Dark Bites

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Closing his eyes, he saw her bright smile and heard the music of her laughter as she lay naked beneath him while he claimed her for his own. He clenched his teeth at the white-hot desire that coiled through his belly. And for a moment he swore he could still feel her hands against his back as she held him tight and cried out in ecstasy.

  Not even five years could dull the memories. Or his craving for her touch. He could taste the salty sweetness of her body, feel her hot and tight around him, and smell the sunshine that had always seemed to be in her hair.

  Catherine had touched him in ways no one had before or since.

  "I remember you," he breathed. But most of all he remembered the promise he had made to her. The promise he had broken. And in that moment, he wished Pete's bullet had gone straight through his useless heart.

  Lord above, if there was one last wish he could have, it would be to set things right. He'd sell whatever was left of his blackened soul for a way to go back and change what he'd done to her.

  But it wasn't to be.

  He knew that.

  There was nothing left for him to do except see the money back to the orphans Pete had stolen it from.

  After that, he didn't know where he'd go. He'd have to find another place where the law and Pete couldn't find him. If such a place existed.

  Briefly, he considered trying to find her. After all, she had been his safe harbor. His greatest strength.

  But then, she had also been his greatest weakness.

  No, it wouldn't do to seek her out. Too much depended on him staying away from her. Because one thing his brother, Pete, had taught him years ago - there was no such thing as a second chance.

  1

  "All I want for Christmas is a man as handsome as the Devil himself. One with a charming smile, at least some semblance of intelligence, and a great, big, bulging - "

  "Rebecca Baker!" Catherine O'Callahan gasped, shocked at her friend's words.

  "Bank account," Rebecca said as she dropped her hands down from the graphic illustration she had been providing. She picked up the frying pan near Catherine, then placed it on top of the black iron stove. "I was only going to say bank account."

  Trying not to smile lest she encourage her friend's libidinous conversation, Catherine looked askance at Rebecca as she continued washing dishes.

  Rebecca's olive cheeks colored ever so slightly as she walked back to the sink. "Well, maybe I wasn't. But as a married woman yourself, you know what I mean. How long am I supposed to go around mourning Clancy anyway? Good grief, it's been almost four years since he died. And I barely knew him before we married."

  As was her habit, Rebecca gestured dramatically with her hands to illustrate her next words. "My father practically dragged me to the altar to marry a man almost twice my age. I tell you, snuggling up to a man whose hands and feet are colder than icicles in January isn't my idea of wedded bliss."

  Catherine could well agree with that point.

  Rebecca sighed dreamily as she idly put the plates on the shelf above her head. "What I'd like to have is a gorgeous, warm man I could be cow-tied to forever. A man who could enter the room and make me all hot, and cold, and all jittery." She looked at Catherine and smiled. "Know what I mean?"

  Blushing, Catherine grew quiet as she rinsed a large black pot. She knew exactly what Rebecca meant. She'd lain awake many a night as memories washed over her of a pewter-eyed demon who had promised her everything, including the moon above.

  A man who had made her body so hot there had been times when she was certain she'd perish in flames.

  But unlike her friend, she wasn't a widow. For all she knew, her husband could come waltzing up to the front door at any time and knock on it.

  As if that would ever happen, Catherine chided herself.

  When would she give up her useless, unwavering hope of seeing him again? Why couldn't she just put him out her mind?

  What was it about him that made her yearn for him after all this time?

  Of course, she knew the answer to that question - everything about him. He'd been so wonderful and kind, considerate and giving. Up until the day he left her without so much as a by-your-leave.

  She must be insane to still yearn for him.

  And after five years, he might be dead. Heaven knew, a lot had happened to her since he'd run off. She'd moved to a new town, started her own restaurant and boardinghouse, and created a respectable life for her and her four-year-old daughter, Diana.

  Last summer, after the yellow fever epidemic, she and Rebecca had taken in five of the town of Redwood's orphans.

  A lot had happened.

  Rebecca sidled up to her and took the pot from her hands to dry it. "So, tell me, if not a gorgeous St. Nick to come knocking on the door, what do you want for Christmas?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Catherine said as she reached to wash a pan. "I guess if I had my druthers, I'd like for our money to be returned. It bothers me that someone would steal from the children right before Christmas."

  Rebecca agreed. "I know how much you wanted to spend it on them. It's such a shame. I can't imagine what kind of monster could so something so terrible."

  Neither did she.

  They didn't speak for a few minutes. Only the sound of sloshing water and clanging dishes broke the silence as they worked.

  All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Catherine's neck stood up. Turning her head, she saw Rebecca staring at her.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Is that really all you want for Christmas?"

  Catherine handed her another pan to dry. "Why, yes. I'm quite happy with everything else."

  Rebecca arched a questioning brow.

  "I am," Catherine insisted.

  "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Rebecca said, putting the pan away. "Can you truly tell me that you haven't once given thought to having a handsome man come sweep you off your feet?"

  Catherine laughed halfheartedly. "I already had that happen, and I must say I found the experience less than desirable."

  Rebecca shook her head. "You know, I came to work here almost four years ago and never in that time have I heard you speak of your husband. That is who you're talking about, isn't it?"

