'What's wrong, Rafe? What are you afraid of?' In a swift, economical, purely animal manoeuvre, she whipped off her T-shirt over her head and bared her breasts. It hardly seemed like a seductive gesture at all, just a natural movement as if she were simply more at home with her body exposed. She cocked her head on one side, making her silky hair swing like a curtain. 'You are afraid of something. I can tell.' She shrugged and her breasts lifted in a beautiful soft jiggle. 'And for once I don't think it's anything to do with me, is it? What are you afraid of, Rafe? You can tell me. I can help you.'
She could. He knew she could. She could take away the constant spectre of his father's agony. All he had to do was help her, and she could more than help him. He felt himself floating, and suddenly he was sitting on the bed just inches from her perfumed body.
No!
Blood trickled in his palms but it didn't seem to make any difference. He looked into her eyes and, though they were still green as jewels, they seemed softer, more sympathetic and the touch of her fingers was light and soothing on his arm.
She didn't speak, but everything about her gently invited the confessional.
'I'm afraid of death.'
The pressure of her fingertips increased a little, but still she didn't say anything. The void of silence seemed to coax him to fill it.
'My father died painfully of a genetic disease when he was only forty-two. It was agonising, and there was nothing we could do to ease his suffering. He couldn't speak and he was losing his faculties, but I could tell he was going through hell ... and I'm afraid of that.' He looked away, still seeing his father's contorted and almost fleshless face. 'I'm not cowardly about anything else, but that I hardly dare think about.'
A cool, smooth hand touched his cheek and turned it until he was looking into green eyes again. Was he imagining things, or did excitement and low scheming shine among the facade of feminine sympathy?
'How old are you now, Rafe?'
Decades of fear churned in his chest, and the wild primeval panic that compelled him to do anything to avoid his fate.
'Almost forty. I've never been tested though. I don't know if I've got the same thing.'
She stroked his cheek and his brow, smoothing her fingertips against his skin. 'Poor Rafe. How cruel life is. You were powerless to help your father, and now you're powerless to help yourself.' Her fingers slid to his throat, hovered there with a tiny hint of threat. And then she was caressing him again, pulling him against her body, her cool hands stroking his back in a coaxing rhythm. The action was so seductive, so easy to accept. He began to drift again, listening to soft, encouraging murmurings.
'It needn't happen, Rafe. Not even if this thing is in your blood. There are ways to cheat the cruel games fate plays. You help me, and I can help you. You can live. We can both live ... maybe for ever.'
His head full of perfume and sex, and the prospect of life and lots of it, he slid his arms around her, seeking her mouth with his in a natural slide back to intimacy.
Why fight? It was what he wanted. He wanted her.
Her kiss was hot. Cool. Intoxicating. His cock kicked hard in his jeans again and his grip on her tightened, his hands roving her back, her buttocks, her thighs. He could feel the hard points of her nipples pressing against her chest, and suddenly he wanted to feel all of her, naked, against all of him. With a quick twist, he snagged the waistband of her shorts and wrenched at them, and this time she didn't protest but even helped him by shimmying out of them.
Then it was his turn and he pulled at the cotton hem of his T-shirt while she – Isidora, he supposed he must think of her – reclined back on the bed like some naked exotic queen. Her black hair almost seemed to have a life of its own against the white linen.
He shuffled out of the T-shirt and balled it up, ready to throw it, but, just on the point of flinging it on the floor, an anomaly in its colour seemed to strike him right between the eyes.
It was smeared with a darker patch. Blood. For a moment he was puzzled as to its origins, but then opening his hand and glancing down at the scored marks where his fingernails had gouged the skin, knowledge and remembrance and fear and horror came barrelling back to him.
The stigmata of his battle with her began the fight again.
'What's wrong?'
Bare and sultry, Isidora sat up. Her eyes were nearly black with desire but they were also wary. He wasn't sure whether she could read his mind or not, but she could certainly sense the aura of emotion. And she'd tasted the sea change he'd just gone through.
