by Connie Hall
“He did, thanks.” She felt her insides shift around in the wrong spots, felt her body grow feverish, responding to his dark smoldering glances, his nearness so charged it was as if he were already touching her.
She walked beside him and forced herself to breathe. Calm down, or he’ll know how he stirs you up. She kept her gaze on the blue and red paisley rug and wallpaper as she made her way to the stairwell, but her mind wouldn’t budge from him.
They hadn’t spoken aloud in the five minutes it took to descend four flights of stairs, but their bodies were doing a heck of a lot of communicating on their own.
Their brooding silence drenched them both in tension, strung them as tight as barbwire. She felt something loud that stirred between them, a hunger, some charged impulses that radiated like connected electrical wires. Her nerves were frayed, excited, tempted.
She paused at her door, a hand on the knob. “Good night,” she said.
She made the mistake of looking at him.
He stood a foot from her, his eyes large and liquid, caressing her with an intensity that unnerved her to the core, but also teased and tempted and demanded exploration.
They both stepped toward each other at the same time, but he did not reach out to hold her. So much concentration and resolve filled his expression, he could have been moving a mountain. Takala was determined not to make the first move, though her arms hurt from wanting to reach up and wrap them around his neck.
“Is—um—something wrong?” she asked, her voice tight.
“No, everything is as it should be.”
“Good. Doc will get my blood out on the street and maybe we’ll be hearing from Raithe soon and we can be done with this whole thing.”
“One can only hope.”
The enthralling lilt of his voice hadn’t changed, but his words stung her into silence. She half expected him to disagree with her.
Another moment of his gaze eating her alive, standing so still his feet looked rooted to the ground.
When Takala couldn’t take the uncomfortable uneasiness any longer, she said, “Well, good night.” She forced herself to turn and run for the cover of her room.
She slammed the door and leaned against it. Big gasps of air gushed through her open mouth. Her body broke out in a sweat as if she’d finished a marathon. A muscle in her right eye quivered from tension. She heard his door close; then her chest deflated and she banged the back of her head against the door. Get a grip. Keep her professional distance; that’s what she had to do. And they hadn’t addressed the issue of how they would make Raithe believe she was Striker’s mate. That scared her more than anything. Would she have to let him bite her? Drink her blood? She knew it was going to be an arduous night, and she headed for the shower.
Striker walked to his window, the scent of Takala still filling his senses, pumping through his veins. He had felt her lust and his own, and it had taken all his determination and strength of mind to not take her and make her his. But he knew how dangerous that would be. It would take only one weak moment, one little slip.
Warmth was one of his weaknesses, and Takala’s body ran hotter than a normal human’s because of her metabolism. Yes, her heat drew him. When he had lived like Raithe, out of control, he had preferred female vampires for sexual pleasure, something he had admitted to Takala, but he had not told her the whole story. Early on, he had learned the most positive thing about women of his own kind: they weren’t warm-blooded. They didn’t make him aware of the changes he had suffered when he had turned vampire, like having no internal body temperature and not being able to hold warmth in his body. He had all but forgotten what it felt like to press a warm human female mouth to his, the moist heat of it. And kissing Takala Rainwater, feeling the unusually intense hotness of her lips had inflamed all the dormant yearning in his own body.
He cursed his weakness. Through the “dark ages”—yes, that was how he termed the unbridled centuries of his life—human females had been his chosen prey. During those years he hadn’t had a conscience and had rarely denied himself anything, including a meal. But if he was being truthful, he had never confused lust with hunger. He had kept them separated until much later when he could no longer distinguish bloodlust from physical lust, and he realized how destructive living a life of dispensation and immoderation could be. That was when he’d known he would destroy himself if he didn’t change. And he’d climbed onto the narrow and arduous road of making reparations for all the evil he’d done in his life. He hadn’t strayed since, until Takala appeared.
He’d have to mark her, and soon, so Raithe would be fooled into believing she was his mate, but he had to build up his self-control, make certain that he would not hurt her in the process.
He leaned his forehead against the glass, needing to feel the cool smoothness against his brow, anything to tease his senses into letting go of Takala’s hold on him. But he knew it would take a natural disaster, or something close to it, to get his mind centered again.
He scanned the lights of the city. They glowed back at him, masses of accusatory eyes. The window had a safety bar holding it shut; he pulled it off, then flung open the sash. Cold air chafed his cheeks and stirred the strands of hair around his face as he stuck his head and shoulders out the window. A huge moon glowed bluish gray and shifted behind scudding clouds.
A stray breeze funneled down the twelve-story building and blew past him, urging him into the thrust and ancient fist of nature, the earth’s bewitching call. When he’d first become a vampire, the wind was what attracted him so readily to flying. It was magical and freeing, and there was something alluring and inviting about the airstreams that swept to the four corners of the earth. He could travel anywhere, be there in minutes. The power of that was heady.
