Shadow Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  Still, he couldn’t deny the feelings that had prompted him to silence Eva’s attack on Shelby. Nor could he deny what he felt at this moment—an insane desire to surround himself with the one thing he had shunned throughout his existence. Life. He craved the stuff of life—blood—but it was more than that. He hungered for life itself, with all the hope and promise of each new day. It was God-given strength he yearned for, not unholy powers granted by some devil. He ached for the kind of pleasure a man felt, not the carnal delight that fed the beast.

  He wanted nothing more than to have Shelby’s body encase his in an explosion of heat. The image was as seductive as any power his kind possessed, and he couldn’t shake it. He wanted to be born again into the world of the living, where everything was peaceful and right—where he wasn’t a damned creature robbed of his soul. Where his sister’s smile still beamed at him from the center of a cloud of golden curls.

  He exited the shower, dressed quickly in jeans and a clean shirt, and glanced at the clock. It was after one in the morning. Too late for her to still be up. He didn’t care. Not bothering to tie his hair back or don his glasses, he left the house, mounted his bike, and headed for Shelby’s.

  SHELBY WAS FLOATING, not dreaming, but not awake, either. It was a pleasant halfway point to deep sleep, a place of blessed nothingness. Except for that annoying chime. She waited for it to go away, but it sounded again and again, pulling her into wakefulness.

  The doorbell. She groaned, turning to stare at the glowing numbers on her bedside clock. One fifteen. She groaned again. She had only been in bed an hour. What emergency demanded her attention now?

  She rolled out of bed, reached for the light switch by touch, and squinted at her reflection in the mirror. She wore a brushed cotton tank and shorts set. This better be good, whatever it is. She grabbed a robe from the foot of her bed and struggled to find the arm holes. The bell ding-donged again.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered, turning on more lights on her way to the front door. She peered through the peephole. It was Ric. And he didn’t look his usual self.

  She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Ric! What are you doing here? It’s after one.”

  “I know. I couldn’t sleep. I saw the light and thought you were still up.”

  Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his hair, normally so neat, was loose and wind-whipped. She shook her head. “Umm, no. The light over the sink in the kitchen is always on. What’s wrong?”

  “Invite me in.”

  It was a plea, not an order, and Shelby couldn’t refuse him. She held the door wide and cocked her head in invitation, wrapping the robe more securely around her and tying the belt. Ric stepped into the foyer. With his hair well past his shoulders and his motorcycle boots boosting his already tall frame, everything about him looked long and lean. He towered over her, and though she felt short by comparison, she wasn’t intimidated by his size. Just the opposite—he was a mountain she wanted to climb.

  “Make yourself at home in the kitchen. You’re welcome to whatever you can find. I’m just going to put some clothes on.” Without waiting for an answer she turned and padded back to the bedroom, trying not to run, and shut the door behind her. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears she could barely hear herself think. Luckily there wasn’t much thinking to be done. She wanted him, and he was here. She wasn’t naive. She knew that whatever was bothering him, he didn’t come here in the middle of the night to talk. But it was all right—because she didn’t feel like talking either. The memories of Curt Van Allen and Marc Montoya still haunted her, but Ric was different. She just knew it. It was something she felt as deeply and as naturally as her cop instincts. He wasn’t like other men.

  Ever since she’d arrived home from her late evening interview with Eva Hazard she’d only been able to think about one thing, and it hadn’t been the investigation. It was her wish that she was with Ric De Chaux, leisurely strolling the sidewalks, enjoying the Moonlight Madness sale and each other’s company, not sitting home with no one for company except a parakeet with a limited vocabulary.

  She quickly stripped off her pajamas and pulled on a pair of white cotton shorts and a black tank top. In the adjoining bathroom she combed her hair and scrubbed her face clean. She didn’t bother with makeup. The combination of her modest tan and her not-so-modest enthusiasm lent more than enough color to her features. Besides, silly, if he didn’t like the way you look, he wouldn’t be here.

  On that profound note she opened the door to the hall and hurried back to the living room. It was empty. So was the kitchen. Where was he?

  She looked out a front window to see if his bike was still there, and it was. And Ric was straddling the motorcycle. She couldn’t see his face, but his head appeared bowed, and strands of long hair lifted by the breeze swirled around his head. Shelby muttered curses under her breath and ran out of the house, ignoring the stones on the driveway that bit into her bare feet.

  “Dammit, Ric! What kind of game are you playing?”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. “I’m not playing any games. I made a mistake coming here, that’s all. I can’t talk about what’s wrong. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t do one-night stands, so if that’s all this is, you can just put the bike into gear and head back to the Chicken Coop.”

  “Chicken Palace.”

  A smile escaped in spite of her wrath, but she tried to suppress it. “I’m serious. I don’t play these games.”

  His face was pale in the moonlight, but his eyes gleamed with life and emotion. “I’m serious, too. I can’t make you a lot of promises, but I promise this. If you want me back again after tonight, I’ll be back.”

  “Then get off the damn bike.”

  He did as she ordered, swinging his leg over the bike to dismount, but as soon as he straightened to his full height, he swung her into his arms.