  Catherine nodded, refusing to meet Rebecca's inquisitive brown-eyed stare as she moved to pump more water into the sink. "There isn't much to tell."

  Rebecca nudged her away from the pump and took up the motion. "Come on, Catherine. All the children are in bed for the night. Why not open up a little?"

  Catherine buried her hands back in the suds and sighed. "What do you want me to tell you? Plain preacher's daughter fell in love with the gorgeous stranger who came to work for her father's ranch? He married her a month after they first met, took her off to Nevada, and left her the first chance he got."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  Rebecca paused. Her brown eyes darkened in anger. "I'll never understand a man who could do something so cold-blooded or mean."

  "Me either," she whispered under her breath.

  "I don't see how you stand it."

  Catherine shrugged. "I got used to it. Five years gave me time to lay aside my hatred. Besides, I have Diana to think about. I'm the only parent she has and I decided on the day she was born that I would never mention his name or dwell on what he did to us."

  "Well, I respect you for that. Me, I wouldn't have rested until I found the polecat and skinned him alive."

  Catherine relished the image of her husband's tawny skin being flayed from him as he screamed for mercy. Now that Rebecca mentioned it, she did rather enjoy the thought of him being skinned. It would certainly serve him right. "You know, I do want something after all."

  "And that is?"

  Catherine scrubbed her pot with renewed vigor, wishing it were her husband's head she held beneath the water. "I wish I could lay eyes on him one last time to tell him what a no-good, lousy, rabid dog he was for leaving me."

  "That's my girl." Rebecca laugh

ed as she patted Catherine on the back. Then, she leaned forward and said in a low tone, "But the real question is, was he any good where and when it counted?"

  "Rebecca!" Catherine gasped, trying her best not to think about just how good he had been there.

  Though why Rebecca's words continued to shock her after all these years of knowing her, she couldn't imagine. Rebecca had never had an ounce of shame in her.

  But then, it was her outspokenness Catherine liked most of all. She always knew where she stood with Rebecca. Her friend never held anything back. And after having lived with her husband and his secrets, she found Rebecca's candor a true blessing.

  Suddenly a knock sounded on the door.

  Catherine wrung the suds off her hands, then wiped her hands dry on her apron. "Why don't you go on to bed?" she said, rolling her sleeves back down her forearms and buttoning them against her wrists. "I'll get the door. I'm sure it's just someone needing a room."

  "Poor soul to be out on Christmas Eve without a bed," Rebecca said. She inclined her head to the sink. "You sure you don't want me to finish up the dishes?"

  Catherine shook her head. "There are only a handful left, and we already have all the gifts under the tree. Why don't you just go and enjoy what's left of Christmas Eve?"

  "All right, then. I'll look in on the kids and then retire. Let me know if you need me."

  "I will."

  Rebecca headed to the back stairs while Catherine took the lantern off the kitchen table and walked down the narrow hallway to the front door.

  Through the lace curtains, she could see the outline of a tall man with broad shoulders.

  A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps Rebecca would get her wish after all.

  Rolling her eyes at the very indecent thought that flicked across her mind, Catherine opened the door.

  She took one glance at the handsome stranger, who had his head turned to look at his horse, and dropped the lantern straight to the floor.

  O'Connell cursed as the lantern's fire exploded on the pine boards of the porch. Reacting without thought, he dropped his black Stetson and saddlebags, and stamped at the flames, his spurs jingling loudly as he stomped. Then, to his chagrin, the flames spread to his boots and set fire to the toes of his left foot.

  He hissed in pain as he whipped his black duster off and put out the fire on his smoking boot. Then he quickly used the duster to extinguish the rest of the fire.

  Luckily, the fire didn't do much in the way of permanent damage, but the porch and door would need a good washing come morning.

  "Good Lord, woman," he snapped as he surveyed the damage. "You ought to be more..." his words trailed off as he looked up and met wide, startled brown eyes.

  His jaw went slack. Those were the same eyes he'd been dreaming of not more than a few minutes before.

  "Catherine?" he whispered in disbelief.

  Catherine couldn't move as she stared into the handsome, devilish face that had coaxed her away from everything she had ever known.

  Ask and ye shall receive, her father's favorite phrase echoed in her head.

  Stunned by his sudden appearance, she took his form in all at once. He was still as handsome as sin. His dark brown hair was short in back with long bangs that draped becomingly into eyes so silvery gray they appeared almost colorless.

  Captivating and searing, his eyes could haunt a woman night and day. And she ought to know, since they'd done nothing but torment her since the moment she had first seen them.

  That same air of danger still clung to him seducing her, wooing her. Oh, but he was a man to make any woman's heart pound.

  His face had grown thinner over the years, adding sharp, angular planes to it. But they in no way detracted from the perfection of his patrician features. Dark brows contrasted sharply with his silver-gray eyes, and his broad nose still had the tiny bump in the center where she'd broken it.

  Glory, but he was scrumptious. Completely and utterly scrumptious, like a rare treat of succulent chocolate after a long abstinence.

