He grabbed her wrists when she reached for the elastic of his pants, his chest heaving with deep breaths. He looked at her with the focused attention of a hawk watching a mouse, like he was going to devour her on the spot. His voice was husky when he spoke. “I need a shower.”
“So do I.”
In one, fluent movement, he gripped her ass and lifted her so her legs could wrap around his waist. Holding her in his strong embrace, he carried her outside and up the stairs to their room. She loved his strength and how gently he held her with all that physical power. She loved everything about him—the hard body that promised safety, the deep voice that whispered words of affection in her ear, and most of all, the golden heart that had captured hers.
“How long do we have?” he asked, brushing their lips together.
She held him tighter. “The rest of our lives.”
This wasn’t the ending she’d envisioned. It was the beginning he’d promised.
Epilogue
The garden was decorated with colorful balloons and strings of orange and blue crepe paper. Paper balls in the same colors hung from the trees. Gifts wrapped with rainbow paper and blue ribbons were stacked on a table with a bright orange tablecloth. On a table pushed against the rose bushes stood a cake in the shape of a caterpillar with an orange body and blue string candy for feet. The winter’s day was sunny, and the sky a deep blue. Children’s laughter and excited shrieks filled the courtyard as they played tag on the grass. Underneath the rose awning next to the fountain, Lann popped the cork and served the champagne. Kat handed out the glasses. The adults sat around the long garden table from where they could watch the young ones play. Clelia, Kat, and Bono had outdone themselves with the catering. The meal was a feast, with dishes from each person’s home country.
Lann pulled Kat under his arm and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. He tipped his glass to hers. “To the most beautiful gift you could ever give me, krasavitsa.”
Cain raised his glass. “Happy birthday to Thomas.”
A chorus of agreement followed.
Sky knew the celebration had deeper meaning than commemorating their son’s sixth birthday. The quiet Russian never said as much, but it was his way of showing gratitude that his wife’s life had been spared when she’d given birth to their son. In some way, she did feel a measure of thankfulness toward Godfrey for saving her life. Looking at Niels as he chased around with the other children, her chest tightened at the thought that this moment could’ve been denied her, either by Doumar or death.
Bono placed his hand on her thigh and squeezed lightly. “I love you, Mrs. Black.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Love you, too.”
The new surname still sounded strange. It was going to take some time to get used to. The simple ceremony they’d had in the adjoining church was what they’d both wanted. Sky had worn a simple, blue dress—Bono’s favorite color—and they’d had an intimate meal with the team afterwards. Lann’s butler and kitchen staff had taken care of the catering.
She couldn’t have asked for a better father for Niels. Bono was a hands-on daddy who spent a lot of time with his adopted son. If they weren’t fixing some or the other engine together, they were flying toy planes around the garden. Bono was Niels’s hero in every way. Her son looked up to Bono like there was no one better or stronger. With which she agreed. Bono had taken Niels flying a couple of times, and he couldn’t stop talking about it at school. He was adapting well in the international school and had warmed up to her considerably. The sessions they both attended at the trauma therapist were helping them deal with the past. Niels didn’t talk to her about his life with Doumar much, but with every passing day he opened up more. She knew from the info they’d gotten via Cain’s sources that Niels hadn’t lived with Doumar and his real family. Doumar had paid an old lady to take care of him and had put them up in rented rooms, moving them frequently. It wasn’t time to tell Niels the truth, yet. One day when he was older, they’d cross that bridge.
For now, they lived with Lann and Katherine, until Niels was more settled and they could decide where to put up their own house. She had an image of Morocco in her head. Bono said Cain wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, since he had a holiday home there, and with the helijet, the flight was only an hour from New York.
“Don’t forget, this year, Christmas is at our place,” Asia said, giving Sean an affectionate hug.
“Aye, Asia is planning a private party at Madelein’s, so you better all make it.”
“I’ve already organized entertainment for the children and babysitters for when us grownups have our night out.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Maya said, nudging Tim with a knee. “Being back in South America will bring back memories of Costa Rica, won’t it, love?”
