‘‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’’ She injected disdain into her voice, but the sensation of him against her made her nipples ache and her body reach for him.
She was so easy. And he knew it, because he was a wolf.
Great. Just great.
‘‘No, you’re not supposed to be flattered. But you should be flattered that I still say I love you. I may have proposed to another woman, but I never told another woman that.’’ In direct contrast with his irritated tone, his hand moved with slow sensuality up her spine, and his fingers whispered lovingly to the soft hair at the base of her skull.
‘‘I wouldn’t be flattered even if you meant it.’’
She saw the rush of blood to his cheeks, the narrowing of his eyes. She’d finally made him lose his temper.
‘‘What about me? All you want from me is safety.’’
‘‘What?’’ Why did he think that? ‘‘That’s not true!’’
‘‘First you thought you wanted some dream man, some noble cavalier to rescue you from your loneliness. Then when I turned into a wolf, when you found the icon, when you realized we were fighting for lives and our souls, you wanted to run away— until I proved I could protect you. Then you were willing enough to be at my side.’’
‘‘How can you say that?’’ She tried to elbow her way free.
He kept her close. ‘‘Finally, when I told you I loved you, you were afraid to believe me. Fine. Don’t believe me. Tell yourself my kind of love isn’t the kind you want. Just let me do what I do so well, and protect you from harm.’’
He was bitter, he was annoyed, and worse—parts of what he said were true.
It was the true parts that made her angrier than ever. ‘‘All right. I’ll move in with you—until the danger’s passed, however long that takes. But I won’t marry a man like you.’’
‘‘What do you mean, a man like me?’’ Jasha’s face grew cool.
‘‘A man who arranges things as he likes. A man who doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his secrets.’’
‘‘Am I the only one with secrets?’’
She stiffened under his direct stare.
‘‘That’s what I thought.’’ His hand still caressed the nape of her neck, but her impression had changed. Somehow, the gesture was less tender and more blatantly sexual. ‘‘And you do know my secrets.’’
‘‘If I knew your secrets, maybe this move wouldn’t have taken me by surprise. Maybe I would have—’’
‘‘Volunteered to move in with me?’’ He found nerve endings that sent sensation to the hollows of her elbows and knees, to the sensitive places at the tops of her thighs. ‘‘If I thought there was a chance you would display that kind of sense, I certainly would have had you arrange the move. After all, that’s the kind of work a secretary is supposed to do.’’
His calm insult caught her by surprise, and cut her to the quick. He never called her a secretary, he always thought well of her, and he always insisted that she turn the rote phone calls over to the receptionist.
Her upsurge of loathing surprised her more. ‘‘I have never hated anyone like I hate you.’’ Right now she meant it—but perhaps she really hated only herself.
Jasha walked to his office door. He shut it. Locked it. And when he turned around, the blaze in his eyes made her take a step back. ‘‘Since you hate me forever anyway, I might as well prove how very much you also love me.’’
He paced toward her, and just the way he walked, with the slow, long stride of a predator, made her realize his intentions, and her heartbeat accelerate. ‘‘Jasha, no.’’
‘‘Why not? What are you going to do?’’ As he circled her, he stripped off his tie. ‘‘Despise me? Hate me? Refuse to marry me? You already do all those things. So what have I got to lose?’’
She thought she felt him brush her earlobe, but when she swung around, he stood off to the side, taking his belt out of the belt loops. ‘‘Don’t take off your clothes,’’ she said. ‘‘Nothing’s going to happen. ’’
She might as well have saved her breath, for he asked, ‘‘Do you know how very much I love to watch you walk in this skirt? But of course you do. You wore it to tease me.’’
She caught his scent on her left side, felt a wisp of his breath on her ear, but when she turned, he paced behind her. ‘‘No, I didn’t.’’
He laughed in disbelief. ‘‘You’ve worn skirts every day this week, just to get even with me for keeping you at my house. Don’t you think I recognize a good strategy when I see one? And it worked, too. You’ve got such a long stride, and the slit on this skirt—’’
She jumped as he ran his hand up her thigh.