  He'd always possessed a powerful, compelling, masculine aura that was downright salacious in nature. An aura that reached out and captured the attention of anything female within its mighty grasp.

  And heaven only knew, she was far from immune to it.

  But the Devil would move his home to Antarctica before she ever let him know that.

  "What on earth are you doing here?" Catherine asked as she finally found her voice.

  "Needing a doctor," he said sardonically, shaking his left foot.

  Catherine looked down to see the charred black leather in the bright winter moonlight. A rush of embarrassment filled her.

  "Why is it," he asked, "every time we meet, I end up needing a doctor?"

  She lifted her chin at his playful tone. Her days of finding him amusing were long past. "Are you trying to charm me?"

  Not even the dark could mask the wickedly warm look in his eyes. "And if I were?"

  I'd probably end up surrendering to it.

  But she had no intention of letting him know that, either. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She couldn't afford to let him break her heart again. The first time had been painful enough. And in truth, she wasn't sure if she could survive losing him again.

  Instead, she sought to protect herself by putting an end to whatever thoughts might be playing through his mind.

  "I'm not a girl anymore, Mr. O'Callahan. I no longer dance to your tune."

  O'Connell took a deep breath as he sized her up. He'd almost forgotten his old alias. But the cold tone of her voice chilled him more than the winter wind at his back.

  Still, it did nothing to daunt the fire in his gut that her presence stirred. She looked even better than he remembered. Gone was the willow-thin frame of her youth and in its place were the luscious curves of a woman full grown.

  She wore her hair in that tight bun he'd always despised. Catherine had such beautiful hair - long, thick, and wavy. He, the man who was wanted in six states, had spent hours brushing her hair at night. Running his hands through it.

  And he wondered if it still smelled like springtime.

  In that instant, he remembered the way he had left her. Without a word, without a note. He had simply gone off to work and had never returned.

  Shame filled him. He should have at least sent a letter. Although, honestly, he had tried to write one a thousand times. But he'd never completed it. What did a man say to a woman he'd been forced to give up against his will?

  Especially when he didn't want her to know the real reason he'd left?

  Picking his hat up from the porch, he cast a sweeping, hungry look over her body, and wished for the millionth time, that things had been different between them. That he could have had a long life spent by her side, being the husband she deserved to have. "It's good to see you again."

  Her look froze him as she untied her apron, then stooped to pick up the broken glass and place it in the cloth. "I wish I could say it's good to be seen by you, but in this case I think you'll understand if I'm a bit cool toward you?"

  "Cool" was a mild term for her demeanor. In truth, he suspected icebergs at the North Pole might be a shade or two warmer.

  He'd expected more anger from her. The Catherine he remembered would have been cursing him like a slow-walking dog for leaving her.

  This Catherine was different. She was composed and serious, not laughing and playful.

  Passionate, he realized with a start. That was what was missing. She'd lost the verve that used to have her laughing one minute, sobbing the next, and then kissing him blind two seconds after that.

  And without a doubt he knew he was to blame for it. Being abandoned had a way of affecting a person adversely. His gut drew tight. He had a lot to answer for in his life. He just wished she wasn't one of those things he'd messed up.

  "Where's your anger?" he asked as he leaned over to help her pick up the mess.

  Catherine considered her answer. She should be enraged at him, but oddly enough, once the initial shock of the encounter wore off she found herself completely numb to him.

  Well, not completely numb.

  In fact, "numb" described his effect on her like "handsome" described Abe Lincoln.

  A woman would have to be dead not to feel a vigorous stirring for a man so incredibly handsome as her wandering polecat. Especially a man possessed of such raw, primal appeal.

  Everything about him promised sheer, sexual delights. And all too well she remembered the way he had felt in her arms, the strength of his long, lean body caressing hers in playful abandon as he sent her spiraling off into blissful ecstasy.

  And right then, with his head just inches from her own, she could smell the raw, earthy scent of him. That leather and musk that had always titillated her. That warm, wonderful smell was a part of him like the innate power and authority that bled from every pore of his body.

  And those lips...

  Full and sensuous, those lips of his had kissed her until she lost all reason, until her entire body buzzed with lust and desire. And those wonderful, sensual lips had teased and tormented her body to the ultimate pinnacle of human pleasure.

  Good heavens, how she ached for him. Even after the way he had hurt her.

  What are you thinking?

  Catherine mentally shook herself. No, she didn't hate him for leaving her the way he had - five years had given her time to lay her hatred aside.

  She wouldn't get mad at this point.

  She would get even.

  He deserved to feel the sting of rejection. Then he would understand exactly what he had done to her. How it felt to be denied and forgotten.

  "I got over my anger for you, Mr. O'Callahan," she said tartly, rising to her feet carefully lest she cut herself on the glass in her apron.

  She raked a look from the top of his head down to his still-smoking boot, took a step back into the house and spoke, "And then I got over you."

  With one last stoic look at him, Catherine closed the door in his stunned face.

  2

  Catherine's words rang in O'Connell's ears as he stared in disbelief at the closed door.

  Well, what did you expect? he asked himself as he retrieved his charred duster from the porch.

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