“Dammit!”
A muffled thud accompanied his cry, and Brigit jerked rigid, her eyes flying open. Zaslow emerged from the closet, pressing three fingers to his forehead. Blood trickled from beneath the fingers, trailing down onto his nose, a single droplet dangling from the tip.
Wide-eyed, Brigit backed away from him...from the undeniable evidence. “What—”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “A box fell from a shelf.” With his free hand he jerked tissues from the dispenser on the vanity, and swiped the blood away, then pressed the wad to the cut on his head. Taking the wad away, he looked at it, then pressed it back again. “The painting looks nearly finished.”
She couldn’t stop staring at the cut on his forehead. Couldn’t slow her racing heartbeat, or the new knowledge that was slowly making itself a home in her mind. “It is,” she whispered. “Almost done, that is.”
“How much longer?”
She shrugged, lowering her gaze to the floor, shaking her head in wonder.
“Three days,” he told her. “Three days, Brigit.
It will either be the length of time it takes to finish the painting, or Raze’s expected life span. Do you understand?”
“It’s not enough—”
“It’s more than enough. Meanwhile, you’d better take your pretty backside down the hall and wiggle it for Mr. Reid. You’ll never finish the painting if he throws you out, will you?”
She lifted her head, glared at him. “You son of a—”
“Seduce your way back into his good graces, Brigit. You can do it. You managed it the first time around.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Good night.” He tossed the tissues into the wastebasket, and walked back out the French doors, the same way he’d entered.
And she stared after him, and thought about trying to see if she could wish him to fall on his head from the deck. Only the fear of never knowing where Raze was, of him dying slowly because she couldn’t find him, kept her from experimenting on Zaslow just then.
Brigit wondered how he’d managed to get up there in the first place, whether he had a rope ladder dangling from the deck outside or what.
And then it no longer mattered. She was exhausted, physically, emotionally, and mentally. This was too much. Too damned much for anyone to go through. Not just Zaslow and his threats, but this feeling that was slowly encapsulating her entire soul. That maybe she’d never felt as if she belonged here, because she didn’t. Maybe she belonged somewhere else. Like Rush.
God, it was too much to take in all at once. Especially alone. She sank down to the floor, giving in to the turmoil, letting the tears come at last.
“God, Adam,” she whispered. “I need you. I just need you to hold me so much. Can’t you just hold me?” And she lifted her head, looking toward the wall that separated his room from hers, and she closed her eyes. “If there’s any magic in me at all...let it bring you here to me, tonight. Because I don’t want to spend the night alone.”
Chapter Thirteen
She was still lying to him. Even now.
She was a beautiful woman, who smiled with her eyes whenever he looked into them. She touched him in a way no other woman ever had, in a way he sensed no other woman ever would.
After what they’d shared—the things he’d told her, things he’d never shared with anyone, and the hours of lovemaking so intense and soul-deep it had to be supernatural—she still couldn’t bring herself to trust him enough to tell him the truth. Hadn’t it meant a damn thing to her? Had it all been an act? If she cared in the least, wouldn’t she have opened up to him by now?
And did it matter? Because he still wanted her. He wanted her all the time, day and night, asleep or awake, at home and at work. She was never far from his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way it felt to hold her, to kiss her. The taste of her skin. Those honeyed kisses. The loss of himself when he’d been inside her. God!
She was plotting to steal his most precious possession, even knowing what it meant to him. And he didn’t care! He’d rather burn the thing in the fireplace than lose her now.
That was the problem. He cared. He hadn’t meant to. He’d been warned not to. And he had to resist her. He had to stop himself from getting any closer to her, because he knew she’d leave him. He knew. And knowing made every breath he drew sheer hell.
He had to stay away from her. Help her, yes, but somehow keep a distance. Keep his emotions safe. He had to...
She was in trouble. In so much trouble she couldn’t find her way out. And...and she needed him.
Adam flung back the covers, sitting up in the bed. He gripped his pillow in his fists and he shook it the way he felt like shaking her when she refused to talk to him. Damn, damn, damn!
He wanted her.
Slamming himself out of bed, he paced the floor. Plush carpeting cushioning his bare feet. Warm summer air greeting his naked flesh. He was hard, and she wasn’t even in the room. He was hot and he was lonely for her soft, silken body. For her wet lips and for those little sounds she made down deep in her throat when he...
Damn!
Five steps to the French doors. He stopped there only briefly, then turned on his heel. Twelve steps past the foot of the bed, to the closed door that led to the hallway. And he stopped there a little longer. A second longer. Long enough for his hand to touch the doorknob. Long enough for him to curse himself for being an idiot.
He turned again. Ten steps to the bathroom door, four through it, and a cold shower was within reach. It was also the last thing he wanted.
He wanted Brigit.
How many steps, he wondered, were there between his room and hers? Only a few. And he’d be there, with her. He could have her.
Keep your distance, you idiot! You’re walking right into heartbreak!
