by Joey W. Hill
Page 23
But of course, when she opened her eyes, that wasn’t where she was. The fears and worries, shadows and darkness would creep in and squeeze her heart in a painful vise. Jorge and his grooms were very careful around her, never coming up on her unawares, and always speaking in easy tones around her. On one hand, she appreciated it. But in another way, it reminded her that she was walking on quicksand, never knowing when those choking fears would take over her mind.
It had happened often over these two weeks. Brief panic attacks for no reason, that mind-altering catatonia that kept her locked in one place, oblivious to the passage of time. She’d snap out of it, the pitchfork held in a death grip by trembling hands, her back pressed to the wall. But she’d avoided doing herself or others harm. Obsessively focusing on just this task, this job, had helped her manage them, push past their hold.
If Jorge or his groom saw them happen, they didn’t mention it. They left her alone, but stayed close enough to encourage conversation, if she sought it. A couple times she did. Just innocuous things, like their mutual interest in the horses. But both times she brought herself up short, and retreated again.
Only a couple weeks ago, she’d considered death a mercy. But she hadn’t been physically strong then. She could damn Mason all she wanted for it, but he was right. While the desire to kill herself, take herself out of harm’s way, simmered at the back of her mind as an instinctive escape plan, it was no longer her prime directive. There was a vast difference in outlook when one was cheerfully heaving slabs of dirty straw into a wheelbarrow to add to a compost heap, versus feeling sick, fatigued and on death’s doorstep.
She had a routine, something she could count on. Each day passed without her being harmed, without anyone trying to frighten her, play with her mind. Unlike her first couple days, Mason was only a distant presence, oddly reassuring in his occasional comments in her mind, but otherwise leaving her to her own devices. Amara and Enrique hadn’t pressured her when she chose not to accept the weekly invitation to watch Amara dance. Instead, they drew her into the evening activities with the other staff, so that she dared a game of pool or cards or a few minutes with the television, listening to the others comment, before making the trek up the stairs to her well-lit, secured bedroom.
She knew it was a lull before another storm, whether that storm came from the decisions she needed to make or those Mason would force her to face. But since this appeared to be a neutral time, without pressure to think or choose, she grabbed it with both hands, let herself live in stasis. It worked as an effective anesthetic, and her bedtimes were filled with her fantasies where she was Farida, Mason at her side as the romantic lover she’d long hoped he was.
Day Fourteen. The sun was starting to go down. She forked the last of the straw into the stall, making sure it was evenly spread.
Then she headed out of the barn to find Jorge and let him know the stable was ready for the horses.
The two Arabians were in the paddock, cavorting and playing with each other. She climbed up on the rails to watch, sending a cautious nod to Gregorio, the groom who was keeping an eye on them.
Was there anything more marvelous than watching two strong, beautiful creatures do this? Enjoy the life God had given them, each moment just about that moment, and nothing else?
“This is a particularly refreshing look for you. ”
It took her a second to realize the voice wasn’t in her mind, and when she did, she started. His hands brushed her waist, steadying her, before they were gone and he was climbing up next to her.
She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help staring. Mason was wearing fawn riding breeches that molded his muscular ass and powerful thighs like skin, the pants tucked into polished black boots. With the white shirt he wore open at the throat, and his hair tied back, he looked like the kind of bad boy rake from Victorian romances that made women swoon.
“You’re not going to swoon, are you? I can catch you, if you give me enough warning. ”
“If you don’t stay out of my fucking head . . . ”
“Language,” he rebuked mildly. “And I can’t help that your tongue rolled out of your mouth when you looked at me. ” She’d acted on instinct versus thought for a while, so perhaps that was why she took him by surprise. Herself as well. She lifted one manure- and mud-encrusted boot, planted it on his thigh and shoved, knocking him off the end of the fence.
He landed on his feet, of course, as quick and lithe as a cat, but the narrowed glance he sent her had her scrambling off the fence.
Her bootheel caught and she let out a yelp. However, instead of landing headfirst in the dirt, she was in his arms, holding on to his biceps, his face intensely close. Her foot was still tangled in the fence railing.
“I told you I could catch you if you warned me. ”
“You’re being juvenile,” she retorted, trying to ignore her shiver. She called it fear, instead of something far more confusing.
“Really? Did I just smear horse manure on your clothes and knock you off a fence?”
“Let me up. ” She squirmed, and he didn’t budge.
