by Rebecca York
When she finally turned onto the rural road where Vickers lived, the clouds hanging low in the sky had turned the afternoon as dark as midnight. Lightning crackled, making her feel as if she were an actor in a horror movie.
The map showed no other access to the narrow, poorly maintained country lane, and no houses peeked through the trees as she drove by. It appeared that Vickers had no close neighbors. Yet when she had gone a few hundred yards, Emma saw a bunch of motorcycles parked on the gravel shoulder beside the crumbling blacktop. Was Mr. Vickers hosting a biker convention?
She slowed the car, craning her neck, looking for the riders, but she saw no one.
The wind began to blow, and a shaft of lightning split the sky, followed a few seconds later by a long roll of thunder. It was followed almost immediately by another flash and, within a shorter interval, another rumble. The storm was going to break soon. Emma sped up, trying to beat the rain.
A little farther along the lane, she rounded a curve and saw a beautiful, large Victorian farmhouse, complete with gingerbread and a wraparound porch. She felt a flood of relief at the sight. It looked so very nice and normal.
Her relief was short-lived, dying as soon as she spotted a cluster of tough-looking young men on the left side of the house. Clad in dirty jeans and leather jackets, they were sneaking along, hugging the foundation. One of them was carrying something red. Something that looked suspiciously like a can of gasoline.
NICK WOKE WITH A START. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was just after seven—still well before sunset at this time of year. Unless something unusual happened, he normally slept until dark.
Wondering what was going on outside his private lair, he sat up and reached for the controls that activated the security cameras, which were set to show exterior views of the house. Pressing the remote, he opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes along the wall opposite his bed, uncovering the eight screens that displayed what the cameras were picking up.
Seven of the screens showed nothing out of the ordinary except that the sky was already as black as night. But the eighth riveted his attention.
There, on the east side of his house, he saw the Ten Oaks graveyard gang.
Bloody hell! How the devil had they found him?
As he watched the screen, Nick saw lightning fork through the storm-gathered clouds. A second or two later, he heard a massive clap of thunder. And in the next second, a car pulled into view.
Now what?
Hitting the remote again, he switched on the sound and heard the bikers speaking.
“Hurry up. If it starts to rain, the fire will go out.”
“Not with gasoline, man. This old place will go up like an oil refinery.” He punctuated the comment with an evil laugh.
Nick muttered another curse as he leaped out of bed and reached for the black highwayman’s britches he’d draped over a chair the night before. Pulling them on and jamming his feet into the high boots, he paused only long enough to turn off the basement alarm system. Then, throwing open the bolt on the door into the storage area, he raced for the stairs.
WIDE-EYED, Emma stared at the man with the gas can as he took off the cap and doused the foundation of Nicholas Vickers’s clapboard house. When he pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket, she grabbed her new gun and jumped out of the car.
“Hold it right there!” she shouted, pointing the automatic at the would-be arsonists.
The guys’ heads all jerked up, and to a man, their jaws dropped open in shock.
“Jeez! What’s a broad doing here?”
Emma felt her adrenaline pumping, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she replied, “Making sure you don’t do something stupid.”
“You’re the one acting stupid, honey, stickin’ your pretty little nose in where it doesn’t belong,” one of them called out tauntingly, taking a step toward her. “Put the gun down, and we won’t hurt you.”
In answer, she squeezed off a shot, aiming for the ground right in front of the thug’s feet. The bullet kicked up dirt, and the guy stopped in his tracks.
“If you don’t want me to aim for your crotch, get the hell out of here.”
Some of the gang looked ready to run. But she soon learned that a couple of them had come armed with more than a cigarette lighter. One pulled a small pistol from his boot and raised the weapon. Another pulled an automatic from the waistband of his pants.
Faced with the decision to shoot one of these guys, Emma hesitated a split second too long.
The bikers had no such compunctions. A bullet slammed into her body, and she staggered backward, dropping her gun to wrap her arm around her middle.
“That’ll teach you to mess with us,” the shooter called out, advancing on her.
He was going to kill her—Emma knew it as surely as she knew her name. Gritting her teeth, she tried to stagger away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he taunted. “You think I can’t follow you into the bushes? Come to think of it, that would be kind of fun.”
She didn’t bother to answer. Then she saw something strange behind the biker.
Chapter Four
Bloody hell! What was she doing here?
No mistaking who she was—he recognized her immediately. The woman from his dreams.
But this was no dream. He was wide awake, and from his vantage point on the porch, Nick saw one of the bikers advancing on the woman, gun in hand, ready to finish the job he’d started. The rest of the low-life animals were watching with wicked grins on their ugly faces.
Roaring like a lion, Nick leaped from the porch and zoomed toward the gunman so fast that he was only a blur in the darkness. Lightning flashed, providing perfect horror-movie effects as he swooped down on the guy. Knocking the weapon from his hand, Nick took him down, slamming him to the ground. For good measure, he stomped on the man’s grimy fingers with his boot heel, wringing a scream of pain from him.
