by Anne Stuart
"You didn't answer me. How did you know my name?"
Something inside her snapped. Some wild, angry part that responded to the call of the wind, the call of her tightly bound heart. "Your sister did, you stupid creature!" she shouted at him. "Your sister told me you needed me, and like a fool I listened. After all, I haven't much experience with ghosts—how was I to know she was out of her mind? You don't need anyone but the damned ocean and your solitude."
"You're mad," he said, his voice rich with disbelief. "Or prone to sleepwalking and nightmares."
Enough was enough. She spun on her heel and started toward him, fury shaking her body. She came right up to him and poked him, hard, in the chest. "Nightmare indeed," she said. "It's been a nightmare and a half since I've been here, Jamie," she said bitterly. "Ghosts and murderers and you glooming around like a tortured poet. I'm tired of this place and I'm mortally tired of you." She was about to poke him again, hard, when he caught her hand in his, stopping her.
He was cold, wet. He smelled of rain, not the sea, and he needed to be warmed. "What murderers?" he asked in a suddenly patient voice.
"The Marvels. Your sister seems to believe Mrs. Marvel is an archcriminal."
She expected his usual contempt. Instead he was holding her hand, looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. "Don't call her that," he said in a hushed voice.
"Don't call Mrs. Marvel a murderer? I'm sure it's just part of my hallucinations…"
"Don't talk about my sister. She's not here, she's dead," he said.
"I know she's dead. But she's here. How else would I know your name?"
"I don't know," he said. His icy cold hands were starting to warm against her skin. He shut his eyes for a moment, his beautiful, extraordinary eyes. "Why are you here?" he asked her again. "Are you here to sleep with me?"
She wanted to pull her hand away from his, but she couldn't. He was holding it tightly, waiting for her answer. She knew what it should be. The answer she gave everyone—the clever, pat answer that neither wounded nor encouraged.
But this time she couldn't give it. This time she couldn't pull away. Every other time in her life, when it looked as if she was headed into bed with someone, she would stop, because it just didn't feel right.
And now, of all places, with all people, it felt right.
But she'd be damned before she'd admit it.
"I'm going back to my room," she said. Making no effort to extricate herself from his grasp.
"I want you, you know," he said, and he sounded half-surprised at himself. "I've wanted you since I first saw you, sitting like an idiot in that car perched halfway over the cliffs. I watch you when you aren't looking. I dream about you, long, lush, erotic dreams. I think about what your body would look like. Feel like. Taste like."
Heat flooded her, and she fought it, fought the drugging pleasure of his words. "Anyone would look good to a hermit," she said, tugging at her hand. "Believe me, you'd be vastly disappointed with reality."
"I don't spend my entire life here, you know. I go out, to Boston, to New York, to Dublin. I flirt with beautiful women, and occasionally I sleep with them. I'm not a desperate man."
She looked up at him. "Aren't you?" she whispered.
His wry smile was heartbreaking. "That's the problem with you. You see me far too clearly. I am desperate. But not for sex. I'm desperate for you, Katie Flynn. For you."
Somehow her fist had uncurled in his grasp, and her hand was spread out against his chest, against the warm, smooth skin. She wanted to reach up her other hand, as well, to touch him, but she kept it balled in a fist by her side. Fear was coursing through her now. Fear of the inevitable, fear of the unknown.
"I don't do this," she said helplessly, she who was never helpless, always strong.
"Don't do what? Go to bed with men you've just met? You always wait until you've built up a long-term relationship?" His voice was lightly mocking, and he caught her other hand in his, uncurling that fist as well.
"No," she said. "I don't have sex with anyone. Ever."
She'd half hoped she would startle him into dropping her hands, leaving her alone. He didn't. He didn't even seem particularly surprised, as if he'd somehow guessed how inexperienced she actually was. "Then why are you going to sleep with me?"