  Her hands automatically circled his neck for support. “What do you think you’re doing? Put me down.”

  He carried her easily toward the door. “You’re hanging on pretty tightly for someone who protests so much. You don’t have shoes on. Your feet’ll get cut.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Shut up.”

  She did. At first she felt silly being carried, but he was clearly intent on playing the gentleman, so she let him. Besides, she had never been carried by a man before, and she found she quite liked it. His chest was hard, but not uncomfortable, and she swore she could feel his heart beating against her. He opened the door with his left hand, cradling her in just one arm, and maneuvered her over the threshold. There was no clumsiness in his movements, and she marveled at his strength. Ric was tall and lean, not bulky with a weight lifter’s muscles, yet he supported her as if she were a two-pound doll instead of a hundred-plus pound woman. Once inside, though, he carried her to the sofa in front of the fireplace, not her bedroom. He sat down, holding her on his lap.

  She lifted her hands to smooth the hair away from his face. “The bedroom is the other way,” she said softly.

  “I know. I want both of us to make sure this is what we want.”

  She stared into his amber eyes, so beautiful, yet so strange. They gazed at her with the wonder of a child seeing something for the first time. Yet there was also a pain riding the golden depths that made Shelby think that his eyes should belong to someone very old, not young.

  “Just a minute. I’m going to light the candles.” During the summer she filled her fireplace with numerous white pillared candles on a wrought iron holder. She slid off his lap, lit the candles with long fireplace matches, then crawled back onto his lap, straddling his hips.

  “There. We have our own Moonlight Madness now. Just a little bit late.”

  “Shelby . . .”

  She thought he was going to
say more, but instead he slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her forward until his mouth could reach hers. His lips were soft, but this kiss held more urgency than his previous kisses, and when he parted his lips to deepen the contact, she moaned into his mouth. His touch was like the lighting of a fuse, and her whole body exploded in reaction. A throbbing low in her body kept time to the pounding of her heart, and she felt like she was sitting in the middle of the fireplace, flickering flames all around her, threatening to consume her.

  His hands skimmed up over her breasts to her neck, and she in turn tugged at the hem of his own shirt, eager to feel bare skin. He helped her, pulling the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Faced with an embarrassment of riches, she didn’t know which part of him to explore first. She fanned her fingers over washboard abdominal muscles up across his rib cage and pectorals. She laid her cheek over his heart, listened to its strong, steady beat, and buried her fingers in his hair, pulling it over her face. He smelled clean and fresh, like mint soap, and she wanted to stay like this forever. His hands were just as busy, though, burrowing under her top to circle her waist, then stretching down to hold her hips and cup her bottom. The pressure of his hands urged her to straddle him higher on his body.

  She shifted her weight, and he fell to the side so that his head leaned against one padded armrest. She found herself sitting on him, her legs twined around his waist like paper over candy. He did the unwrapping, though, grabbing the hem of her top and pulling it over her head. His hot gaze traveled the length of her before he tugged on her hair, pulling her down to him. She let the weight of her torso press against his.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the candle flames, like stars in the night, but when her mouth met his, it was like finding the center of her own personal heavenly body. A wave of heat washed over her, and she felt her body melt onto his. She started to squirm, rubbing against him, wanting more, wanting all of him. But she twisted too much and rolled off the edge of the sofa, hitting the floor with a thump and a playful shriek. He didn’t fall on top of her, and when she opened her eyes he was sitting next to her on the rug.

  He reached over and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “So is this what you want? Truly?”

  She sat up and reached for a strand of his own hair, rolling it between her fingers. Cool and glossy, it felt like a doll’s hair, real, but not real. Maybe it was the candlelight, but his skin gleamed with a pale translucence that looked as strange as the amber eyes that glowed like embers. “You. You’re what I want.”

  He rose gracefully, like a plume of smoke unfurling, then reached down for her hand and lifted her to her feet. “The bedroom, then. Your sofa is a little bit confining.”

  She leaned against him, curling her arms around his neck. When he bent his head forward, her lips pounced on his lightly, like a kitten with a toy. “Are you going to carry me again?” she whispered, smiling. She kissed him again, a little deeper.

  He groaned and took control of the kiss away from her. Her response to his naked torso pressed to hers had been immediate, but the kiss sent a new wave of heat and yearning to a point low in her body. The intensity robbed the strength from her legs, and she twined one bare leg around him for support, rubbing her leg against the jeans he still wore. With a little hop, she brought her other leg up. He caught her bottom in his hands to keep her from falling, and between the pressure of his hands and the clinch of her legs straddling his hips, she was in no danger of being dislodged.

  He was already hard against her, and when she gave a half-moan, half-laugh, he boosted her even higher, giving her an opportunity to cinch her legs around him even tighter.

  “You expect me to carry you like this?” His husky laughter loosened his grip on her, and she found herself sliding, bottom first, to the floor. Not one to go quietly, she hung on to what she could and brought him down on top of her.

