by Meg Allison
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He shot a strained smile at her. “Sure. Fine.”
Still, the tension grew tighter and tighter until she felt as if the very air would snap. The light turned green and he stepped on the gas pedal, sending the tires into a screeching rush of rubber against asphalt. The sound seemed to jerk him back to the present for he lifted his foot and smiled ruefully.
“Sorry,” he said to no one in particular. She wondered if he even remembered she was there and what they were doing.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He frowned. “I’m taking you home so we can be alone.” He glanced at her and then back at the road. “Did you change your mind?”
“No…” she hesitated. “But I thought maybe you had. You seem a little distracted suddenly.”
“Oh…” his finger-tapping slowed, “No, I’m sorry. I guess the adrenaline is fading but I’m still keyed-up after our excitement.”
“I understand.” But she didn’t. He was lying now and she could tell. There was something else going on here. Something he wasn’t willing to share. She decided not to push the matter. He would tell her when he was ready. Until then, she’d be patient.
They pulled up in front of the tall iron gates that enclosed her home. He parked and cut the motor, then turned to look at her.
“Do you still want me to come in?” he asked softly. “Or have you come to your senses and changed your mind?”
She could see his face clearly, but the deep shadows of night hid the emotions in his eyes. She let her senses reach out to him again as she tried to figure out what was going through his mind. How she wished she could read thoughts as well as feelings.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind,” she admitted finally. “I’m not sure I’m ready for anything serious, but I don’t want you to leave. Not yet. I like being with you.”
His mouth turned up at one corner and her belly fluttered. She looked away, common sense battling with her own need. She barely registered her surroundings as he got out of the car, shut the door and walked around to her side. Her insides felt like they had been replaced with quivering jelly. Her palms began to sweat. Then he held her door open and gazed down at her, a soft smile of invitation on his lips.
She slid out of the car and stood beside him. The world seemed to change in that moment. Sight and sounds around them faded into a blur of nonsense as she stared into his obsidian eyes. She swallowed, suddenly afraid and excited all at once. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
“We won’t do anything you’re not ready for,” he assured as he took her hand in his. “I just don’t want to leave you. I…I need to be near you for a while longer.”
He lifted his other hand and touched the hair that hung over her shoulder. He stared at it as he ran his fingers through the strands in a gentle caress. Breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t move—didn’t dare speak as he gazed at her with such hunger it made her ache.
“Beautiful…” he murmured, then looked into her eyes. “We’ve only just met. Why do I feel so connected to you, Samantha?”
She shook her head slightly, afraid any movement, any sound would break the spell between them. “I don’t know. But I feel the same way.”
They walked towards the gate, arm in arm. Down the garden path they lingered for a moment beneath a towering oak. He smelled of leather and ink and some fresh, manly scent that underscored the rest. She let it wash over her, fill her as she stared up into his dark almond eyes. Then he pulled her close and kissed her. Their first true kiss outside the realm of dreams. His lips were soft, gentle…the sweetest touch between new lovers. Then something ignited between them and he became more demanding. His hands spanned her back and anchored her body to his.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, demanding entrance, which she quickly granted. She sank into him, liquid and supple within his warmth. All thought suspended by the taste and touch of the man who had captured her. Captivity could be a wonderful thing.
He wanted her. She could feel it in the press of his erection on her belly. He needed her. She knew, in that moment, that she needed him even more.
Then he pulled back, both breathing heavily. The darkness beneath the oak hid their passion from the world…but it also hid his expression from her. Her own emotions were too confused, too chaotic for her to decipher his, so she didn’t even try. He took her by the hand and led her the length of the garden path and to her front door. He continued to touch and caress her as she fought to unlock the door, hands shaking.
Once the key fit and the bolts slid open, he followed her into the dim hallway, shutting the door behind them. Then he reached for her again and pulled her into his arms. With the lack of light, every sensual touch, every kiss filled her. Engulfed her, until touch and taste were all she had left.
Then he pulled away. She stood, eyes closed, and felt her body sway. His hands on her shoulders were all that kept her from falling.
“Wait…” he panted. “I’m sorry…We need to slow this down.”
She blinked as she tried to focus on the words. Then her vision seemed to clear. The fire burning in her body shot straight to her face. She took a step backward.
“Yes, you’re right. Slow is better. We don’t want to…to mess things up.” She took another step back and found her knees would hold her after all. Barely. She cleared her throat. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “Sounds good. But just water or a soda—I need to keep my head clear.”
“Okay,” she reached around the doorway on his left and flicked on the light switch. Three small lamps blazed to life, setting the room in a comfortable glow. “Here’s the living room, if you want to make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back. I just need to change first and then I'll grab a couple of sodas from the fridge.”
“No problem,” he said. “Take your time.”
“You can put on some music if you’d like,” she offered as she backed away, suddenly ill at ease like teenager with her first crush. When he turned to enter the other room, she all but ran down the hall and up the stairs.