“Mm.” He looked deep into her eyes before stealing a chaste kiss. “Looks like Deon and Zola are having fun.”
The twins, Maya and Tim’s adopted children, at three years old were the youngest of the children. The oldest was Khwezi, Sara and Wayne’s son, who was eight.
An alarm buzzed on Cain’s wrist pad. “Excuse me.” He got up and made his way to the house.
Joss, who could never seem to keep his hands off Clelia, pulled her into his lap. “You worked hard today.” He motioned at the spread on the table. “You should relax, tonight. I’ll take care of Laudren’s dinner and bath.”
She put her arm around his shoulder. “You’re too sweet.”
“He just loves spending time with that baby of his,” Bono teased.
“No so baby anymore.” Joss looked over at the children, a rare smile lighting up his face. “They’re growing up too fast.”
“They’re good kids,” Ivan said, his legs stretched out in front of him. “You’re lucky.”
“Any news from Alice?” Sara asked.
Ivan sighed. “Damn, I miss that girl. Her recording finishes tomorrow. She’ll be on tomorrow night’s flight.”
“I would’ve been happy to fetch her,” Bono said.
“Nah, she wants you to spend time with your new family. You’re still on honeymoon.”
“I’ll go check if the kids want a drink,” Wayne said. “They’ve been running so much they’ll get dehydrated.”
Sara’s husband wasn’t a big talker, but he was one of the most sincere people Sky had met.
“You’re overprotective,” Kat said with a laugh. “They’ll ask if they’re thirsty.”
“Sometimes they play so hard they forget.”
“I’ll help.” Maya took the tray with the plastic glasses and gave Kat a wink as she passed, whispering, “Overprotective alpha males.”
“Drinks, everyone,” Maya called, placing the tray on the table with the cake. “Who wants what?”
Wayne was already twisting open bottles of soda, which were reserved for special occasions, only.
“Me, me,” Laudren called, jumping up and down.
“In a minute, sweetheart. The birthday boy first,” Maya said, reaching for one of the cups. “Ouch.”
“What happened?” Wayne asked.
Tim was already on his feet.
“Calm down.” She held up her finger. A tiny drop of blood pooled on the tip. “It was just a thorn from the rose bush.”
Laudren reached for her hand, and after inspecting it with a cute, serious expression, he stuck her injured finger in his mouth.
Maya gasped. “Oh, my God. Is it possible?”
Clelia jumped from Joss’s lap, almost tripping in the process, with Joss following suite.
“Josselin,” Clelia said, taking his hand, “do you think…?”
Laudren released Maya’s finger and tilted his head. “Maya is going to have a baby,” he said with a big smile.
Maya paled. She placed one hand over her stomach and grabbed the table at her back with the other. “What?”
In a few long strides, Tim was at her side, his arms going around her.
“Look,” Khwezi said, pointing up a
t the sky, “it’s getting cloudy. It’s going to rain.”
Thomas grinned. “No, it’s not.”
Keeping a concerned eye on Maya, Kat took Thomas aside and said, “What did we say about messing with the weather?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, casting his eyes down. “I don’t want my party to rain out.”
“It won’t,” Wayne said. “Those clouds are only passing by.”
“Josselin,” Clelia said, pushing him toward Maya and Tim.
He walked to where they stood and held out a hand. “May I?”
Maya offered a shaky finger.
Joss took a utility knife from his pocket and caught the fresh drop of blood that had formed on the tip. He brought the blade to his mouth and tasted. He didn’t have to say a word. His face said it all.
“Babygirl.” Tim pressed her body to his. “It’s a miracle.”
Just then, Cain exited from the house, his face an unreadable mask. “We found Mrs. Reid. Get packing. We’re going to Brazil.”
About the author
Charmaine Pauls was born in Bloemfontein, South Africa. She obtained a degree in Communication at the University of Potchefstroom and followed a diverse career path in journalism, public relations, advertising, communications, photography, graphic design, and brand marketing. Her writing has always been an integral part of her professions.
