Aphrodite's Flame (25 page)

“You mean that the device could be altered—so that it doesn’t channel the energy in one’s mind, but instead controls it.”

“Oh, no. I’d never thought of—
what
?.” His eyes widened as the import of Hieronymous’s words caught up with him.

Pathetic little mortal. Hieronymous had only to make the choice and the little man would be squashed like the pathetic little insect he was. But no. Not yet. There still was a use for Harold Frost.

Hieronymous sidled up to the mortal and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, stooping a bit to make the contact. “I need your help on another matter,” he said. “A matter involving your daughter.”

“Izzy?” Fear colored the man’s voice. “How do you know
Izzy
?”

“She and I are quite well acquainted, actually,” Hieronymous said. “And I intend for us to become more so.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple,” Hieronymous said. “You, my dear Mr. Frost, are bait.” He held out his hand to grasp the startled mortal. “Shall we go?”

Izzy awoke in Mordi’s arms, a shaft of light peeking through the flimsy curtains to illuminate their intertwined bodies. She smiled and stretched, feeling a bit like a satisfied cat who’d just downed an entire plate of cream.

Happy. Content.

And all the happier because she felt the same feelings emanate from Mordi.

His eyes flickered, and she realized he was awake. “Hey,” she whispered. “Good morning.”

He reached out to stroke her cheek. She’d had plenty of warning now, and she’d managed to turn off her power. She didn’t need it, though, to know what he was thinking. It was right there in his eyes—deep satisfaction and a glimmer of male pride so apparent it made her giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. The conquering male.”

He rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow. He reached out, then, with his free hand, and stroked her breast. Her nipple tightened under his erotic onslaught, longing for a more intense caress. She let her head fall back, and she moaned.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think conquering is a fair description.”

“Uh-huh.” It was the only sound she could manage, and Izzy closed her eyes and let herself fall back into the abyss of pleasure.

Mordi’s low chuckle teased her senses, and he shifted beside her. Gently, he slid his hand down her body, a slow, sensual journey.

Izzy kept her eyes closed, her body arching back of its own accord into his touch. She heard the rustle of the bedclothes as he shifted beside her, then another hand joined the first, so that he held her by the waist.

His hands were warm and large, and his thumbs met in the middle of her abdomen, stroking her bare skin and working their way down to her belly button.

At first, she felt only the heat of his hands on her, generating a fire in her belly that would surely grow to consume them. She writhed with pleasure, remembering with satisfaction just how fabulous that fire could be. Then the gentle caress of his fingers was joined by the soft press of his lips against her stomach. She gasped as his tongue joined the party, dipping into her belly button.

Sweet Hera, the man was going to drive her mad!

She reached down and buried her fingers in his hair, still keeping her eyes closed as she let the power of his touch carry her away. Her every nerve ending was on fire, her body a mass of heat and energy, and she could feel herself melting into the mattress—warm, languid, and satisfied.

His mouth moved farther south, and a desperate anticipation edged out her languid feeling. Mordi’s hands stroked her hips, then moved down over her thighs. His fingers splayed so that his thumbs caressed the inside of her legs. The touch was so maddening—close, but not quite
there
—she wanted to scream with frustration. She would have screamed, too, if his warm mouth hadn’t pressed against her in the most intimate of kisses, making her want to cry out with pleasure, not frustration.

He laved her, taking her just to the brink and then pulling away, teasing and gently tormenting her until she thought she’d go insane.

When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she begged.

He slid up her body and silenced her with a kiss, his hands stroking her side, brushing against her breast in a maddening caress.

“Do you want to lose yourself with me?” he whispered. “In the heat?”

She wasn’t sure she could manage a response, but somehow she whimpered an affirmation.

She had no idea what to expect. What she got was heaven.

Fire.

