by kimberly
Such contemplations hastened a rush of heat through his loins. Like her mother, she was willful, capricious and wholly female. She had a fiery spirit, one he would relish breaking, take her down as one would a wild horse. She might get the better of him--and that was a rare thing, indeed--but, by the gods, he would enjoy the ride.
"Nice legs, by the way," he remarked casually, trying to fight back the nagging sensations deep inside his loins. "Are those silk panties you are wearing?"
Julienne's mouth dropped open. Her chin came up a notch and he detected a spark of fury in her jade-green eyes. He reveled in the sudden insight that he had embarrassed her. He could see the small pulse that throbbed in the hollow of her throat when she was agitated. She was trying to mask her irritation and failing, unable to prevent the heated rush of blood to her face.
Blushing, she took a few deep breaths, steadying herself. She brushed her hands across her forehead, smoothing stray strands of hair out of her face.
"I don't believe you," she reprimanded, bending over and pressing the folds of her dress around her knees with the palms of her hands. "I come to check on you and you have the nerve to look up my skirt. Shame on you!"
Grinning from her discomfiture, he pushed himself up. Maybe this evening would turn out to be worthwhile after all.
"It is hardly like I can help myself, considering the angle of the view," he said dryly. Feeling a twinge in the back of his throat, he fished out his cigarette case and extracted one.
Julienne dropped down on her knees beside him. Reaching out, she snagged the cigarette from his hand.
"Typical man," she snorted, placing it between her full lips. "Could I get a light, please?" She waited expectantly.
"Of course."
He shifted his body, acutely aware of the tightness of his trousers across his crotch. His fingers were unsteady as he fumbled for his lighter. A chink in the armor of the iron man.
Recovering himself, he flicked his lighter, extending it to light her cigarette. She cupped her pale hands around his and inhaled. When she exhaled, her tongue flicked out to dislodge a piece of tobacco from her bottom lip--an utterly feminine and enticing move. She was in a vulnerable position, needing sympathy and reassurance as she attempted to rebuild her fragile ego. He could easily take advantage of her; indeed, it was tempting.
All of this was internal, however, part of the madness still remote from the surface method, and quickly withdrew into the attic of his skull when she broke into his thoughts.
"No filter," she coughed lightly. "Strong."
Morgan nodded absently, selected a cigarette and lit it. "Only way to enjoy one."
She inhaled again, her gaze flickering toward the unopened bottle. "Are you trying to kill yourself with booze?"
He sighed raggedly. "If I were, I could find a faster way than this." His attempt at humor had a hollow ring.
"You're being a sarcastic idiot," she said, pushing her hair away from her face. "Do you like your self-destruction slow and miserable?"
"I have too much of a headache to play games with you," he warned in a gravelly undertone.
"Maybe you drank yourself into it!" she commented, refusing to let him bait her.
"If you came here to argue with me, you can leave."
She leveled a hard look at him. "Looking for the edge, Morgan?"
He shifted uncomfortably, unbuttoning his suddenly too tight vest. "I know where it is."
Her eyebrows raised. "Are you going to jump?"
He shook his head, sending his longish bangs tumbling down onto his pale forehead. He flicked them away with an impatient hand. His rigid and unbending façade went back into its place.
"Yes."
"Why?" Her gaze remained fixed on his face.
He gave her a hard, unsmiling answer. "I want to."
"Because of my mother?" She tossed her cigarette into the depth of the fire and clasped her hands across her body.
"Cassandra has no bearing on my future plans," he answered slowly.
Julienne shifted and drew her knees up to her chest. Her enigmatic eyes studied him. It was clear she was searching her mind for the words she wanted to say.
"I want to know if you and my mother were involved," she spoke at last, quietly but aggressively.
"Involved?" He leaned back against the divan, watching the slow curl of smoke wend its way high into the air. He realized he would have to be very careful with his reply. In short, lie. He was not yet ready to reveal the whole truth to her. He doubted she would easily accept what he was--and what she was to become--deceased.
She dragged a ragged breath into her lungs, tilting her chin defiantly. Her back went rigid, her face stony. "Involved. As in lovers, you jerk!" she said. "I want to know."
He watched with detached humor her stormy attempts to root out the truth. She was more than a little bit afraid of him, and it was interesting to see her try to assert herself and question him in a direct, adult manner. She was, in many ways, still a frightened, searching child.
"I know you had suspicions that I might be your father," he replied with all the grace of a tightrope walker. "Alas, I am not. Not that I would not have enjoyed the delights of your mother's body…"
"Stop it!" she snapped. "Then you never slept with her."
"No. Cassandra and I were not lovers."
Her gaze lighted with a momentary relief that faded at once. "You're not lying to me, are you?"
"I have no reason to deceive you."
"I think you do," she said, suspicion narrowing her eyes.
"Now I will ask you something."
"What?" Her voice was plangent.
He could hold himself aloof no longer. He leaned toward her, his lips just inches from her ear. Her body stiffened. She made a startled movement. She was unsure of him--there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. He was aware of her almost primitive fear of his very nearness--that she might lose command of herself and again be wounded emotionally and physically by a man. If he took her, as he wanted to, it would be with no love, no regard. He would use his body as an instrument with which to use her and punish her.