"I'm not going to. I'm going back to my room and back to sleep, and when it's daylight I'll find my way out of here…"
"Stop talking," he said gently. "Unless you're going to tell me the truth."
It was his eyes that seduced her. If he'd kept them closed she might have had a chance. But those beautiful, tormented eyes ate into her soul, and she looked up into them and knew she no longer had any choice. She'd made her decision, whether she regretted it or not.
"All right," she said. "Why? Maybe because you need me. But other men have needed me. Because you're beautiful? I'm not someone who puts great store in physical beauty. Because I want you? I've wanted other men."
"Then why haven't you slept with them?"
"Because it didn't feel right." The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.
"You don't think you're in love with me, do you?" He sounded almost distant, reaching up a hand to gently touch the side of her face. She let him, leaning against him.
"No," she said. "I don't think I'm in love with you." The truth was stark, shattering and undeniable. She didn't think she was in love with him. She knew it. In less than two days she'd fallen in love with a mystery. For the first time in her life she'd done something impulsive, impractical, and life altering. And she was about to act upon it as well.
He reached up with his other hand, cupping her face and staring down at her with his dark, beautiful eyes. She wondered if he knew the truth. She almost hoped he did. "Then why are you going to let me make love to you, macushla?"
She was the one who closed her eyes, no longer able to look at him. "Because if you don't," she said in a whisper, "I think I might die."
His mouth was feather soft, brushing against hers. It was a kiss like no other kiss, one of tenderness and blessing, a chaste kiss, promising carnal pleasures.
She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand, and she sighed against his mouth, wanting more.
He kissed her closed eyelids, he kissed her brow and the corners of her eyes. He tilted her face up to his and kissed her trembling lips, slowly deepening it, and she welcomed the hot, damp possession of his mouth on hers, welcomed the gathering darkness.
She slid her hands up his cool, smooth chest, and his flesh warmed to her touch. When she reached his shoulders she clung to him. Outside, the storm raged; inside, she was buffeted by emotions stronger than any gale force winds.
He must have sensed her unexpected weakness. He scooped her up in his arms effortlessly, and she'd forgotten how strong he was. Kicking the door shut, he carried her to the bed, settling her down against the softness of the rumpled sheets.
"Blow out the candle," she whispered.
"Why? Do you think the ghosts will want to watch?" He stood over her, the flame throwing eerie shadows around him. She felt vulnerable, frightened, and the web of erotic enchantment spread over her, trapping her on the mattress. And she had no real wish to escape.
He knelt beside her, looming over her, and she knew escape was out of the question. "I want to see you," he said, reaching up to unfasten the buttons at her throat. "I want to watch you."
"I'm frightened," she said.
"I know."
There were only three buttons. The voluminous night gown wrapped around her like a shroud. "Where did this come from?" he asked.
"I assume it belongs to Mrs. Marvel," she replied nervously.
The sudden sound of tearing material was shocking in the room, as he ripped the nightgown open from neck to hem. The flannel was old, soft and weak, and it tore easily enough. She resisted the almost overwhelming need to pull the torn pieces back around her, forcing her hands to lie flat against the bed.
He
sat back, his beautiful eyes hooded as they ran the length of her body. And then he leaned forward and placed a kiss on her collarbone, carefully moving the torn nightgown out of the way.
He moved slowly down her body, lightly kissing each part of her skin as he exposed it, and the feel of his mouth was like fire. Every move was deliberate, careful not to frighten her, but the heat of his mouth was stirring her blood to a boiling point, and she needed him to touch her, take her.
She kept thinking she would fall into a romantic stupor, where time and action would become some sort of dream, but everything was sharply clear. The feel of his cool, strong hands as they covered her breasts, the wet tug of his mouth as he suckled her. When he stripped off his jeans and lay beside her on the bed, she was acutely aware of his hands sliding between her legs, pulling them apart. Touching her. Her fierce jolt of response when he touched her was a shock, and then she was past surprise and soaring over into sheer sensation, as his fingers slid deep inside her.
