Marked by Moonlight (4 page)

Helping her? Right. He was a regular Good Samaritan.

Keeping one hand on her mouth, he locked his other arm around her waist and lifted her off the carpet, imprisoning her against the rock-hard length of him. She landed a couple solid kicks to his shins with her heels. He grunted but still managed to carry her to the bathroom and drop her in front of the mirror.

Her pulse hammered at her neck in rhythm to the beat of his heart pounding at her back as he trapped her between his body and the counter. Hard body pressed behind hers, his hips pushed her into the counter. Staring at their reflection in the mirror, she saw with clinical dispassion just how good-looking he was. Even in the unflattering fluorescent lighting. And this, Claire mused quite irrationally, was vastly, horribly unfair. A manhandling brute should be ugly as sin.

His broad hand covered the bottom half of her face, his tanned skin a dark contrast to her paleness. Her lips parted and she tasted the saltiness of his skin with a dart of her tongue, detecting the rush of his blood just below the surface of his palm. Her breasts tightened and grew heavy and she had to resist the urge to take them in her hands and squeeze them.

Her gaze moved to his eyes. Green. A pale green. At the moment those lovely eyes—unbefitting such a cold, harsh man—glared at her in the mirror. She focused on the tiny flecks of gold, too numerous to count near the night-dark pupils.

The hand on her waist moved to the opening of her robe and yanked it open, giving further credence to his utter ruthlessness. She gave a tiny gasp, mortified when the robe parted down to her navel. Thankfully the sash was belted tight enough to keep at least some of her business private. But not all. A single breast spilled out of her robe. She grappled to cover herself, but he was bent on his own agenda. He bared her shoulder and thrust it forward until her head almost banged into the mirror.

Her gaze dropped to her shoulder. With a single, ruthless yank he tore off her bandage, and she quickly forgot about covering herself. Smooth, unblemished skin was all she saw. Not a scratch in sight. It was a miracle.

“Holy shit,” she muttered into his warm hand, doubly shocking herself at her use of profanity. She rarely swore. Her father insisted ladies did not curse. Yet if there was ever a time for profanity, this was it.

“There's nothing holy about it. Your DNA regenerates at a greater speed now,” he replied, apparently able to decipher her muffled exclamation. “You're facing eternal damnation unless you start listening to me.” He dropped his hand from her mouth and cocked an eyebrow in question.

Their gazes clashed in silent struggle: his urging her to accept the impossible, hers steadfast in disbelief. Although more disturbed by the disappearance of her wound than she was willing to admit, that didn't mean she bought into his outrageous claims.

His gaze scanned her face and then dropped, examining the rest of her. All of her. He pushed his hips harder against her and she moaned far back in her throat. Belatedly, she recalled that more than her shoulder was bared for his inspection. With clumsy hands, she yanked her robe back in place, but not before his gaze burned across her exposed flesh and her treacherous nipple pebbled and hardened, rising in salute to his silent appraisal.

The hard length of his body tightened like a wire behind hers, singeing her through their clothes. A sudden rush of moisture gathered between her legs, so sudden, so immediate, she almost came on the spot.

A telltale hardness swelled against her lower back, prodding insistently. The temptation to turn around and rub against that hardness insinuated itself. Her gaze shot up in the mirror. Twin flags of red stained her cheeks. Mortified at her body's reaction, she wiggled free from the hard press of his body and the wedge of counter, taking refuge in the far end of the room. Putting several feet between them, she fought for breath in the charged air.

His scent followed her. Earthy smells. Cedar, pine, and aroused male filled her nostrils. Clearly her imagination worked overtime. No way could she
smell
him several feet away.

The throbbing ache between her legs alarmed her, but not nearly as much as her longing for
him
to assuage that ache. Her body had never reacted this way before.

He had to leave. Immediately.

“Get out!” She pointed a shaking finger in the general direction of the front door, her voice shrill and unsteady. “Now,” she hissed.

Their eyes clashed in a battle of wills. At last, Gideon March turned to leave, but not before pausing to say, “I'll give you some time to think. This is a lot to digest. But this isn't over. On the next full moon, you will shift. And you will kill. I need your cooperation if I'm going to help you.”

“Go away,” she urged, resisting the urge to weep from the inexplicable
want
that burned her blood. “I'm not a—” She couldn't even utter the word aloud, wouldn't give it that much power. “I don't need your help,” she finished.

