"Look...” he said.
She was looking. He undid the buttons of his coat and shoved back the wet leather, revealing tailored black trousers and a white shirt. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and she watched the snowflakes melt against the exposed skin with envy.
But when he reached into a back trouser pocket, the danger gong sounded again in her brain, and her instinct was to close the door. Fear suddenly washed over her, leaving chills in its wake, but she stood fast. Part of her job was conquering her fears. She couldn't help others if she was afraid herself.
"Wait.” A wallet appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he pulled out two cards, holding them up to the light. “Here's my driver's license. Garran Lux is my real name. Lucius Santangelo is a stage name. I'm a dance instructor at Moves On Tap. I really did find you in the phone book. I need your help."
He did sound earnest, and if he'd followed her from the club he wouldn't have looked so surprised to see her when she'd opened the door. She leaned forward, her nose practically against the glass, to try to read the Illinois license. The photo was fuzzy, and anyone can have a business card made, but her job was about trust. If he really did need her help, not only would he have to have faith in her, but she'd have to trust him. Besides, her own body was begging her to let him in just as much as he was pleading with her. She was outnumbered.
"I'm sorry. Please come in. I'm Dr. Greenbush."
She let him in, but he simply stood in the foyer and stared at her. It was neither the surprised look nor the eye-fuck of a moment ago, but a kind of dawning wonder, as though she were a long lost lover he'd never again expected to see. The look made her feel just like the snow against his skin—all warm and runny. She'd never been anyone's long lost lover. She wiped her hand against her dress and reached out her hand to shake his. “Welcome. I'm glad I can be here to help you."
He gave her his hand. It was cold and wet, but his grip was firm. She sensed an underlying power so great she knew that the magic she'd seen on the stage was only a small part of what he was capable of.
He said nothing in return, but that wasn't unusual. It was often difficult for strong men to admit they needed help. “I can take your coat,” she said.
He shrugged, a smooth quick hitch of his shoulders, and the coat slipped off to slide down his arms, just like he'd done during his routine at the Pony Express. The memory made her feel sticky inside her heavy dress, and prickles of heat ran down her back like chills on fire.
He let the coat drop to his elbows, and just when she thought he was going to drop it on the floor, he slipped out of it and gathered it in one hand. He held the coat out to her without a word. She smiled as she took it, turned around, and leaned her head forward to inhale the scent of the damp leather. The wetness intensified the odor, a pungent mix of animal and man. It was an earthy, musky masculine smell, and she had an insane desire to lick the leather. Instead, she satisfied herself with a particularly deep whiff of the coat as she hung it up.
She turned back to face him. “Do you mind if I call you Garran?” She couldn't make the r's vibrate the way he did, and the name sounded strange on her tongue. She licked her lips and thought about all the other things she'd do if she did have an able tongue. She'd start by licking the melted snowflakes from his skin and work her way down. She stared at a point midway down his chest and remembered how he'd looked without his shirt. What would the tight nipples on his hard pectoral muscles feel like under her tongue?
"Please do."
She'd forgotten what she'd asked him, and pretended instead that he was giving his permission for her to devour him with her mouth. She wondered how his penis would feel under her tongue. Please do. She felt her face flush, and she quickly pivoted away from him. Oh, God.
The foyer from the side entrance of the house opened directly to the room she used for her work. She led him to her round table and invited him to take one of the two chairs. She'd found out a long time ago that clients were more comfortable across a table from her than across a desk. But he made the room feel small and the table even smaller, and his presence seemed to suck all the air from the room. Or maybe he simply sucked all the breath out of her. Either way, she could hardly breathe. Comfort-distance with her usual clients was way too close with someone who affected her the way this man did. A wave of heat replaced the little pricks, and she felt lightheaded. She pushed up her sleeves, rubbed her arms, and finally remembered what she'd asked. Oh, yes. His name. “Garran. An unusual name."
"Irish. A very old and little used name at that."