She couldn't catch her breath. His long damp hair was all around them, and she felt as if she were in a vast ocean of endless desire. She reached out for him, and she whispered something, she wasn't sure what. It might have been "please." It might have been "love."
He moved between her legs, leaning over her, and she told herself she wasn't afraid.
"Hold on to me," he whispered against her ear. "Hold on tight."
She put her hands on his shoulders, and she could feel him against her, hot and heavy, pressing, filling her, sliding in a little at a time, and then withdrawing, only to push inside her again, deeper this time.
Her fingernails were digging into his shoulders now, but he didn't seem to mind. He rocked against her, a slow, leisurely pace that was maddening when she needed more, she needed all of him, not this wicked tease, this promise of something shattering and unattainable.
"Please," she said again, this time knowing what she was asking for. She arched her hips, trying to pull him in deeper, but he simply caught and held her, moving in and out, deeper and yet not deep enough, his pace swift, taunting, impossibly arousing.
She was wet, sleek and needy, and she clawed at him, desperate. Her body was iron hard with tension, and he was covered with sweat, and still he wouldn't finish it, still he teased to the point of madness.
"Look at me, Katie," he said in a harsh voice. She opened her eyes, staring up into his lost, beautiful ones. Her breath and her heart stopped as he thrust deep, breaking past the barrier of her virginity and filling her completely.
The pain was nothing, the joy powerful. She no longer clawed his skin, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him with pure abandon and love.
She was unprepared for the spiral of dark pleasure that moved within her as he rocked against her. He put his hands under her and pulled her up to meet his thrusts, and she could feel tears running down her face and she couldn't begin to guess why. He moved faster now, harder, and she wrapped her legs high around him, all of her life centered around the joining of their bodies, pulsing, surging together.
The first tremor that washed over her was a surprise, the second a shock. The third was so profound she found herself spinning out of control, convulsing in a deathlike dream with his body all around her, inside her, filling her with life and hot, wet desire.
She was crying, she realized belatedly. Sobbing, but O'Neal didn't seem to mind. He rolled to his side, taking her with him, holding her with all the tenderness of a lover.
He was her lover, she thought in amazement, weeping her stupid tears against his chest while he stroked her hair and murmured soft, loving things that made no sense. He was her lover and her love.
And she fell asleep mid-sob.
He didn't even want to think about how big a mistake he'd made in taking Katie Flynn to bed with him. She lay sleeping in his arms, exhausted by sex and tears, and if he had any sense at all he'd pull away from her, toss a down comforter around her and make himself scarce.
If he simply disappeared she'd have no choice but to leave, without seeing him again. It would be hard for her, but not as hard as facing reality. Not as painful as realizing she'd made love with a creature not quite human.
Of course he'd known he should never touch her. Each time he had, the need for her had grown, so that he'd been in a state of desperation after their sojourn in the flooded vault room, when he'd tasted her mouth, her skin, breathed in her longing for him. A longing that almost matched his own.
He needed her. It was that simple, and that damning. He'd spent the last fifteen years making certain he needed absolutely nothing and no one. And then Katie Flynn had shown up like some orphan from the storm, and he'd been doomed. He'd tried to warn her away. He'd been rude, condescending, overbearing and taciturn.
And she had simply laughed at him. Ignored his moods. And made him fall in love with her, when a few days ago he would have said that was an impossibility. That he'd lost the ability to love.
You can't fall in love in three days, he knew that simple fact far too well. He doubted even the existence of love.
But his common sense had been no defense at all against an Irish waif who looked at him with eyes far too wise for her years. A creature who saw ghosts and talked to them and came to his room and handed over her virginity after twenty-some years of saving it.
There was no way he could change things. No way he could be anything else than what he was. Half man, half creature, doomed to live in solitude. Taking comfort in Katie Flynn's arms had been the most disrupting thing he could do. He would never find peace again.
