Cian willed his voice to soften. “I want to see it. Get it?”
For a brief moment, he expected her to nod and head for the stairs that led to the second storey and her private residence. Then she set her jaw. Bright fire settled into her eyes. Steely determination. She shook her head. “I can’t right now. I’ve got to finish stocking these new books, and Susan is leaving early.”
It took all of his self-control not to grab Miranda by the neck and shove her back against the bookcase. Squeeze her throat until her need for air forced her to agree. He closed a fist around the sick desire and clenched his teeth. “Miranda. Please.” He needed to see the book, needed to convince her into selling it to him. Whatever the cost, he’d pay it. If needbe, his siblings would pitch in. For too many centuries, they’d hungered for simple mortality, freedom from the dark blood their father passed to them.
Escape from the constant, oppressive urge to kill and the curse of falling in love.
He saw the indecision in her expression, the struggle between doing him—the man who’d cut her heart to pieces—a favor, and fighting her inner need for self-preservation. The heaviness to her breathing, the heat that radiated off her body though they stood a good three feet apart, clued him in to something else. Miranda wasn’t immune to him either. After all this time, she still suffered the desire that had once lit flames between them.
Her gaze flicked over his body, heightening his awareness of her, of the woman he knew more intimately than any who had ever shared his bed. Those big, soulful brown eyes lingered on his groin, and to Cian’s shame, he felt his cock begin to stiffen. Just as quickly, she jerked her focus back to his face, but the effect was the same. Cian felt as if she’d stripped him bare and it had been her hands, not her eyes, that caressed him.
Damn. His heart twisted painfully. What he would give to fix things. To take back the six months of separation and return to the last night they’d spent together. The night Miranda had whispered her love, and he had felt the same instinctive call surface in his soul. Seconds later, he’d found himself hovering over her sleeping body, pillow clenched in his hands, his dark blood urging him to press it over her face.
He’d left then. In the middle of the night. Crying silent tears as he drove the thirty miles out of Augusta to his home in Georgetown.
“Miranda,” he murmured. He didn’t know what else to say. Nothing could heal them. Nothing except the book.
She let out a soft sigh. “Come by when we close, Cian. I’ll show you then.”
“Promise?” He winced inwardly at the sharp bite in his voice.
Miranda raised an eyebrow in reproach. “I don’t think my words have ever been empty.”
Ouch. He deserved that. She didn’t understand. Hell, she didn’t even know he was immortal, let alone the torment that resided in his soul. To her, he was just a professor at the University who’d used her body for obscene pleasures and then disappeared in the middle of the night.
“I’m sorry,” she added with a slight shake of her head. Her words came stronger, the bitterness leaving her voice. “Come by later. I’ll be here.”
Stung by her rightful animosity, Cian set the book he’d been holding down on a nearby shelf and gave her a stiff nod. “I’ll be back at six.”
****
As Miranda’s world threatened to pitch into violent upheaval, Cian strode out the front door. She closed her eyes against the heartache that rose to swallow her whole. Cian McLaine was back. And she was every bit as foolish about him as she’d been the first time around. Enough, at least, to invite him to her house to see a stack of old Celt histories.
She should have run upstairs and dragged the dust-covered papers down here where it was safe, where Cian couldn’t tempt her into wicked thoughts of kissing his full lips or stripping off those jeans that hugged the nicest ass she’d ever laid eyes on. Where she couldn’t hope to possibly do something foolish like invite him back into her bed, though God knew, she was more than willing to have him occupy that extra, too-empty pillow.
But no, sense had never played a part when it came to Cian, and just like the last time, she was hoping, just maybe, she might somehow make enough of a difference to him that he’d settle down. With her.
Not that a couple dozen other women hadn’t tried the same thing before. Shoot, when Cian first arrived in Augusta, he’d been the talk of campus. Between the female faculty members, the hormonal students, and the regular singles nightlife, he became a legend. Who could tie him down? Who had what it took to turn Cian into a family man?