Well, he was just full of surprises. “You're not Italian then?"
He smiled at her, a mini version of the one he'd given her at the club. “No. Just part of the act."
He waited for her to sit first, a very old-fashioned gesture, she thought, for someone so young. She took her seat and watched him as he sat and leaned forward, his eyes likewise following every movement of hers. Blue. Midnight blue, just like in the dream. She cleared her throat, trying for the moment to forget the dream. She pretended to adjust her chair a little, giving her an excuse to move it back a few inches. Garran and those blue eyes were way, way too close for comfort. There was business to conduct.
"I see. Well, then, let's get started.” But she put off her questions for one more minute of indulging in his features. His hair was just past shoulder-length and not Elvis-black, but dark brown, like sable fur. A small off-center widow's peak added to his old-world rakish charm as did his pale complexion, but the richness of his hair and sapphire eyes kept him from looking too black-and-white theatrical. What was it Merri had said? Drop dead gorgeous? The image of death popped into her mind, and she hoped the description wasn't literal after all. Chills replaced the heat, and she felt cold and damp inside her dress.
She pulled her note pad and pen closer to her and took a deep breath to replace the one his looks stole from her. Okay. On to business, girl!
"Um, this first session will just be discussion, so you'll know what to expect. It'll also be to lay a groundwork of trust. As I told you on the phone, I'm not going to need a lot of personal history from you, but I am going to need you to trust me and trust that I'm going to do everything I can to help you."
He nodded, but it seemed to be almost an absent nod, for it was those intense eyes of his that were doing all the communicating. Just like in the club.
"Do you know what the word shaman means?” she asked. “'One who sees in the dark.’”
His gaze shifted just slightly, and the accompanying small smile made her pause. It was a smile completely different from the ones he'd flashed in the club. Those had been come-on smiles, full of seduction. This was the smile of someone remembering a fallen comrade, or a friend who was far, far away. The smile convinced her that he'd truly suffered a loss, much more than his reserved plea on the porch moments ago had.
"Then we have something in common,” he said.
"I'm sorry?” She'd completely lost her train of thought.
His smile widened, and his eyes were focused on her now, not some point on the wall behind her. “Only that I'm a night person myself."
Of course. His job. How could she have forgotten? “By dark I meant the spirit world. But there is a correlation to the night. I see with covered eyes in order to see more clearly. The dark lessens the distractions of ordinary reality. That's why I schedule my appointments for the evening. It's more than the darkness, though. It's the ability to see what others cannot see in the dark."
"I wasn't trying to be flippant, doctor. I do understand."
"Please, call me Cate.” And she truly believed he did understand. There was something dark in his forsaken gaze that made her quite sure he did more at night than just dance.
* * * *
Very few things in life shocked a 140-year-old vampire. But when the door opened and Dr. Greenbush turned out to be his shy admirer from the Pony Express, the surprise had knotted his tongue. He recalled her from the club, remembering how he'
d felt the passion in her eyes and the intensity of all the feelings she hid behind her prim exterior. He remembered how he'd wanted her when he'd first seen her in the club—the one true beauty among the made-up cougars and frustrated wives. He'd felt her mental connection with him, and through that connection, he'd touched her feelings. Her mind was strong, shielding a lack of confidence in her physical being. He'd wanted to exploit her innocence after the performance, but the danger had warned him off.
When she answered the door, the wolf's desire flared again. It was providence that she be his. She was his for the taking, and he wanted to possess her—all of her. He wanted to thrust his cock as deep into her as he could. He wanted to feel her convulse around him and surrender to him in an orgasm unlike any she'd ever experienced. And he wanted to subjugate her strong mind to his.
