by Joy Nash
His smile was one of pure masculine pride. And mischief. Locking his gaze with hers,he moved again,inside her.
She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but the movement awakened her sated body. Desire blossomed anew. Goddess. Her eyes fluttered closed as Kalen renewed his rhythm, pushing her, claiming her, devastating her.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “One more time.”
She gasped as he abruptly drove deep. She felt his seed spurt, felt his large body shudder. Her inner muscles spasmed. A hot, deep orgasm spread like lava through her veins.
Dimly, she felt him gather her in his arms. He cradled her body against his chest as he carried her up the stairs and down the hall leading to his bedroom.
He laid her down on his bed and pulled her into his arms.
Leanna returned to the circle after the show, alone.
The sex energy raised by the joining of Sidhe and human earlier in the night still vibrated in the standing stones. Leanna herself had enjoyed two particularly adventurous young men, art students on holiday from the university in Edinburgh. Intent on sating her anger over Kalen’s rejection, she’d probably drained their souls a little more than she should have. They’d barely had the strength to climb back into Dougal’s cart.
Now, standing alone on the stage, she called her power and pressed the tip of her iron blade into the fleshy base of her palm. Blood seeped from the wound and dripped onto the plank stage, hissing. Kalen might believe he had the power to refuse his role in her plan, but Leanna had an ally greater than he knew. Culsu would not fail her.
The top of Leanna’s skull felt as though it had lifted into the air. She closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to stop. She couldn’t go on spilling fresh blood—not if she wanted to remain conscious. Her fingers trembled as she unstoppered the precious crystal vial.
She tipped the vial. The death rune and the perverted Ouroborous formed. She spoke Culsu’s name; the demon appeared a scant second later in a puff of oily smoke and brimstone.
Culsu looked around, frowning. “You are alone. Where is Kalen?”
“There’s a problem,” Leanna said. “He’s been lured from my bed. By a human witch.”
Culsu inspected her long, red fingernails. “And your Sidhe power is no match for that of a mere human?”
Leanna’s face heated. “The witch’s magic is less than nothing. But Kalen is protecting her. You know how powerful he is. But not as powerful as you are. You can fix this. I want the witch dead.”
The demon’s lips curved. “For death, I require payment in advance.”
“As you wish.”
“Strip.”
Leanna’s fingers were clumsy as she obeyed, unhooking her corset and stepping out of her thong. Her shoes and stockings followed.
“On your knees.”
Instantly, Leanna obeyed.
Culsu’s velvet dress disappeared. Naked, she sauntered forward. She stopped when her sex was a scant inch from Leanna’s lips.
“Please me well, whore, and I will give you what you crave.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Christine slept, sprawled amid satin and silk.
Kalen did not.
He stood with his back to the window, watching her. She lay on her side, the inky shadow of her lashes a whispered silhouette on her cheeks. Her skin was rosy and damp from his lovemaking. Her magnificent hair lay tousled and tangled on his pillow. She’d been with him nearly a week now—plenty of time for Kalen to become used to her. But he had not. Each time he looked at Christine, it was as if he were seeing her for the first time.
She was so heartbreakingly young. So pure and untainted by death magic. And when he gazed upon her, he began to remember what it had felt like to be young. It was a sweet, aching sensation in his chest, and he knew he would do whatever was necessary to keep it.
The silken bedsheet rode low on her hips, leaving her upper body exposed. The slope of one breast and the pink of one nipple were bared to his view.
The scene seeped into his consciousness, distilled into its essence. Formed in his mind as a new creation. He saw every brushstroke, every drop of color. Every nuance, every tone, every wish. Pure emotion, rendered in light, spilled on canvas.
It was all there, mere child’s play, for the taking.
He worked quickly, mixing colors with urgent intensity. He laid the lines in pencil, then rendered the background in a soft eddy of blue and violet. Christine’s skin was soft peach and pink, with dusky rose nipples. Her hair was glossy dark, with a touch of pure cerulean at her left temple. The heavy locks cascaded in an elegant veil over her shoulders.
