by Nancy Gideon
She needed to be afraid, for in that fear came strength and wariness to guard against threats from all directions.
Even his.
He met her superior stare, letting his admiration shine through at first. Then gradually when she was relaxed and certain of her triumph, he dazzled her with the seductive power of what he was. So easy. She suspected nothing.
And that's how Quinton would defeat her.
Seditious charm overcame her barriers, a fog seeping up to envelop and quietly disorient in a haze of thick vampiric mastery. She had lost herself, without knowing how or where, to his will-devouring power.
The mocking curve of her mouth slackened to a malleable parting, inviting without knowledge or consequence anything he might offer. Her gaze grew limpid as he reduced her self-control to an eager reflection of his own. He touched her cheek, and she leaned into his palm, the gesture a blatant request for domination.
He wanted her. Had wanted her from the very first.
Unable to resist, he bent down, until her soft breath teased him beyond the capacity for reason or restraint.
It had been too long since he'd allowed himself to know love.
And he was dangerously close to falling into it again with the bold and beautiful Stacy Kimball.
Knowing the danger, still he plunged ahead.
She tasted of twilight fantasies and sweetened tea. He dipped inside to sample more deeply and was as lost as she. She made a quiet sound in the back of her throat, not of surrender but of sultry pleasure. Her hands came up to rest upon his shoulders, rubbing briefly, gliding together to lace through his dark hair. Pulling his head toward her.
Somewhere in that sensual tangle of tongues and wills and wishes, the unnatural magic became a very human desire. And the lesson he'd thought to press upon her was dealt back at him with a bittersweet cruelty.
He had no defense, either.
Once he'd stopped manipulating her with his irresistible control, he was sure she would draw back in outraged dismay and disgust.
She didn't.
Her arms enfolded him, close then closer still, until he was kneeling between the spread of her knees, bracing himself for balance against the cushioned back of the couch. She kissed like a woman who enjoyed her own sexuality and didn't mind if her partner knew it. A somewhat disconcerting revelation to a man raised with courtly manners and wives from repressed centuries past. There was nothing he needed to show her. She was skilled far beyond the techniques gleaned from his own passionate encounters.
But if there was nothing more he could teach her about pleasure, perhaps, he realized as she finally eased away, there was much he could show her about love.
Confusion darkened her naked gaze, cloaking it like a maiden who belatedly discovered her immodesty. Though obviously knowledgeable in carnal matters, she seemed oddly shy when faced with her own emotions. Those feelings shone ripe and vulnerable in her gaze, edged with fear, not of what he was, but who he was—a man capable of breaching her flirtatious barriers. Louis recognized and understood that caution, having practiced it for most of his five hundred years. During his two momentary lapses, where tender sentiment had overcame safety, he had found paradise and pain. Looking upon the woman before him, he wasn't sure if he was ready to endure that paradoxical combination again. At least, not until his humanity was restored.
How unkind of him to woo her as a monster when he had nothing he could give except unrealized promises.
"Forgive me,” he murmured softly, rocking back on his heels. “That was unfair of me."
Stacy scrambled for a saving clarity of mind over heart. She adopted a manner both gruff and defensive to rebuild the walls her brief lapse of judgement had allowed to crumble. Even as she tasted him upon her kiss-swollen lips, he watched the anxiety and denial darkening her stare.
What upset her so? There was no fear of him there in that anguished gaze. Rather a tempered refusal to recognize her own longings, her own weakness where emotion was concerned. She was afraid of herself.
"You proved your point.” Her voice was raspy with self-castigation. “I'm not invulnerable. But I'll do better now that you've brought those failings to my attention."
Failings.
Stacy saw him smile wryly at her choice of words. Had it been his plan to embarrass as well as instruct her as to her weaknesses? Forewarned was forearmed. She would keep the barriers high and unbreachable about her.
Especially now that she knew there was more at stake than her profession or her life.
Louis Redman had become a serious threat to her vow of uninvolvement. Love ‘Em and Leave ‘Em Kimball. That was her credo, her mantra, her only protection. Until her work was successful and her reward was a normal life.
In that, she and Louis were much alike.
"I'm tired. You should go now."
He stood without argument and stepped back to break the magnetic pull between them. “I will return tomorrow, and we shall decide upon a plan. You are not safe. That must be our first priority."
Her answering smile quirked with a hard-bitten cynicism. “We can't have anything happening to me before my work is complete, now can we?"
The stoic blank returned to his glorious features, resisting any display of inner sentiments. “No, we cannot. Good night, Stacy Kimball. Sleep well."
"You can't leave by the front door. I think my apartment building is being watched. Perhaps it would be best if you—"
But her concern was for nothing. She'd glanced toward the door then back ... at empty space.
Louis was already gone.
She uttered a jagged little laugh and sagged back against the cushions. Her fingertips moved along her parted lips, finding her mouth soft and damp with residual passion. And it had been passion sparking between them. Any other term would pale as a description. And she'd enjoyed the taking, the giving of that desperate yearning. When she realized what she was doing, she jerked her hand away.