But along with the physical desire came a strange kind of hope to his saner self. It was the kind of hope he'd given up on years ago. He felt like a young man again, full of hope and belief that destiny had a special place for him. Forgotten was the creature who'd grown more cynical with the years, who believed bad luck forged his fate, not benevolent providence. Some power had indeed opened the phone book to her name last night, and that power had brought him to her now. When she talked about “seeing in the dark,” he felt a kinship with her he'd never felt with a mortal, and as soon as she started talking about the shamanic journey and the relationship of the body's spirit to wellness, he knew she was the one person who could help him. With her he could just be Garran, not Lucius or “Black Gar,” “Bad Lux,” or any of the other nicknames of misfortune he'd been tagged with over the years.
But as she went on about the process of soul retrieval and how she would journey through the spirit world to coax back the lost pieces of his soul, he turned his attention to more than her voice.
She wore a long green dress that clung to her body like moss on a tree, outlining not only every perfect curve of her limbs, but taut little nipples on taut little breasts. Her complexion was flawless, and her green eyes shone with all the clarity of her words. The room reeked of incense, but just as strong was her perfume of desire, so thick it was like honey on his tongue. She was aroused. He could smell it.
His body reacted to her unintentional assault on his senses, first with his own arousal, then with the stirring of the beast. Hunger gnawed at his insides, as painful as his erection, and he was glad the tent circus was below the tabletop and out of her line of sight. His desire sharpened even more, licking his skin with flames of lust, and the rose-colored vision of innocence and hope darkened to crimson. The vampire's thoughts took over, drowning out the sound of Cate's voice.
Do you forget what you are? You deceive her easily enough now, but how will you hide the truth when she enters the spirit world and sees you for what you really are? She already suspects you're a killer. She isn't strong enough to fight you. She'll not only fail, but she'll know you for what you are. Take the only pleasure you can. Fuck her now, take her blood, and be done with it. You're Black Gar, the undead, and your only destiny is damnation.
Garran struggled to clear his head and hear Cate. But she was quiet, looking at him with her brows butting in concern. He had decades of practice hiding his desires behind schooled expressions, but had the vampire revealed himself through his eyes? What had she seen? He covered his lapse with the skill of his years. “Forgive me. I was lost in thought."
Her features relaxed with his apology. “I said, the healing won't end when the retrieval journey is over. Do you have a support group?"
"Support group?” he parroted. What, Vampires Anonymous? He wasn't sure what she was asking.
"You know, people who care about you to help get you through the healing process. Friends. Family."
There was no thought behind his immediate answer. “No.” Nothing but lovers, long dead. And nameless, faceless cunts—moments of carnal pleasure—captured and released, like fish back to the pond from whence they'd been caught.
She gave a small shake of her head. “I'm sorry. No, what?"
His quick answer had been a mistake. Mortals whined about loneliness all the time, but none knew the endless isolation and duplicity he wrapped himself in for survival's sake. Still, he knew how to play the game. He did it now, silencing the beast's roar and assuming the role of a young loner. “No family. And working at the Pony Express doesn't exactly foster lasting relationships."
"What about the dance studio?"
"The clientele are mostly seniors. I work there because I love to dance. Dance gives me both stability and freedom, if that makes any sense.” That part was true enough. It was his dancing that kept him going night after night, as much so as his women. The women were too often quick indulgences, but dance was his true partner, always with him. His more civilized half enjoyed the structure of the set moves and steps of the ballroom and Latin dances, and his untamed half reveled in the sensuality and freedom of the exotic dance.
She looked down and smiled, a shy smile he suspected belonged to Cate, the woman, not Cate, the professional. “I wish I could dance. I think I was born with two left feet."
He hadn't seen anything wrong with her feet or any other part of her. The knit dress she wore outlined every curve of her body, making it easy for him to visualize how she'd look naked beneath him. He imagined how the sweat of her passion would look glistening against her tawny skin, and the thought made him hot again. No, he didn't see anything wrong with her body, but didn't think it wise to say so. He waited for her to continue.
She looked up again. “I don't mean to get too personal, but no girlfriends?"
He blinked. Girlfriends? The word didn't exist for a creature like him. Sure, he'd tried to love, not simply take a lover. He'd tried in every city he'd lived in, but it hadn't worked. There could be no true friendship without truth, yet when he'd tried to reveal his true self to women, the result had always been loss. Death.