He nodded slowly, his pale eyes strangely regretful. “Then that's too bad for you. Because without it, you're dead.”

Then he was gone.

Legs suddenly too wobbly to support herself, she slid down the wall in a boneless pile. Her entire body shook. Yet strangely enough, not from fear. Her body thrummed for sexual release. She ached in places that had never experienced sensation before. Another second and she would have torn off her robe and pounced on him, wrested off his clothes, and investigated to her complete satisfaction that throbbing erection she had felt at her backside. What the hell was wrong with her?

With only one past lover, she didn't feel those sensations any longer. Didn't have those needs. Right? She didn't indulge in primitive urges. They were things other women felt. Not her. Those urges were too wild, too primitive, too beastly. Especially to feel for a self-professed killer who broke in to her apartment and spouted insane allegations.

His smell swirled around her as if he were still in the room. She even thought she heard the echo of his steps well past her apartment door now.

She rose and moved toward the phone sitting on her bedside table, thinking she would call the police. Her hand hovered over it for a moment before pulling back. What would she tell them? Some guy returned her purse and warned her that she was going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon? They'd lock her away in the same insane asylum as Gideon March, and then where would she be?

Besides, Claire had other problems. Like finding out what had happened to Lenny. No way did she accept that he was dead. He probably just took to the streets to get away from his foster father. And she needed to come up with an explanation for missing Sunday dinner. The flu seemed the easiest excuse. The way her body ached and throbbed, she certainly felt as though she were recovering from some malady.

She opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a little blue booklet. Monday was off to an ominous start and she wasn't taking any chances. Picking up the phone, she dialed the automated substitute system and reported her absence for the day.

She hung up the phone and made her way back to the mirror. The stranger with the wild, silver eyes was still there, waiting for her, preventing her from hiding and pretending everything was okay. As much as she longed to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over her head, and forget Gideon March, her desire-flushed face and tingling body wouldn't let her.

She could, however, take care of one nagging ache, even if it wasn't the one between her legs. Grabbing her purse off the bed, she headed for the nearest Krispy Kreme.

Self-grooming is an instinctive trait for many species, most often employed when trying to attract a mate.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

S
tanding in her closet, Claire tapped her lip and contemplated her wardrobe. Lounging in her bathrobe and stuffing her face had been the perfect therapy yesterday—preceded, of course, by a cold shower to wash away the aberrant yearnings that had plagued her body long after Gideon March's departure.

Krispy Kreme had been only the start. Her hunger couldn't be sated. It was an insistent pull on her stomach, demanding satisfaction. Almost as demanding as the sudden, inexplicable ache of her body for a green-eyed nutcase.

After Krispy Kreme, she decided to stay inside. For some reason the smells and sounds of the city overwhelmed her, made her head spin. The early morning streetlights shone brighter, the horns and blares of rush hour traffic rang raucously in her sensitive ears.

She'd ordered takeout three times: Ding Lung's, Domino's, and KFC. She almost ordered a fourth time from her favorite Italian place, Angelo's, but they always screwed up the order. The elderly woman who answered the phone never got it right. Yet Claire never complained—just paid for her food and ate whatever she found inside the tin containers like a good girl. Yesterday would have been different. Things would have gotten ugly with the deliveryman if she got anything other than her correct order.

Sadly, reality nosed its ugly head through the take-out debris and her soap opera marathon. The gray light of Tuesday morning dawned outside her window, reminding her that duty called.

An array of khaki, brown, and white garments filled her closet, a safari adventurer's dream, but certainly not the most inspiring of wardrobes. Her hands slid hangers down the bar one after another, searching for something more inspiring, something with a bit of color, a bit of zing. Everything she owned was dull, dull, dull. Dissatisfaction knotted her stomach. How could she stand out when she blended in with everything?

Her hand stilled on a hanger and she felt a frown pull at her mouth.

Stand out?

Since when did she want to stand out? Unable to answer that question, she brushed aside her unease and continued searching for something provocative and eye-catching even as her nose twitched at the offending odor of the litter box in the next room. She had dumped it several times yesterday, but the smell still bothered her.

Considering the contents of her closet, she had a real challenge on her hands. She stumbled upon a black, sleeveless, V-neck knit top at the very back of her closet. The tag still dangled from the collar. Naturally. She never wore anything that revealed so much as a hint of cleavage. Must have been a gift. She pulled it over her head and moved to the mirror. Her lips curved in a smile. It was snug, clearly defining the shape of her breasts and the shadowed valley between.

