Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

"Oh." She settled back onto the stool. "Okay."

  When she backed off, he suffered a pang of regret. After three years of working together five or six days a week, a chase through the woods, and one long evening of making love, she still didn't feel secure enough with him to rake him over the coals. When he took her to meet his mother, she'd teach Ann ev­erything she needed to know about coal raking.

  But for right now, he needed to get one step ahead of the Varinskis. Ann was his responsibility, and he had to save her. The world seldom saw such wide-eyed ingenuousness, and he would protect it, and her. "This morning, I thought we'd take a walk down to your car."

  She blinked at his sudden change of subject. "Okay."

  "See if it managed to hang on to the cliff. Then I can get a tow truck up here and you'll know what to tell your insurance company." His father always said a good lie was the right mixture of truth and seizing an opportunity. And when the old man was right, he was right. "Do you want to change?"

  She looked down at her feet. "I didn't bring any walking shoes or jeans. I only have this stuff."

  He looked her over. "You look great in that stuff." She did look great, a tall, slender woman with legs clear up to her neck. Last night, after the bath, he'd been restless, holding her in his arms, wanting to do more, knowing he couldn't.

  She, on the other hand, had slept soundly, ex­hausted by the day.

  A virgin.

  Damn it. A virgin.

  The need to have her grew with every moment, tugging at his senses. The scent of her was woman: sweet, heady, seductive. He could almost taste her on his tongue.... He had tasted her, and the memory gave him a boner hard enough to howl about.

  He'd bet if he looked at the icon, he'd see the Ma­donna smirking at him.

  "You look great in that stuff," he repeated, "but you need something tougher while you're here. Tell you what—my sister's got clothes upstairs in the back bedroom. Do you want to go take a look and see if anything fits?"

  "Okay." Ann slid off the stool and headed toward the door, then stopped and turned to face him. "But. . . will your sister mind?"

  "Naw. Firebird's really easygoing." Not about her clothes, she wasn't, but he knew good and well noth­ing would fit; his sister was almost six inches shorter than Ann, and rounded where Ann was thin.

  But he wanted Ann out of the room long enough to conclude his search without any more interference.

  "Are you sure?"

  It must be a female thing, being proprietary about clothes, because Ann clearly doubted his word. "I'll tell you what," he said. "When you meet her, you can ask her."

  "I'm going to meet her?"

  "Of course you're going to meet her. My dad, uh . . ." How did he tell Ann this? "My dad had some kind of heart seizure. Or ... something."

  "What?" Ann came back to the table and sat down. "When?"

  "On the Fourth."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I didn't have time. It was one hospital transfer after another and my mother was so . . ." He gestured.

  "I'll bet!" Ann took his hand and held it between both of hers.

  She was finishing his thoughts for him, and he was grateful. He hadn't realized that talking about his father would recall every fear, every anguish, every frustration. Jasha wanted to howl at the moon. He wanted to get up and hit something, preferably a Varinski. He wanted ... he wanted everything in his tidy life to be as it had been, and would never be again.

  "How is he now?" She squeezed his hand.

  "I talked to Rurik this morning." Although neither of the brothers had mentioned the obvious—that if Konstantine died now, he would go to hell.

  Men who lived every day with a deal with the devil didn't question consequences.

  "When we brought him in, the hospital told us to say good-bye." Jasha recalled the helplessness, the fear, the anguish. He recalled his mother's pinched face, his sister's broken sobs. He found himself squeezing Ann's hand as if it were a lifeline. "Now he's rallied to the point that they're sending him home."

  "What are they going to do to fix him?"

  "The medical staff can't fix him. They don't under­stand what's wrong."

  "They're sending him home and they don't know what's wrong?" Her voice rose. "Don't put up with that! Make them—"

  "They said something about naming the disease after him."

