Books by Maggie Shayne (68 page)

He would have moved nearer, pierced the dark interior with his eyes and identified the watcher, but his foot caught on something and he glanced down. A bag. Her bag. He looked toward Tamara again. She was completely engrossed in her skating. Apparently the one watching her was, as well. Eric bent, snatched up the bag and melted into the shadows. Besides her boots the only thing inside was a small handbag. Supple kid leather beneath his fingers. He took it out.

An invasion of her privacy, yes. He knew it. If the same people were watching her as were watching him, though, he had to know why. If St Claire had somehow learned of his connection to the girl, this could be some elaborate trap. He removed each item from the bag, methodically examining each one before replacing it. Inside the small billfold he found a plastic DPI keycard with Tamara's name emblazoned so boldly across the front that it hurt his eyes.

"No," he whispered. His gaze moved back to her as he mindlessly dropped the card into the bag, the bag into the duffel, and tossed the lot back toward the place where he'd found it. His heart convulsed as he watched her. So beautiful, so delicate, with diamond like droplets glistening as if they'd been magically woven into that mane of hair while she twirled beneath the full moon. Could she be his Judas? A betrayer in the guise of an angel?

He attuned his mind to hers with every ounce of power he possessed, but the only sensations he found there were joy and exuberance. All he heard was the music, playing ever more loudly in her mind. Overture to The Impresario. She skated in perfect harmony with the urgent piece, until the music stopped all at once.

She skidded to a halt and stood poised on the ice, head cocked slightly, as if she'd heard a sound she couldn't identify. She turned very slowly, making a full circle as her gaze swept the rink. She stopped moving when she faced him, though he knew she couldn't possibly see him there, dressed in black, swathed in shadow. Still, she frowned and skated toward him.

My God, could the connection between them be so strong that she actually sensed his presence? Had she felt him probing her mind? He turned and would have left but for the quickened strokes of her blades over the ice, and the scrape as she skidded to a stop so close to him he felt the spray of ice fragments her skates threw at his legs. He felt the heat emanating from her exertion-warmed body. She'd seen him now. Her gaze burned a path over his back and for the life of him he couldn't walk away from her. Foolish it might have been, but Eric turned and faced her.

She stared for a long moment, her expression puzzled. Her cheeks glowed with warmth and life. The tip of her nose was red. Small white puffs escaped her parted lips and lower, a pulse throbbed at her throat. Even when he forced his gaze away from the tiny beat he felt it pound through him the way Beethoven must have felt the physical impact of his music. He found himself unable to look away from her eyes. They held his captive, as if she possessed the same power of command he did. He felt lost in huge, bottomless orbs, so black they appeared to have no pupils. My God, he thought. She already looks like one of us.

She frowned, and shook her head as if trying to shake the snowflakes from her hair. "I'm sorry. I thought you were. . ." The explanation died on her lips, but Eric knew. She thought he was someone she knew, someone she was close to. He was.

"Someone else," he finished for her. "Happens all the time. I have one of those faces." He scanned her mind, seeking signs of recognition on her part. There was no memory there, only a powerful longing—a craving she hadn't yet identified. "Good night." He nodded once and forced himself to turn from her.

Even as he took the first step he heard her unspoken plea as if she'd shouted it.
Please, don't go!

He faced her again, unable to do otherwise. His practical mind kept reminding him of the DPI card in her bag. His heart wanted her cradled in his arms. She'd truly grown into a beauty. A glimpse of her would be enough to take away the breath of any man. The glint of unshed tears in her eyes shocked him.

"I'm sure I know you," she said. Her voice trembled when she spoke. "Tell me who you are."

Her need tore at him, and he sensed no lie or evil intent. Yet if she worked for DPI she could only mean him harm. He sensed the attention of the man in the van. He must wonder why she lingered here.

"You must be mistaken." It tore at his soul to utter the lie. "I'm certain we've never met." Again he turned, but this time she came toward him, one hand reaching out to him. She stumbled, and only Eric's preternatural speed enabled him to whirl in time. He caught her as she plunged forward. His arms encircled her slender frame and he pulled her to his chest.