  They each rolled over, Ric quick to gather his feet beneath him and hop to a stand. “Sorry, you’ll have to walk this time.” He gallantly reached for her hand to ease the indignity of an awkward rise from the floor. He pulled her to her feet and, not letting go of her hand, let her lead the way to the bedroom. The sheets on the bed sat poised, rumpled and twisted, like some modern sculpture, and the blanket was thrown to the foot of the bed in silent invitation.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “You woke me up.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No.”

  He flipped the light switch off, but enough moonlight streamed through the bedroom window to illuminate his body. “My eyes can do without the bright lights.” He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his jeans and boots slowly and provocatively, almost like he was doing a strip show just for her. She curled on the bed next to him, fascinated by the ease in which he performed the simple act. His body was an overall pale skin tone. There were no tan lines at his neckline or on his arms to mar the perfection. He wasn’t white or delicate looking, but like an artistic ideal of the male figure, wrought in alabaster, smooth and hard. When he finished, she took her shorts and panties off as well, although with a great deal of nervous fumbling.

  As her eyesight adjusted to the dark even more, she stared at him even as his gaze burned into her, but she had no time for uneasiness in being naked before him. In one smooth movement he drew her down to the bed, his hands and mouth taking immediate possession of her. She stole her hands over his skin as well, feeling the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders contract and relax under her touch. She marveled that she had the power to move this man who was so strong, so sure of himself. She wasn’t sure yet if she had staked a claim to his thoughts and feelings, but his body responded to her as if she were Mata Hari, not a workaholic, conservative, redheaded Midwest cop.

  He dragged his mouth up and down her face and throat, and with each kiss he pressed against her she felt his hot breath, felt the vibration of incomprehensible French words dance along her skin. She buried her hands in the long strands of his heavy hair and turned her head so that his lips would meet hers. The feel of his full, soft mouth, so at odds with his hard body, sent that sinking sexual rush through her body that she only felt when she was truly aroused. Maybe it was the innocence of his mouth, in such contrast to the rest of him, that captivated her. It was as if he had never made love before. His kisses were slow, almost tentative, seeming to seek to draw out not only herself, but him. She opened her mouth in response, wanting more of him and wanting to give him more. But when she ran her tongue over his teeth, he pulled back and lowered his head. She tried to steady her breathing, concentrating on the fistfuls of hair she still clutched. Cool and smooth, the strands were the perfect extension of his body.

  When his mouth teased the skin of one breast, her hands stilled, and she threw her head back, concentrating solely on the sensations he was conjuring with the magic of his mouth. His tongue painted a path around her nipple, circles and swirls that wound the tension in her body tighter and tighter. She arched up to him, and it seemed like the night itself took hold of her. Her mind told her that it was only his mouth and hands that touched her, but her body knew better. It was as though a window had opened, giving her access to the sounds and sensations of a dark realm never before experienced. His lips nudged her, then suckled her gently while currents of energy pressed against her and cooled the trails of liquid heat his tongue had blazed. The alternate sensations of hot and cold sent shudders up and down her body. When he drew away from her with a nip of his teeth a tiny portion of her tension eased, but the heavy air that filled the room thrummed against her and coiled the ache tighter than before. Her body flexed and trembled with the ebb and flow of pleasure, and when he at last took the nipple deep into his mouth and drew on it, the air left her lungs, suspending her in a moment of pure desire that was as much sweetness as torment, as much craving as having. Even as her breath deserted her, her mind filled with a low purr that was more feeling than sound, as if thousan
ds of whiskers brushed along her skin.

  Just when she thought she could stand no more, he released her, and his strange eyes glowed at her, reminding her of a cat in the dark. It was as though every bit of moonlight that strayed into the room was caught and trapped in his eyes, and when they flicked up and down her body, she shuddered and sucked in a deep breath. His gaze devoured her inch by inch, already taking her, already making her his. He twisted a long handful of hair from either side of her head around the fingers of each hand and tugged gently, bringing her mouth up to his. She was lost now in pure want, a feeling of both being desired and desiring another. No man had ever made her feel like this.

  His long hair slid forward and curtained the world from her sight, but her other senses more than made up for the lack. She felt his cool fingers rush down her sides like flowing water, only to pool at the small of her back. He pressed her to him, and she felt him hard against her. His whole body was taut and rock-hard with the tension of desire, and she knew he was as eager and ready for her as she was for him. She had been ready for him her entire life.

  No, she thought. Not my entire life. It had to be now, in this place, with this one man. Shadow Bay, and Ric, and now, this minute.

  “Ric . . .”

  His hands moved lower still, and she opened herself to him, bringing her legs up and over his in an embrace of her own. He cupped her bottom, and she felt the length of him slide back and forth along her, gauging her readiness. She answered him by digging her nails hard into his back, and he drove into her in one long thrust. She felt every inch of him, and when he began a slow, powerful rhythm within her, he filled her completely, seeming to drive not only straight into her but outward in every direction, as though he were taking over her entire body and mind. She was a vessel he poured himself into, not simply filling her, but pervading and charging every corner and crevice of her being, even those parts of her she had always kept locked and hidden from the world. An instant of vulnerability gripped her as the overpowering energy flooded her and threatened to drown her, but she held on, tightened her hold on him, and urged him to even greater speed and power.