A tongue of fire caressed her body—hot, ticklish, but not burning. It was a conjured flame, entirely under Mordi’s control. It danced over her ankle, then crept up her leg, teasing the inside of her thigh. It skipped along, teasing her with a promise of pyrotechnics to come, and spread out along her smooth belly, moving slowly up to stroke her breasts until her nipples were so sensitive that even the air was torture.

All the while, Mordi lay beside her, his fingertips following in the wake of the blaze, watching the flame to ensure it never went out. The fire danced up over her lips, an erotic kiss of pure heat, then crept back down her body in a slow, sensual wave until it focused into a point of heat that slipped between her legs, infiltrating her core.

It no longer burned like a flame, but was a liquid heat, and she writhed as her body neared the boiling point. And then, just as she was about to explode, the fire expanded, emerged, spread out to envelop her entire body and Mordi’s. She found release then and there, and as the world shattered around her, she was safe in Mordi’s arms in a cocoon of fire.

Afterward, her body felt heavy and boneless, and she wondered if she’d ever fully recover. Beside her, Mordi kissed her ear and pulled her close, spooning her against him. She sighed, feeling warm and loved.

Loved?

She swallowed. He
did
love her. She could breathe deep and inhale the scent of it, and his love filled and warmed her.

But did she love him, too? She
wanted
him; she knew that much. She admired him, she craved him. He filled her heart and touched her senses. But how could she love .him—truly love him—with so many secrets hanging between them?

“Mordi?” His name emerged as a whisper.

“Hmmm?”

“I... I need to tell you something.” She drew a breath, intending to tell him about her dad, about why she so wanted Hieronymous to be on the up and up, but the words wouldn’t come. She wanted to tell him, really she did, but still she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“Izzy?” He stroked her hair, his eyes filled with concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“I just... I just...” She took a breath. “I was just thinking about fathers. And how much I love mine.” She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “And I wished you had a father you loved, too.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

The lie came easily, but she couldn’t stop the tears. Because if she couldn’t tell him, that must mean she didn’t really trust him.

The halls of the Olympus facility were mostly abandoned as Izzy and Mordi moved quickly toward the main conference room. They’d used the motel phone and called for transport, then taken the Council shuttle to the Olympus headquarters to file their formal report and meet with Bilius and Armistand. Considering how little sleep she’d gotten and how busy the morning had already been, Izzy was surprised she wasn’t half-dead on her feet.

They’d already completed the paperwork portion (in triplicate, in front of witnesses), and now they were heading for the formal debriefing with the elders. They turned into the antechamber that led into the main conference room, both of their gazes drawn to the pale blue crystalline tube in the center of the room.

“Kind of puts everything in perspective,” Mordi said.

Izzy frowned, not at all sure what he was talking about.

He nodded toward the tube. “The mortalization chamber.”

“
That’s
what that is?”

“Yup. You’ve never seen it before?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As much as I wanted to be on the Council? I would have keeled over and died if I had to see that thing.”

He grinned. “Me, too. Different reasons, though.”

“Your dad?”

He nodded. “Considering what scum he thought mortals were, I’d be damned if I was going to be one.”

She nodded, and they both watched the tube in silence for a moment. It looked innocent enough, but it was pretty sinister to a Halfling. It was fraught with meaning. At twenty-five, a Halfling had to make a choice, picking one side or the other from their heritage. If they chose mortalization, well, then they stepped inside the tube, the power was thrown, and they stepped out a mortal. Not only were they off the Council, but they also lost all memory of Protector life. But even if they opted for the Council, they still had to pass a series of tests.

For most, their skills and powers were developed, and they had no trouble passing all the various tests and what-not. Izzy, though, had suffered from that little levitation problem....

She’d had quite a fear of mortalization, all right. And it hadn’t been unfounded.

Before she could brood any more over the past, the conference room door opened, and an assistant ushered them inside. Armistand and Bilius were already seated, each reading copies of the reports Izzy and Mordi had filled out.

“Quite an ordeal,” Armistand said.

“Yes, sir,” Mordi replied.