'Second thoughts, Rafe? Why is that?' Reaching up, she touched his face in a possessive action. But just as she seemed on the point of pulling him to her, he snatched at her wrist and brought her arm down.
'If we both live for ever, what happens to Paula?'
The dark eyes narrowed but the pale beautiful face remained a mask as if she were calculating, assessing. She drew in a breath, her chest lifting, and suddenly and inexplicably, she shook her head slightly as if to clear it.
'Why, she lives forever too.' She paused, frowned, as if having difficulty with her thoughts. 'She and I, we share this body.' Putting up a slender hand, she masked an obvious yawn. 'With all those years ahead, there'll be plenty of time for us both. And you'll have the pleasure and variety of two eternal lovers, rather than just one. How does that sound? It must be many a man's dream.'
The provocative voice slurred a little and, with another little frown, Isidora lay back against the pillows, her wrist still held in his grip. For a moment, she seemed to make another effort to allure him, shifting her body in a serpentine undulation against the coverlet, but then she yawned again.
And promptly fell asleep.
The feeling of a gentle caress woke her up. A fingertip slowly circling against her palm.
As she rose from the depths of sleep, Paula became aware of a bedroom around her and the presence of a warm body beside her in bed. It was naked and so was she, the crisp fresh sheets smooth and deliciously cool against skin that was heated, almost feverish.
'Where are we? What happened?'
Hazy memories swirled about in her semi-sleepy brain, and she snatched at them. The big thing, her predicament, made her wince.
'She's been here, hasn't she?' The horror was like a cold, biting wind that dissipated the soporific comfort of the soft, fragrant bed.
Trying to shoot up straight, she felt herself restrained by Rafe's strong arm.
'No. No, she hasn't.' His voice was firm, intent, precise, and as he spoke he guided her hand to her bare belly. The skin there was cool and smooth and completely normal. No burning yet invisible sigil indicating the presence of Isidora. 'No need to worry.'
Despite the lack of the incriminating mark, something still bugged her.
'But I'm naked. Did you undress me and put me to bed?'
He laughed, his breath fluttering against her neck. 'You helped, don't you remember? We undressed ... and showered ...' His fingers settled over the back of her hand, gently, slowly and rhythmically stroking. 'Then we made love. Surely you remember that or am I so unmemorable?'
Bits and pieces of scenes and actions floated to the surface. Yes, there had been a mutual shower, hadn't there? And gentle lovemaking in this bed. Or was that somewhere else?
'Of course I remember!' She tried to quell the niggles of doubt and suspicion. She was so exhausted that every cell in her body felt as if it were yawning and, yes, the sex had been very nice. And the shower blissful after all that trudging through the rain. 'You were sensational, but that shower was better.'
'Cheeky mare!'
'Sorry, I'm still half asleep. But you are good, and I expect you know that, don't you? I bet you have droves of fans at Inner Light. Big handsome man like you massaging them. They must be putty in your hands, to put not too fine a cliché on it.'
There was a silence and suddenly her nerves prickled. Had she insulted him?
'You must think I'm a terrible low bastard.' His voice was light, yet th
ere was an edge to it. She'd hit a sore point.
'No, I didn't mean that ... I didn't mean that you'd actually do anything unethical.'
'You're too trusting, Paula.' The words were suddenly weary, and a little sad.
Bitterness washed through her as other memories roiled and bubbled from the depths. Re-emerging vignettes from her 'lost time'. Fucking hell, she was too trusting. At least she had been. She'd been taken in so, so easily. That bitch-cow had even managed to convince her she was a lesbian! When she wasn't, not really.
'You don't have to tell me that!' she flung at him, twisting to almost spit the words over her shoulder, stung to the core by her own stupidity and vulnerability. She began to struggle again, but he held her effortlessly.