The oils dried quickly, aided by his magic. The work of days or weeks done in a mere hour. When it was done, he stepped back and viewed his creation. The air expelled slowly from his lungs.
Titian himself could not have done better.
The joy began as a small thing, a drop of forgotten gladness on his soul. As he gazed at the painting, inspecting it for flaws, finding none, his happiness expanded, flowing up and outward until his soul was bursting with it.
He walked softly to the bed and looked down at her. This was Christine’s doing…if he was to be reborn, after being less than a man for so long, it was by her magic. Her generosity. Her love. He could not lose that. He would not. His heart clenched. She looked so vulnerable. So human. Her mortality was a fragile thing. It would be so until he brought her to Annwyn and claimed the boon Lir and Niniane, the King and Queen of the Otherworld, had promised him all those centuries ago.
Then Christine, like Kalen, would live forever.
Christine woke slowly, keeping her eyes tightly closed even though she knew she was no longer asleep. The mattress was so soft, like a cloud. The pleasant ache between her legs reminded her of Kalen and his lovemaking. It felt so good to give him everything, and if the small, strident voice in the back of her mind told her to beware, it was easy enough to ignore when Kalen smiled at her. She’d lost count of the days she’d spent in his arms, all but drowning in his sensuality. He kissed her awake every morning, moving atop her and entering her with the sunrise. The days had been filled with more lovemaking, interspersed with discussions of Kalen’s art collection and meals serviced by Pearl’s incredible cooking. The nights…Christine blushed. Apparently, three thousand years of lovemaking taught a man quite a lot about how to please a woman.
Even after having loved him so many times, she wanted to make love to him again. And never let him go.
Slowly, on that realization, her smile faded. Was she falling in love with him? That hadn’t been part of the plan. This couldn’t go on—what was she doing wasting time in Kalen’s bed when she was supposed to be gaining his cooperation in the battle against Tain and Kehksut? Even if there wasn’t a war to fight, a life with Kalen was out of the question. She was human and would age. He was Immortal and would not.
She cracked one eyelid, squinting against the sun streaming through the open window. Another clear dawn, in a country currently plagued with rain. Maybe it was a good omen. More likely, it was due to Kalen’s magic.
A shaft of sunlight painted a bright path across the bed—a bed she had all to herself. Disappointment tightened her throat. Then she looked across the room and found that she wasn’t alone after all. Kalen lounged in a deep armchair,a satin dressing robe carelessly thrown over his shoulders,the sash left untied. She could see his erection from where she lay.
“Good morning,” he said, standing.
Christine blushed and pulled the sheet, which she’d kicked completely off, up over her breasts. He might be ready, but now that he stood before her completely aroused, suddenly she wasn’t sure if she was.
“Good morning.” She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and slid off the bed, winding the sheet around her body as she stood. There was a vague odor of turpentine in the air. Looking past Kalen, she saw an old-fashioned wooden easel. He said nothing as she approached it, circling so she could view the large canvas propped on
it.
When she saw the painting, she gasped.
It was a masterpiece of light and shadow, brilliant colors glowing as if illuminated from within. It had all the sweetness of Raphael, all the drama of Caravaggio, all the sensuality of Titian. And she was the subject. Nude, heartbreakingly beautiful, she cast a spell of pure wanton sexuality. Christine was stunned. She hardly recognized herself. Was this how Kalen saw her?
“I…I didn’t know you painted.”
A faint red stain appeared high on Kalen’s cheekbones. “Yes.”
“You’re…incredible. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He busied himself with his brushes and pots. Christine regarded him curiously. It was the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss for words.
“Hardly a true artist,” he said finally. “I’m an Immortal. I wasn’t created for this.”
“But you’ve done it just the same.”
He picked up the canvas and tilted it into the light. “Do you really think it’s good?”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d snatched it from the Louvre or the Uffizzi.”