What was she contemplating?
The man was a monster who lived off the vitality of others. A parasite, a disease. Certainly not a suitor whose attention she should covet and secretly encourage.
Her only commitment should be to her work. Any other distraction could be only that, a fleeting and impersonal sidebar. And because she feared Louis Redman was already much more than that, she needed to be extra vigilant against the temptation to let emotion rule.
Think about work. Think about goals.
When considering them, she remembered a particularly unpleasant piece of business she'd meant to do before news of Alex's death had shaken her off course.
She needed confirmation for something she already intuited. Knowing wouldn't change anything, but it would push up her time table—time being the only variable she couldn't control.
Rolling up her sleeve, she took a blood sample from her inner elbow.
What she did wasn't an exact determination. The conditions were far from perfect, and her home equipment was far too inferior. But it would give a rough verification of what she already believed to be true.
Placing cells from her sample onto a glass slide, she then exposed it to a chemical stain. After the dye had a chance to work under the cover slip, she secured the glass under the clips of her not inexpensive home microscope.
She stared at the telltale black spots until they began to swim before her eyes.
Then she wept.
It wasn't a long, violently cathartic cry. It wasn't like the first time, when she'd been so surprised, so shocked, so denying. She'd expected what she ultimately saw. The news, though bad, hadn't caught her unprepared. It simply battered her already bruised spirit with a looming shadow of defeat.
A single droplet fell upon the curve of her bosom, a small, bright red dot quickly joined by another, until the pattern spread at an alarming rate.
Stacy grabbed up a wad of tissues, holding them to her nose, discarding them when they were saturated and replacing them with another compress. Finally, the flow slowe
d then stopped. Mechanically, she washed her face and rinsed at the stain on her sweater that would probably never come clean. Such stains never went completely away.
Even as emotionally prepared as she was for the news, she needed a way to fill the gaping void certainty had bored within her soul. She needed to reach out and touch a friend.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed. The brusque annoyance in Charlie Sisson's voice was just the bracer she needed.
"Hey, lover.” She smiled so he wouldn't hear the sorrow she was hiding. “Did I catch you in the middle of something?"
"A perforated stomach, if you must know."
"Sounds fun."
"Wish you were here. Is there something you wanted, or is this just a social call? I've got about a million miles of intestines to get through this evening."
"How appetizing.” Then she grew serious, conquering her self-pity by shifting her concern to another. “Charlie, has anyone been by asking questions about that supposed jumper ... or about me?"
His answer was more than a little disturbing.
"Some Fed-types were sniffing around earlier, but I blew them off. Said I'd meet them for breakfast after my shift's over. Why? Trouble?"
"Nothing I want you to involve yourself in, okay? Don't do anything heroic or stupid like that."
"Me?"
He sounded incredulous, but she knew better. There was a streak of superhero a mile wide in Charlie Sisson.
And that's what she was afraid of.
"Charlie, I'm not kidding around. I know how you like to meddle in things."
"You've got the wrong guy. I'm Mister Conscientious Objector. I just cut ‘em and gut ‘em. I don't comment on ‘em."
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the phone in relief. “See that you stick to that motto. Stay out of this one, Charlie. I'd hate to think of you stretched out on one of your own slabs."
"Gotcha."
She ended the connection and felt suddenly so alone. She hadn't told him even though he was one of the few who knew her history. She'd learned from experience that such pain was better kept private. There was no comfort anyone could give her, only awkward condolences.
She'd done what she could to protect Charlie and Louis.
Now, how was she going to protect herself?
* * * *
Frank Cobb frowned as he played back the tape. He'd thought it might just be a glitch in his headphones that prevented him from hearing any other voice but Stacy's. But the recording was equally bewildering.
He could have sworn she was speaking, not into the phone, but to someone in the room with her.
So why was her voice the only one audible?
Who had been in the apartment with her?
Redman was his first and best guess. But she'd never used his name aloud nor made any reference that could be traced to the elusive zillionaire. And without proof, he had nothing. Instinct wouldn't sway Forrester or his employers, not with so much at stake.
At least he had a name. Quinton Alexander. Find Alexander and hopefully more pieces would fall into place in the puzzling whole. The sooner he figured it out, the sooner he could move on to something more in tune with his expertise. Being a Peeping Tom didn't fit into his training regimen. Usually, he'd be complaining up a storm about the inactivity and the waste of his talents. But he'd said nothing because he intuited that there was more behind Stacy Kimball's little games of deception than scientific espionage. He couldn't buy Forrester's claim that she was selling Harper's secrets. It was a cover up, but covering what, exactly?
C'mon, Doc. Throw me a bone here.
He would replace the bug. Faulty equipment. That's what it was.
What else could explain it?
He settled back into the negligible comfort of the Company's panel van, fitting the earphones over his head to listen while the recording tapes whirred in their tireless vigil. In another hour, he'd be replaced and could return briefly to his tiny boarding house room where he would shower and collapse for a couple of hours of intense sleep. He didn't have to take a turn at eavesdropping. He'd volunteered. A usually boring and slightly unsavory job, but on this case, he'd wanted to stick close to the subject. His superiors called it an obsession with duty.