After relocating to Chile with her French husband, she fulfilled her passion to write creatively full-time. Charmaine has published thirteen novels since 2011, as well as several short stories and articles. Two of her short stories were selected by the International Society of Literary Fellows in conjunction with the International Research Council on African Literature and Culture for publication in an African anthology from across the continent.
When she is not writing, she likes to travel, read, and rescue cats. Charmaine currently lives in France with her husband and children. Their household is a linguistic mélange of Afrikaans, English, French and Spanish.
Seven Forbidden Arts Series
Pyromancist (Book 1) – FIRE
Aeromancist, The Beginning (Book 2) – NOVELLA
Aeromancist (Book 3) – AIR
Hydromancist (Book 4) – WATER
Geomancist (Book 5) – EARTH
Necromancist (Book 6) – SPIRIT
Scapulimancist (Book 7) – ANIMAL
Chiromancist (Book 8) – TIME
Other Books by Charmaine Pauls
Between Fire & Ice
The Winemaker
Second Best
The Astronomer
Short stories by Charmaine Pauls
A Miracle for Christmas (Holiday Hopes Anthology)
The Ice Hotel Wedding Test (Frozen, A Winter Holiday Romance Anthology)
The Grayton Christmas Supper Contest (A Holiday to Remember Anthology)
Artificial Tears (Propose to Me Anthology)
Author website:
www.charmainepauls.com
To be notified when Charmaine’s next book is released, please join her mailing list:
http://charmainepauls.com/subscribe/
Available in August 2017
Man (Book 9, Seven Forbidden Arts)
Olivia Reid’s death has always been in the cards. When a man starts stalking her, he brings her pleasure instead of murder. He wants more than her orgasms. He seems to want her very mind. By giving him one thought every night, she manages to push forward the deadline of her extinction. But for how long can she buy her life before her mind is empty, and her stalker has what he wants?
Cain Jones is the leader of a paranormal crime taskforce dedicated to protecting mankind from the revival of evil and the dawning of a second Dark Age. The team under his command uses their seven forbidden arts secretively to fight their archenemy, Godfrey Reid, a man who is set on turning immortal and wiping out the human race. Fighting battle after battle, Cain makes a breakthrough when he locates his opponent’s weakness–Mrs. Olivia Reid. She’s his only link to Godfrey, and his only chance at accomplishing his mission. He’ll break her if he has to. He’ll even steal her thoughts. As the investigation progresses Cain has to face a truth he doesn’t want to admit. He has an ulterior motive for personally keeping an eye on his enemy’s dwellings. Watching Olivia sleep, Cain soon becomes as obsessed with his archenemy’s woman as with killing Godfrey. Will Olivia forgive him for killing her husband?
Excerpt from Man
(This excerpt is unedited and subject to change.)
“Show your face,” Olivia said. “I know you’re there.”
The man edged from the dark. His steps were quiet but powerful, like those of a predator. On the exterior, he appeared relaxed, but there was an undercurrent of deadly danger that emanated from him. His energy was palpable. It drifted to her in zaps of static electricity, making her skin tingle and her heartbeat pick up in fear, but not without a measure of awe. Perfect control radiated from every tightly drawn muscle. He was a man who’d mastered himself, a man who commanded attention. He didn’t show himself because she’d asked him to. He’d done it because he wanted her to see him. He owned this moment, this situation.
She couldn’t get herself to move. What was the point of running? If her life had to end, she’d rather it be by the hand of someone who wordlessly forced respect than a lesser man. She faced him squarely, waiting for his next step, letting him suck her into his control. It was pathetic, but by God it felt good to let go and set herself free from the stress of forever fighting, forever looking over her shoulder.
Another stride, and only half a shadow played over his profile. In the light of the moon, the partially obscured portrait of his countenance showed a face with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His chin was square; his jaw strong. Dark curls brushed his ears and the collar of his shirt. The greying hair along his temples gave him a gentlemanly edge, but it would be unwise to be fooled into such a notion. The man who’d broken into her house and stood at the foot of her bed had a polished appearance, but underneath the veneer lay something deeply disturbing, something dark.
