Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

  He headed down the hall, Sinnjinn capering at his heels. Her eyes followed Roarke in the dimness, once again struck by how much he evoked nuances of Derek. Halfway down the passage, without pause he turned to the left and closed the door on the bathroom.

  “I’m losing it,” she muttered.

  Going back to her bedroom closet, Ciara stepped out of her damp denims and then shimmied into a pair of worn jeans, fastening them. Before closing the drawer, she snagged a soft, teal sweater.

  The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, alerting her she wasn’t alone. Turning, she was rattled to see Roarke leaning with his shoulder against the doorframe, Sinnjinn weaving around his legs. Relaxed, as if he belonged here.

  She stared at one drop-dead, sexy man. The jeans lovingly encased his strong thighs, and the black shirt, buttoned just once, was a slight shade tighter across the shoulders and chest. It was almost reassuring to see it didn’t fit him to perfection.

  That small comfort was quickly replaced with something more disturbing—a stirring of her libido. She hadn’t made love with a man since Derek’s death. That part of her died with him on that wet, lonely road—she’d thought.

  Now, she was awakening to life and she wanted this man with every fiber in her pores, craved him with a force she found crippling. Her breasts grew heavy, tightening, pushing against the dampness of her bra. She attempted to swallow the knot in her throat. It didn’t budge.

  He came to her and took her wrist, then tugged the sweater from her grasp. Rooted to the floor, Ciara told herself to breathe as she fought against the waves of his intoxicating heat, his haunting scent. Images flashed through her. His hands grabbing hold of her derrière and lifting her, her legs wrapping around those strong, lean hips. Of his mouth feasting on her neck, taking her lips in a no-holds-barred kiss that’d fry her mind.

  And she’d let him. Encourage him. There wasn’t a bone in her body that would offer resistance. All she had to do was take one little step toward him. Supercharged by his potent male pheromones, singed by how he turned her on, Roarke made her feel alive for the first time in years.

  Just … one … little … step.

  Using her wrist, he towed her toward him. Her blood jumped, turning to molten lava. He was taking the choice from her, making it easier. She didn’t have to decide.

  Just as she almost arched to his strong body to accept that first kiss, he turned, nabbed up the candle and gently pulled her from the enclosed space.

  Oh bugger, embarrassment flooded her cheeks. How pathetic, how easy she must have appeared to him. She wanted to shove him out of the closet and yank the door closed behind him.

  What a silly fool she was—wishing on a Blue Moon and wanting kisses from a stranger.

  Like an obedient child, she followed him into the bathroom. The hooded eyes assessed her as he set the candleholder down on the sink so the mirror reflected the light, permitting him to work. With deft, sure movements he opened the medicine chest and selected items. Turning on the tap to fill the sink with warm water, he tugged a plastic cup from the wall dispenser.

  “Hold your arm over the water,” he instructed calmly.

  Damn him. Her heart knocked painfully, still in overdrive due to his virile sensuality. While the basin’s level rose, he cuffed and rolled the sleeves on Derek’s black shirt. Ciara couldn’t take her eyes off the beautiful lower arms, the sure hands. Large hands, yet they worked with a deftness, a precision of an artist or a magician.

  She shuddered. If he ever laid them upon her cool flesh, she feared he would truly be the Magic Man. That conjured the old song by Heart … seemed like he knew me…. he looked right through me … that was the sense she got off Roarke—he knew her.

  He kept pouring water on the jagged cut to be sure there weren’t tiny shards of glass left in the wound. Finally confident it was cleansed, he poured iodine on it.

  “Ooowwww…” Ciara sucked in her breath and tried to jerk her arm back, but his grip held firm.

  “You would’ve let me kiss you, wouldn’t you?” he asked carefully, blotting the wound, then rolling the gauze around it.

  Being in the bathroom with Roarke was too close. He sucked all the air from the enclosed space … filled it with the heat from his body, his burly fragrance, which conjured whispers of cool sheets and hot sex.

  She could deny the truth. A silly game not worth the time. They both knew the answer; he merely forced her to admit it.