  She subsided. "I'm sorry. That's lousy. I really like your dad. He's a great guy. I know I've only talked to him on the phone, but he's always so hearty and funny, and he asks me how old I am and why I don't—"

  She blushed so suddenly and so brightly, Jasha ex­perienced the first complete and genuine amusement he'd felt since the moment his mother had given her prophecy.

  "He asks how old you are and why you don't marry me?" Jasha weighed his options. But it was too early to say anything, so he stuck with, "On the Fourth of July, he tried to auction me off to the women in Blythe."

  "You're kidding."

  Jasha enjoyed knowing he'd stunned her. "Named off my virtues, then offered me like a stud bull. Rurik, too."

  "Does he do that often?"

  "No, mostly he reads the paper, gripes about the idiot legislators who regulate the wine industry, and bellows when the rain falls and splits the grapes. But he wants grandchildren and when my father has a goal, nothing had better stand in his way." Better to prepare her for the reality of Konstantine than to let her be surprised. "After we get stuff settled here, we need to go up and see him."

  Ann's eyes got huge and scared.

  "You'll like them," he said reassuringly, then gave her a gentle verbal nudge. "And you can check with Firebird about borrowing her clothes."

  "Right." Ann stood up and once again headed for the door.

  He waited until he no longer heard her footsteps, no longer smelled her scent.

  Then he ran his hands over the papers, feeling for lumps. He sniffed them, trying to detect the stench of Varinski on them—had they been in his office?

  But everything was as it should be.

  He shook the file folder.

  Nothing fell out.

  Ann's briefcase sat on the table, black, full-grained, pebbled leather, padded handle, detachable shoulder strap, brushed-nickel hardware, and a state-of-the-art lock—all perfect places to hide a homing device.

  He started with her personal papers, and grinned when he shook an envelope and out tumbled a des­perate note to Celia from Ann. He didn't read it, but a glance was enough; it mentioned Mr. Wilder and tight buns in the same breath.

  Nice.

  He pulled out his pocketknife and split every seam in her briefcase and in the straps, spreading the leather and the lining across the table.

  The briefcase was clean.

  Lifting his gaze, he stared out the window at the sun-drenched morning. All right. Not in her brief­case, then certainly in her car ...

  The scent of her distress and her faintest gasp of dismay brought his head around.

  Ann stood in the doorway, her gaze on the eviscer­ated briefcase and the pile of her personal papers. She looked down at the size four clothes she held in her hand. With a killing glare, she fled the dining room.

  He gazed around at the guts of her briefcase spread across the table.

  All right. This looked incriminating. But there was an easy explanation.

  He'd better think of it fast.

  Rising, he headed after her. Headed after her . . . instinct slammed into him like a speeding train.

  Chase the female. Bring her down. Possess her—

  No! God, no, he'd done that once.

  And how sweet it had been. Her skin was clean and pure, her body hot and deep. . . .

  He stopped, his hand on the wall, and took a long breath. Control. Where was his control? He'd never had difficulty disciplining his urges before.

  Why now? Why Ann? What was it about her that carried his wild desires so close to the surface?

  If he could, he'd turn away from the pursuit, but he
had to stop her before she did something rash— he needed to explain.

  He half thought she'd go upstairs to the bedroom to fling herself on the bed and cry. But no. He should have realized his Ann wouldn't do anything so simple.

  She'd left the house by the back door.

  He knew, because she'd left a scent trail of furious indignation—and she'd set off the alarm.

  He stopped long enough to punch in the code and stop the shriek of the siren before the cops came out.

  Glancing at the hook on the wall, he realized . . . she'd also taken his keys. The keys to his beautiful new BMW M6.

  'Son of a bitch!" He ran out the back door.

  She couldn't leave him here. Not after what had happened between them. Didn't she know what it meant?

  He'd taken her, and she was his.

  A growl, not quite human and not quite wolf, rat­tled deep in his chest.

  Before the garage had completely opened, she backed his Beemer out, scraping the top of the car against the custom-built hardwood door. As the wood splintered, as the custom car paint peeled back with a horrible grating sound, he became totally human again.