From head to toe, he was dressed in white. Even his leather gloves were white. Somehow, it seemed fitting. A killer in an angel’s costume. Maybe the angel of death. For long moments, they stared at each other, the one who held the power and the vulnerable assessing one another. Her heart had gone from a gallop to a sprint. Blood zinged in her ears. Under the sheets, her palms turned sticky.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, she wetted her dry lips. “I know why you’re here.”
A smile flirted with his lips. “Is that so?”
His voice matched his hard body. It was deep and raspy, stroking over her senses like a flute player’s hypnotizing tune. When he moved, she jumped a little, her nerves skittish despite her forced bravado.
“Tell me,” he said, slowly rounding the bed.
He made the two words sound like a nonnegotiable instruction. She was afraid of him and the situation, but not to face the facts or speak the truth.
“You’re here to kill me.”
Stopping next to her, he studied her with an unreadable expression. Time paused as she scanned his face, having a full glimpse of him for the first time. His eyes were a deep brown, like brown sugar and dates. A birthmark flared over his cheek, scarring him in a way that emphasized the dangerous imperfection of his soul. She didn’t need to know him to know she was right. Her instinct was too strong.
The fingers of his right hand moved at his side, as if they were running over the keys of a piano, or as if he was warming them up for a task that required a delicate touch. She didn’t jerk back when he lifted his arm. Neither did she scream when he wrapped his fingers around her throat.
“How are you going to do it?” she asked while she could still speak. His fingers could tighten in a moment, cutting off her airflow, or crushing her windpipe. “The least you owe me is to tell me how you’re going to end my life.”
He pushed her down until her head hit the pillow.
“Comfortable?” he whispered.
A gentleman killer. He’d make it quick and painless. Adrenaline morphed into lethargic acceptance. She was ready, but she had a last request.
Her breath moved the air between them. “Please.”
An indulgent spark flared in those intense eyes. “What do you need, sweetheart?”
“Not with the gloves.” A measure of human contact would soothe her when she blew out her last breath. Skin on skin.
Surprise replaced his indulgent expression. Lowering his head, he grazed her ear. “For you, anything.”
Her neck turned strangely cold when he removed his palm. In mesmerized fascination, she watched as he plucked each glove finger in a purposeful, economized movement until his hand came free. Everything this man did was with intention. None of his actions was wasted. He held his naked hand up to the moonlight, flexing his fingers. Strong, manly veins ran under the skin. His palm was broad and his fingers long and slender. It was a hand that could be trusted to inflict a deathblow instantly. No bullets. No blood.
Time was up.
Tilting back her head, she offered him her life. She wasn’t going kicking and screaming.
He brought his big hand down, but instead of going straight for her neck he splayed his fingers over her jaw, keeping her head in the vice of his grip while his middle finger gently drew down her bottom lip. Her lips parted willingly. No more fighting. His finger slipped into her mouth, his skin tasting warm and salty. In an instinctive dance of the prey submitting to the hunter, she wrapped her tongue around him, coating him with moistness. It was a breathtaking, erotic ballade of death. He was going to let her die beautifully.
He tilted his head, studying her with heat in his eyes as if he was looking at a sensual painting on a gallery wall. Pressing down on her tongue for a second, he released her mouth, dragging his wet finger from her lips and over her chin to her neck. Sparks sizzled over her skin as his splayed fingers applied the slightest of pressure. His calloused fingers grated her with gentle abrasion as his hand moved over her collarbone and between her naked breasts. Shivers rippled out over her skin as he drew his fingertips over her stomach and lower still. Without breaking their gaze, he ran his light touch over her pubic bone to the juncture of her legs. She jerked at the contact. This wasn’t what she’d expected or wanted, but in a strange, warped way it felt right. It felt carnal. Like death.
Chiromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 8) Page 20