She thought his hands trembled as he placed it back on the easel. “Perhaps. But…it’s you, Christine.”
She blushed. “I can see that.”
“I wasn’t talking about the subject. I mean…my inspiration. It’s you.”
“I…um…thank you.”
For a moment, she thought he’d say more, but in the end, he just shook his head, as if clearing it, and opened his arms to her. She went to him at once.
His touch wasn’t demanding. His arms around her were tender. For the first time, their joined magic wasn’t incendiary. It was just…comforting. Christine buried her face in the lapel of his robe. Tears gathered behind her eyelids.
After all he’d done to her body—touching and licking and suckling, driving her to the edge of reason—it was this simple embrace that undid her. A chasm of need opened up inside her, a void left by Shaun’s betrayal. She’d loved Shaun, and he’d tried to sell her to a demon. But Kalen…she sensed he’d never betray her.
His lips brushed her hair. With a deep sigh,she wrapped her arms around his waist. This couldn’t last. Soon,she would have to broach the subject of Tain again. But not just yet.
He kissed her forehead and drew back to smile down at her. “You were wonderful last night.”
“So were you.”
She laid her cheek against his broad chest,atop the satin smoothness of his dressing gown. He smelled of salt and earth,and slightly of sweat. His erection prodded her stomach,but she sensed no urgency from him. No tightening of his arms,no searing kisses. Only peace,wrapping her in a cocoon of well-being. A part of her wished she could stay in his arms forever,just holding him and being held. But thoughts of her mission pricked her conscience. She had no right to feel such peace when the world was going to hell.
Somehow,though,it seemed obscene to interrupt this interlude with talk of Tain and Kehksut. She looked up to find Kalen’s steady gaze upon her. “Could…I ask a favor?”
His expression turned wary. “If this has anything to do with Adrian—”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not that. Not now. It’s something a lot simpler. Could I borrow some of your art materials? Paper and charcoal? And maybe…do you have any watercolors?”
“Of course. You may use my studio.”
“You have a studio?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Yes,and it’s yours to use whenever you want. In fact,I’m glad you asked—you can work there while I’m gone. Have Pearl show you where it is.”
Gone? “You’re leaving again?”
“I have business in Edinburgh. It won’t take long. And much as I’d like to return you to that bed…” His eyes drifted to the piece of furniture in question. “I haven’t the time.” His arms fell away. Reluctantly, she stepped back.
Striding to his wardrobe, he dressed in a modern pair of crisply pressed charcoal trousers. A white dress shirt, shot through with gray pinstripes, came next. He pulled on socks and stepped into polished dress shoes.
Christine moved to the window. Sunlight streamed from the sky, and to the west the full moon was sinking toward the horizon. The North Sea was an intense blue studded with whitecaps. Death and destruction seemed very far away. There was a flash of pink and green on the water. Some kind of fish? She pressed her forehead against the windowpane, trying to catch a better view.
“Oh my gods!” she exclaimed. “A mermaid! No…more than one. And a merman, too.”
Kalen joined her at the window, knotting a red silk tie. “Yes. There’s quite a large school of them in these waters.”
Another of the enchanting creatures surfaced. “I thought they preferred warmer seas.”
Kalen slanted her a glance. “So do humans.”
It took a moment for her to grasp his meaning. “Humans drove them from their home?”
He stepped away. “Merfolk are peaceful. Humans are not.”
A deep sense of shame suffused her. Kalen was right—humans were as agile at perpetuating evil as death creatures were. She’d been laying the blame for the world’s problems completely at Tain’s door, but that was hardly fair. The human race shared the guilt for its troubles.
Not all humans were greedy and violent. Many followed the Light and practiced only life magic. But not enough, it seemed. Suddenly, she felt trapped in Kalen’s castle. The sea was so close…she needed to touch it, renew herself with its magic. Think of what to do next. How to convince Kalen to join the fight.