'Hey! Relax.' His arms held her firm, but suddenly they were calming and soothing. 'I didn't mean it that way. What you were up against was beyond the ability of anybody to resist. You weren't weak, love. Just unlucky. Relax...'
Paula slumped, went limp. What was the point of struggling? Especially now, with the approach of night when everything was likely to look even worse than it was? At least she wasn't alone. There was a warm human body in the bed with her, even if it was one of slightly dubious moral compass. Rafe had chosen to try to help her. Why fall out with him?
Especially when there were better things to do.
With one arm still slung around her waist, Rafe began to massage her, his fingers working lightly but with purpose on her upper back and the soft juncture between her neck and her shoulder. He was simply exercising his craft to calm her, she supposed. But it felt so good. Oh God, it felt so good. And not just in her shoulders and her back. Against the odds, she felt arousal coil and stir.
As if he'd read her hormones, Rafe's massaging hand slid down over her shoulder-blade, along her back and around to her breast, where it curved sweetly to cradle her naked flesh. She felt his lips brush her hair and his breath ruffle it.
Sex. Again. It already felt so familiar, even though they were still virtual strangers. But familiarity itself was a sweet weapon, armoury in the fight against her inner darkness.
Rolling over, opening her legs, she welcomed her fellow warrior and offered him pleasure.
9 Cry Havoc
After Paula had gone to sleep, Rafe lay in the gathering darkness.
'You fuck, you sick fuck,' he ground out silently, between his teeth.
In all his life, even when he'd sunk so low as to hypnotise gullible older women into giving him access to their bank accounts, then paid the price for it, he'd never hated himself as much or felt as confused as he did lying naked in this bed.
He could have life, if Isidora were to be believed. A life beyond the constant black spectre of his father's fate. He didn't care about immortality, but forty more years, that would be enough, that would be a dream. He couldn't remember what it felt like not to have a death sentence hanging over him.
Yes, man, you can have all that, but at what cost?
Sitting up in bed, he looked down at the shadowed shape of the woman who'd just given her body to him. He'd offered to help her, but in his bitter heart he accepted he was only helping himself.
Watching her, he seemed to see the other woman. The other woman he'd fucked not so long ago. The one who was beautiful, sinuous, and latently powerful – and who also needed his help if she was to survive.
Sumner had told him that Isidora was a black-hearted bitch, virtually a demon, the quintessence of evil. But who was to say that was the truth? He sensed she was as selfish as they came, but he'd been in lust with selfish women before, and life had been good with them, especially the sex. His thoughts whirled, spinning through his head like a mad carousel, making him feel sick.
What the hell is the matter with me? I should be able to deal with this!
Relaxation techniques, self-hypnosis, self-healing, the very idea of any of them just made him laugh. His fingers twitched, as if automatically reaching for a cigarette, the weak man's answer.
Sliding silently out of bed, he padded across to where he'd thrown his jeans and slipped into them, and his boots and T-shirt. The night was hot and close, the superabundance of moisture in the air like a blanket pressing down on him. Suddenly the idea of getting outside was irresistible.
Tiptoeing to the bed, he looked down.
Yes, it was Paula asleep there. Her face tranquil, her arms hooked around the pillow, her hair soft and mussed, she looked as if she hadn't a care in the world. He suddenly wondered whether he would have been interested in her if he'd met her at the Raven under more normal circumstances. She was just an ordinary, average girl. Would he still have wanted to fuck her? Suddenly, he wanted to know. He wanted to go back, to try out wanting her without all this insane, unbelievable baggage.
Out on the landing, he backtracked as best he could, and eventually found himself in the lofty, echoing hall. The bolts on the front door were heavy but, like the lock, they were well oiled. A moment or two later, he was out on the gravel of the drive and turning back to look at the house.
The Priory looked back at him, its tall windows like long mournful eyes in the night. It didn't have quite the savage air of drama it'd projected while the storm was raging, but it still reeked of mystery and secrets.
He turned his back on it and set off across the grass at a trot.