He couldn't make himself let go. He held her to him and she didn't resist. Her face lay upon his chest, above his pounding heart. Her scent enslaved him. When her arms came to his shoulders, as if to steady herself, only to slide around his neck, he felt he'd die a thousand deaths before he'd let her go.

She lifted her head, tipped it back and gazed into his eyes. "I do know you, don't I?"

Tamara tried to blink away the drugged daze into which she seemed to have slipped. She stood so close to this stranger that every part of her body pressed against his from her thighs to her chest. Her arms encircled his corded neck. His iron ones clasped tight around her waist. She'd tipped her head back to look into his eyes, and she felt as if she were trapped in them.

He's so familiar!

They shone, those eyes, like perfectly round bits of jet amid sooty sable lashes. His dark brows, just as sooty and thick, made a slash above each eye, and she had the oddest certainty that he would cock one when puzzled or amused in a way that would make her heart stop.

But I don't know him.

His full lips parted, as if he'd say something, then closed once more. How soft his lips! How smooth, and how wonderful when he smiled. Oh, how she'd missed his smile.

What am I saying? I've never met this man before in my life.

His chest was a broad and solid wall beneath hers. She felt his heart thudding powerfully inside it. His shoulders were so wide they invited a weary head to drop upon them. His hair gleamed in the moonlight, as black as her own, but without the riotous curls. It fell instead in long, satin waves over his shoulders, when it wasn't tied back with the small velvet ribbon in what he called a queue. She fingered the ribbon at his nape, having known it was there before she'd touched it. She felt an irrational urge to tug it free and run her fingers through his glorious hair—to pull great masses of it to her face and rub them over her cheeks.

She felt her brows draw together, and she forced her lips to part. "Who are you?"

"You don't know?" His voice sent another surge of recognition coursing through her.

"I. . . feel as if I do, but. . ." She frowned harder and shook her head in frustration. Her gaze fell to his lips again and she forced it away. The sensation that bubbled in her felt like joyous relief. She felt as if some great void in her heart had suddenly been filled simply by seeing this familiar man. The words that swirled and eddied in her mind, and which she only barely restrained herself from blurting, were absurd.
Thank God you've come back. . . I've missed you so. . . please, don't leave me again. . . I'll die if you leave me again. . .

She felt tears filling her eyes, and she wanted to turn away so he wouldn't see them. The pain in his flickered and then vanished, so she wondered if she'd truly seen it there. He stared so intensely, and the peculiar feeling that he somehow saw inside her mind hit her with ridiculous certainty.

She wanted to turn and run away. She wanted him to hold her forever.
I'm losing my mind
.

"No, sweet. You are perfectly sane, never doubt that." His voice caressed her.

She drew a breath. She hadn't spoken the thought aloud, had she? He'd. . . my God, he'd read her mind.

Impossible! He couldn't have.
She stared at his sensual mouth again, licked her lips. Had he read her mind?
I want you to kiss me
, she thought, deliberately.

A silent voice whispered a reply inside her brain—his voice
. A test? I couldn't think of a more pleasant one.

She watched, mesmerized, as his head came down. His mouth relaxed over hers, and she allowed her lips to part at his gentle nudging. At the instant his moist, warm tongue slipped into her mouth to stroke hers, a jolt went through her. Not a sudden rush of physical desire. No, this felt like an actual electric current, hammering from the point of contact, through her body to exit through the soles of her feet. It rocked her and left her weak.

His hands moved up, over her back. His fingertips danced along her nape and higher, until he'd buried them in her hair. With his hands at the back of her head he pressed her nearer, tilting her to the angle that best fit him, and preventing her pulling away as his tongue stroked deeper, kindling fires in her belly.

Finally his lips slid away from hers, and she thought the kiss had ended. Instead it only changed form. He trailed his moist lips along the line of her jaw. He nicked his tongue over the sensitized skin just below her ear. He moved his lips caressingly to her throat, and her head fell back on its own. Her hands cupped his head, and pressed him closer. Her eyes fluttered closed and she felt so lightheaded she was sure she must be about to faint.