He heard the woman gasp, and he looked over to see her staring at him with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. She was sitting propped against a tree, and he could see she’d been shot in the side. Quickly, he gave her a closer inspection. Seeing no arterial blood gushing, he figured her life wasn’t in immediate danger.
Which left him free to terrorize the rest of the criminals who had come to burn him out of house and home.
Wheeling, Nick flew at the gang, scattering them like ants. As they fled, screaming, he went after them one by one. He threw them to the ground, trampled over them with his boots, kicked them in the ribs and back and gut, and ground their faces into the dirt and gravel.
He could easily have killed them. He ached to squash the guy with the gas can. But he kept a tight leash on his anger and settled for scaring the piss out of the burn master, watching the dark stain that spread across the front of the guy’s jeans.
Ordinarily, Nick would have pursued the fleeing bikers and wiped the knowledge of the fight—and of the whereabouts of his home—out of their tiny minds. But he had more urgent business. For now, he was confident that they wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He could clean up the details later.
When he heard the roar of their motorcycles retreating down his road, he turned to the woman and hunkered down beside her.
She was small and delicate and very beautiful, with blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair framing her face. Exactly as she’d been in his dreams, to the smallest detail.
Her gaze focused on him, still full of astonishment and confusion. “It was you,” she whispered. “In my dreams. But how…?”
It was his turn to stare in shock. How, indeed? How had they connected in such an intimate way without ever having met? He knew enough about his powers, and the potential he might someday reach if he worked at it, to know it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he could bond mentally as he had with her—but not without his conscious decision to do so. And certainly not without knowing if she was even real.
But she was real. And she was here, on his door
step, having arrived at the same time the Ten Oaks gang was in the act of torching his house.
Coincidence? He’d stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago.
Her pained grimace reminded him that, regardless of how she’d gotten here, she was wounded because she’d tried to prevent McCard and his buddies from carrying out their plan.
She glanced over his shoulder, in the direction the bikers had gone. “How did you do that? How could you be in five places at once?”
“Superhero powers,” he answered lightly, knowing she wouldn’t take him seriously.
She winced. “My side hurts.”
“I’m sorry.” He sent her thoughts to ease the pain, feeling her anxiety fade as he worked his magic on her.
Despite the circumstances, the feminine scent of her body drew him to her, as it had in the dreams. But now there was another powerful aroma about her, too—the coppery scent of her blood.
He wanted to taste it. Drink it. He felt the fang slits at the sides of his mouth begin to throb, and he clenched both his fists and his teeth to keep from doing something he would regret.
“Why did you come here?”
She looked up at him with glazed eyes, and he knew she was in shock. “I…”
Instead of finishing the sentence, she raised a hand and touched his bare chest. “The dream was nice, but…this is real,” she whispered, combing her fingers through the hair on his chest, her touch raising a shiver that raced across his skin.
The next instant, though, what he felt were raindrops. He’d completely forgotten about the oncoming storm.
“Come on. We have to get you inside,” he said, scooping her up effortlessly in his arms, being careful not to hurt her.
Closing her eyes, she nestled against his bare chest. “Nice,” she whispered again.
Ordering himself not to react to her touch or her scent, he hurried to the front porch, then stepped through the open door, kicking it closed behind him.
Her heartbeat seemed to shudder through his own body, and he felt his mind tuning itself to hers. He should put her down, break the contact, yank himself out from under her spell.
That thought confounded him. He was the one who wove spells, the one who bent mortals to his will.
Disconcerted and more than a little worried, Nick stood in the hallway, debating where to take her. The rooms upstairs were furnished like bedrooms because he had enjoyed collecting the antiques and using them to create what amounted to stage sets. But they were bound to be dusty. He kept the ground floor in better shape, since he sometimes met with clients here. But there were no bedrooms on this level of the house.
Still undecided, he carried her into the living room and laid her on the Victorian sofa, then perched on the edge of it, beside her. Her eyes were closed, but when he said, “We should get you to the hospital,” they flew open.
“No!” she insisted, panic coloring her tone.
“You’re hurt. You need medical attention.”
“If you take me to the hospital…he’ll find me! He already sent a man to my hotel.” She tried to drag in a deep breath, then winced at the pain.
“Just lie still,” he said.
“You have to listen to me,” she begged, clutching at his hand. “Please. I barely…got away.”
“From whom?”
“Damien Caldwell.”
“Bloody hell!” Nick shot off the sofa, heart pounding as he glared down at her. “Did he send you here?”
“Huh? No.” He could see her fighting to speak. “My sister is…one of his…zombies,” she managed.
A good way to put it, he thought.
“I went to the Refuge…to get Margaret away from him. Then I heard him…talking to…one of his men. He was…going to kill me.” Her face contorted, and she paused again before going on. “Margaret wouldn’t leave, and when I tried to get her into a boat…”
Her voice trailed off. Then her eyes fluttered closed, and she lay very still.
“What’s your name?” Nick demanded.
A long pause. Then, in a barely audible voice she replied, “Emma Birmingham.”
