by Rebecca York
His lips captured hers again, made a bolder foray that set up little currents along her nerve endings. When the kiss ended, she moved her head against his shoulder. She was drifting, letting things happen, letting her response build because he was right; it felt good.
But when he let his hand drift lower to softly trace the rounded swell of her breast to brush across the hardened tip, her eyes snapped open. She had been lulled into a state of self-indulgence, and she had let this go far beyond the bounds of what was right. “No.” The denial came out high and shaky.
He raised his head, his eyes questioning hers.
“We can’t do that,” she said, still unable to bring her voice under control.
“Why not?” he asked. “It feels good.” He searched her face. “You said people should do things that make them feel—happy.” The word came from his mouth haltingly, as though he were speaking a foreign language.
“Yes. But there are limits—conventions.” She felt trapped in a tangle of words.
“You didn’t like it?”
She had promised not to lie to him. She wouldn’t do it now. And she wouldn’t lie to herself. “I liked it,” she said in a whisper.
“Yes. I can see it. Your face has a wonderful color to it now. And your eyes are softer.”
She felt more blood rush to the surface of her skin.
“It feels bad to stop,” he said in a harsh voice. We should do more.”
She shook her head, trying to remember that she was supposed to be in control of this situation. “The man and woman you saw were—lovers.”
He thought about that for several seconds. “Lovers. That means mates?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
A look of comprehension dawned on his face. “They were going to join their bodies? Here?” He reached down and gestured toward the rigid flesh that swelled at the front of his sweatpants.
She nodded, trying not to feel the words in her center. “How do you know about that?”
“The On-Line Encyclopedia. I read it when I have a little time to relax. And if I want more information, I Google the subject.”
She made a strangled exclamation.
“And the men talk about—sex. They boast about the women they have. I would never talk about you. Never,” he added with strong conviction.
“I know.”
“In the locker room, you said we were friends. Can friends do it?” he asked.
Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head. It was growing dark around them, yet she saw his eyes close and his face contort in disappointment
God, how had all this happened so quickly she wondered, reeling from an onslaught of emotions. He might have no memories of social interaction, but she should have had more sense than to allow such intimacy.
“I must not touch you now,” he said before taking a step back and pressing his cheek against the rough bark of a tree.
He looked as if he ached in every bone and muscle of his body. She might have turned away to cut off her own feeling of regret. Instead, she stood staring at him, willing her heart rate to return to normal. It was difficult when she could still feel the imprint of his touch on her body. She had to think. Yet thinking had become almost impossible.
She was suddenly aware that the air had grown heavy with the smell of rain. Now leaves began to fly.
Before she could figure out what to say, a crack of lightning pierced the darkness.
“It is not safe here,” he said. “Lightning could strike one of the trees. We must go back.”
###
Frank Decorah paced to the window, then turned and started back across the room. Jonah watched him, sharing his frustration. For the past few days they’d been trying to figure out a way to get a message to Kathryn Kelley. So far nothing had panned out.
They had never gotten through to her on the phone. She had answered no letters. And every chatty E-mail message to her old address had been rejected.
In desperation, they’d tried putting a short, coded message inside the label of a bottle of face cream, which they’d mailed to her with a selection of cosmetics she’d supposedly ordered. The innocent-looking package had been returned—with the contents damaged.
“Did you manage to talk to William Emerson?” Jonah asked.
“Bill. He insists on Bill,” Frank replied. He spared me about sixty seconds. He wanted to know how I knew she was here.”
“And?”
“I said I’d been consulted. He didn’t seem so happy about that.”
“Could you get him to tell you what she’s doing?”
“No,” Frank answered bluntly. He was wishing that he’d caught her before she left Baltimore.
“Could we sneak into Stratford Creek with an assault team and bust her out of there?” Jonah asked. “Maybe werewolves could get in—like Brand did when Tory was being held at that bogus mental hospital.”
“That was a private facility with a minimum of guards. Raiding a top-secret U.S. government research facility is an invitation to a hanging—or a media circus of a trial.”
Jonah sighed. “I know you’re right.”
“What about Dr. Kolb?”
“Communications to the staff are very limited. I’m working on getting his phone number. Maybe I’ll be able to contact him.”
“He could tell Emerson you contacted him.”
Frank made a sound of frustration. “I know. Maybe one of my messages will get through to Kathryn.”
“She doesn’t even know who we are. Maybe she’ll think we’re not legit.”
“That’s a problem.”
###
Taking Kathryn’s hand, Hunter tugged her across the backyard.
Although a few drops of rain had already started to fall, she stopped him when they reached the sliding glass door. He had told her the rooms might be bugged. Since she had to assume he was right, they’d better finish their conversation before they went inside.
The wind whipped at her hair, and lightning split the sky again. The storm was moving closer, judging by the almost instant crack of the thunder.