“I need to get out,” she told Kalen abruptly. “Now.”
He turned back to her, frowning.
“To the cliffs,” she clarified, turning back to peer out the window. She watched the merfolk frolicking,the green scales on their tails flashing like emeralds on the surf. “Or,even better,to a beach or dock,if you have one. Do you think the merfolk would talk to me,even though I’m human?”
“I’m sure they would, but the only beach on the island is treacherous. And I don’t have time to take you now.”
“I’ll be careful.”
The wardrobe door opened and closed. “Put it out of your mind. I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll take you down to the water then.”
His dismissive tone rankled. “So I’m just shut inside? Like a prisoner?”
His voice blistered with exasperation. “There are courtyards. You can walk in any one of them. Your safety is important to me.”
She turned around. “I’m tired of hearing about my—” The words evaporated in her throat the instant she caught sight of Kalen, completely dressed. For a moment all she could do was stare. She’d never seen him in modern business clothes, and he looked…delicious.
The suit jacket encasing his powerful torso and broad shoulders must have been tailor-made; it fit him to perfection. The crisp collar of his white shirt contrasted sharply with his olive skin—there was a hint of gold cuff links at his wrists. His necktie’s knot was a perfect Windsor and the hem of his smartly pressed trousers grazed his polished shoes. He held a slim briefcase. Only his long hair, brushed back but curling at his shoulders, looked familiar.
He exuded power…and money. More money than Christine could fathom, certainly more than she felt comfortable with. This was the man who had bought up the artistic heritage of Western civilization. He had to be a billionaire. Her head felt light. Next to that what was she? Nothing.
“Your business in Edinburgh,” she said weakly. “What is it? What is it you do for a living?” She hadn’t thought about it before,but it had to be something extremely lucrative.
He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m an art dealer.”
She nodded. “That makes sense. What do you sell—antiquities? The Renaissance and baroque pieces you don’t want to keep?”
“No.” His eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Actually, I buy and sell modern art.”
If he’d said he muck
ed out stables, she couldn’t have been more stunned. “Modern art? But you hate modern art! You called it modern garbage.”
His shoulders lifted in a smooth shrug. “I won’t have it in my home, no. But if some human whose ignorance is surpassed only by his wealth wants to throw millions at a painting that looks like a dog threw up on the carpet, who am I to deny him the pleasure?”
Christine felt a spurt of pure anger. “Just because you don’t understand modern art doesn’t mean it’s garbage. Abstractions and transformations aren’t child’s play. Sometimes the simplest compositions are the hardest to create.”
“A rationalization for the modern artist’s lack of classical training,” he scoffed.
“Picasso was classically trained. It was only after he’d rejected his training that he created his most magnificent masterpieces. Not one of which,” she added hotly, “you saw fit to steal!”
Kalen chuckled and tapped her on the nose. “You’re very sexy when you’re angry, do you know that?”
She swatted his hand away. “Don’t you dare patronize me.”
He stepped back, still fighting a smile. “My apologies.”
She eyed him. “So you deal in modern art. Do you have a gallery in Edinburgh?”
“Yes. It’s my newest.”
“But not the only one?”
“No. There are several others. In London, Paris, Prague, Madrid, Florence, and, of course, Rome. But then, I believe you’ve been to that one.”
Christine’s throat went suddenly dry. “You mean…deLinea?”
“Yes.”
“You’re il direttore,” Christine breathed.
Kalen glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. “Yes. We’ll talk about it later, if you’d like. Right now, I’m very late.”
He inclined his head. For three long seconds,he stood motionless,head bowed. Then a door in space winked open.
He stepped through it and was gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Christine gaped. A moment before, Kalen had been standing in front of her, as handsome and frustrating as ever. The next instant he’d just been…gone. She stumbled to the closest chair and sat down heavily. It was one thing—a very nauseating thing—to experience zapping in and out of space herself. It was something else again—frightening and a bit like a slap in the face—to watch it happen.