He leaned out more, the wind tearing at his suit, thrashing against his body, but it didn’t dispel his awareness of Takala. His nerves still pinged from being near her, hearing her, and it only heightened his awareness of every living creature within Paris: hearts beating, scents of mammalian salty warmth, perfumes, body odor. People’s voices, speaking, crying, screaming, murmuring in sexual throes. He could hear the constant drone of traffic drowning out the night cries of gulls along the Seine. A mishmash of cooking smells, car exhaust and the moldy driftwood scent of the Seine’s brackish water bombarded him, the wind intensifying the odors of Paris’s humanity.
He remembered the city in the eighteen hundreds. The odors were different then, more primitive. But the sounds and smells of humans, his prey, had remained the same. Lifetimes went, but the desire for blood would always be a part of him. He’d all but conquered this craving because he hadn’t been lured from his steadfastness. But he had a massive temptation now, and she was across the hall taking a shower, naked.
He rarely if ever gave in to his desire to fly. But tonight the urge raged in him; the wind and the darkness called him. He needed to be miles from Takala. He could hear her shower running, distinguish her distinctively strong heartbeat, louder than a normal human’s. He could detect it from thousands of heartbeats, just like he could smell her blood and know instantly it was hers.
Striker leaned over and let the wind take him. He tumbled head down for a moment; the world flew past him, and then he was light and free and soaring, one with the city and the night. But he knew his pleasure was fleeting, because his craving for Takala was as strong as ever.
He glanced at her room window. The curtains were drawn, but he could see a shaft of light beaming through the opening where they met. He frowned as he turned and forced himself to head in the opposite direction.
Takala couldn’t sleep. She felt wired, as if something inside her were about to detonate. The four walls of her hotel room grew smaller by the second. She paced past the end of her bed and knew if she didn’t get out of there she’d go stir crazy and do something stupid like knock on Striker’s door. No, she wouldn’t do that. But she could take a walk.
Takala dressed in black boots, jeans, and a black s
weater that had a pink collar and cuffs. She put on her silver bracelets and a silver necklace that consisted of seven silver waterfalls, defense against vampires who got overly friendly. She made sure her revolver rode securely inside her boot, grabbed her leather jacket, and left.
She paused at Striker’s door only for a second, then forced her legs into action. She knew Striker’s agents were probably watching her. So what? She wasn’t breaking any rules. She promptly turned, found the stairs and ran down them, reaching the first floor in moments.
White and peach marble columns and tiles glistened throughout the lobby. Huge palms grew out of the center of strategically placed round seats. Gold filigree and plaster seemed to cling to everything: the walls, the ceiling, around doorways. Art deco at its finest. The lobby was deserted, only a clerk doing a Sudoku puzzle at the desk. He didn’t even look up as she passed him and stepped through the revolving door.
Icy air whipped around her as she walked out into the night. Streetlamps burned along the sidewalks. Tall buildings around her cast looming dark shadows over everything, making her feel small, closed in. She quickened her pace, walking past maids and hotel workers hurrying in for the next shift change.
One lap around the block would do. She’d seen a little all-night coffee shop on the corner, Café de la Nuit. Maybe she’d get some hot chocolate and a snack. The carbs might settle her down, make her sleepy.
That’s when someone grabbed her from behind.
Chapter 19
Takala dipped low, both fists punching.
Her attacker caught her hands mid-swing.
She cringed because it was like hitting iron, every joint and bone in her hands aching from the contact.
Her assailant jerked her around like she was a dog on a leash, and she stared into Striker’s face. His furious scowl could have peeled off wallpaper.
“What are you doing out here?” He released her hands. His anger rode the air like a thundercloud. His eyes shot fire at her.
It was the first time she’d seen him drop his guard and show blatant hostility. She rubbed her fingers and retreated a step. “I could ask you the same thing,” she tossed back at him.
“Answer me. Why were you out here?” He was all but showing fangs now.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Do you know how dangerous it is for you to be out here? Your blood is probably on the tongues of shifters and vampires all over the city.”
“I’m not afraid of vampires, okay?”
“Your blood has never been used as bait.”
“Like I told you, I can take care of myself. And if I want to walk, I’ll walk.”
One moment she was standing, the next her body was weightless and she was in his arms, and the world whirled by so fast her temples ached and she felt as if her body might burst.
Then suddenly the world stopped scrambling and the force of gravity weighed her down again.
She opened her eyes. They were high above the city. Lights gleamed in every direction and bounced off metal and glass. They stood near a railing at the very top of a building. She stared down at the tourist boats floating along the Seine, and her blood ran cold.
“Oh, no! We’re on the Eiffel Tower?” He hadn’t set her down, and her arms tightened around his neck.
“I wanted you to face your fears.” The anger had left him, and his voice was almost compassionate.
His face was inches from hers, his breath as velvety as silk, caressing her face. Desire stirred in her belly. “Not fears, really. Just a nightmare I can’t get out of my head. But you know that already.”
“I have respected your privacy, Takala. I haven’t invaded your mind after you asked me not to. What about it terrified you so much?”
“To be honest, you did.” She recalled the nightmare, Lilly warning her not to trust him, taking his hand, the push, and then she was falling.
“Are you afraid now?”
