B00T3PMJTS EBOK

by Tracy Tappan

  “You, uh, startled me, is all,” she lied. He scared the unholy pants off her.

  His size went beyond anything she felt capable of dealing with. She was a woman of small stature, but being around him made her feel miniscule. He was like Popeye OD’d on spinach, minus the comic charm of the quirky sailor man. No corncob pipe protruded from his mouth, rather fangs, and instead of anchor tattoos on his arms, this giant was marked all over with swooping black teeth, a hideous array of them even surrounding his neck. She couldn’t get used to the sight of him, although—if she were going to quote her annoying sister—she hadn’t exactly tried, either.

  “Do you need help with that?” Nỵko pointed to the DVD machine. “Is it broken?”

  “Oh.” She hugged the machine closer to her chest.

  “I can fix it for you.” Nỵko speared a hand through his black hair, sending a ragged clump of it flopping forward onto his forehead. His hair stylist must be a lawnmower with the DTs.

  “Thanks, but… I was about to go down to the—”

  “They’ll only send you back to me.” He ascended one more stair, bringing himself up to her level, a mighty colossus looming over her, blocking out light and life. “I have all my tools right here in my room. It’ll just take a sec, no problem.” He reached out and eased the DVD player out of her arms.

  She immediately let go, not about to let him touch her breasts inadvertently. Or on purpose.

  He started down the hall.

  She dropped her eyes to the knife strapped to his hip. A waste of weight and space, that. Here was a man whose entire body was a weapon, from the incredible rack of shoulders stretching his T-shirt to near seam-splitting limits, down to his mountainous biceps, and thighs that were each as thick as her waist. Thicker, probably.

  Nỵko disappeared into Amsterdam.

  Should she follow him? She bit her bottom lip. He’d absconded with the DVD of her premiere performance as a prima ballerina—she’d brought an entire collection with her to show to Raymond Parthen—and she definitely wanted it back. She glanced around. She was alone, but noises were coming from Oslo and Vienna. She could scream if Nỵko tried anything. The cowlicked fellow had come to her rescue once, and he surely would again.

  She entered Nỵko’s room and stopped inside the door. Squinting, she—goodness. She’d never seen so many shelves. Every wall was covered with them, top to bottom, and there were even several shorter ones placed around here and there. More amazing, every shelf was weighted down with a staggering array of tools and other doo-dads related to the trade of handyman.

  A workman’s table, high and long, was stretched out in front of the longest line of shelves, directly across from the door, with three stools placed randomly around it, a couple of metal boxes on top. To the left, a super-sized bed was jammed into the corner. The bedspread was a shade of plain dark brown, as austere-looking as the lone lamp sitting on the single wooden nightstand and the picture-less walls. No frills around here. The room radiated as much unpretentious masculinity as its occupant.

  “I guess you are the fix-it guy around here,” she said.

  A smile touched the corner of Nỵko’s mouth. “What gave me away?” He picked up a screwdriver and peered at the back of the DVD set in front of him on the work table. “Single guy, no girlfriend. You can imagine how it is. I have to do something to keep from getting bored.”

  “Your job doesn’t do that?”

  “Job’s a job, hobby’s a hobby.” He concentrated on his task, twisting the screwdriver to take out one screw, then the next.

  Faith watched the ropes of muscles flexing along his forearm as he worked with the tool. She swallowed. “Why are you carrying a knife?”

  He carefully removed the plastic back of the DVD player. “The warriors are always armed. It’s only a precaution against trouble.” He flashed a glance at her. “Don’t let that scare you. You’re safe in Ţărână.”

  “I don’t feel scared here.” Bored and depressed, yes. She flitted a hand over her bun, found a hair pin sticking halfway out, and pressed it back in.

  Another small smile crossed his mouth. “Just scared of me.”

  “No.”

  He snorted softly.

  Guess he’d seen through that lie. “Well, a bit.”

  “Try to think of me as a Clydesdale.” He slipped a tray full of copper innards out of the back of the DVD player, like a sheet of cookies from an oven. “Those horses are huge, right? But the nicest animals on earth. They’re even called gentle giants. That’s me.”