Claire smoothed a hand over her torso and twisted to assess her profile. “Much better.”

She might have to wear it with khaki slacks, but at least she wouldn't blend into the background. A fact that was suddenly very important to her.

That left her hair. She stared at the neat, shoulder-length bob. Hopeless. It hung limply around her face even after a full night's sleep. She ruffled it with both hands only to growl with frustration as it drifted back into place, every hair falling into order. Limp and flat. Still hopeless. Well, that's why God created hairdressers. After work she would find one capable of performing miracles.

Grabbing a hair band, she pulled her hair into a sleek ponytail and nodded. Not bad. With her startling eyes, the effect was striking.

Clasping her silver bracelet around her wrist, she finished dressing. She had to get moving if she wanted to stop by an ATM to pay Maggie back.

Fully dressed and even wearing makeup, Claire emerged from her apartment. With a definite bounce to her step, she headed for her Taurus, a strange sense of anticipation humming inside her.

The sky was tinged a predawn purple, the air already thick with typical Houston humidity. Her nostrils quivered at the noxious aroma of smog. As she unlocked the car door she noticed a gently purring Jeep parked next to her sedan. No one sat inside. Shrugging, she turned back to her car.

“Going to work today?”

She gasped, her ears instantly recognizing that velvet voice. Her body recognized it as well, springing to burning awareness, the skin of her arms and neck prickling. Her purse and book bag fell to the pavement and she fisted her hands at her sides as if she could suppress the inappropriate reaction.

Gideon bent and picked up both bags, his eyes watchful as he straightened and handed them to her. His scent struck her full blast. Wood and man and the faint scent of soap and mint toothpaste.

“You're stalking me,” she accused, her voice unnaturally high.

Taking care to avoid touching him lest any of yesterday's longing resurface, she grabbed her bags from his hands and hugged them tightly to her chest.

“You should consider taking a leave of absence until this is all straightened out. I had hoped you reached that conclusion when you stayed home yesterday.”

“How do you know I stayed home yesterday?” she demanded, then swiped a hand through the thick air. “Never mind. Don't say it.” She glared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing on the thrumming pulse at the side of his throat. The blood flowed strong and steady within the artery. How she knew baffled her, but she did. Could see the beating artery as clearly as his hard-lined face before her. “You've been sitting out here casing my apartment since yesterday, haven't you?”

“'Course not. When you came back from your doughnut run I figured you weren't going to work and left.” He slid one hand into his front jean pocket and rocked on his heels, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the soles of his shoes scratching the air.

She couldn't help but notice that the hand in his pocket pulled his jeans tighter against a certain part of his anatomy. Desire shot through her, as shocking as yesterday in its unfamiliarity, rushing over her and heating the skin of her face and neck to an unbearable degree.
Why did her eyes automatically have to look there?

Swallowing, she forced her gaze to his face. “This is harassment.” She jabbed the air in front of her with her index finger. “Leave me alone.”

God, she needed a latte. Fast. The display of goodies at her local coffeehouse flashed in her mind. And a brownie. A big, fat chocolate brownie. Her stomach growled in agreement.

“Still in denial?” He shook his head. “You're only delaying—”

“Look,” she broke in. “I didn't want to do this, but if you don't leave me alone—” She paused, inhaling deeply through her nostrils, the smell of the Dumpster at the far end of the parking lot assaulting her senses. “I'm gonna call the cops.”

She waited for his reaction, fully expecting to see him beat a hasty retreat.

Any minute now.

“I'll call the cops,” she repeated her threat, using a louder voice this time.

“You could do that.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But the police force is full of lycan hunters. Call them and you're as good as dead. They wouldn't waste their time trying to save one infected schoolteacher.”

She gaped. Was there no end to his paranoid fantasies? She was going to have to decide how to best deal with Gideon March. He wasn't a student misbehaving in the back of the room that she could pretend not to notice. Staring into his intense gaze, she knew he wasn't going to go away.

“You're insane,” she muttered, rubbing her wrist beneath her silver bracelet where it had started to itch.

He propped his elbow on the roof of her car and ruffled his longish hair as if battling frustration. “You keep saying that.” He leaned close. Too close. It had been a long time since she had stood this close to a man. Her senses reeled, the musk of him filling her nostrils, making her heart thump against her chest, against breasts that were suddenly heavy and achy.