‘‘The slit on this skirt shows such a beautiful expanse of pale creamy leg. But I have to wonder— what kind of panties are you wearing?’’ His voice dropped to a husky whisper. ‘‘Bikini? Thong? A sensible cotton number, perhaps?’’
Her mouth grew dry, and she shifted her legs, suddenly uncomfortable, needy, and far, far too bare in her thong.
‘‘Do you know what has been my fantasy this week?’’
‘‘I don’t care.’’ She so cared.
‘‘The weight bench. I could see you straddling it, bent over, and facing away from me, while I—’’ He caught her around the waist, moving so quickly she didn’t have time to scream. He propelled her backward—the movement was almost like dancing— until the bench struck the backs of her knees and she overbalanced.
He caught her on the way down, spun her away from him, and lifted her skirt at the same time.
She found herself standing at the end of the bench, bent from the waist, her hands gripping the sides.
His fantasy was almost reality.
He groaned with delight, and stroked the bare globes of her rear. ‘‘Ann. My God. You’re going to kill me.’’
‘‘Only if I can get my hands on you.’’ But her eyes closed as he moved the thin string of her thong aside and caressed her, his fingers exploring her clit, then slipping inside her, exploring her depths, then sliding slowly up her crack.
Her hands gripped the bench so hard her fingers turned white.
My God. It was broad daylight; her legs were spread; he could see colors and textures, all the contrasts that made her a woman. Worse, he didn’t wait for permission to do whatever he liked. He truly was the autocrat she called him—and all she wanted to do was tell him to hurry up.
He pulled the thong down, off, and that was a step in the right direction. He urged her forward, making her spread her legs to straddle the weight bench.
She heard his pants drop. Then he stepped up behind her, as close as he could get. He pressed himself against her, and used his dick to stroke her.
The skin was silky hot, the size large and rigid, and she wanted him to stop messing around and . . . ‘‘I hate you,’’ she whispered again.
‘‘And?’’
She rubbed herself against him like a wolf in heat. ‘‘And . . . Jasha, I need you now.’’
‘‘That’s it. That’s exactly what I wanted.’’
His quiet exultation made her want to turn on him, shriek at him.
But she couldn’t, for he thrust himself inside her.
The head, the ridges of his cock rubbed her inside and out. The sudden intrusion made her tighten almost to orgasm. As he pulled back, her body released him only reluctantly, and he groaned.
Then he thrust again, and thrust again, and she met each lunge with an eagerness that demanded its due.
She wanted to come. She needed to come. She craved that sweet release, those moments when nothing but pure pleasure filled her mind, and she and Jasha were one.
Yet climax remained tantalizingly out of reach. No matter how hard she tried . . . she bent down farther, put her cheek to the weight bench, and gave herself up to the motions, the sounds, the scents.
‘‘Please,’’ she heard someone say. ‘‘Please.’’ She recognized her own voice, chanting its plea.
But before she could recl
aim her dignity, his hand slid between them. His fingers softly bit at her clitoris, and climax jolted through her, bringing her alive and wild with the glory. She shuddered and spasmed, and when she could contain it no more, she screamed with a pleasure that couldn’t be contained.
And he was there with her. He moved her hips back and forth as he pounded into her. Waves of scent rolled off him: pleasure, release, satisfaction, and yet more pleasure.
She truly did hate him, but he was right—she loved him, too, and if she wasn’t careful, he would absorb her. For as she came to rest, she realized—she could identify his moods by the shifts in his scents.
When had that happened? When had he marked her so completely?
He slid out of her, and she crumpled onto the bench, gathering all her strength, and all her courage.
‘‘Ann.’’ He grasped her waist and helped her sit up, helped her tuck her skirt under her. Sitting beside her, he took her hand. ‘‘We can’t go on like this. We’ve got to talk. We need honesty between us.’’
‘‘I was thinking exactly the same thing.’’ She risked a glance at him.
He looked tired, worried, and satisfied, all at once.