"Do you see us as lovers?"
Her color rose in shock, and true astonishment crossed her face. These were not the words she had expected to hear from him, instead bracing herself for some cutting remark, one of the many he was so good at throwing around without thinking of the damages. He could not miss the long shiver rippling through her as she drew sharply away from him.
"No." Julienne's voice was cold as an arctic snowfall in December, hard and unforgiving. Lips pressed tight, her profile was livid.
Morgan considered the cigarette that had burned down to ash, flicking it away into the fire. He had the feeling that she'd like to reach out and waylay him. He probably deserved it. She was, however, managing to handle herself with far more restraint than he had thus far.
"Why not?" What was it that made him want to jump from the pan and into the fire? Baiting her would not earn him any points.
"I've seen how you treat women," she said with asperity, "and I don't intend to be one of them you love and leave!"
"I had to ask." He lapsed back into his own thoughts, staring into the fire. Perhaps she would go now--leave him in peace. To his surprise, she did not.
"What are you running from?" she asked perceptively.
"Maybe I am not running away," he said with quiet patience. "Maybe I am running toward it."
"Whatever it is, Morgan, it must be a terrible thing." Her gaze rested on him with a strange and frightened expression shadowing her features. Now that they shared blood, she was extra-sensitive and could prove to be more problem than solution. Perhaps it was better that Cassandra had shunned her heritage and taken Julienne away. Though untrained, she possessed a strong psychic energy that could be turned against him if it were awakened in her.
He reached out, stroking a single finger down her cheek. The fire's light had given her pale skin a rosy cast and he simply could not res
ist touching her just once. The last time, he promised himself.
"I know what it is to want to hide the scars."
She paled and drew back, obviously startled by his unexpected gesture. Her hand flew to her face and she pressed her palm to her cheek.
"I don't think you do," she retorted, a muscle twitching along the smooth side of her jaw.
With a sigh, he took her shaking hands into his own and held them. There was a fever-like heat under her flushed skin. "You are luckier than most. You can wear yours for all to see. No judgment will be passed against you."
Letting her hands rest in his, Julienne studied him intently. "What would you know about scars?"
"This."
Pulling her into his arms, his mouth came down on hers with a deliberate and calculated slowness, cutting off her protest. His fingers caught impatiently in the thick masses of her hair. She smelled of soap and gardenias, at once exotic and very pure. There was a translucent pearl-like quality to her; everything about her was clear, fresh and fine. Her skin, her scent, her very femininity. He was enraptured, aware only of the transcendence of the moment.
Just as quickly as the moment had begun, it ended. Julienne broke free, violently shoving him away. The smoldering look in her eyes told him he had gone too far.
"That never happened!" Her face darkened with anger and the words that emerged from between her clenched teeth were hoarsely spoken.
Sighing, he took up the fresh bottle of scotch and cracked its paper seal. He flicked the cap between two fingers, sending it flying into the shadows. He would not need it. By the time he finished with the bottle it would be empty, and he would have a brief respite from his unquiet mind.
"Why not?"
"You're drunk, and I don't think you know what the hell you're doing or saying." Her alabaster throat moved as she swallowed, and it was clear she was searching for reasons to refuse him further access to her body. She sounded resigned and slightly wounded.
"I know. Baiht 'sy jough," he said.
"What?"
In English, he translated, "I am sodden with drink."
"That's the most sensible thing you've said all night. Now, I think I should go," she said coolly, trying to collect her dignity and failing. Claiming his cigarette case and lighter, she rose gracefully to her feet. "I'll take these so you won't set yourself or the house on fire." Brushing her skirt into place over her legs, she stared down at him. "Goodnight." She turned and walked away. "You drink too much." The words drifted back at him over her shoulder.
Morgan sat, watching her leave, one hand propped on the scotch bottle.
"I have my reasons," he whispered after her departing figure. And, though there was the barest trace of an ironic smile on his lips, his gaze was thoughtful. How he wished she would fall in love with him, this oh-so-fragile woman with the lovely talent to resurrect his spirit and make life seem, once more, bearable. He was attracted to her more than he should be. There was an aura inside her drawing him, something beyond even the blood they shared. Such is where the hazards came in--he could fall deeply in love with her.
Since she had arrived, Julienne had been unceasingly on his mind, reawakening memories of his own mortality, when he had lived in medieval Ireland before his occult heritage claimed him. Could she ever comprehend he was of a different era, of a race nearly extinct? Even more, would she accept him if she learned what he had been before and after, an assassin whose own power had come from those he had slain?
He doubted it.
Just as she would not understand exile was a living death to him. Even his freedom was no longer his own. He would never bend to the bond of slavery Xavier held him under--in fact, he felt he must rectify his past, or die trying.
I have to stifle what I could feel for her. A difficult challenge, indeed. Her life force was magnetic, pulling him inexorably closer, and there lay the danger. Without realizing it, she made him believe he could forget the dimensional world waiting for him, made him want to forsake all for the promise of stolen hours in her arms. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind like a hurricane. Yes, with her he could forego returning to Sclyd, forget the ties that bound him. Life in her arms could be bearable.