If he took a run, he might sleep when he got back.
Isidora sat up.
Again? So quickly? Now this was opportune. And no man by her side either.
The thought of sex flitted briefly through her mind but she banished it. There would be all the time in the world for erotic games, centuries and centuries of it when her most pressing of all goals was achieved.
Her powers were depressingly dim while she was in this transient state but she could still taste the magic in this house. It was like a miasma floating in the air, and it was familiar. She knew this flavour, this colour.
Somewhere in this accursed pile of André's was her grimoire. Her own first, great primer of spells – a treasure which had been stolen from her two centuries ago by her lover and nemesis.
Of course she had other books, more comprehensive books. But none was in this accursed country. Only the stolen book was close at hand, and she knew that it at least contained the enchantments that she needed. Not only that, here in a place where a sorcerer had dwelt only a few weeks ago, there would be the raw materials. The placing of the Thousand Hour Marker had been a laughably simple task, executed in moments on the sleeping Paula. But fully purloining the marked body was a far more complex procedure. She knew she could cast it herself – it was designed that way – but, with only relatively short periods of control over this body and the thousand hours rapidly diminishing, she knew she would need some practical assistance. And for that she needed a lover on her side.
The bed was empty. Where was Rafe? She'd sensed his diffidence and his uncertainty. But by the same token, he was drawn to her. It was too delicious an irony that he should need her as much as she needed him. Fate had been beneficent, offering into her clutches this man whose doomed future made him capable of manipulation. Yes, he was tough and stubborn and no easy meat for her. But that would only make the game all the more pleasurable. She'd anticipated a sumptuous triumph when she'd finally tracked down André Von Kastel – but this lesser morsel would go some way to assuaging her bitter disappointment for a while.
After rising naked from the sheets, she walked to the window. The night was dark, thick clouds still obscuring the moon but a flash of movement attracted her attention.
There he was, her chosen man, first walking swiftly, then jogging away from the building. What was he doing? Running away from her? She sensed not. It was probably some kind of strangely human kind of constitutional, just a night walk to clear his head or his thoughts.
So clear them, sweetheart. I'll soon muddle them up again when you return to me and I fuck you.
And in the meantime, she had a mission and time was of the ess
ence. Who knew how long she would remain in control of 'her' body and the grimoire contained far more than the spell that would assure her triumph. There was a cleansing spell in it that would have to be destroyed. In the moments before her banishment, when she'd been here before, she'd sensed the presence not only of André and his whey-faced paramour, but the Japanese bitch, Michiko too. If the paint-faced Miko was monitoring this place still, she would no doubt detect disturbances and arrive sooner or later.
And not many hours of the critical thousand still remained.
The wardrobe yielded a suitable robe. Heavy figured silk with a sash and embroidered pockets. She would have set about her search naked. The hot night air was like velvet against her skin but there was always a chance she might run into someone. Maybe that handsome, huge but doltish blond servant she'd glimpsed in a fleeting moment of consciousness earlier, or even Jonathan Sumner or his paramour Belinda.
She felt a surge of cleansing rage at the thought of them. Ah, they would be dealt with when she was restored! She would use them, wring the juice out of them and abandon them as desiccated husks when she was done.
The anger was rich and motivating. Swathing her bare body in the silk robe, she strode to the door, then out onto the landing. The magic in the house was like the circulation in a human body, surging around it through invisible vessels. And somewhere there was a heart. She could sense it pumping and beating somewhere above her. An image of a tower room formed and, within it, an oaken table, bearing her grimoire.
Turning instinctively to the left, she began to hurry along the corridor.
Paula Beckett's feet seemed to know which direction to take and, as she entered a long gallery hung with picture after picture of the accursed André, she espied a door, slightly ajar, right at the far end.
My book! There's my book ... the first step ...
The beautiful robe fluttered like a banner, streaming behind her as she ran on silent feet towards the narrow opening.
Gothic Heat Page 13