  Human, and unsure whether he was more con­cerned for her or the car.

  Then he decided she was safe, and mourned the Beemer.

  She backed up.

  He ran out into the driveway. He had to stop her.

  She put the seven-speed in first, hit the gas, and popped the clutch.

  She killed it. She started it at once and did it again.

  The third time was a charm, and she hiccuped from first to second, her killing gaze fixed right on him.

  He braced himself, prepared to jump sideways.

  But God bless her, she didn't quite have the nerve to run over his ass. She swerved into the grass, sink­ing into the mud, then veered back onto the pave­ment and drove around the house.

  Turning, he raced through the house to the front.

  Chapter 14

  That POS. He'd taken her briefcase apart.

  Ann had been carrying that thing, treasuring it, since Jasha had given it to her for Secretary's Day the very first year she'd worked for him. And he'd cut it apart because he thought she . . . she . . . she didn't know what he'd thought. But it wasn't good, and he didn't trust her.

  Four lousy years she'd worked at his company, three lousy years of it as his administrative assistant, and he didn't trust her.

  The asshole.

  She cleared the back corner of the house. She hit the gas.

  The Beemer hiccuped, then sprang forward so fast the tires squealed on the pavement and she experi­enced a glorious jolt of adrenaline.

  Jasha loved his cars. Right now, he must be cringing.

  Maybe there was a time when she'd been less than careful, and the consequences had been deadly. But she'd been a child then, and everyone told her it was not her fault. Even Sister Mary Magdalene had called Ann to her classroom and with great severity told her she was not to blame herself.

  So she didn't blame herself, but she'd learned her lesson, and everyone who knew her knew that her name was synonymous with responsibility.

  How dare Jasha not trust her?

  She hit the front circle drive. All she had to do was drive the hell out of here, and she'd be free of him forever.

  And Jasha burst out the front door and ran in front of the car.

  That asshole had a lot of faith in her good nature.

  She slammed on the brakes.

  Justified good faith. Damn it.

  She pounded on the steering wheel.

  Damn it!

  "Listen to me," he bellowed. "I need you!"

  "Yeah, yeah," she shouted back. He probably couldn't hear her. The window was closed. But she liked yelling at him.

  She reversed and headed for the other half of the circle drive.

  He ran across the lawn, skidded in front of the car again. "Ann, stay with me."

  She reversed again and, rebel that she was, con­templated driving across the wide circle of grass in the middle of the drive.

  "Ann . . ." He walked toward the front of the car, his hands outspread, a smile placing winsome dimples in his cheeks. "Please ..."

  She wanted something, anything, to wipe that smirk off his face.

  As if her wish had power, something flew past her side of the car and buried itself in his shoulder.

  He staggered backward, fell over.

  What was it?

  Who cares? Get the hell out!

  She gunned the engine and drove past him. She circled the drive, and glanced back.

  He'd dragged himself to his feet and was standing, weaving as if he were drunk with—she slammed on her brakes. He had an arrow, complete with feathers, sticking out of him.

  What? Should they circle the wagons?

  He doubled over. He ran toward the porch in a crouch.

  Good news. This gave her time to get away.

  So why was she backing up, reversing, driving toward the house? Some idiot was shooting arrows out there.

  She needed to run. Run away now. In the car. She was safe in the car.

  Jasha had collapsed, his torso on the porch, his legs in the driveway.

  She drove up next to him. Vaulting out of the pas­senger side, she grabbed him under the armpits, pulled as hard as she could.

  He yelled in pain, but he didn't budge. He was too heavy.

  Then she heard a retort. The car's front tire exploded.

  Rubber flew; the car collapsed on its right side.

  Gunshot.

  Suddenly, she discovered the strength to pull Jasha toward the house.