God, what was she doing? If he hadn’t pulled away, she would have let him take her right there in the hall. Her face warmed.
Damn. She was in deep trouble with this man. Deep, deep trouble.
* * ‡ * *
He wandered around the living room for a few minutes, unable to sit or stand still with the energy that coursed through his blood. It had been only hours since his last drawing, but he felt that need again--the urgent desire to pick up a pencil and let his hand move unbidden over paper.
He hated the feeling. It was too damn overpowering, like an addiction from which he’d never escape. How could he? Drawing was his career…his life’s blood. Writer’s needed to write…musicians needed to play…and he had to draw. Every waking moment was filled with it. Even during the monotonous meetings at the design firm, he’d find himself doodling across the legal pad. The backs of envelopes and paper napkins; from receipts to train schedules, nothing was safe from his artistic Tourette’s. Nothing.
He fought the urge and glanced around the room for a diversion. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with both hard and paper back volumes. A rather dated stereo system sat on one shelf, nestled between a myriad of reading material like an expensive bookend. He noticed a CD rack on the shelf below and he examined the disk titles, trying to decide what would best set the mood between them. If he could even figure out what that mood should be.
He smiled. She had a very eclectic range of music from Broadway show tunes to country, several collections of Chopin, Bach and modern jazz. His grin broadened when he realized she must have every Michael Buble CD ever made. He slipped one out of its case and into the system, then hit the play button. He promptly turned the volume down to a more comfortable level. She liked her music eclectic and loud, apparently.
A brief glance at the books surrounding him showed she had a much more s
treamlined taste when it came to literature. While much of it was modern, even the shelf of classics showed the beautiful Samantha's penchant for romance. He frowned. He’d never read a romance novel, but if the cover models were any indication, it wouldn’t be easy for the average man to live up to the female fantasies contained within.
“Here we are…”
He turned at the sound of her voice and promptly had his breath taken away. She stood before him, two glasses of something golden colored in her hands. Her body was wrapped in a black silk robe. A slight bit of lace accented her cleavage where the thin garment gaped open. His hand shook as he reached for the glass. He turned from her and took a long drink of the fizzy liquid.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded and sat on the wide gray sofa, placing the glass on a low wood table that spanned the length. “I, yes, I’m fine. Sit down for a minute. Let’s talk.”
She frowned slightly and he wondered where on earth they had gotten their signals so crossed? He thought they had decided to take this slow; to get to know each other before leaping into bed. But that outfit… He glanced at her and away again as the blood began to thrum through his veins and head south.
No, this was not a “getting to know you” outfit, it was a “jumping your bones” getup.
He swallowed another gulp of ginger-ale and almost choked. It went down hard and fast. So was he if he didn’t set things straight between them. Now.
“Sam, you know I want you,” he began. “But we can’t let our desires get the best of us. Not now. There’s too much at stake here—too many other people in the way, and these drawings. The murders...” He looked at her then and lost what little train of thought he had.
She stared at him for a silent minute. “What are you talking about?”
He frowned. “It’s just that I thought we were clear on this…despite the electric kisses and the obvious attraction between us.”
“Um…yes. I understand that.” She used the same voice his mother did whenever she thought he was being a bit thick-headed. It didn’t sit well under the circumstances. As a matter of fact, he found it extremely irritating.
“Then why the outfit?” he demanded as he waved a hand at the black silk.
Her frown deepened. “My outfit?” She glanced down, her expression sincerely confused. “Just what am I supposed to wear to bed? I told you I was going to change into something comfortable and this happens to be it. I thought we’d have a drink, talk a little—maybe kiss a little more—and then you’d go home.”
“We’re not going to bed together,” he insisted rather loudly as he rose to his feet.
She stood beside him, hands on hips, chest out, eyes glittering. He swallowed.
“Yes, Nathan, I understand that we are not going to have sex tonight. There, is that clear enough for both of us?”
“Then what the hell are you wearing that for?”
“This is what I normally sleep in, alone,” she stressed the last word. “I’m sorry, but my sackcloth is at the cleaners, and I haven't worn flannel since I was a toddler.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you wear that kind of sexy stuff every night.”
“You are a freaking nut; do you know that?” She shook her head, eyes blazing with such anger that he was momentarily amazed bolts of lightning didn’t shoot from their depths. She turned then and stomped to the front door, jerking it wide open. Cool air drifted in and slapped him out of his haze.
“Maybe you should just leave now,” she said. “I think we’re both very tired and have had a long, emotional day. This is only going to get worse if you stay any longer.”
Confusion skittered beneath his anger. The cooling breeze seemed to pull the fight out of him in slow increments until he realized just how irrational he was acting. God. What the hell was wrong with him? He cleared his throat.
“You really wear that to bed? All the time?”
She sighed. “Yes. I like pretty things. I like silk and lace. I wear them for me. Not anyone else—not for any man's approval.”