Miranda had never dreamed she would spend seven months with him. Seven, perfect, heavenly months virtually living together.
Now, here she was again, her insides quaking at the prospect of spending time alone with him, knowing there could be no worse idea, yet craving it all at the same time. She was surrounded by accounts from the past, documentation of real, life-changing mistakes. She possessed more than enough information to understand the consequences of repeating history.
But as sure as she knew her own name, she knew she was going to repeat Cian.
He was the one lesson her heart didn’t know how to learn.
Although her heart might get a little help when Cian discovered she hadn’t quite been honest. She did have old Celt documents, but she’d deliberately let him believe they were bound in a book. When he discovered they were loose papers, so old that fragments were missing from the papyrus, and obviously part of a greater collection that had been lost to time, he wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about her material.
That flash of temper would rise, and he’d give her a good what-for before he stormed out. At least the anger would help her move forward.
“Was that Cian?” Susan appeared at Miranda’s side. “I thought I saw him come in. Did he leave already?”
Not soon enough. “Yeah, he’s been and gone.”
“He gets better looking every time I see him. You two looked cozy. Are things…on again?”
Miranda pursed her lips. “Definitely not.” Yet. Not yet. Ask me tomorrow, I might have a different answer.
“Too bad. I’d have sworn you were going to win his heart.”
“Yeah, well, apparently not.” Miranda picked up a stack of books. “I’ve got to get these on the shelf. Did you finish the box I gave you?”
“All done.”
“Oh, well, in that case. We really don’t need both of us here for the next two hours. Why don’t you take an early off?”
Miranda hadn’t anticipated the sudden narrowing of Susan’s gaze and the suspicion that crept into her ruddy features. “You’re seeing him tonight aren’t you? You’re only ever in a hurry to have me leave when you’ve got plans with Cian.”
Miranda scoffed. “I don’t have plans with him. He’s coming by to look at an old manuscript I have that I haven’t put on the floor yet.”
She pretended not to notice the grin that encompassed Susan’s face or the knowledge behind her amused stare. Turning for the far side of the store, she called over her shoulder, “See you in the morning, Suze.”
She went right on pretending she couldn’t hear when Susan’s laugh rang out behind her back. That her friends could see right through her made Miranda furious. If they knew, then surely Cian knew how weak he made her.
What was it about him that simply eradicated her good sense? The fact that he offered challenge? Or was she merely fascinated by his devilish good looks, bright green eyes, and perfectly sculpted, bronzed body? Or did her inability to cut him totally loose come from the fact that sometimes she would swear he could see right into her soul, understanding her in a way no one ever had before.
She moved behind a tall rack of books and laid her cheek against the musty spines. Tears rose unbidden, and Miranda blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry. She’d spent one too many nights sobbing for all the things she couldn’t have. Things she had dreamed with Cian, even as she knew they would never happen. Not with him. He wouldn’t let himself be chained.
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Straightening, she wiped the stray tears off her cheeks. She didn’t want to cry. No matter how things had ended, she didn’t regret a single moment that she’d spent with Cian. She had loved—loved still—and deeply. The kind of feeling her parents had shared. Few people found that soul-deep satisfaction, and even if her nights were spent alone, her bed as empty as her arms, she treasured the memories they had created.
It was those reasons, all the fantastic remembrances, that allowed her to accept the knowledge of what would, inevitably, happen tonight. He might not want to keep her, but he wouldn’t turn away from the pleasure. And when it all boiled down to black and white fact, excepting everything else, they’d been explosive in the bedroom.
And hell, after six months of yearning…
If opportunity presented tonight, she’d take the leap. Create another priceless memory.
Her heartbeat picked up, anxious streams of energy pulsing through her veins. A slow smile morphed across her face as she set her books onto the shelves. She wouldn’t think about the pain that came with morning and waking up to find herself alone. No, she’d think about the pleasure, how good it felt to be in Cian’s arms…even if it came to an end.
