She could get her own room. On his card, sure, but it wasn’t like she wouldn’t pay him back, and—
The wallet felt heavy in the grocery bag where she’d dropped it.
His whole wallet. His whole identity. Entrusted to her, just like that.
And if anyone knew what it was like to lose that little bundle of selfhood...
No. She’d ask before charging her own room.
She adjusted her grip on her various burdens and headed for the elevator, bumping the call button with her knuckles. Getting the hotel key from her front pocket was an exercise in persistence and dexterity; getting the door unlocked, more of the same.
She took no more than a step into the room before dropping the whole kit and kaboodle, exhaling a huge sigh of relief as she shook out her hands. She rescued the key card, pushed the door closed, and leaned back against it with a dramatic groan.
And that’s when she noticed he hadn’t so much as moved. Still in bed, still just as she’d left him, moments after he’d flopped down in the first place. One arm flung out over the center of the bed, the other over his eyes, angled so one leg bent over the side of the mattress, that foot still on the floor.
“Um,” she said. “Mac?” And didn’t expect the spurt of concern, nudging purchases out of the way to hurry over, putting a hand on his leg. “You okay?”
Unbelievable. She was watching his chest, battered and tattooed—waiting for the rise of it—and it seemed to take forever, dammit.
But there it was, slow and long and even. A man deeply asleep. Just as she’d left him.
She bet his arm was asleep, too, dead weight on his face.
Without much thinking about it, she perched on the small slice of mattress beside him. This muscle-strapped body had become familiar to her last night—but in the light of day, those hours now seemed a marginal reality. And she no longer had the right or the reason to touch him. Nothing more than what she did now, laying the back of her hand across the side of his face and then on his neck.
No longer so very hot. Now just warm, another human being going about the business of being alive—and not so very bruised anymore at that. He didn’t stir at the transgression, but a brief spate of goose bumps rippled over his arms and shoulders.
She let her hands rest in her lap, considering him. Considering this. The situation...the moments that had led her here, and the stark understanding that she had no idea where to go. Not in the next moment, not in the next hour, not in the next day.
He’d wanted to know about her father.
He was going to ask her again. She’d seen that much in him. If she stayed. She looked at the tattoo. Here, in the daylight, hardly obscured by the faint pattern of hair across his chest. She looked, and her breath caught and—
No wonder.
No wonder she’d thought of her father. Just no freaking wonder.
I am nine years old, and my father is dead.
No one will talk about him.
I live with my aunt. She won’t talk about him, either. I learn through overheard whispers—car abandoned, body not found. Witnesses who say they saw a horrible fight, but neither the victor nor the victim are identified or located.
They wonder if he’s coming back. But I don’t.
I know.
I am nine years old, and my father is dead.
She found her hand wrapped around the pendant, her eyes closed and her head tipped back. Curse and boon, that pendant. A reminder of the past—but not just the good of it. The awful of it, too. The way it clung to her...the way it sometimes seemed to call to her, something far away and just beneath the threshold of what she was able to hear.
Other times, other places, she had dismissed that sensation—wasn’t her life strange enough, in the wake of what her father had done to her?
Here and now, it seemed all too real. As if the metal breathed with her, breathing into her.
As if she wasn’t alone.
I know you.
She jerked, hand clenching, sucking in a surprised breath.
That trickle of thought hadn’t been hers.
Not hers at all.
I KNOW YOU.
More than a trickle. She jerked from it, eyes flying open in time to see Mac jerk awake in sync with her, his body trembling, his blue-grey eyes dark and confused and downright feral—his voice, when he spoke, distant and hoarse. “I...know...”
And then he seemed to wrench himself out of whatever gripped him and he saw her, truly saw her. And as she opened her mouth to say she had no idea what, just that fast, he was up and pivoting over her on one knee, pushing her back flat.
And now she was the one to tremble. But there he stopped, hands on either side of her shoulders, his eyes closing briefly and his face twisting in something that seemed like pain. It left him breathing hard, but when he opened his eyes, they were clear and bright and looking directly at her. Seeing her, in truth.
Why she hadn’t fought him off, she didn’t know. Why she hadn’t kicked and screamed and shoved and scratched—
She didn’t know.
“Mac,” she said, barely more than a whisper. No more than that, and whether it was question or request, she didn’t know that, either.
He lifted one hand to clear the hair from her face, to touch her cheek and brow. “I’m sorry,” he said, and brought his mouth down on hers. Not the ferocity she’d expected, but a gentle, cherishing kiss. And in that, more—so much more—than any crushing demand.
When he straightened, she could only look at him, feeling the surprise still etched on her own face, her mouth still open—still feeling his touch.
He ran a thumb across the line of her lower lip, hesitated—muscles working in his jaw, nostrils flaring briefly—and then pushed himself away. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
She didn’t move. “Why?”
It seemed to surprise him. “Why?”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “Why are you sorry? Why did you do it? Why did you stop?”
“You’re crying.” It wasn’t an answer to any of that. It didn’t even seem like part of the apology. Just the next step in a disjointed conversation.