Then, as if a sluice gate had opened, the rain began to fall. He looked at her questioningly.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm.
He turned his back to the storm, sheltering her between his body and the door. Yet his hands stayed at his sides. She wanted those arms around her, for warmth, for comfort. She was sure he wanted it, too. But she didn’t ask him to hold her, because she understood that touching him now was playing with fire.
The water pelted down as she leaned toward him and brought her mouth close to his ear. “Before we go in, I have to ask you a question. Does your . . . your training allow you to keep secrets?”
“My mission is a secret.”
“Yes. Right,” she said, remembering that she must speak with precision. “I mean, can you and I keep secrets together, just the two of us?”
Lightning knifed through the sky. She had to wait through the sound of the thunder before he answered, “The staff give me orders, and I must obey. You are on the staff. If you give me an order, it is the same.”
She clenched her fists. The more she heard about what they’d done to him, the more she wondered how she was going to cope with her anger. She didn’t want to give him orders, but in this case, it appeared to be necessary.
“All right,” she said. “I order you to keep the things that have passed between us tonight confidential.”
“I can do that.”
Again, she made herself think about what that meant—from his point of view. “I mean you should not tell anyone about the things we said tonight. Or that you and I are friends. Emerson and Swinton might not like it.”
He nodded slowly. “I will keep the things between the two of us private. What we said to each other—and the touching and kissing.”
She managed a neutral nod. “Good.”
“I do not want to share this with the others.” His hand turned upward. “Even . . . e
ven after they came with the tranquilizer gun, I wanted to believe you were my friend.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, unable to speak without a hitch in her voice. Perhaps he didn’t know it, but he had just given her what she wanted most—his trust. It took all her willpower not to reach for him again. Instead, she took one last breath of the cold night air and stepped through the doorway.
He followed her inside, and she stood for several seconds gathering her composure. When she turned, she saw the dark hair plastered to his head and the strong lines of his body through the clinging fabric of his sweat clothes. He had kept her dry, but he was soaked.
“You should take a shower. Put on dry clothes,” she said.
His lips quirked. She wanted to see him smile, but she contented herself with what he could give.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That I will not walk out of the bathroom naked.”
“So, I’ve already taught you something,” she said, keeping her tone light.
“Yes. You should shower, too.” He paused, thought for a moment. “You can go first.”
“I’m all right. I don’t need to. You protected me.”
“It felt like the right thing to do.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I do not always know the right thing.”
She reached to brush back a lock of wet hair that had fallen across his forehead. “You have good instincts.” She wanted to tell him that he might be subconsciously remembering things from his past. Yet she was aware that what she said now might be overheard. She hadn’t been hired to stir up his memories.
“What does that mean—good instincts?” he asked.
She drew her hand back. “It means you don’t necessarily know in advance, but when the situation presents itself, you do the right thing.”
“That sounds dangerous—not knowing in advance.” He stopped short, and she wondered if he was thinking about the way he’d reacted when she’d first come into the room.
“Trust your instincts,” she said.
To her surprise, he nodded. Then his face hardened. Pulling away from her, he knelt beside the bed. She watched as he began to search the floor. Reaching far under the bed, he pulled out an automatic pistol and held it up for her to see. The barrel was elongated, and she decided there must be a silencer attached, although she’d never seen one before except in a movie or on TV.
She’d forgotten he’d said his attacker had a gun. Now she reached out a hand to steady herself against the bureau as she wondered what they were going to do with the weapon.
He stood and reached for her free arm, holding her as he brought his lips close to her ear, the way she’d spoken outside. “My instincts tell me something . . . bad.”
She waited, feeling the hold on her arm tighten.
“I thought the man who came into the house wanted to kill me,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Perhaps I was mistaken about the target.”
She wasn’t following him. When she gave him a questioning look, he continued in a low, urgent voice. “In my training, we do scenarios.”
Still mystified, she shrugged elaborately and turned her palms up.
“Hypothetical situations,” he murmured, so low she could barely catch the words and had to lean toward his mouth. “They put me into circumstances where I must respond—to danger. Suppose the man who dropped the gun attacked me because he wanted to set up a scenario where he would escape, and I would be on guard against attack—and kill the next person who came into the room. You.”
Chapter Six
Kathryn felt an involuntary shiver go through her. He’d given her an elaborate theory—perhaps a combination of instinct, logic and recent experience, she thought with as much detachment as she could muster. She wanted to dismiss the idea as far-fetched. Instead, she absorbed it with a kind of sick awareness. He could be right.
She saw he was watching her, watching her reaction.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I could be wrong. I should not have said it.”
She shook her head. “You did the right thing. I need to understand the situation here.”
He gave her a tight nod. After a little hesitation, he slipped his arm around her shoulder and held her to his side. Once again, she needed his strength. When she relaxed against him, he touched her hair, and she allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes.