Before Miranda realized how much time had passed, her alarm rang at the register, alerting her it was five o’clock. She rushed through her books and receipts, doing a half-assed job her accountant would later complain about. When the ledgers were finished, she raced up her stairs, each step closer to her private door sending her pulse into overtime.
What to wear, what to wear, what to wear?
A distant memory of how Cian had liked her in blue leapt forth, and she made her decision in a snap. Grabbing a baby blue sweater and a pair of off-white slacks, she charged for the bathroom, and a very necessary, relaxing shower.
As the steamy droplets rained down on her long hair, she closed her eyes and gave in to the fantasy of Cian.
Of Cian standing in this very room, behind her, his hands slippery as they lathered her body. An all-too-familiar ache stirred, but it was worth it. Nothing about Cian wasn’t.
It never would be.
Now, as soon as she figured out how to mitigate his anger over the fact she only possessed a few clippings of this manuscript…the night held magical promise.
Chapter Three
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about with a promised evening of torture with Miranda looming over his head, Cian’s siblings insisted he do whatever became necessary to obtain their mother’s magical writings. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned a word of it to Rhiannon and Dàire until he’d read the pages for himself, but he’d been too out of sorts to keep the discovery quiet. Besides, Rhiannon had an intuitive way about her. If he hadn’t told them about Miranda and the magical signature on her fingertips, Rhiannon would have sensed he was hiding something and found a way to pry it out of him.
He eased onto the brakes as the car in front of him hit its turn signal. Making matters worse, he was going into this evening with Miranda after having been a complete ass earlier. She didn’t deserve that heavy-handed treatment or his harsh demands. He’d be lucky if she let him purchase the writings at all—or if she didn’t set the price so high that buying them would demand the involvement of all seven of Cian’s siblings.
Still, he couldn’t entirely fault himself for the way he’d treated Miranda. He wasn’t in control of himself. Not when it came to her.
Sighing, he jammed his foot on the gas and gunned past the car that had decided it took half a mile of preparation to make a right hand turn. He didn’t want to be late, on top of everything else.
As he drove, he let his mind wander. It circled around Miranda, his feelings for her, and the root of all the pain he was certain to bring her if he allowed himself to believe he could control the urgings of his dark nature. His youngest brother, Taran, had made that mistake once. Two weeks into living with the woman he gave his heart to, he lost the battle and strangled her to death.
No, Cian wouldn’t be so foolish to believe he could outsmart a curse. The magic his parents had known, that he knew as well, was powerful. It was founded in blood, the very life force of Cian’s sacrificed brothers and sisters.
A voice from the long-forgotten past, the woman who had hidden the eight surviving children of Nyamah and Drandar, echoed in his mind. You will always feel the hunger to kill. Day to day, you can deny it. Should you fall in love, however, it will possess you until the hunger is satisfied. Do not make the mistake of believing you can resist. Your father has assured you cannot.
And so, for countless centuries they had done what Cian had—avoided all chance of ever stumbling into that fateful emotion. He’d done a damn good job of leading a solitary existence too…Until Miranda aroused a wholly different hunger and he couldn’t stay away.
Sighing, Cian fought off the rising melancholy and focused on the road. If he could gain Miranda’s cooperation, there might yet be hope. But how to tell her he was immortal? That he was sired by a demon? He’d been down those questions a dozen times or more, and no matter how he considered them, the answers didn’t exist. She would either disbelieve him completely, or run out of fright.
Instead, he’d removed the decision from her hands.
Guilt punched him in the gut as the events in the bookstore jumped once more to the forefront of his mind. He spied Three Chefs, their favorite burger place, and cut the wheel sharp to make the immediate turn. He needed Miranda’s help, and he couldn’t turn up on her doorstep without a peace offering. A mushroom and Swiss with her favorite double-fudge milkshake would do the trick.
