the concern in her mother’s voice.
“I’m fine, Mom. Just busy.” No need to alarm her mother at this point.
“Morgana,” her mother’s voice took on that mom tone. “I know busy. I’m not hearing busy. Is everything all right?”
Morgan took a deep breath. “Actually, I don’t know. I think so. Everyone here is so very nice and kind. It’s just a strange place. This has been a lot to face.”
Her mother was saying something in the background, her hand over the phone, probably to her father. Then she was back, “I can be there in a heartbeat, Sweetpea. I don’t mind.”
Morgan smiled. “I know, Mom.” She was tempted. Then she remembered the creature. “No!” she said too emphatically and tried to make her voice sound calmer. She wanted to keep them away from here until she knew just what she was dealing with. Yet, if her parents sensed she might be in danger, they would risk everything to be at her side. “I need to do this myself. I promise I will call you if I need you to come. Mom, you guys know I will always need you.”
She heard her mother’s voice crack. “I know, baby.”