  Gentle? The image rose again of Nỵko punching Pändra’s jaw off. Faith gripped the doorjamb, a cold shudder rippling down her spine.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your scent just changed.”

  Faith placed a hand to her breast and frowned. How…vulgar was it that he could tell that?

  Nỵko went back to his task, poking around the gizmo board. “Looks like you’ve blown a fuse,” he told her, as if she cared or understood.

  “I was remembering,” Faith said in a rush, “about you punching that woman in the face.”

  Nỵko’s hands froze momentarily. “I’m sorry you saw that.” Throat moving, he rummaged through a box of tiny thingies. “Even more sorry that I had to do it. I don’t hit women, Faith,” he added quietly. “I think women should be treated like…women need to be…they just shouldn’t ever be hit.”

  Faith watched Nỵko pick up one of the thingies and examine it. She would’ve expected someone of his size to have sausage-like fingers, but, although his hands were definitely large, his fingers were nimble. It didn’t seem to fit who he was, but then—to go back to her sister’s rebuke again—she had no idea who he was, did she? You’ve never even talked to the man. “Um, Kacie said you were doing your job, so, uh…I’m sure you were.”

  Nỵko tossed the thingy back in and continued his search. “Kacie’s real nice.”

  And I’m not? No. I’m the twin with bats in her belfry who can’t stop screaming and cowering around you.

  Nỵko picked up another thingy and snapped it into the gizmo board. He slipped the guts back in and screwed the plastic cover in place. “This ought to work now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll hook it up for you.” As Nỵko picked up the machine, he knocked a file folder off his work bench. “Let’s go back to your—” An 8x10 photo shot out of the folder, skidding across the floor and landing at Faith’s feet.

  It was a picture of a dead man, his bloody forehead scored with some kind of design. “Oh!”

  “Crud. Sorry.” Nỵko set down the DVD player and bent for the photo. “Here, let me—”

  She picked it up before he could and frowned at it. Something about the design on the corpse’s head was ringing a bell of familiarity. “What is this?”

  “A serial killer’s handiwork.” Nỵko grimaced. “I usually don’t have gross stuff like this around, but the special operations team I’ve been assigned to is working on catching this guy.” He reached for the photo again.

  She angled it away from him, focusing more intently on the mark. “It’s a quaternary knot.”

  “That’s right.” Nỵko gave her a curious look. “How did you know that?”

  “My Aunt Idyll, the woman who raised me and Kacie, is an expert in Celtic lore. She’s a shaman and Pagan priestess, a Tarot card reader, and an all-around nut. Esoteric symbols like this were lying around the house all of the time.” Faith gestured at the photo. “The quaternary is a symbol of protection.”

  Nỵko’s brows lifted. “Really? I think you need to tell Tonĩ about this, maybe get her in touch with your aunt, if you wouldn’t mind? We don’t know squat about this case and could use any and all help.”

  “Okay.” Why not? She had nothing else to do. “I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Parthen for today.”

  “Great.” He picked up her DVD machine again. “I’ll hook this up for you back in y
our bedroom.”

  Faith blinked. My bedroom?

  Chapter Twenty

  Up one floor in Seville, Faith opened her bedroom door and let Nỵko carry the DVD player inside.

  He went over to the television and attached its wires to the back of the set. After plugging it in, he pushed play. “Ah, here we go. Works.” Nỵko went down on one knee.

  The Faith onscreen was dressed in a white tutu and matching leotard embellished with silver sequins, an elegant cap of white feathers curved around her head. She was in the middle of a turn sequence, spinning one fouetté after another.

  She moved up next to Nỵko to observe his reaction to the dance, and an incredible warmth awoke inside her. He looked fascinated.

  “Why do you keep putting your foot down?” he asked.

  “Well, I can’t just go off like a top,” she answered, her voice warming with amusement. “I use the muscles in my legs to turn, so I have to keep dropping my foot and throwing out my other leg to maintain my momentum.”