She thought perhaps she looked the same.
He didn’t understand why she held him away, and everything between them had become twisted, complicated, confused. She had to tell him the truth.
For the first time ever, she would tell someone— no, show someone—her secret.
‘‘I didn’t refuse to marry you just because your mother said we ought to,’’ she said. ‘‘I had reasons of my own.’’
‘‘I would never marry to fulfill my family’s expectations. If I was willing to do that, I would have been married at twenty. But please—I’m fascinated to hear the reasons of your own.’’
She brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.
‘‘Do you know what my first memory is? I was tiny, three or four, and I was in the bathtub. One of the volunteers was bathing me, and all of a sudden, she screamed and pointed, and screamed again.’’ In a move so bold she didn’t recognize herself, she stood and walked to the west window, where the sun beamed into his office. ‘‘I still remember the words she screamed. Fiend. Monster. I didn’t know what those words meant, but I remembered them so clearly.’’ Ann still remembered how terrified she had been. ‘‘The girl was so frightened, she ran away. That was the first time I knew.’’
‘‘Ann, I’ve seen you naked,’’ he said patiently. ‘‘There is nothing monstrous about you.’’
‘‘You haven’t seen this.’’ Ann turned her back to Jasha, lifted her skirt, and pointed to the mark. ‘‘I’ve made sure of it.’’
He strolled over, curious, yet sure of himself and what he knew. ‘‘I saw it just now, when we made love. It’s a tattoo. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I
had other, more pressing matters that held my attention. ’’ He grinned at her, a sexy quirk of the lips that made her glad she’d taken the opportunity for one last chance in his arms.
‘‘Look closer.’’ With her thumb, she rubbed the makeup off the mark that made her special. That made her different from everyone else.
He leaned forward to scrutinize her, and she could tell—he was on the verge of making a risqué joke.
Then he observed the outline, the shape, and maybe, maybe he saw the thing that set her apart from the rest of humanity.
His eyes grew wide, and he took a compulsive step back. ‘‘What . . . ? How . . . ?’’
‘‘I’ve had it since the time I was born. Sister Mary Magdalene didn’t like to talk about it, not even with me, but she told me a few things. She told me she thought that mark was probably the reason my parents abandoned me in the Dumpster like I was garbage. She told me I could never tell anyone about it, or the bad people would come and take me away.’’
‘‘That’s ridiculous.’’ But he bent again to look. His finger hovered over the top . . . yet he didn’t dare touch the thing that marked her.
‘‘No, it’s not. The bad people did come.’’
His gaze jerked to her face. ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Sister Catherine was a young nun. A nice, young woman who worried about me. She told me I was the most solemn nine-year-old she’d ever met. So she told me jokes. She hugged me. She tried to teach me to play.’’ Ann lowered her skirt and turned to face him. ‘‘One evening, she wanted me to sneak out, leave my homework, so we could go and swing on the swings. She was so pretty and so smart, and I wanted to be just like her . . . so I went. And we swung. And the bad people came. . . .’’ Ann found herself staring at the square of sunshine on the carpet, and the old anguish, the anguish she’d tried to put behind her, rose from the depths of her soul. ‘‘They came for me. When she realized they wanted to steal me, she told me to run, and she fought them for me. She died for me, right before my eyes.’’
‘‘Ann.’’ Jasha put his arms around her, but gingerly, as if she were injured . . . or as if he was afraid of her. ‘‘That wasn’t your fault.’’
‘‘That’s not what Sister Mary Magdalene said.’’ The vision of Sister Catherine’s broken body and her crimson blood burned Ann’s memory like a brand.
‘‘I don’t like your Sister Mary Magdalene.’’
‘‘She’s not lovable, but she did tell me the truth. She told me the bad people wanted me, to use me and my mark. She told me . . . she told me that God had a service for me to perform, and to pray that I was strong enough to perform it.’’ Ann remembered the years of obedience fueled by fear, and a slow fury unfurled in her gut.
All her life she’d done what she was told.
First she’d lived in an orphanage with no chance of adoption—because of her mysterious mark.