He sucked the tender skin between his teeth. She felt sharp incisors skim the soft flesh as he suckled her there like a babe at its mother's breast. She felt him shudder, heard him groan as if tortured. He lifted his head from her, and his hands straightened hers so he could gaze into her eyes. For an instant there seemed to be light in them—an unnatural glow shining from somewhere beyond the ebony.

His voice, when he spoke, sounded rough and shaky. It was no longer the soothing honey that had coated her ears earlier. "What is it you want of me? And take care not to ask too much, Tamara. I fear I can refuse you nothing."

She frowned. "I don't want" — She sucked air through her teeth, stepping out of his arms. "How do you know my name?"

Slowly the spell faded. She breathed deeply, evenly. What had she done? Since when did she go around kissing strangers in the middle of the night?

"The same way you know mine," he said, his voice g regaining some of its former strength and tone.

"I don't know yours! And how could you why did you..." She shook her head angrily and couldn't finish the sentence. After all, she'd kissed him as much as he'd kissed , her.

"Come, Tamara, we both know you summoned me here, so stop this pretense. I only want to know what troubles I you."

"Summoned you I most certainly did not summon you. How could I? I don't even know you!"

One brow shot upward. Tamara's hand flew to her mouth because she'd pictured him with just such an expression. She had no time to consider it, though, since his next odd question came so quickly. "And do you know
him
?"

He glanced toward the street and she followed his gaze, catching her breath when she saw Curt's DPI van parked there. She knew it was his by the rust spot just beneath the side mirror on the driver's door. She could barely believe he had the audacity to spy on her. On an indignant sigh she whispered, "He followed me. Why, that heavy-handed son of a—"

"Very good, although I suspect his reason for being posted there is known to you full well. This was a trap, was it not? Lure me here, and then your attentive friend over there—"

"Lure you here? Why on earth would I lure you here, and how, for God's sake? I told you I've never seen you before."

"You call to me nightly, Tamara. You've begged me to come to you until you've nearly driven me insane."

"I don't think it would be a long trip. I told you, I haven't called you. I don't even know your name."

Again his gaze searched her face and she felt her mind being searched. He sighed, frowning until his brows met. "Suppose you tell me why you think that gent would follow you, then?"

"Knowing Curt, he probably thinks it's for my own good. God knows he tosses that phrase around enough lately." Her anger softened a bit, as she thought it through more thoroughly. "He might be a little worried about me. I know Daniel is. my guardian, that is. Frankly, I'm worried myself. I don't sleep at night anymore—not ever. The only time I feel even slightly like sleeping is during the day. In fact, I've fallen asleep at my desk twice now. I take to my bed the second I get home and sleep like a rock, but only until dusk. Just at nightfall I have terrible nightmares and usually cry out loud enough to convince them both I'm losing my mind, and then I'm up and restless all night lo"— She broke off, realizing she was blurting her life story to a perfect stranger.

"Please don't stop," he said at once. He seemed keenly interested in hearing more. "Tell me about these nightmares." He must've seen her wariness. He reached out to her, touched her cheek with the tips of his long, narrow fingers. "I only want to help you. I mean you no harm."

She shook her head. "You'll only agree with me that I'm slipping around the bend." He frowned. "Cracking up," she explained. She pointed one finger at her ear and made little circles. "Wacko."

"You most certainly are not... wacko, as you put it." His hand slipped around to the back of her head and he drew her nearer. She didn't resist. She hadn't felt so perfectly at peace in months as she felt in his arms. He held her gently against him, as if she were a small child, and one hand stroked her hair. "Tell me, Tamara."

She sighed, unable to resist the smooth allure of his voice, or of his touch, though she knew it made no sense. "It's dark, and there is a jungle of sorts, and a lot of fog and mist covering the ground so I can't see my feet. I trip a lot as I run. I don't know if I'm running toward something or away from something. I know I'm looking for someone, and in the dream I know that person can help me find my way. But I call and call and he doesn't answer."

He stopped stroking her hair all at once, and she thought he tensed. "To whom do you call?"

"I think that might be what's driving me crazy. I can never remember. I wake as breathless and exhausted as if I really had been running through that forest, sometimes halfway through shouting his name—but I just can't remember."

His breath escaped in a rush. "Tamara, how does the dream make you feel?"