“I’m not,” she said, and ran fingers across the corner of her eye, discovered it wet—discovered tears trickled down into her hair. “Am I?”
That wry grin of his, on the mouth that was made for it.
Among other things.
He said, “I think we need to talk.”
* * *
Devin dropped the scant pages of the Albuquerque paper onto Natalie’s desk.
She never took her eyes from the computer monitor before her. “I wondered what you’d think of that.”
Devin snorted. “He didn’t take my warning very seriously.”
Rash of thefts indeed. The least of it. There had been fights, assaults, break-ins...a swath of violence across that lower right quarter of the city, with enough trickling into their southwest turf to keep them busy on the way home. Enough to shove aside the little hate fest demonstration by the local better-than-thou group currently targeting a diversity support group.
She laughed, looking at him over the precisely organized workspace. From there she followed her own passion for research into things that might help blade wielders cope, handling the unsavory interactions with the lawyer they seemed to have inherited along with this estate—a man who knew too much, while not truly knowing anything at all. “Devin,” she said, “last night you said he looked beat to hell. And you know he wasn’t in all these places last night.”
“Maybe not.” He headed for the huge, bright bank of windows across the outside wall.
The grounds outside the window showed him nothing. A huge expanse of aquecia-watered lawn, here in the elm and cottonwood-littered bosque of the Rio Grande; the guesthouse that had been Natalie’s home when she worked for Sawyer Compton. But it wasn’t the grounds that drew him.
It was the city beyond and the overreaching awareness of it. No, the newcomer couldn’
t have been in all those places the evening before. But— “Maybe he wasn’t. But he’s involved. He’s the one Anheriel followed.”
“That wasn’t all we felt last night.”
There, in the truck...the cold sensation that gripped both of them, leaving Devin aching for something to strike at and Natalie pushing focusing exercises on them both.
He shook his head, his gaze out the window, his feet restless. “He’s involved,” Devin repeated. “Damned if I know just how. I’ve half a mind to chase him down and—”
“Maybe he needs help,” Natalie said.
“Maybe he’s already heading for the wild road,” Devin said darkly, knowing the truth of that even as he said it—feeling the tug from his blade, the suggestion that they should go take care of this interloper.
Or maybe just join him in madness.
Devin pushed it away—and saw understanding in Natalie’s eyes. New to her blade, she’d never felt that beguiling touch of madness—and if her new techniques were as useful as she hoped they’d be, maybe she never would.
But the understanding wasn’t just for him. “If that’s true,” she said, “then he does need us. But not as his enemy. He needs help. And if it doesn’t come from us, then who?”
Natalie. Thoughtful, organized...and stubborn.
“We’ll see,” Devin said. “I want a better idea of what’s going on out there.” At Natalie’s expression, he shook his head. “It’s one thing to take him on. It’s another to leave ourselves vulnerable to him.” You, he meant. I won’t take chances with you.
Maybe she heard that. She settled, returning her attention to the ancient text she was examining via Project Gutenberg. “I think we’ll want to try to find a copy of this one,” she said. “You have to read between the lines, but I’m pretty sure this author has gathered anecdotal incidents about wielders.” She made a few notes, then pushed back from the desk. “I’ll head to the library and see if I can find anything about what we felt last night.” She added a rueful expression. “In English.”
“I’m headed to the gym,” said Devin. His best option for building boundaries against the blade. “I have the feeling I’m going to need it.”
She nodded. “Good idea.” And then her attention drifted to the window, too. “I only hope he’s got his own gym. Or that he knows what he’s doing.”
Devin snorted. “From what I saw last night?” There in the man’s eyes, in his face...in the very energy accompanying him. “I’m not counting on it.”
Chapter 5
The blade insinuated itself into Mac’s thoughts—into his body, reacting so strongly to the woman before him. Reacting to her feelings, her sensations...her uncertain realization that she had them at all.
He turned away from her, moving blindly toward the window—not seeing it. Seeing only his mind’s eye, with her wide eyes writ large, her expression surprised and yet, as he moved away, somehow wistful. Propped back on her elbows in that familiar snug shirt, those wrinkled trim slacks.
He’d never had to imagine the shape of her, modest curves and toned body and profoundly excellent ass. He just hadn’t expected her to feel so...
He hadn’t expected himself to react so...
He put one hand flat against the window, eyes closed. Seeking escape.
From himself.
From what he thought he was becoming.
Because surely this feeling wasn’t truly about what he felt for a woman he’d only just met, no matter how they’d skirmished together or how she’d sat with him through the hardest of nights.
It was about the blade and what it did to him.
It had to be.
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” she said, her voice backed by its usual determination but without its equally usual blithe spirit. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. And I don’t like it.”
The knife fed him a dozen trickles of feeling, tugged him a dozen different ways. Someone in despair, someone in fear, a quick bubble of exaltation...the blade sifted it all, hunting for something on which to take action. Forgetting, apparently, its fear and danger from the night before.