“This is a trick,” he said flatly. “Caldwell sent you to…to what? Seduce me into trusting you?”
Her eyes blinked open again, and she focused on him, her brow furrowed. “In the dreams, you were always nice…very nice….”
“Yeah, well, that was just a dream, wasn’t it?” he muttered, knowing it wasn’t true. Something had already happened between them. Something he didn’t understand.
But Caldwell might very well understand it. Nick felt a wave of cold wash through him as he stared down at the woman lying on his couch. He had known Caldwell was getting stronger. Had that demon projected a vision of Emma Birmingham into his mind? Had Caldwell gained so much power that he could do such a thing—and do it without even being in proximity to his victim?
Emma—if that really was her name—tried to push herself to a sitting position but failed. As she fell back against the sofa, her features twisted in pain. Still, she forced her gaze to focus on his, and he knew she was trying to project her sincerity.
“Caldwell didn’t send me,” she insisted. “You have to believe that.”
“Do I?” He knew his voice was cold and harsh, but his thoughts were in turmoil. He should take her straight to the emergency room—and make sure she wouldn’t remember where she’d gotten shot. He could take away her memory and her identification, so nobody would know who she was. But even as he considered that plan, he rejected it.
He couldn’t forget the dream. Suppose he was wrong about Caldwell’s orchestrating it? Suppose Emma had somehow reached out to him on her own? Or, even more likely, because she had been at Caldwell’s enclave and in need of help, and because he himself spent a good deal of time making plans to bring down his old enemy, they had simply found each other. Two people, both isolated, both focused on a common foe—and one with the extrasensory powers that would make a bond between them possible. That the bond had taken such an erotic turn could have been the result of his own long abstinence and, to be completely honest, his loneliness. God knows, he’d been lonely….
Of course, there was one other question he couldn’t answer. He slept during the day, and she presumably slept at night. When had they shared these dreams? It must be early in the morning when she was still sleeping and he had just gone to bed. As Nick debated that question, Emma reached for his hand and clasped it with icy fingers.
“Let me stay,” she whispered. “If I go to the hospital, he’ll…he’ll find me. He’ll send someone…like he sent Frazier to my hotel this morning.”
Nick pulled his hand from hers. “If he found you at your hotel, how do you know he hasn’t followed you here?”
“I made sure…” She tried to reach for him, then flopped back against the sofa, a spasm of pain crossing her features.
The pain tipped the balance for him. Her anguish reminded him of his own humanity. Or maybe he was simply unable to bear seeing the woman to whom his subconscious self had been making love only a few hours ago experience anything but pleasure.
She might be a spy. And she might not be. But she surely was injured and in need of help. And he was going to help her. Later, he could probe for the truth.
“I’ll take a look at the wound,” he said, his voice coming out more roughly than he’d intended.
She let out a small sigh.
“I’ll be right back.”
He strode to the bathroom, where he kept clean towels, and brought one back. When he slid it under her upper body, she whimpered, though she quickly stifled the sound.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Once again he focused his mind on hers, using his power to put her into a light trance, reaching out to her the way he would if he were going to drink from her—which he wasn’t, he told himself firmly. He was just easing her pain.
Her shoulder bag was still slung across her chest. He eased it up an
d over her head and set it on the floor. Then, trying to still the slight trembling in his fingers, he began to roll up her T-shirt.
In his dreams—their dreams—she’d been naked under the gown she’d been wearing. He let out a sigh of relief when he discovered she was wearing a bra. Lacy and not entirely opaque as it was, it nevertheless covered the essentials and helped him to stay focused on her wound, not her breasts.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No,” she said dreamily. He knew she would be feeling as if she were drifting on a fuzzy cloud. “I like your voice,” she murmured. “Are you from England?”
“Yes,” he answered absently. He could see where the bullet had entered, between her ribs. Rolling her to the side, he noted that the slug had exited through her back.
He was no doctor, but he had seen his share of serious injuries. And he had talents that medical men didn’t possess. Closing his eyes, he stroked his fingers along her skin, feeling the path that the bullet had taken. It had passed between two ribs, nicking both of them, but it had missed her lungs.
Bending forward, he pressed his tongue to the wound, the taste of her blood setting off a buzzing in his brain. He wanted to suck on the wound, to draw from her, but he resisted the temptation, forcing himself only to bathe the injury. His saliva had properties that no ordinary human’s possessed. He used it after he drew blood, to heal the punctures made by his fangs. And he had used it in the past to heal far worse injuries than Emma’s.
He did that now, ruthlessly shoving aside his own need while he licked the entrance wound first, then the place where the bullet had exited her body. He did it swiftly and efficiently.
But not swiftly enough. The smell of her blood set off a torrent of need inside him. Before he could stop himself, he made small punctures in the pale satin skin over the injured ribs. He took a sip, then another before he could wrench himself away.
Clenching his jaw, he pushed to his feet and took a backward step.
“Sleep,” he murmured, his hands trembling badly as he slipped off her shoes.