Those four words held so much meaning. She knew what he was asking. Something dangerous gnawed below them, something different in the cadence of his voice and how he asked it. She sensed a fluid ruthless edge about him that turned her insides to gelatin. And she knew she didn’t have a chance against what was happening between them.
“Yes,” she said, surprised that she had so easily admitted fear. She had always been the strong one among her sisters, never showing alarm, forging ahead in blind fearlessness, using her brawn to see her through or get her into trouble. She could never admit she was afraid, even when she was. But this was different, an omission, a resolve to give in to whatever he had in mind. She had fought it long enough.
He tightened his grip around her, and she was glad his strong arms held her tight. She knew it was a false feeling of security, but somehow, right now, at this very moment in his arms, she strangely had never felt safer or closer to a man in her life. It was as if she understood him, expected nothing from him, unlike the others, especially Akando. This was visceral, pure desire that transcended both of them. She knew she could no more stop it than she could stop the moon from rising. He wasn’t glamouring her; this was just soul-deep physical attraction.
“Let’s go inside.” He set her gently down, his face lingering overlong near her cheek and neck, so close the roughness of his five o’clock shadow brushed her cheek.
Her skin felt ultra sensitive from his nearness, and a shudder slid down her neck, her chest. She felt her nipples instantly harden.
He stepped toward the door. Abruptly she felt the loss of his closeness and had to stop her hands from reaching for him as she watched him pivot, delve into his pocket and pull out an ID card. One swipe and he let her inside.
The glow from Paris’s lights shined in through the windows and carved out long shadows over the room. She could make out desks, computers, boxy equipment with telemetry displays and dials that looked like the cockpit of an airplane. A lounge area was near the door with a couch and a table that held a coffeepot, Styrofoam cups, sugar and cream packets. They were alone in this office, and it was like they were on the top of the world, the only two people alive.
“What is this place?”
“Not in your dream?”
“No.”
“A weather station,” he said. “A lab for experimentation is right below us. During World War II these offices were used as an observation tower.”
“I had no idea there was a weather station or lab here. And the restaurants?”
“Below us.”
“So you have your own passkey to this place.”
“You could say that. We have friends in France.” He stood right behind her, gently drawing his fingertips through her hair.
Tingles rippled down her neck, and she leaned into him. He clasped his arm around her waist, and they swayed there for a moment. She felt him lay his cheek against her hair and breathe her in. And she was lost in the feel of him. The room, the tower, him: it all seemed so surreal.
She turned in his arms and faced him, the angular planes of his handsome face shadowed, his eyes deep black hollows.
“Are you still afraid?” His voice was soft, hesitant.
Darkness quilted the room, covered them, held back the world. There was no Lilly, or Akando, or Raithe, just the two of them. The only thing she could feel or think about was his desire pulling her into him, drawing her with an unstoppable force.
“No…yes,” she admitted.
“I would never hurt you,” he said in a soul-stealing drawl.
She pulled back enough to look into his shadowy face. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” she said, remembering all her failed attempts at romance. The irony struck her. Trusting a vampire to keep his word. Why not? It was no different than trusting Akando. They both had testosterone issues.
“My word is my honor.”
“Then I’m not afraid.” She splayed her fingers against his chest. She felt his heart pounding through his shirt and wool jacket, a racing supernatural beat, the vibrations as strong as a ja
ckhammer’s. “I can feel your heart,” she whispered, her lips brushing the stubble on his cheek.
“What is it saying?” His fingers glided down her hair, then lower along the curve of her back. Now cupping her bottom, easing her hips closer to his erection.
She slid her hand inside his jacket, the elegant expensive satin lining brushing the back of her hand. She found his heart and let her palm rest there, sandwiched between his shirt and jacket. She felt the pounding intensify.
“Hmm, it’s saying it belongs to me…tonight,” she added, her lips barely touching his, feathering over them in a teasing sensual way. It was just the two of them, bound by the darkness and shadows.
“Then it is yours to command.” He covered that last hairsbreadth separating their mouths and kissed her.
His lips were soft, not hard and unresponsive as when he had glamoured her on the plane and that unexpected ravishing in the strip joint and outside Laeyar’s den. She held his full desire, and she felt the fire of it sizzle down to her toes.
His tongue slid into her mouth, slowly exploring the dark recesses, twining and teasing her own tongue. She grew vaguely aware of being waltzed over to the couch, while he pulled off her jacket, her sweater, and popped off her bra with one expert twist of his fingers.
She slid her hands up inside his coat, felt him tense and inhale. Then she pushed his jacket over his shoulders. It hit the floor with a plop. She worked his tie loose and tossed it over her shoulder, then the buttons on his shirt.
Her torso was bare, and her jeans down around her ankles by the time he eased her onto the couch. He pulled off her boots. The one with her gun hidden inside hit the floor with a loud thump. Then he grasped her calves, his fingers trailing down her leg.
His hands left a hot path of prickles that shot up to her groin.
Almost agonizingly slowly he pulled off the rest of her clothes. He paused and drew back, looking at her body as if he’d found gold in a stream.
“You are so beautiful,” he drawled. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this? I’ve tried to hold back….”