She stepped away from him and studied his face. "Are you a psychologist?"

"No."

"Then I shouldn't be telling you any of this." She tried to pull her gaze from his familiar face. "Because I really don't know you."

She stiffened as her name was shouted from across the ice. "Tammy!"

She grimaced. "I hate when he calls me that." She searched the eyes of her stranger again, and again she felt as if she'd just had a long-awaited reunion with someone she adored. "Are you real, or a part of my insanity?"
No, don't tell me
, she thought suddenly
. I don't want to know
. "I'd better go before Curt worries himself into a stroke."

"Does he have the right to worry?"

She paused, frowning. "If you mean is he my husband, the answer is no. We're close, but not in a romantic way. He's more like a. bossy older brother."

She turned and skated away across the ice toward Curt, but she felt his gaze on her back all the way there. She tried to glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there, but she caught no sight of him. Then she approached Curt and slowed her pace. He'd been hurrying across the ice, toward her.

He gripped her upper arm hard, and marched her off the edge of the ice. On the snowy ground she stumbled on her skates, but he continued propelling her at the same pace until they reached the nearest bench, and then he shoved her down onto the seat.

"Who the hell was that man?"

She shrugged, relieved that Curtis had seen him, too. "Just a stranger I met."

"I want his name!"

She frowned at the authority and anger in his voice. Curt had always been bossy but this was going too far. "We didn't get around to exchanging names, and what business is it of yours, anyway?"

"You're telling me you don't know who that was?" She nodded. "The hell you don't," he exploded. He gripped her shoulders, pulled her to her feet and held her hard. He glared at her and would have frightened her if she hadn't known him so well. "What did you think you were doing sneaking out alone at night like that? Well?"

"Skating! Ouch." His fingers bit into her shoulders. "I was only skating. Curt. You know I can't sleep. I thought some exercise " "Bull. You came out here to meet him, didn't you?"

"Who? That nice man I was talking to? For God's sake, Curtis, I "

"Talking to? That's a nice name for it. I saw you, Tammy. You were in his arms."

Anger flared. "I don't care if I had sex with the man in the middle of the rink, Curtis Rogers. I'm a grown woman and what I do is my business. You followed me here! I don't care how worried Daniel gets, I will not put up with you spying on me, and I won't defend my actions to you. Who do you think you are?"

His grip tightened and he shook her once then again. "The truth, Tammy. Dammit, you'll tell me the truth!" He shook her until her head wobbled on her shoulders. "You know who he was, don't you? You came here to meet him, didn't you? Didn't you!"

"L-let me go.-Curt-tis you're-rr... hurt-ting..."

Her vision had blurred from the shaking and the fear that she didn't know Curt as well as she thought she did but not so much that she couldn't see the dark form silhouetted beyond Curtis. She knew who stood there. She'd felt his presence. . . maybe even before she'd seen him. She felt something else, too. His blinding anger.

"Take your hands off her," the stranger growled, his voice quivering with barely contained rage.

Curt went rigid. His hands fell to his sides and his eyes widened. Tamara took a step back, her hand moving to massage one tender, bruised shoulder. The heat of the stranger's gaze on her made her look up. Those black eyes had followed the movement of her hand and his anger heated still more.

But how can I know that?

Curtis turned to face him, and took a step backward. . . away from the man's imposing form. Well, at least she now knew he was real. She couldn't take her gaze from him, nor he from her, it seemed. Her lips throbbed with the memory of his moving over them. She felt as if he knew it. She should say something, she thought vaguely. Sensible or not, she knew the man was about to throttle Curtis.

Before she could think of a suitable deterrent, though, Curtis croaked, "M-Marquand!" She'd never heard his voice sound the way it did.

Tamara felt the shock like a physical blow. Her gaze shot back to the stranger's face again. He regarded Curtis now. A small, humorless smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded to Curt. A sudden move caught her eye, and she glimpsed Curt thrusting a hand inside his jacket, as the bad guys did on television when reaching for a hidden gun. She stiffened in panic, but relaxed when he pulled out only a small gold crucifix, which he held toward Marquand straight-armed, in a white-knuckled grip.