Mac fought his way out of those places. They aren’t mine. I have my own feelings. He glanced back at Gwen—sitting up on the bed now and just watching him. Knowing that he had answers for her and wasn’t telling her. Feeding the blade her trickle of desire, her healthy dose of wistfulness, and her frustration. Not mine.
But somehow those words didn’t ring as true.
* * *
Gwen didn’t wait long.
“Look,” she said. “I’m going to take the shower I so richly deserve and put on the stylish and clean clothes I managed to buy. When I come out, I’d really like there to be some answers waiting.”
Answers. Wouldn’t that be a change? He’d had nothing but questions for years now. Questions and the sly trickles of information granted him by the blade—coming more often now, even as its influence grew stronger within him.
The wild road. Not his words, not his term. But he knew, in his gut, what it meant.
And he knew that to get Gwen to talk about her father, he’d have to talk first. He just didn’t know how to do that.
Not with words.
As she showered, he nuked the meal she’d brought, gulped down another protein drink, and changed his clothes—from one set of jeans to another, with the addition of a short-sleeved henley in a dark, bloodstain-hiding maroon, the Red Wing work boots from the night before traded off for basic black cross-trainers.
When she emerged from the shower, her hair sleek with conditioner and twisted into a knot at the back of her head, she’d exchanged her worn outfit for a bright turquoise T-shirt that did amazing things for her complexion and sport shorts that did amazing things for her legs. He took a deep breath and said, “Come with me.”
She hesitated, eyeing him—assessing the changes in him. “I’m not dressed for—”
“Walking,” he said. “You’re dressed fine for walking.”
“Okay.” And then she laughed at him as she grabbed her new sunglasses from the counter and propped them atop her head. “Did you think I’d be hard to convince? What have I got to do for the next twenty-four hours but wait?”
“For new credit cards,” he guessed.
“Being overnighted to the hotel.” She slanted a look at him, reaching for her sport sandals. “I’ve been trying to decide how to ask if I can borrow your credit card to get a room here tonight.”
No. His response came instantly, deeply—and he kept it entirely to himself.
Or tried to, but she sent a little frown in his direction that made him think he hadn’t been successful. “Okay, then,” she said. “I guess that wasn’t the way to do it.”
He shook his head. “Whatever you want to do.”
“Look,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate... No, you must be kidding. I’m not going to be sorry because I’m not gung ho to share a room with a man I don’t even know. No matter how much I appreciate the help so far.”
“There’s more than that going on and you know it,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant to, and then pushed the heel of his hand against his brow. He already knew her well enough to know that hadn’t been the right thing to say, oh, no.
“Do I?” she snapped, proving that instinct. “As if I can’t manage from here on out perfectly well on my own?”
“No.” Focus, dammit. Find the right words. “As if you shouldn’t. As if there’s not—” He stopped, gave into frustration. “Come with me. Walk.”
She snatched up the hotel key and led the way, full of dignity in her generic gym clothes.
He could only follow. And hope he was doing the right thing.
* * *
Stupid man, Gwen thought. He couldn’t just tell her whatever it was he was keeping from her. No doubt because he still all-too-obviously wanted to grill her about her father.
As if her past mattered to what was happening here. As if i
t was any of his business anyway. Simply because she’d made a single allusion...
Except in her heart, she knew if it didn’t matter, talking about it wouldn’t feel so big.
In that heart, she felt a twinge of guilt at his kindness—pushing the hotel door open, waiting for her to plunk the sunglasses from her head to her nose, waiting for her to adjust to the heat beating against exposed skin.
But if she made him wait for her to adjust to what had just happened on that hotel room bed, they’d be here forever. She nodded, more curtly than she’d meant to. “All right.” And marched off.
“Hey, hey!” He laid the words on a laugh, ran a step to catch up, and took her hand, instantly and comfortably twining his fingers between hers. “Not like that.”
“I—” She stopped, confused. “Then like...?”
“Like this.” He stopped, closed his eyes, lifted his head, tilting it just a little. His chest rose with a deep breath; his nostrils briefly flared, as if he was hunting scent. She stared, fascinated, as some faint reaction chased across his face; she moved a little closer without thinking about it, watching.
Just like that, his eyes opened—catching her there, closer than she’d meant to be, more engaged than she’d meant to be. He smiled, holding his ground...giving her tacit permission to stay right there in his space.
“Pfeh,” she said, stepping back—not far, considering he still had her hand, but a distinct distancing. “We’re not walking, you may have noticed.”
He gestured with their clasped hands. “This way.” And that grin of his, just an edge of wry...an invitation.
Dammit. She bit her lip on the smile that wanted to respond to him and said, “Okay. That way.”
She let him keep her hand.
She even let herself relax, walking in the bright sunshine, absorbing all over again the unique touches of the city—the propensity for sculptures, the little hints of sporadic beauty along the roadsides and in the signage, the street names that spoke of the area’s Spanish heritage.
Claimed by the Demon (Harlequin Nocturne) Page 6