“I guess it's easier to pretend I'm crazy,” he murmured. His eyes gleamed in the dawn air, flitting over her face, as if he was committing her features to memory. “What happens when you realize I'm telling the truth?”

The sound of his voice rolled over her like silk sliding against her bare skin. Claire could hardly make sense of his words, could only stare at his well-carved lips as they moved, imagining them dragging across her flesh. Stepping back, she bumped into her car, stopping her from total retreat. “You're disturbed. Truly. You need help.”

His eyes glinted angrily. Even in the dim light, she could count those flecks of gold in his pale green gaze. “Maybe a little,” he allowed. “Guess I have to be insane for trying to help a stubborn fool who doesn't want my help.”

She ignored his dig and strove for a mild tone, trying not to annoy him further. “I'm going now.” She had to step forward to open her car door. Her shoulder grazed his chest and her breath escaped in a hiss. She tossed her bags onto the passenger seat, her movements slow, measured, as if she didn't want to startle the strange animal beside her. “Good-bye.” She forced a ring of finality into the farewell.

“Think about what I told you. Time off would be smart. You need to—”

She closed her car door, signaling her disinterest in his words. As discreetly as possible, she pressed the lock button.

He smiled grimly and leaned back against his Jeep, arms crossed over his chest like a man completely relaxed and content with himself and all his paranoid delusions.

Rubbing her stinging wrist, she eyed the lean length of him with admiring disgust. The guy could be a Calvin Klein model. What a waste. Shaking her head, she put both hands on the steering wheel and backed out. Facing forward again, she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror, the sight startling. The sleek image of herself with the severe ponytail and pewter gaze filled her with unease.

At the first stoplight, she flipped on her overhead light to glare in consternation at her stinging wrist. The skin beneath the silver bracelet was an angry red, almost like it had been burned. She undid the clasp and tossed the bracelet into the cup holder. The light turned green. Stepping on the accelerator, she proceeded, rubbing the inflamed skin absently as she concentrated on putting Gideon March out of her mind.

 

Gideon groaned when he spotted the familiar Tahoe in his driveway. Its shiny chrome finish glinted in the afternoon sun. He parked alongside the curb in front of his house to make sure he wouldn't block the vehicle from departing.

“It's my damned driveway,” he muttered, shifting into park with an angry jerk and killing the engine. “Why doesn't
he
park in the street?”

He wasn't in the mood for this particular visitor. Especially since it called for pretending that everything was normal, business as usual, that his thoughts weren't tangled up in
her
.

Easier said than done. Claire Morgan was one stubborn, aggravating woman. He had said everything he could to convince her, done everything he could. Well, almost everything. Gideon grimaced. He hoped it didn't come to that. He'd spare her that if he could. But how could he help her if she wouldn't cooperate? She either jumped onboard to save her ass or it was over.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he reminded himself that it shouldn't matter, that
she
shouldn't matter. It shouldn't be so complicated. He shouldn't think about his attraction to her, shouldn't think about stripping her naked and entering her in one slick thrust.

The blare of the television greeted him as he stepped onto his porch. Someone had made himself right at home. Gideon unlocked the door and strolled into his living room, eyeing the man relaxing in his overstuffed La-Z-Boy, beer in one hand, remote control in the other.

His voice carried over the din of the television. “It's a comfort to know the local police break in to people's homes these days.”

“Not everyone's home. Just yours,” Cooper corrected, his eyes never leaving the television.

“What brings you here?” Gideon noted the bag of Cheetos in Cooper's lap—the bag taken from the top of
his
refrigerator. “Besides my food and television.”

“Can you believe this guy?” Cooper pointed a Cheeto at the screen, where a young man wearing pants that rode dangerously low stormed off the
Jerry Springer
set. “He just got the DNA test
proving
the kid is his, and he still refuses to believe it.”

Denial was a sore subject right now. It reminded Gideon of a particular woman and her own penchant for denying the truth. And she was the last thing he should be thinking about around this man. Cooper McPherson was no fool. He hadn't risen to board director of the Greater Houston Area division of NODEAL by being dense. Even if he did like watching
Jerry Springer
, the man was sharp, suspicious by nature, and one hell of an agent. And he knew Gideon. Damned well. Well enough to know when something was bothering him, but not—Gideon hoped—to know when he lied. Because in the case of Claire Morgan, he was going to have to lie through his teeth.