When he’d been through the drive-through and had her order, plus a bacon blue-cheese burger for himself, along with two double orders of homemade curly fries, he felt moderately better about showing up on Miranda’s doorstep after six months of trying to pretend she didn’t exist. No matter how illogical, he didn’t want this to be a cold, impersonal business meeting.
He wanted her to know he gave a damn, despite the impression he had tried to create.
As he pulled into the parking lot beside her two-storey Victorian home, that darkness stirred once more, alerting him she was inside and it would be so very easy to use her trust to his advantage and spill her blood.
As quickly as the sickening thought occurred, excitement buzzed in his veins, overriding the deep darkness. He was here. With her. The very place he had wanted to be for the last six months. For the first time in uncountable years, he knew hope. Hope that burned brighter as he walked to the shop door and found Miranda waiting just inside, wearing a shy smile.
Bells jangled as she swung the double-paned glass open. “Hi there.”
Goddess above, how he was ever going to make it through this impromptu dinner without kissing her, he didn’t know. Her lips were swollen, as if she’d been worrying them as she was prone to do when her thoughts ran amuck in her head. This couldn’t be easy for her, despite the confidence that radiated off her petite form as she strode for the stairs, beckoning him to follow.
“I brought dinner.” Cian held up the bag and drink tray.
“I chilled wine.” The smoldering look in her eyes as she glanced over her shoulders nearly dropped him to his knees. He struggled to keep his balance, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he trekked up the stairs behind her. His gaze riveted on the braided leather belt that rested on narrow hips. Beneath the band of supple leather, the white material of her pants was thin, nearly sheer, and his gut tumbled into a knot at the brief glimpse of her thong panty-line beneath.
This had been a mistake. He could feel the battle raging within him, darkness wanting satisfaction in death; light craving the completeness that came with loving her. Fuck. He should leave. Forget the idea of dinner and bail before he couldn’t. Before things went so far he found himself once again battling down the urge to kill.
Miranda opened the door to her private residence, and as Cian stepped through, she surrounded him. He’d missed this
cozy comfort that was a glimpse of what happened when Victoriana met modern design. Old wood blended with stark lines and angles, and somehow, it all managed to come together with charm.
“Here, let me take those.” She plucked the takeout from his hands and disappeared into the kitchen. Plates rattled, silverware clinked. “Wine now or later?”
“I’ll wait a bit.” He glanced around, his gaze touching every flat surface of her living room in hopes he’d see the book she had mentioned. But nothing stood out. She kept the place too clean for him to find it sitting, forgotten, atop a stack of clutter.
With nothing else to do but wait for her lead, he meandered into the open entryway that divided the kitchen from the living room. “So.”
Her gaze flicked to him, one delicate dark eyebrow lifted in question.
Small talk wouldn’t cut it, he realized. Not with six awkward months between them and a well of powerful memories. He pulled in a deep breath, held it, expelled it in measured beats. Very well. Honest conversation he could do for a little while. “How are you?”
She gestured at his plate and milkshake. “I’m all right. Business is good. Probably the best it’s been in five years. And I’ve been finding some really neat writings lately.”
Cian couldn’t help himself. He moved to her side, settled his hand at her hip, and gazed down into her big brown eyes. “I didn’t ask about business. How are you?”
Ever-so-slightly, her chin lifted. Subtle. Defiant all the same. “Do you really want to have this conversation?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because if you’re looking for an, Everything’s great, Cian, I don’t have one to give, and I’ve never made it habit to lie to you.”
No, she hadn’t. Even when she didn’t speak, the truth lay in those soulful eyes. What he read there now twisted his heart like someone had stuck a knife between his ribs. Pain. Hurt he had caused. She had every right to hate him. And yet, blending with that ache she couldn’t hide was the same wealth of emotion he had always witnessed in her gaze. Unaware he was doing so, Cian lifted a hand to smooth the lines of tension at the corner of her mouth. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Cursed to Kill Page 2