“And you have no idea who your attacker was?”

“No, sir,” Mordi said.

Izzy raised a brow in surprise. He
did
have an idea, and she knew it. He was keeping silent only because of her certainty, and that wasn’t fair to him or to the Council. She drew a breath. “Actually, Mordichai fears it may be his father.”

The elders exchanged glances, then made notes on their forms. Finally, Bilius looked up, his gaze taking in both witnesses. “I understand Mordichai’s fear, particularly in light of the history between him and his father, but I’m not inclined to believe that Hieronymous attacked the two of you.”

“Nor am I,” Armistand said.

Izzy frowned, her gaze drawn to the pens they were both using. The purple fountain pens seemed oddly familiar. “Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help but admire your pen. Where did you get it?”

Armistand held the implement up. “Ah, yes. Fine craftsmanship. My assistant Patel provided me with it.” He turned to Trystan. “You?”

“Young Patel as well. He said it was a gift to show his appreciation for being granted re-assimilation.”

“Oh,” Izzy said, and Mordi looked at her curiously. “That was very thoughtful of him.” Obviously Patel had no connection to her father. The casing must be a common one for fountain pens. Still, it
was
odd....

She had no time to think about it further, though, because Bilius and Trystan had switched back to the original topic.

“At any rate,” Bilius went on, “I hardly believe Hieronymous would attack you.” He looked at Mordi and smiled. Izzy stifled a gasp as a wash of pro-Hieronymous emotions seemed to roll off the elder— the very same elder who just a few days ago had essentially told her that the idea of Hieronymous applying for re-assimilation made him physically ill.

The turnabout confused her. Even more, it concerned her. She supposed she should be encouraged that the elders were so optimistic about Hieronymous’s reformation. After all, as she’d told herself over and over, if Hieronymous Black was good, then she and her father were out of hot water.

She should be happy. Ecstatic. At the very least, cautiously optimistic.

She wasn’t, though. Instead, she simply felt a gnawing fear begin in the pit of her stomach.

Plop, plip, plop.

The steady drip of water—at least, he
hoped
it was water—echoed in the dark chamber. His chamber was pitch-black, and Harold Frost could see nothing.

He could hear and smell everything, though, and in this dank place, that was hardly a comfort. Sulphur, as pungent as rotten eggs, filled the air, stinging his useless eyes. Another smell, too. Though it was unfamiliar, Harold was certain that the sharp odor was the smell of burning flesh.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Blindly, he reached back, running his hand along the rough stone wall. He was already sitting on the smooth stone bench—the only one in the cell—but before he leaned back against the wall, he wanted to make sure there weren’t any creepy-crawlies on it.

They came in the night—or what he thought was the night—slithering around and over him. He shivered at the memory.

He had no idea how long he’d been here, but it was long enough to leave him exhausted and half-starved. When he’d first arrived, he’d tried to pace the area of his cell, but there was no room. If he held his hands out and turned in a circle, his fingers never ceased to touch the walls.

He thought again of his daughter, how she’d hate this place, and the thought gave him strength. She was special. She’d save him. He knew that. In his heart, he knew that his daughter would come for him.

Still... it didn’t hurt to be practical. And he’d run his hands over every inch of the walls, looking for embedded latches, nooks, secret passageways,
anything
.

But there was nothing.

And all he could do was sit in the dark and wait.

“You’re not really going to resign, are you?” Izzy propped herself up next to him and snaked a finger along his bare skin. Mordi shivered, fighting the urge to simply roll her over and take her again. It was morning, after all. Time to get moving.

“Mordi?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll stay.” He flashed her a grin. “You need a reality checker, anyway.”

That earned him a smack with her pillow, and he caught her wrists, pulling her on top of him. His body immediately stiffened, overwhelmed by the sensation of flesh against flesh. Isole’s flesh.

He’d come to know every inch of this woman. Every delicious inch.

With other women, he’d had sex. With Izzy, though, he made love.