  He yelled again, but when she would have stopped, he gasped, "Get me inside." He helped her, using his legs to shove himself along. His jeans caught on the rough stone floor of the porch.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." Somehow her fran­tic prayer helped keep her moving, keep her mind away from the fact that somewhere out there, some guy had a gun and a bow. Or two guys had—oh, it didn't matter. She just had to get Jasha inside.

  And she did. She pulled him across the threshold into the entry, and slammed and locked the door. She ran for the phone.

  /yWhat are you doing?" Jasha rolled around to look.

  "Calling the ambulance." She shook the receiver. "I can't hear the dial tone."

  "He cut the line."

  She headed for her purse. Where was her purse? "My cell."

  "There's no time. Get this arrow out of me."

  "I can't take it out The EMTs—"

  "There's no time. If I start to heal, whatever he put inside me will be a part of me, and I can't have that."

  "Are you crazy? You won't heal that fast." She shouted at him—not because she didn't believe him, but because she did.

  "I've got a knife in my pocket."

  "Which you always carry with you." How in the hell had she managed to dredge up sarcasm now?

  "Well . . . yeah." He sounded surprised.

  "I know." She'd scolded him for losing two others to airport security when he'd forgotten about them. She'd figured it was a guy thing. She'd never figured she'd have to use one of the blades to cut an arrow out of his shoulder.

  She couldn't even believe she was using those words in a single sentence.

  Grabbing one of the beautiful cotton throws off the couch, she ran back to Jasha and used it to stanch the blood that oozed out of his shoulder and onto the floor. "How do you know he put something inside you?" she asked. "Besides the arrow, I mean?"

  "Honey, if he wanted to kill me, he would have used a rifle and a scope."

  Dear God, Jasha had blood all over his T-shirt. His face was pasty white, and that arrow stuck straight out.

  "Well, if whatever it is, is nothing deadly—"

  "It could be a drug that would make me cooperate with them."

  Her imagination immediately sprang into action. "Or a slow-acting poison only they have the anti­dote to."

  He grimaced. "I hadn't thought about
that."

  "That's because it's ridiculous!" she shouted. "It's something out of a movie! This whole scene is out of a really bad movie!"

  "Ann." With his healthy hand, Jasha caught her wrist. When she focused on him, he said steadily, "Dig out the arrow."

  She looked away. The arrow was in him. This was her fault.

  She brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.

  "Look at me!" He shook her wrist. "There's no one else I can depend on. Only you."

  She looked back at him.

  Their gazes locked.

  She steadied.

  "There's always only you," he said.

  "Shit-kicker. Flatterer. Damned, ridiculous, stupid man." She could not do this. She could not. She knelt beside Yarn, pulled the knife out of his jeans pocket. Her hands shook so badly she fumbled and dropped it. "It should be sterilized." She sliced his T-shirt from his neck to his sleeve and laid his shoulder bare.

  The arrow had desecrated the beautiful expanse of his smooth skin. Blood—old blood, new blood, stained everything brown and scarlet. She wanted to put her head between her knees. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry.

  "You can't kill me with a germ." He sounded way too sure of himself. "You can't kill me at all. You're going to widen the wound enough to back the arrow out without doing too much more tissue damage."

  "Okay." And, Poison, she reminded herself. The sharp blade hovered, trembling, over the wound.

  "Drugs are most likely." His voice vibrated with pleading. "Please, Ann, do this for me."

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away— and cut.

  The skin was tough. The muscle was like meat. Meat slippery with blood. She used the point to fol­low the arrow down to the point. It took her a minute to realize . . . "I've hit bone. The point is buried in the bone."

  "I know." He sounded as if he were being strangled.

  She couldn't bear to look at his face, to see his anguish. If she did that, she'd never be able to finish. "How do I get it out?"

  "You pull."

  "Oh, come on!" Now she did look at him.

  His lower lip was bleeding—he'd bitten it through. "Pull it straight out," he instructed. "A hard, fast jerk. Straight up and out. Ann, that's important. If you pull at an angle, you're going to tear more muscle."

  Obviously. "I know!"