“You should leave,” he said; again, the words were barely audible.
Earlier he had told her to leave the medical center. Was he telling her it wasn’t a good idea for them to be sharing the guest cottage? “Leave the house?” she asked.
“Leave Stratford Creek, if they will let you.”
Her eyes blinked open. “What?”
“The situation here is—it is not safe for you. I heard McCourt and Winslow talking about you. Using words like. . . bitch. And . . . and worse than that. Beckton came in and told them to shut up. He was afraid someone might hear. They shut up, but they do not like having you interfering. They thought they were doing fine without you,” he continued in the same muffled voice.
She held on to his shoulder, brought her mouth close to his ear. “I’m not going to leave you.”
He turned his head, his eyes searching hers for confirmation, and she realized at that moment she had made a commitment.
Her lips skimmed his cheek, moved to his ear. “I mean it,” she whispered.
His arms tightened on her. It was both an awkward and an intimate way to have a conversation. Holding each other close. Moving their heads so that they took turns feeling the other’s warm breath against their ears.
“Why?” he asked, layers of questions in his lowered voice.
As she clung to him for support, she tried to think of what to say. “We are friends. Friends help each other.”
“Yes. I will protect you—if I can.”
Again, he had spoken a simple truth, without censoring his words, and she realized he was making his own commitment.
“Friends,” he murmured, as if savoring the idea. Yet there was a kind of sadness in his eyes, too. She was vividly aware that his lips were inches from hers, that he was staring at them with suppressed intensity. If she turned, if he turned, her breasts would be pressed against his chest and his mouth would touch hers. They both stood rigid as the moment stretched. Once again, she wondered if they were feeling the tug of a mythical past neither of them could remember. Or the future.
“I wish—” he said, his voice hoarse.
“What?”
Without answering, he took a step back, breaking the contact.
She needed his warmth. More than that, she desperately needed to continue the discussion. There was so much to say. And so much to find out. But they couldn’t go out into the pelting rain to talk. And they couldn’t go on like this, because the heat building between them would reach flash point. After taking a little breath, she gave him a steady look, then raised her voice for the benefit of whoever might be listening. “Right now, we’re going to get ready for supper.”
“Supper? What is the difference between supper and dinner?” he asked, taking his cue from her without missing a beat, his voice giving only a hint of his emotions.
She managed a strained laugh. “It’s a subtle distinction. Supper is usually a little less elaborate than dinner” Turning she made a quick exit from the room. After pulling on dry slacks and a light blue tee shirt, she went back to the kitchen. Unpacking the rest of the groceries gave her some sense of regaining control.
As she put the food away, she could hear Hunter showering. When she looked up a few minutes later, he had silently crossed the living room. He was dressed in dry jeans and another knit shirt, his hair still damp.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He stood very still, taking her in, and she suspected he’d been half thinking she would disappear while he was in the shower.
“I’m still here,” she said, watching the color in his cheeks deepen.
He gave a l
ittle nod, holding his gaze on her for several more seconds before taking in their surroundings. All at once he was like an archaeologist who finds himself in an ancient Roman city. He pondered the sofa and chairs, felt the fabric, flipped the television off and on and studied the shelves along one wall that held books and a strange assortment of knickknacks. After examining a mug with a picture of the Empire State Building, he picked up a small stuffed alligator, turning it one way and then the other in his hands.
“What is this for?” he asked.
“It might be a child’s toy. Or a souvenir from a trip.”
“But what is the use—the utility?”
“Some people like to stroke the fur. It makes them calm.”
He nodded, his finger brushing the green plush. “It feels good, like—” He stopped, his gaze skimming over her hair. “It should be red.”
She swallowed, dropped her gaze to the box of pasta in her hand.
He moved farther into the room, testing the weight of a metal candlestick, touching the raised flower pattern on a lamp base.
Everything here was normal, ordinary. Nothing special. Yet the cottage was a novelty in his limited experience. It seemed Dr. Kolb had made a shrewd proposal. Simply taking Hunter out of his sterile environment was expanding his horizons.
She had impulsively bought a bouquet of pink and white carnations and set them on the dining room table. Hunter studied them from several angles, touched the petals, bent closer.
“They feel soft, but they smell—spicy,” he said.
“Do you like the smell?”
He started to pull one out of the vase, then stopped. “Yes. Are they part of supper?”
She managed to keep her face impassive. “They’re just to make the table look pretty. Make the meal more festive.”
“Festive?”
“Nicer. It’s a gracious touch,” she amplified, wondering what he might make of the explanation.
He bent to smell them again. “On television, I have seen people living in houses like this. With flowers—and the other things.”
“Do you watch much television?”
“No. Colonel Emerson thinks it is a bad influence.”
“Why do you call him colonel?” she asked, casually.