  “You must be really strong, then.” He chuckled, his attention never leaving her image. “Look at you go!”

  The warmth inside her heated and spread. Her dancing had been complimented many times, but the way Nỵko had just said that made him sound so…proud of her.

  “What’s up with your head, too?” he asked.

  “That’s called spotting. I focus on one point across the room and keep my eyes coming back to it on every turn. It prevents dizziness.” On the screen, she came out of her last fouetté and went up en pointe in arabesque. “See? If I hadn’t been spotting, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. I would’ve toppled over.”

  He chuckled again. “I can see how that might be bad.”

  Her dance partner, Harold, moved into the picture, his hands wrapping her slim waist as he swept her into an overhead lift.

  Nỵko jutted his chin toward the TV, his eyes narrowing as he watched her and Harold flow across the stage. “That guy likes you.”

  “Oh, no, we’re merely acting. Dance is very sensual, but…”

  Nỵko glanced up at her, although he didn’t have to look up by much; even down on one knee he was almost as tall as she was standing.

  “Harold had a thing for my sister. So, sometimes I think he let that get the better of him onstage with me.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just one of the many oddities of being an identical twin.”

  A grunt was Nỵko’s reply. Returning his attention to the TV, he pointed to the right side of the screen, where the corps de ballet of other “swans” where gliding on stage. “Hey, there’s Kacie.”

  Faith watched the image of her twin, affection stirring in her chest. “Yes. She’s great, isn’t she?”

  Nỵko concentrated on Kacie. “You’re much better.”

  “Kacie’s good,” she defended.

  “I’m certainly no expert, but it seems like you put passion into every move you make, and Kacie kind of…doesn’t.” He switched back to Faith’s image as she danced in front of her Swan Lake entourage. “Dang,” he murmured. “You’re amazing.”

  She actually felt herself blush a little. What was it about the way Nỵko complimented her…? As if the words just fell from his lips, not spoken thought or flattery, but absolute truth.

  “Kacie told me about your injury.” Nỵko turned his head to look at her again. “You miss it, don’t you?”

  She laughed breathlessly. “Only every moment of every day and with every particle of my soul.”

  He ran his eyes over her, beginning at her collarbone and drifting down. His perusal was simply exploratory, ultimately landing clinically on her right knee, but the journey tugged strangely at her belly. “So your leg still hurts?”

  “It doesn’t while I’m standing here, but my knee pops and crackles whenever I dance without a brace.”

  “So wear a brace.”

  “I can’t wear it to perform. Not professionally. It would look funny on stage.”

  His mouth angled downward. “I guess it would.” He paused, his expression clouding. “Well, that sucks.”

  Three little words that completely encapsulated her situation. Faith’s smile felt soggy. After being so misunderstood by Kacie earlier, Nỵko’s understanding was…felt really good. “Yes,” she agreed. “Very much.” Maybe his eyes weren’t so disturbing, after all. A woman just needed to learn how to read beyond their blackness. “I didn’t know you were so interested in ballet.”

  Nỵko pushed stop on the DVD player. “I am now.”

  She blinked a couple of times. Her heart fluttered. That was…was…

  Nỵko stood up and stepped back. “I, personally, would love to see you dance someday, Faith, and I don’t give a hoot if you wear a brace.”

  She tried to smile again, but it wobbled away. “That’s the nicest…um, a very…”

  His expression softened. “You make me want to hug you. But I won’t,” he added hastily, putting up both hands. “Don’t worry.”

  She glanced down. People often accused dancers of being overly obsessed with appearances, the natural consequence of mirrors surrounding them 24/7. She’d always considered herself above such shallowness, yet she couldn’t deny that she’d outright rejected Nỵko based on his appearance. “It’s all right. I’m kind of getting used to you now.” She looked up. “I think you’re like…well, to quote Jessica Rabbit: you’re not bad. You’re just drawn that way.”

  Nỵko laughed. It was a deep, vibrant sound, and very pleasant—another contradiction, like his nimble fingers. “I like that better than Clydesdale, for sure.”

  She managed a small smile now.