  Ciara watched his gentle hands wind the gauze around her arm, mesmerized by the dexterity of a magician’s fingers, envisioning them on her face, her neck … her breasts. He took her hand and placed her index finger on the gauze while he ripped tape from the roll to secure it in place.

  “Thank you.” When she started to turn away, he caught her wrist.

  “Want to tell me what you were doing bleeding in a cemetery at night?” His voice had a note of humor, but there was also a thread of real concern.

  “Not really.”

  One side of his mouth tugged upward. “Then answer my other question. You would’ve let me kiss you, wouldn’t you?”

  Lowering her gaze, Ciara gave a faint nod.

  “Lady, you live dangerously.” His laugh was soft, magical. It sent Goosebumps up her spine.

  Lifting her eyes, she met those haunting, pale ones. “No, you’re wrong. I don’t live a’tall anymore.”

  Fearing she revealed way too much of the torment within her, she swung around. He pulled her back where he still gripped her wrist. “He wouldn’t want you to die for him.”

  She closed her eyes, anguish roiling within as if he’d physically slapped her. “What could you know about it?” she choked out.

  His reply stopped her cold. “I know what my heart tells me.”

  She blinked away tears, trying to control the black despair. “Your heart seems to do a lot of talking to you.”

  “These days it’s quite insistent.”

  Needing distance from his potent enchantment, she turned her back to him and hurriedly slid on the sweater. “Come on. I’m hungry. I’ll fix something to eat.”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer, just left him to follow.

  To distance herself from Roarke, she’d used the excuse she was hungry, a means to break the lethargy in which he’d held her. Yet, she now realized it was true. Most days she ate simply because she felt bad when she skipped a meal, not because of an appetite. Oddly enough, she was ravenous. Damn. First time in years she really wanted food and the electricity was off, so they’d be relegated to bologna and pork ‘n beans. She stopped short and both the man and cat collided into her back.

  Roarke put a hand on her shoulder, then one on her stomach to stop her from falling. Then didn’t release her. “Watch it. You already have a gash on your arm. Wouldn’t want to add a sprain to that.”

  She closed her eyelids against the wave of desire that exploded in her blood. Her spine remained ramrod stiff, lest she’d step back so that hard male body pressed against her curves. His long fingers flexed on her stomach as she sent out a telepathic plea for that hand to move up, to cup her breast, squeeze it … or lower, to snake between her legs.

  Forcing her thoughts past the violent yearning, she forced out, “I’m not sure about this … I never tried it, but I have a grill that’s meant to work on the fireplace. I could fix a steak and a salad.”

  “A delightful idea. Embracing the unknown is often quite enlightening. I find I’m suddenly ravenous.”

  Her head snapped around to assess his handsome face, his words echoing her very thoughts. She had the fae suspicion Roarke Devlin had read her mind.

  * * * *

  Ciara leaned back, her stomach aching from eating every bite of the strip steak and the garden salad. Using oven mitts, Roarke removed the fireplace grill so it wouldn’t smoke up the living room. He dashed to the kitchen with it, dumped it in the sink, then came back. Sinnjinn dogged his every step, frolicking around his heels.

  She hadn’t seen
the cat this happy since Derek died. In the first few weeks, she feared the cat might actually grieve to death. He would sit for hours on end in the picture window, watching, waiting, sure Derek would return home. Slowly, he finally accepted Derek wasn’t coming back.

  Almost tripping due to the feline, Roarke leaned over with a laugh and scooped up the fuzzy cat. One hand holding Sinnjinn’s front legs, the other the back ones, he draped the pussycat around his neck as if the cat was a fur collar.

  She’d been smiling, but suddenly it was a challenge to breathe normally. Derek used to do that with Sinnjinn. The huge kitty would curl around his neck loving their ‘game’.

  Roarke sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. He released the cat, but the fuzzy beast stayed, purring his heart out. “You look sad, Ciara. What summons your melancholy.”

  She hesitated to bring Derek up, yet his spectre seemed so close. Only she wasn’t sure what to say, how to start.