But for how long? he asked himself. A decade. Two, perhaps? She would age and he would not. It was part of a legacy that bound him to a timeless existence, a legacy he could never entirely escape. One of blood that would not be denied.
What the hell am I thinking? They were of two different worlds. Just as he could never truly belong in hers, neither could she in his.
Yet, he did need her.
During his last weeks here, Julienne could be his touchstone to normalcy, someone to keep him for slipping too far over the edge during one of his depressive episodes. His natural predisposition for the demonic and the annihilative cast a gothic aspect over everything he approached.
Lifting the bottle, he took a healthy drink of its burning contents, needing to feel the burn, stifle the aching need for her, the doubts, the confusion, and the pain in his mind. Too bad it was only a temporary escape…
* * *
Alone in her suite, Julienne found that someone had lit more of the incense. The room was foggy with the thick smoke emanating from the silver incense burner. Sandalwood, musk and cinnamon had been carefully powdered with herbs to produce a restful sleep when the smoke was inhaled.
Opening the French doors to let in fresh air, she took Morgan's lighter and cigarettes, stepped out onto the balcony, and stared into the sky. Over the earth's sharp rim, the day had softly faded, growing rosy, then flaxen and lastly into the mellow indigo shades of twilight. The moon hung gently, an iridescent light, while against the western sky the limbs of trees swayed gently. A scattering of stars was sprinkled like fairy dust across the night's gentle face.
Drawn to the splendid beauty of the evening, she sat down on the railing and put a cigarette between her lips, then lit it. The foreign brand was a little too strong for her taste, but they would do. The tip's dull-red glow became a bright crimson as she took a long, satisfying drag. She watched the lazy smoke drift into the night.
Over her head she heard a brief flurry of night birds suddenly startled into flight.
Morgan was downstairs, in the library where she'd left him, settled in with another bottle of scotch. Melissa had said he could drink several in an evening. His thirst must be a prodigious one. It was a bad thing when a man drank alone.
She thought about the words she'd said to him. 'Are you trying to kill yourself?' she'd asked. She remembered what her therapist had told her about suicides. Every self-murderer appeared to involve three, not one, person or personality: the one doing the killing, the one being killed and the one dying--that is, one acting assailant and two passive victims. For a self-slaughter attempt to succeed, all three must want to die in unison. Morgan, she felt, was searching for that cohesion. She recognized he was simply all façade, so grounded in his habits that he was consistent and unspontaneous.
Who the hell am I to be throwing such words around? she wondered. I damn near killed myself by living a fast lifestyle.
"So, we're both restless souls," she said aloud.
Sighing, feeling the chill creeping into the evening, she put out the cigarette and went back inside, closing the doors behind her. The incense had burned out, and its scent had lessened, though it still lingered.
Going to the bed, she plumped her pillows, kicked off her sandals and lay back on the cool satin quilt. Their encounter had been an uncomfortable one and, alone, she could hardly believe it had occurred at all. Her mind was beginning to spin, affected by her inhalation of the rich blue smoke. Had it been real after all? She could not be sure. Her memory was becoming a blur. Perhaps she'd imagined the whole horrible evening.
Slowly, she lifted her hand to her cheek, sliding along the scar with the tips of her fingers.
What do you know about scars, Morgan? What are you hiding?
Her hand slid to her mouth, outlining he
r lips. The memory of his kiss sent a thrill through her quaking body. That was no dream. She even remembered that he smelled of wood smoke and tasted like scotch and the tarry clove tobacco he smoked, not at all unpleasant. She couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if she had accepted his advances, allowing him to make love to her. A slow, honey-like warmth began to spread through her body, settling pleasurably in the valley between her thighs.
She sighed deeply, lowering her eyelids. In her mind, she could imagine they had continued beyond the kiss, the pressure of his hands gently massaging the back of her neck, sliding down the canyon of her spine, then finding the curve of her breasts…
Stop it, Julienne!
She brought herself sharply back to reality. Morgan was no gentleman! The remembered cruelty of his bruising kiss only added to the humiliation of being held in his forceful grasp. She must keep him at arm's length with a viper tongue and an independent attitude. Her heart might be hasty, but it was not that easily captivated by a good-looking man. Her cool head could tell the difference between a few nights of reckless passion and a lifetime commitment, and Morgan Saint-Evanston certainly wasn't a man who could be tied down by a single woman!
Someone needs a cold, cold shower, she admonished herself.
Sliding off the bed, she padded to the bathroom. "I'll be glad to see you go," she murmured, shutting the door firmly behind her, then locking it. She wasn't going to take any chances with that man.
Chapter Sixteen
Julienne stirred as the first rays of sunlight broke through the open window. Her hand, slack-fingered, drooped over the edge of the bed. Her slumber had been a deep one and her mind was caught in the twilight world of the unconscious. Time had ceased to exist in the strange netherworld where reality met fantasy. She drifted, floating on the astral plane between what had been and what was yet to be, unknowingly influenced by the foreign blood in her veins, blood that inextricably and forever linked her with a being whose lifetime had spanned centuries--a being her own destiny now revolved around.