“If you were of a mind to be civil, I’d take you for a ride on the beach. ” She stilled, and despite herself, desire leaped in her breast, so strong it registered in the pleasure filling his own gaze. That in turn added another kind of desire to the feeling. God, he smelled good. Like the desert, exotic and mysterious. Ignore it. All vampires emanate the fuck-me vibe. It’s physical.
He cocked his head, obviously reading her thoughts. He didn’t say anything about it, though, just gave her that faint, sexy smile again. Holding her up in one arm, he freed her boot and lowered her feet to the ground, keeping one arm around her waist.
Belatedly, she noticed she was still gripping his arms. She jerked free and stepped back, her cheeks warm. He was right. She did feel like an adolescent.
“So do you need a saddle?” he asked.
She shook her head. She’d first been put on a horse when she was three years old. It was one of the pictures on her mother’s desk, behind which was a wall of blue ribbons and trophies. She’d taught her daughter as much as she was willing to learn, and unlike most girls, Jess had never grown out of her horse stage. Squatting, she began to unlace the boots. While being shoeless around a horse wasn’t always a good idea, she couldn’t resist the idea of riding bareback and bare-foot, along a sandy stretch of beach sparkling under the stars.
Mason was speaking to the grooms, and a bridle was brought out, slipped on the head of the white mare. Jorge led them both out of the paddock. They were already prancing, crabstepping, knowing where they were going. Ears pricked forward as Mason approached, spoke to them in Arabic.
Jess straightened. She couldn’t imagine a more breathtaking picture than the two Arabians, heads held high, manes tossing, feet stomping, and the man holding them, weight shifted to one hip in the snug breeches, broad shoulders flexing as he stroked their muscular necks and then glanced back at her. He said a word to the black and led the white forward. The black stayed where he was, watching with interest.
“Hasna’s name means ‘beautiful. ’ ” He smiled down at her. “Very appropriate for you. ” Jess ignored that and his offered hand, took a handful of mane and rein and swung up with a lithe twist of hips that felt so damn good she almost laughed aloud. Hasna pranced about, but a horse sensed a rider who knew her business, so she quickly settled as Jess spoke to her and adjusted the reins.
She noted Mason’s look. Having taught riding before, she knew that expression. He was gauging her experience level to ensure she would be reasonably safe on the mount he gave her. It surprised her enough that, when he touched her leg and crooked his finger to have her lean down, she did so. Sweeping off her bill cap, he combed his hands through her sweat-stained hair to loosen it from her skull and then took his hands away before she could get more discomfited by the casual contact.
“So you ca
n feel the wind, habiba. ” He gave her a quick smile before he turned the hat over to Jorge. Then the vampire turned and spoke another Arabic command. Coman came forward eagerly, and Jess noted he had no tack at all, not even a bridle. Mason swung up, just as lithe.
Farida had been right. Jess saw it, from the instant he completed the mount. So easy, so relaxed, the horse barely registered he had a rider. The powerful thighs flexed on the black’s sides and he was moving forward, Mason taking the lead toward the beach. In this position, she could see him lay his hands on his thighs, guiding the horse solely with his knees. Watch that excellent ass shift with the horse’s movement, making it impossible not to imagine it bare, flexing in a coital rhythm.
If Mason heard her embarrassing thought, he at least had the courtesy not to show it. To all appearances, he was taking in the night sounds, his attention on the shore up ahead. What in the hell was she doing? She’d been fine these past couple weeks, until he appeared. But how many times had she fantasized about him, guiltily stepping into Farida’s body as she imagined what he might do to it, what soft, seductive things he would whisper to her late at night?
That was a different Mason, Farida’s Mason, a storybook character she’d enhanced in her mind. It didn’t mean she wanted this one, but it was logical that she would respond to his presence, particularly with those vampire pheromones swirling around him, like flies swarming a corpse.
That damned diary. It was confusing things. Raithe had never confused her like this. She wanted to say she was sorry she’d ever found it, but she knew that would not only be a lie, but an insult to Farida’s memory she couldn’t permit. She’d had the strength to survive Raithe because of her.
She would resist Mason, like she’d resisted Raithe. Though Raithe had known how to get around that, just like Mason did, exploiting the weakness of her own body.
You say you hate it, you filthy cunt, but your slit is wet . . . Fuck her ass, Trenton. She’ ll cry from the pain, but she’ ll still come all over your balls and lick them clean afterward, like an eager little bitch in heat . . .
Hasna whinnied. Jess jerked out of the memory, flinched from Mason’s touch on her shoulder. He’d brought Coman alongside and had his other hand on the mare’s rein.