She was longing for him, aching for him, right now. Calling to him, somehow. He could feel her calling out to him, though he couldn’t hear her. A psychic lure tugged at him. Teased him. Tempted him. Its touch was physical, palpable. Something very real, dammit, had twined around him and pulled tight, so that he felt like a fish caught in a net. And he didn’t bother struggling because he thought it might kill him. The net pulled tight, so there was no chance of escape, and then it drew him across that soft carpet. It drew him right up to his bedroom door.
Through it.
He was hauled in by this mental net, and it was against his will. Against everything he knew to be practical and smart and necessary. She would hurt him. Again. She would lie to him, and she would leave him. And yet he walked a little faster, instead of fighting the current that carried him through the hall. He twisted the doorknob, flung her bedroom door open, and stepped inside. And then he stood there, naked and aroused, just inside her bedroom. And she was on the floor, by her bed. Her legs curled underneath her, tears scalding her cheeks.
She looked up, met his eyes. “Adam...”
“I didn’t want to come in here,” he whispered, and his voice sounded ragged and broken. And even as he said it he was dropping to his knees, clasping her shoulders, running his fingertips over her skin.
“I was wishing for you, Adam.”
“I heard you,” he said, and he covered her mouth with his, pushed his tongue inside, thrust deep. His breathing was ragged and his hands were pushing the thin straps of the camisole down from her shoulders.
Her hands came around him, and her fingers dove into his hair. She leaned back, opened her mouth wider, and he devoured her, unable to help himself. He moved his mouth sideways, over her face, and down her neck. He tugged the camisole lower, and tasted her breast. The rounded, firm flesh, and then the succulent center. He sucked on her nipple until he felt it throbbing under his tongue. And then he moved to the other side.
He’d pressed her onto her back now. He was pulling the camisole down with him as he moved lower over her body, taking huge bites of her waist, gnawing and licking his way over her abdomen as she clawed and tore at his hair. She twisted, panted,
cried, trembled. He had to know her, all of her. He had to experience every sensation, every nuance, every inch of her. It was a compulsion. An obsession. A perversion, maybe, or perhaps an addiction to that honeyed flavor. He kissed a wet trail over her thighs. He lapped a path down the backs of her calves, tasting the hollows behind her knees. He traced the shapes of her ankles with his tongue, and then kissed the very soles of her small feet, and every toe, before working his way back up again. Higher, until he shoved her legs wider and made his way to the very heart of her.
“Do you want it?” he demanded, blowing hot breath on her, watching her quiver.
“Yesss...”
He pulled her apart, and drove his tongue into the feast that awaited him. She tasted so good. Salt and feminine spice. And that honey. That sweetness that belonged to her alone. And he craved more of her, more than he ever could have. He couldn’t tell her that, couldn’t give words to a need so fierce, so powerful. So he used his mouth to show her. And his tongue and his teeth. Until she screamed his name at the top of her voice, clawing at his shoulders as her hips thumped the floor in convulsive motions.
He crawled back up her body. All the way up her body. He straddled her chest. And he didn’t have to tell her. She lifted her head, staring at the erection in front of her with passion glazed eyes. And then she took it into her mouth. Adam lifted his hips. He caught her head in his hands, and he moved against the delicious suction. Her hands crawled around to cup his backside, and then her nails sank into his flesh and she took more of him. Deeper and faster and harder. Until he was the one screaming in sweet agony, spilling his passion into her, watching her take it, savor it.
And when he wanted to collapse on top of her, he couldn’t. Because he needed more. He needed more. There would never be enough. So he sank sideways, and he turned so he was on his back beside her. He wrapped his arms tight around her body and pulled her on top of him. She settled herself over him, lowered herself slowly, closing her eyes as she did. She remained upright, and when she opened her eyes again, it was to stare straight down into his. And he saw the wildness in her eyes. The part of her he’d sensed her struggling against so often. It was loose now. And dammit, he was glad. Slowly, she moved lower. Too slowly. He captured her hips in his hands, and then pulled her down fast and hard so he impaled her. Her mouth opened in a silent groan. Her head fell backward and her eyes closed.
His hands at the small of her back pulled her forward though, and then down to him, so he could kiss her and taste her mouth as he made love to her. And he didn’t want it to end. Not ever. And it didn’t matter that she was lying to him, or that she was going to leave him in the end. Because there was something bigger than both of them, something that seemed to be pushing them together. A force neither of them could understand, let alone overcome. He couldn’t resist her. He could try. He could hate her, for all it mattered. He’d still have to be with her like this.
Worst part was, he didn’t hate her. Not at all.
She held him inside her, and she moved with him. His tongue trapped in her mouth and his body held tightly inside her body. And when she drew the release from him this time, he felt an emptying of his very soul, flowing into hers. Mating with it, entwining in a knot that could only be eternal.
God, she owned him now. What the hell hope was there for him after lovemaking like this? He’d sold his soul, and Brigit was the new owner. And the deed she held was one he’d handed over without hesitation. Her hold on him was greater than anyone’s had ever been. Greater than Sandra’s. Greater even than that of his own father when he’d been just a child. Brigit owned him, because he’d surrendered his heart and soul. He’d shared everything with her, unable to do otherwise. Simply sitting there like a duck at a carnival game, waiting for her to do her worst. Praying she’d have mercy. Knowing she wouldn’t...couldn’t. Because the choice wasn’t hers.