Then she’d taken a secretarial course, moved on to a job at Wilder Wines, and willingly placed herself in Jasha’s service, working her way up to the position of his executive assistant—because she loved him.
She had always, always, lived under rules passed down to her by a higher power, making sacrifices to give others peace of mind, and she’d done it without a thought to any kind of return.
And she’d received what she anticipated, because no one had ever bothered to try to make her happy. At least, not without an ulterior motive.
Her eyes narrowed on Jasha.
She was done trying to please him. She was done being a martyr—for anyone or anything.
She pulled out of his embrace. ‘‘If the service God wants me to perform includes marriage to you, I won’t do it. I won’t sacrifice myself for God or for Sister Mary Magdalene or for your family or for you.’’
‘‘You love me.’’
He wasn’t a quitter, not even when he knew the truth; she’d say that for him. ‘‘Yes, I do, but there’s one thing our adventure has taught me—I deserve the same kind of total loyalty and total love I’m capable of giving.’’
‘‘Why do you think I won’t give you that?’’
‘‘Not won’t, Jasha—can’t.’’ Ann was very sure of herself. ‘‘You can’t because you’re balanced on a knife’s edge, throwing all your heart and mind into breaking the deal with the devil. And because we both know Sister Mary Magdalene might be wrong.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ His face and body grew still as if expecting a blow.
‘‘I mean you don’t dare marry a woman who might unwittingly be in league with the devil.’’ She caught her jacket off the chair and flounced toward the door.
‘‘Ann, don’t run too far.’’
She turned back and looked at him.
‘‘Because don’t you know? In the wild, wolves mate for life.’’ And his eyes glowed red.
Chapter 33
Driven by anger, concern, and confusion, Jasha sought answers the only way he knew how— by going right to the source. Picking up the phone, he dialed the Convent of the Blessed Virgin in Los Angeles. ‘‘I’d like to speak to Sister Mary Magdalene. ’’
&n
bsp; The person on the other end, a severe female with an attitude that clearly declared he was impertinent, said, ‘‘The mother superior is busy. May I take a message?’’
‘‘It’s about the orphan Ann Smith.’’
The voice changed, became terse and concerned. ‘‘I’ll see if she’ll speak with you.’’
He wasn’t surprised when the nun came to the phone right away.
‘‘Is Ann well?’’ Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice was thin, old, and deep-South Southern.
‘‘She’s fine.’’ And he was furious. ‘‘Do you really care?’’
A long pause followed his terse query. ‘‘I do care. Every day since Ann graduated from high school and left, I’ve prayed for her well-being.’’
‘‘And for her wicked soul?’’
‘‘There is nothing wicked about Ann’s soul,’’ the sister said sharply. ‘‘She’s kind and sensitive, and let me tell you, mister, I’ve taught a lot of children, and she’s one of the few I can say that about.’’
He’d just had his knuckles figuratively rapped with a ruler.
‘‘Mr. Wilder, you’re Ann’s employer, is that right?’’
‘‘She’s told you about me.’’ So Ann was still in contact with the convent.
‘‘So you are Ann’s employer.’’ The nun wanted her questions answered, and clearly she had the experience to get her own way.
‘‘I am.’’
‘‘Then listen to me, sir. My concern is now and always has been that through her own kindness and innocence, she’ll fall in with someone who will want to use her for their own evil purposes. And, sir, if you are one of those, I warn you, an angry old nun is a formidable foe. Now, why are you calling?’’
Okay. Maybe he’d read the situation wrong. ‘‘I’m calling because today I found out about the mark on Ann, and I want to know—’’
‘‘You’re her husband?’’
‘‘I am trying to be, but she won’t agree.’’ She wouldn’t agree for a lot of reasons, but now he’d realized everything in Ann’s life went back to that damned mark.
The hesitation on the other end of the line was long and thoughtful.
He scrambled for the right words to convince her of his good intentions, and the best he could come up with was, ‘‘Sister. I love her.’’
Scent of Darkness Page 25