He stared at Cate. Could she be more than a lover? The vampire was quick to answer. She's a healer, you fool, and you're a damned bloodsucker that preys on the living. She restores, you kill. It's not the match made in heaven that you think it is. She won't ever accept you as anything but the beast you are. Take your pleasure and don't wish for things that cannot be.
"No!"
Her eyes widened. “No girlfriends?"
His emphatic reply had been a mistake, and he again reined the beast back. She was sure to disbelieve him. Either that or he'd just implied he was gay. She dropped her gaze quickly, and he wasn't sure if she was simply shocked by his declaration or if she was afraid she'd made an erroneous assumption in his sexual preferences.
He corrected any misconceived notion she may have. “No, no boyfriends either. I like women. As I said, I have a problem with long-term relationships."
She took a quick breath and looked him in the eye. “I hate to push the issue, but it's important. I sense a woman with black hair who's been very important in your life. An ex-girlfriend, maybe, or a sister?"
Geneva. He shouldn't have been surprised at the question. She was a sensitive, after all, and in that moment in the Pony Express, when his guard had slipped just a little, he'd been aware she'd seen into him. Yet hearing her verbalize their intimate moment of connection was disconcerting. Still, he managed to keep his face blank.
"Why do you ask?” His own question would give him extra time to fabricate an answer.
"I frequently see people on the spiritual plane when I work on cases. I see a woman in connection with you. She's young and quite beautiful. She could be vital to your recovery."
His shy little doctor was bold and forthright. He loved the challenge of bold women. No single female trait aroused him sexually like boldness did. No physical attribute, be it a pretty face, alluring scent, or hot body made him sweat, pant, and as rutting hard as brass in a woman. What the doctor and Geneva both shared wasn't arrogance or mere sass, but face—the courage and skill to attack everything and everyone head-on, whet
her it was a problem, enemy, or lover.
It was an elemental trait, and his body reacted now on an elemental level. His muscles tensed, his vision narrowed, and his cock remained as hard and heavy as a weapon. He ached for an outlet for his aggression, and his tunnel vision saw only the doctor and the tight little body outlined by her clingy dress. He'd do her frontal, as befitted her boldness. There'd be no doggy style, for it wasn't only about domination, and there'd be no convoluted sideways or scissors positions. No impact was more forceful than a head-on collision, and no position was more intimate than face-to-face. He knew some women thought of frontal as boring, but he knew how to do it right, and when done right, no position allowed for deeper penetration.
He looked at her. She waited patiently for his answer, and he knew his silence wouldn't be enough to make her back off. He'd have to be careful with this one. She was no fool. If she'd seen Geneva's spirit, she knew Geneva was dead. He couldn't deny that. But he sensed both the doctor's innocence and innate goodness. She'd be susceptible to lies as long as they were covered by a veneer of truth.
"I had a girlfriend once who fits that description. It was a long time ago. I don't see how that relates to this."
"She's dead."
It was no question. He knew it wouldn't be. “Yes."
"Perhaps something happened between the two of you that was unresolved at the time of her death. I won't ask you for details, but don't dismiss the past as unimportant to the present. Just think about it. It might help."
Geneva. How can you help me now? He expected no answer, for the dead had never spoken to him.
But the doctor had said her piece and seemed satisfied. She tucked her hair behind one ear and closed her notepad. “Well, we'll work on your support group later. You feel comfortable going on with the soul retrieval tomorrow night?"
He was anything but comfortable. His cock felt like it was made out of lead, and he ached with a burning hunger that consumed his insides like flames and made his mouth so parched he didn't think the blood of a roomful of willing women could sate him. But he nodded. He'd have to take off work, but he didn't think he could afford to wait another week. Week? The way he felt, he wasn't sure he could wait the one day.
Dance with Me, My Lovely Page 4