He feared it was becoming another kind of obsession altogether.
Then he heard her crying.
He'd been through private wars and private hells, but this one woman's tears almost undid him. His first instinct was to rush inside, to offer his help, to offer his shoulder, to offer his life if it would stem the tide of those noble tears.
Crazy impulses.
He was getting soft. Maybe it was time to step back and remove himself from her case before his objectivity was compromised.
Then there was silence on the other end of the headphones, and he was able to restore his much-needed detachment.
He repressed a smile as he listened to the doc talking with the coroner on her cell. Smart girl, staying away from her compromised phone lines. But not quite clever enough to divert suspicion away from herself.
She was involved up to her pretty, steel-blue eyes.
Stacy Kimball was building a damning case against herself, and he was collecting the evidence to convict her. That was his job.
And tonight, it stunk.
Chapter Fifteen
"I brought bagels."
Stacy peered through unfocused eyes at Cobb and the sack he extended. She would have slammed the door in his wide awake face, but the wafting aroma of coffee curbed the urge.
"What are you doing here, Cobb?"
"I'm your taxi, remember?"
"But that's not for another thirty minutes."
"So I brought breakfast and brilliant over-the-table conversation to perk you up. Do I get to come in?"
She considered snatching the coffee and leaving him in the hall, but manners learned once upon a time prevailed upon her better behavior. One did not shun Greeks bearing gifts.
Or was that the proper lesson one learned belatedly from sly Trojans?
"Make yourself at home, Frank. I'll be out of the shower in five."
Cobb stepped in with a Cheshire smile. What trouble could he get into that he'd not already caused?
Besides, he'd brought coffee.
Reaching into the bag to pull out a piping hot paper cup, she carried it with her into the bathroom. When she emerged five minutes and twenty seconds later, Cobb was seated at her table putting the finishing touches of blueberry cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel half. He looked innocent.
She didn't believe it for a second.
She took the bagel from his hand and, after a bite, drawled, “Did you have time to finish searching my drawers?"
His smile was pure wickedness. “I thought I'd wait until you were in them. The job's much more rewarding then, don't you think?"
"You just keep thinking and wishing, Cobb."
He sighed heavily. “The story of my life."
"Pure fiction."
"Better than science fiction,” he replied, “which is the direction yours seems to be taking lately."
"Your heartfelt concern for my well being brings out all the best in me.” She made a gagging gesture with her forefinger. She'd started to turn away when he gripped her other wrist. It wasn't a particularly gentle hold.
"I am concerned, Doc. You're involved in stuff that can turn nasty overnight. I don't want to be the one—"
"To what?” She jerked free of him. “Run me down on the sidewalk like you probably did Alex Andrews? That kind of concern I can live a lot longer without!” She tossed her half eaten bagel into the bag without giving him a chance to respond. It's not like he would confess to anything anyway. “Let's go. I don't want to be late and get the warden worrying."
* * * *
There was no such thing as an exact science. The one thing Stacy enjoyed about it was its constant state of flux. It was the ultimate mystery, the final frontier for exploration. It could be frustratingly coy with its
answers, or open its arms wide to offer the opportunities of a lifetime.
Her lifetime, at least, in this case.
In the matter of a single day, after years of roadblocks and dead ends, her research showed her the possibility of decades to come.
No longer having the luxury of following infinite avenues, Stacy was forced to narrow her study into a single path, a single case, a single trial. Once she'd mastered the secrets of one, she could start expanding them to suit all.
She could hardly contain her excitement as she peered through the eyepiece, watching as the gene sample from Louis Redman overcame and altered the diseased specimen to match its properties. Healthy properties. She'd done the test three times and each arrived at the same results.
Close. So close she could taste it.
So close she could almost feel the regeneration going on inside herself.
But was it just a temporary fix or reparation done on a genetic level? That was her next step. It was so hard to walk slowly, in baby increments, when she felt the need to run, to rush forward.
Slow and steady. Slow and steady wins the race.
"Is that what you're working on?"
The sound of Phyllis Starke's voice triggered a hostile takeover of her mood. Purposefully, Stacy turned the knob a notch too tight and was rewarded by the snap of the slide she'd been viewing.
"Oh, damn. Phyl, you shouldn't sneak up on me like that. Now I've got to waste all of tomorrow duplicating these results all over again."
She unclipped the damaged slide and, before her supervisor could prevent it, destroyed the smears upon it. Starke's thunderous expression told of her angry suspicion that the act had been intentional. But she couldn't prove anything. And as long as she couldn't, Stacy was relatively safe.
"At least your notes are still intact."
Stacy smiled up at the glowering woman. “Nothing new to add until I finish with this experiment. You know how slowly things can move at this stage."
Starke's glare narrowed. “Yes, I do. I know exactly how these things work."
A threat. Starke wouldn't be easy to fool or stall.