The ocean wouldn't have him, no matter how many times he offered himself. He was doomed, but he didn't have to doom her, as well. She was too young, too full of life to share the darkness that covered him. Once she escaped this place there'd be no more ghosts for her. Only a faint memory of her first lover.
If he stayed in bed with her he would take her again. And again, every way he could think of. From the back, up against the wall, with his mouth, with his heart.
He couldn't risk it. He'd gone too far to save himself. But one act of love wouldn't have to destroy her, too. She might not even think it was love.
But he knew it was. And that would be one more nail in his coffin. One more piece of eternal damnation.
And he slid out of her arms, out of the bed. Out of her life.
And disappeared into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
« ^ »
The room was still dark when she awoke, sticky, achy, alone. She had no illusions that it was still night. Unbelievably the storm seemed to have grown stronger still, the wind a constant wail beyond the glass doors. She sat up in his bed, pulling a sheet around her, and wondered where he was. And why he hadn't stayed with her.
There were a thousand obvious answers to that. He'd had what he wanted, and when he was finished there was no reason to stay. Except that Katie had no illusions about her appeal as a femme fatale, and she doubted O'Neal had simply been overcome by unstoppable lust when he'd taken her to bed. O'Neal was a man in fierce control of his life, his emotions and undoubtedly his hormones, as well.
She only wished she could say the same for herself.
She'd made a mess of things, that was for sure. After years of resisting some of the most eligible, charming men of her acquaintance, she'd fallen stupidly, hopelessly in love with a creature—
A sudden vision returned to her, of the seal, arcing through the waves, graceful, powerful against the fierce surf. She could hear Fiona's voice in her head, whispering. You can't believe it, it makes no sense.
It still made no sense to her, but she was past the point of dwelling on it. Last night she'd been bewitched, haunted, caught up in an enchantment. Today she was ready to face the consequences. And face O'Neal.
There was one major problem with having your clothes ripped from you in a moment of passion, she decided a few minutes later. What the hell did you wear when it was time to go back to your own room? Mrs. Marvel's flan
nel nightgown was in tatters, ripped down the middle. Instead Katie pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself, toga-style. It was still early enough that she was unlikely to meet anyone in the corridors. As far as she knew, the Marvels seldom ventured above stairs. And she had the strong suspicion that O'Neal would be keeping his distance, if he had anything to say in the matter.
He didn't.
The hallway was cool and deserted, and she made it back to her own room safely enough. She had no idea how the water system worked in this place, and whether it would work with the power being out for so long, but she didn't care. She was going to get clean if she had to hang herself out a window in the storm.
There was water in the shower that was slightly warm. She bathed quickly, finishing just before it slowed to an icy trickle, and wrapped herself in a thick towel. The bathroom was dark. The window was an impenetrable sheet of gray water. Katie peered at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if she'd look different. If anyone could look at her and see that her life had changed. Did she look wanton? Did she look lost?
She dressed quickly in her own clothes this time, absurdly grateful for the familiar fee! of baggy jeans and cotton sweater. She had a miserable headache, probably from lack of caffeine, and she was absolutely ravenous. Maybe Mrs. Marvel had cooked muffins again.
Another memory came to her, sharp and acrid like the stink of toxic waste. Fiona had called the Marvels murderers.
For heaven's sake, the ghost of Fiona O'Neal had told her that O'Neal himself was some sort of bewitched creature who could change himself into a seal. Surely she wasn't going to start believing in weird hallucinations like those?
"Fiona?" she said out loud. There was no answer. In truth, the O'Neal family were not very convenient ghosts. They were never there when you needed them.
"What in God's name have you done to me?" Katie murmured out loud.
There were no such things as ghosts or seal people or cozy housekeepers hiding a murderous streak. There was only one twenty-eight-year-old former virgin who had a far-too-active imagination.