  “You think of your Derek,” he answered for her. “Remember him, the precious love you shared, Ciara. No one likes to think they die and are then forgotten, their presence little recalled. So Derek would appreciate you keeping his memory, honoring him in your heart. What he wouldn’t want is for you to permit that love to cripple your life.”

  She reeled from the impact of his words—his truth. Angry, hurt, she resented him speaking so. How dare he? A stranger shouldn’t be able to see so much, like her soul was stripped naked. It left her exposed, incensed.

  “You haven’t moved on with your life, have you, Ciara—as he would’ve wanted you to?” he pressed, giving her no measure. “He died seven years ago and you’ve spent every day drowning in your grief, haven’t you?”

  Unable to speak, Ciara steeled herself against the pain. It couldn’t hurt any more if he’d slapped her. She started to rise, but he caught her arm and yanked her back to the floor. The penetrating eyes held hers, bore into her mind. So startling in their paleness. Nothing like Derek’s hazel ones, yet … for a brief instant she felt she stared into Derek’s eyes. A trick of shadow and flame, she told herself.

  Anguish flooded his face. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as if to ward off the intensity of what he’d seen within her. Swallowing hard, he licked his lips, striving to regain control of his emotions. Slowly the lids lifted and the green eyes fixed her with a power that made her shudder. “You’ve considered suicide. Haven’t you?”

  “Damn you, you have no right!” Ciara tugged against the hand holding her upper arm, willing him to release her.

  “Truth or dare, Ciara.” Determination rang clear in his voice

  Her heart nearly stalled, then jumped, slamming against her ribs. She sucked in a breath. “How?” Once more, how could he know? Derek always used that taunt when she tried to hide from answering him. “Did you know Derek? Were you friends?”

  “Friends? I suppose I consider him a friend … in a strange sort of way, but no, we never met. I think I’d have liked him. Surely, he was a man to be admired if he made you love him so strongly. You have thought of killing yourself. Truth or Dare.”

  Her trembling hand reached out and rubbed the nose of the cat. The silly critter’s hind legs had slid off Roarke’s left shoulder, but he remained draped over the right and was half-sleeping, content. “Once, I saw no reason to go on. The doctor had given me a tranquilizer and that brought a fuzziness to where I didn’t care. I thought how easy it would be to take the whole bottle. Then the question of caring, pain, of being alone … wouldn’t matter.”

  “What stopped you?” His grip eased now he saw she’d stay and answer the truths she’d rather not face.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “Sinnjinn knocked the bottle from my hand.”

  “Remind me to order him a case of caviar tomorrow.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a half-smile as his head inclined to the cat’s and rubbed against his. “You said once?”

  She leaned back against the couch and looked to the ceiling. She hadn’t realized she said once. Damn man was too astute. Once … meaning she considered it again.

  “Tonight? Why you were out at the cemetery visiting him?” He lifted her arm and frowned. “Did you try to kill yourself tonight, Ciara?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “No?” It was clear he didn’t believe her.

  “I think I went there to die tonight. Not in the fashion you think. I’m not sure how to explain. I went to say goodbye. To toast our love. I need to live again … or just give up. I drank the whole stupid bottle—and I’m not a drinker—ended up crying and smashed it against the headstone. I’m not sure how I cut my arm.”

  “Life is precious, Ciara MacIain. Every morning of the last seven years I’d awaken and welcome the sunrise. Each is beautiful, special, because I’m alive to see it. You asked what I know about your pain, about losing something very special. You see I almost did … my life. It made me cherish those sunrises, made me reach out for every day with both hands, never to waste a moment.”

  He brushed his lips across hers, faintly, then increasing the contact. Finally settling fully. Ciara, cold for so long, suddenly felt warm down to her toes. She leaned into the kiss hungry for more, to absorb his passion for facing sunrises, make it her own.

  Just as he shifted to pull her against him, the lights came on. At the same instant the alarm on his gold watch sounded. Pulling back, he blinked at the brightness, then checked the wristwatch and shut it off. “Ah, saved by the bell. If you will excuse me.”