  “So…” He sidestepped, suddenly seeming a little nervous. “I’m going to press my current advantage and ask you out to lunch right now. You know…to celebrate the rebirth of your DVD player.”

  She stilled. She was getting used to Nỵko, but…maybe too much. Entanglements weren’t a good idea when her ultimate goal was to leave this town. On the other side of matters, if she appeared to be giving this place a genuine chance, then she’d have more of a leg to stand on with her sister. I gave it some effort, like you said, Kacie, and I still hate it here. So can we go now?

  Nỵko dipped his hands into his pockets in response to her lengthy silence. “Oops.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Yes, I would love to have lunch with you, Nỵko. I just…can’t believe you want to go out with me, after the way I’ve treated you.”

  “I totally do.” She got her first glimpse of Nỵko’s fangs, he smiled so widely. “You smell like someone I’ll get along with real well.”

  She cast a look at him from beneath her lashes. What?

  “Do you want to hear a secret?” Faith asked Nỵko.

  Nỵko looked up from the menu and his eyes brightened. “Definitely.”

  They were seated in a small booth in Marissa’s Restaurant, the perfect choice for a date. It was a romantic place, lit mostly with candles, the tables and booths elegantly set with china and crystal, and discreetly positioned to provide privacy for diners. For either lunch or dinner, there was always a prix fixe menu, each day featuring a different cuisine. Today was French food—Marissa’s specialty, apparently—with lunch consisting of canapés, quiche, and profiterole pastries. The fare was a bit on the heavy side for Faith, but she’d splurge today and try a little taste of everything.

  She’d already gulped down half a wine spritzer and was feeling a bit reckless. Was that why she’d asked Nỵko such a question? No, she knew why. Two weeks spent barely out of her room—she’d even had a makeshift barre put in her room so she wouldn’t have to leave to practice—and her fight earlier with Kacie had left her feeling especially deprived of human contact. She didn’t want to spend this date talking about the weather…which would be even more boring than usual since there was no weather inside a cave.

  “I have a tattoo as well,” she said, glancing at the wedge of tattooed flesh exposed by Nỵko’s open shirt collar. Was there anywh
ere the man wasn’t marked?

  “Really?” Nỵko’s eyebrows hiked up. “Let me guess. It’s a tarantula.”

  She laughed. “It’s a ballet dancer, smart guy. She’s up on her tiptoes, arms down in first position, wearing a wide tutu—same as the ballerina in a little girl’s jewelry box.”

  “You’re totally blowing my image of you.” Smiling, Nỵko set his menu aside. “Where is she?”

  “High up on my right hip, where it’s easily covered by a leotard.”

  “Covered? Shucks, I was kind of hoping to see her the next time you went swimming at the Water Cliffs.”

  Faith chuckled, then glanced down. “Well…” She fiddled with her menu. “I’ve stopped liking it, anyway.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “When I got it, I imagined I’d be a ballet dancer forever, but now my injury has put it in my face that all dancers stop dancing. Eventually.”

  “Maybe you should get a brace added to the leg of your tattoo. Kind of an up yours to the industry.”

  A breath tumbled out of her. “Maybe.”

  The waitress dropped off the canapés, pointing to each as she described what was on the little rounds of bread. “Herb cheese, caviar, and fruit puree.” She took their menus and left.

  Nỵko leaned forward and peered down at the appetizer. “How about I leave the fish egg ones for you?” He slid an herb cheese canapé off the plate.

  Faith took a fruit one. “Do you regret it?” she asked him.

  “Regret what?”

  “Getting your tattoos?”

  Nỵko popped the canapé in his mouth and chewed. “They weren’t exactly my choice in the first place.”

  Faith sniffed her canapé. Smelled like mango. “How is that possible?”

  “My father forced them on me. They were supposed to make a man out of me, at least according to the old man, who happens to be a Pure-bred Om Rău and a full-blooded asshole.”

  “But…” Faith took a bite. Oh, delicious. “How do tattoos make a man out of you?” Maybe because they were scary teeth…?

  “My father put them on with tacks, so it hurt. A lot.”