He nodded slowly, dumbly. “I just made a complete ass of myself. Again.”
“Yes. Yes, you did.”
Nathan sighed and thrust both hands through his hair. “Samantha, I—”
“If I had planned to seduce you,” she interjected. “I would have left the robe upstairs. Better yet, I would have just come down here in a towel or stark naked, although I think the latter is a bit gauche.”
He looked at her and their gazes locked. She was still angry, but no longer seething. Maybe, just maybe he hadn't screwed up everything.
“Shit, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me,” he admitted as he dropped onto the sofa. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t think. I can’t sleep and I can barely work. Everything is so screwed up.” He dropped his head into his hands. “It’s like I’m on a ride at the fair, and it keeps going faster and faster. I really feel like I’m losing it. I told you I drew another one—the night we met, after I went home. I couldn’t stop it, any of it. And then Adam came by my office this morning…they found her. The girl I drew. He took me to the crime scene,” the memories flashed through his mind, “It was horrible, Sam. I’ve never seen anyone like that—not in reality.”
He heard the door click shut and felt the sofa shift as she sat beside him. “Your visions—they really control you, don’t they?”
“Yes,” he glanced at her, “It’s getting worse. I can’t stop them. I can’t control myself when they come—I used to be able to do that. I used to push them away or at least remain aware of what was happening. This scares the hell out of me. One moment I’m perfectly fine, and then I wake up hours later with this horrible headache and the image of a dead woman staring up at me. I guess it's starting to affect everything I do, even the way I think. I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to control the visions?” she asked. “The drawing episodes?”
“Of course, I do.”
“All right then—I told you I can help, and I will.” She reached out and took his hands in her own. “But you must understand that it won’t be easy, Nathan. This gift of yours is powerful. That kind of power is difficult to harness and direct, especially since you’ve been blocking it for so many years. It’s kind of like a dam being pummeled by a swelling river for years and years. One day, it weakens beyond the dam’s control and the cement starts to crack.”
“You think ignoring it has made it harder?”
“I know it has. It would have been much easier if someone had been able to teach you to control it when you were a child.” She rubbed the backs of his hands with her thumbs and a tingling sensation moved up and down his arms.
“Think of your gift as being the river,” she told him, “It’s a living thing full of energy, and power…full of life. But when you denied it or dammed it up, the only time it could escape was in small trickles and spurts. Time, stress…maybe the anger of this killer, I don’t know what, exactly, but something has cracked the dam you built up. Maybe the power of your gift has just become too strong to block.
“You’re connected to this killer, somehow. These murders may be what triggered your gift. You connected with the killer, and his actions are beating at the dam. I think it's only going to get more out of control if we don't do something about it.”
“Connected? Do you think I actually know him?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? You aren’t drawing muggings or random, unconnected events. You’re drawing a series of murders committed by the same man. Why? Why you? Why haven’t any of the other chosen in Savannah had visions or impressions of this particular killer?”
“God, Sam, that isn’t the most comforting thought. You’re saying I could know this lunatic.” He swallowed. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that knowledge? How do I act? Who do I trust?”
She laid her hand against his cheek and smiled softly. “You trust me and Adam and Liam. You trust you
rself, Nathan. You have a wonderful talent. Let me help you harness it. Let me teach you to be the one in control. We’ll win, I promise you that.”
The warmth of her skin washed over him. He turned his head and gently kissed her palm. When he looked into her eyes, all the fears he harbored were laid out before her. He didn’t care. He did trust. He had since the moment they met.
“How can you be so sure we’ll win?” he asked.
“We’re the good guys,” she said with a smile. “We always win.”
Chapter Seven
Nathan straightened his spine with a grimace. It didn’t matter how good his posture was, at the end of the day his back always ached. He looked down at the drawings of the knight battling a dragon and frowned. Something was missing. But what?
The longer he stared, the stronger the sensation became. Then the black lines of ink began to widen, running into one another like watercolors on canvas. He fought it for a moment—a moment when fear crept up his dry throat and threatened to cut off all oxygen.
“Let it come,” a voice whispered in his head.
Well, hell, he’d been through worse. It couldn’t possibly matter. Still the fear stayed with him as he slowly let go and the images came.
Ink bled from his pen as he lowered it to the page. His hand moved on its own accord. Gaze unfocused, Nathan gave free reign to the impulses in his hand. The scritch-scratch of the nib filled the silence. He was vaguely aware of his other hand lifting, shuffling the stack of paper to one side. He felt a faint flutter in the air around him as the page fell, unheeded to the floor. His vision blurred around the edges until only a small spot straight ahead still focused. Soon that faded, and his mind emptied of all conscious thought but for the sensations of the episode. Heat enveloped his body. His eyes burned. But he couldn’t stop—didn’t dare until it ended. Maybe this time he would draw something useful. Maybe this time he would reveal the killer’s face.