  With no explanation, he rose in a fluid movement, picked up the black duffle from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. Curious, Ciara tracked him through the open arched door. He went to the cupboard, where the tumblers were kept, and took one down. Next, he reached into the fridge for the ice water. His actions were sure, as if this were his home and not the home of a stranger. Sinnjinn curled around his ankles, murring to him.

  Logic said the actions were intuitive, he’d likely seen her getting the glasses before … surely most people kept water or juice refrigerated.

  Only when Sinnjinn whined, begging for goodies, and Roarke—without pause—opened the bottom cabinet and reached in for the bottle of Pounce, did that nagging fear travel up her spine in prickles. The cat danced on his paws until Roarke put a few in his bowl by the stove.

  She could no longer wrap herself in logic and excuse Roarke’s actions.

  Rising, she slowly entered the kitchen. Hearing her, he turned his back to what he’d been taking from the duffel. Blocked her as if he’d rather she didn’t see. His eyes studied her as she reached past him. With a resigned shrug he stepped aside, permitting her access. There was half a dozen bottle of pills. She picked up one after another, not getting any quick answers … Cyclosporin, Tracolimus, Prednisone, Azathioprine, Methotrexate … immunosuppressants and steroids.

  Trembling, she set down the last amber bottle. Her throat nearly closed around the forming words, the enormity more than she could absorb. Cold, she fought the edge of shock, a rising despair threatening to claim her.

  “You’re ill?” She hardly believed it. He looked so very healthy.

  “No.”

  She sucked in a deep breath trying to steady herself. “Oh, you take steroids and immunosuppressants for the fun of it?”

  “I’m not ill. In fact, they say I’m quite the picture of health … now.” He began opening the caps and popping the pills into his mouth, washing them down with the chilled water.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Seven years ago I contracted a rare virus, some sort of super strep and it damaged my heart. I thought I just had a really bad case of the flu. On a business trip to Chicago, I realized how ill I was. I collapsed in a meeting. They moved me to Louisville, because of the advanced heart transplant program there.” He laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “Thirty-nine-years old and suddenly they told me my only hope to live was a new heart. I don’t recall much of that period or maybe I would’ve been more terrified. They flew
me into Standiford Field in Louisville on a stretcher, too weak to make the trip otherwise. No sooner than they settled me for the night, they woke and prepped me for surgery. To make a long story short, a miracle happened—I’d barely been on the recipient list two days when they found a heart. A perfect match. I have a rare blood type—”

  Faint, Ciara clutched at the cabinet to steady herself. “AB Negative?”

  He nodded, keeping several paces away from her as if he feared she wouldn’t want him closer.

  A mournful wail rose up within her, a wounded animal sound. She shook her head, fighting what she knew was to come. “Nooooooooo!”

  I want my passing to count for something, my love.

  Legs rubbery, she backed up, leaning against the sink’s counter for support. She stared at Roarke, feeling so many conflicting things that nearly overwhelmed her.

  “Fate’s a bitch sometimes, Ciara.” He unbuttoned the single button on the black shirt, exposing his gorgeous chest. A chest marred by a long scar, running down the center. “Don’t hate me because I lived and he died.”

  “You … knew … who I was … that you…” It hurt too much for her to form the words.

  His beautiful throat worked to swallow as he observed her reaction.

  “How … long have you known?”

  “Known?” His body jerked as he tried to laugh but failed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I don’t believe it. Sometimes … ah, hell … I don’t know anymore.”

  He moved toward her. Ciara put out her hand to stop him from getting closer. She didn’t want all those supercharged male pheromones confusing her brain. Instead of accepting she limited access to her space, he invaded, walked up to her until her hand touched his chest.

  Sure that her panic showed in her eyes, she was transfixed by her hand nearly fused to the spot where, so warm, so alive, the heart thudded. So strong.

  Maybe too strong? Concerned, her eyes jerked up to collide with his. “Are you all right?”

  Lips pulled in a self-deprecating smile. “No, I’m a man and a very sexy, warm, sensual woman is touching my flesh. A male’s never all right in such circumstances.”