When she left him, when she took the blade that fate had forced into her hands, and drove it straight through his heart, it was going to be the killing stroke. He’d given her too much of himself, now. There was no getting it back. She’d destroy him. She’d utterly destroy him.
And he’d let her.
He was intense, and energetic, but not rough. He might have intended to be. He might even have wanted to be. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his gentle soul to be less than tender with her, though his tenderness was ablaze with passion. It stirred something in Brigit’s heart to know she was capable of stirring so much reaction in him. So much need. It seemed a miracle to her that he would come to her even though he didn’t want to.
But it was no miracle. It was magic. And she felt terribly guilty for using it on him. Moreover, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to do it again.
Poor Adam. So sure she was dishonest, so sure she was no good, and yet unable to stay away. She should leave here. That would end his misery. She should go away and just let him alone.
But she couldn’t. If she did, the man she loved—the other one—would die.
She stirred. They’d been lying in silence for a long time, he on his back beneath her. She collapsed atop him. Naked. Without covers to hide under. Slowly, though, the love languor faded, and she became aware of how still he was. Not relaxed stillness, either. She felt the tension in every bit of him. He lay stiff, and his arms were on the floor at his sides, rather than around her as they had been.
Slowly she lifted her upper body, so she could look down into his face. But the expression he wore was one she’d rather not have seen. Self-disgust. Regret. Despondency. All so clear in his eyes. Eyes she’d always been able to read.
She shook her head slowly. What could she say? She couldn’t assure the poor man that he’d been wrong about her, that she was honest and faithful and true. She wasn’t. She was exactly what he thought she was. A liar. A thief.
She lowered her chin in shame and slid off him, ending on her knees beside him. She watched as he sat up and got to his feet. He looked down at her once, closed his eyes as if in horrible pain, and then he left her. Alone. To face the night and her fears alone. Just as she’d had to face them before. Their passion had been a fire in the night. But all that remained now were ashes.
She showered quickly before crawling into the bed, pulling the covers over her head, and burying herself there. She only wished she’d never have to emerge. But she did. Eventually. And when she did, Adam was gone.
* * *
Adam didn’t go to the university that morning. Instead, he made a call, early, while Brigit was still sound asleep. He’d made sure of that before calling. He’d crept along the deck outside her bedroom, and peered in through the French doors, like a burglar in his own home, and he’d seen her. Lying naked on the bed, swathed in white fabric. With her raven curls spread around her and her coal-black lashes resting gently on her cheeks. The contrast of honey-smooth skin, and brilliantly white sheets, and her pitch-black hair, was magical. She looked more like an angel than ever. A dark angel. A passionate angel. An angel who could love a man to the brink of madness.
La belle dame sans merci.
It had been a long time before he’d been able to tear his gaze from her, there, sleeping. Spellbinding.
Interesting choice of words, he thought now. He felt as if he were under a spell, caught in a magical web too sticky to allow him to get free. She’d made him come to her last night. He’d wanted to stay away, but she’d worked some kind of magic on him, And he had the feeling she knew it. She’d admitted it, when he’d gone to her. “I was wishing for you, Adam.” Worst of all, he wasn’t even sure he minded all that much. Self-denial wasn’t so painful if you were given no choice in the matter.
No matter what he believed about Brigit, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting her. From...from liking her. More than that. Caring about her. And more than that, too, though he refused to give a name to what else he felt. No matter how conniving he believed her to be, he couldn’t help enjoying her. Thinking about her when he wasn�
��t with her. Reveling in her company when he was. And worrying about her involvement with a murderer like Zaslow.
Maybe there was still some part of his mind that wasn’t convinced of her intentions. Maybe after today, that would change. Because once he saw what she was doing with his own two eyes, he couldn’t doubt any longer. Could he?
He didn’t leave. Instead, he drove his car a short distance away from the house, and walked back. And then he stationed himself just beyond the bank of windows in the study, and he waited, and he watched.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Brigit came into the room, lugging more equipment than a woman of her slight build ought to be able to manage. He peered around the comer from outside, frowning hard as she dumped everything on the floor. She spread drop cloths over the carpeting, and set a tripod in their center. She disappeared again, only to return with tubes and brushes and a palette. And then once more to come back with the stool from the kitchen. She wore stirrup pants and an oversized, paint-smattered white smock.
Her duplicity was like a blow. It hurt, though it shouldn’t. He should have been prepared. He was only seeing what he’d known he was going to see.
He continued watching, unobserved.
Brigit headed upstairs one more time, and this time she returned with the canvas. She took her time with it, holding it with the flats of her fingers to its very edges. She set it on the tripod with extreme care. And then she stood poised over it for a time, gnawing her lower lip as she eyed it critically.
Fairytale (Fairies of Rush) Page 21
