Marked by Moonlight (7 page)

“I know more about you than you think.”

Ignoring the worry that ambiguous statement elicited, she muttered, “No. You don't.”

He couldn't see her
. No one saw her. No one knew her. She had spent a lifetime building walls to keep people out, to stay safe and warm inside where pain could never touch her. He couldn't have breached those walls.

“Claire,” a faintly breathless voice sounded from behind, as if in a hurry to catch up to her.

She spun around and stopped short of groaning. Cyril advanced, slowing his jog to a slight skip, briefcase swinging at his side.

He stopped next to her. “You're leaving early today. I went by your room.” He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair as if the few strands needed taming.

He looked to Gideon suspiciously, asking slowly, “How's it going?” The translation was clear.
Is this guy bothering you?

“Good. Fine.” She forced herself to sound normal, to act as if she was not caught conversing with a dangerous man.

“Hello.” Cyril extended his hand to Gideon when it became evident she wasn't going to introduce them. “Cyril Jenkins.”

He really was a nice man. An unexciting, nauseatingly nice man. Why couldn't she like him? Things would be so much easier if she could.

“Gideon March.”

She watched, tense, as the two shook hands.

“You're a friend of Claire's?” Cyril inquired.

Gideon nodded and draped an arm across her shoulder, the muscle in his jaw flexing wildly.

Cyril's gaze swung back and forth between the two of them. Her face burned as she fought for composure, resisting the urge to wiggle out from under Gideon's arm.

Gideon turned a stunningly white smile on her, transforming the hard lines of his face from broodingly handsome to drop-dead gorgeous. “Don't be surprised if you see me hanging around. Can't stand to be away from my girl here.” Leaning down, he grasped her face, long fingers burning an imprint on her cheeks.

Immediately, she felt the cadenced rush of blood through the callused pads of his fingers, a drumbeat reverberating directly to her heart.

She stilled, motionless, as he dipped his head, eyes intent on her lips. His lips settled over hers, warm and firm, a man who knew what he was about. She sighed and he swept his tongue inside her mouth. He tasted of heat and man—sex—and she arched against him. Slanting her head, she drank greedily, her fingers digging into his hard biceps.

And then it was over. Gideon set her from him with a jerk.

Her eyes snapped open. He stared down at her, smiling smugly. Only the muscles bunching beneath her fingers told her he wasn't unaffected.

Feeling stunned and slightly dizzy, she slowly uncurled her fingers from his arms. Dropping her hands at her sides, she gulped a steadying breath. Remembering that they weren't alone, she glanced at Cyril.

“Claire.” He nodded, lips tight and unyielding. “I'll see you tomorrow.” With a dark look for Gideon, Cyril strode past them.

Leveling an angry glare at Gideon, she hissed, “What did you do that for?”

“You don't need the complication of a boyfriend right now.”

“Cyril's not my—”

“Not the point. He wants to be. And whether you realize it or not, you're caught in a dangerous game here. The fewer people involved, the better. Since I'm going to be your shadow from now on, it's easier if people just think we're dating.”

“No one will believe we're dating.” A dry laugh escaped her at the very idea. Strange how bitter it sounded even to her ears. “They need only take one look at you to know that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind,” she muttered, dropping her gaze and staring at her new, open-toed shoes. Her red toenails peeked out at her.

“Tell me,” his deep voice commanded.

She looked back up at him in exasperation, readjusting her purse on her shoulder. “I would never date a guy that looked like you.”

She thought she detected a twitching of his lips before he responded. “Why not?”

“You—” She waved her hand at him, her voice struggling and sputtering like a dying engine. “Me—”

She was too proud to say what raced through her mind: that he was too attractive, too confident, too everything, to want her. Guys like him didn't date women like her.

His eyes glinted knowingly. He understood. And was amused. Great. It was one thing to feel inferior, but an entirely separate matter to acknowledge it. Humiliating, in fact.

“What's so unbelievable about you and me?” The husky rumble of his voice sparked a shiver in her.

He pulled back so his gaze could trail over her. Her breath caught, suspended in her throat as she suffered his prolonged inspection. From the way his eyes darkened, she somehow doubted he saw the same thing she did. She stopped breathing altogether when he added, “Any hot-blooded man would want you.”

Her mouth dropped. Not the most genteel compliment, but she was instantly assailed by an image of them together, in bed, their naked limbs sweaty and tangled as she clutched his dark head to her breasts.

A feeling unlike any she had ever felt pooled like molten lava at her core, its heat spreading to her toes. However, the thrill didn't last. Was quickly replaced by disappointment. Because of all the men in the world that could have turned her bones to liquid, it had to be him. A lunatic.

In a steely voice, she warned, “Stay away from me.”

Turning, she marched away, swearing that would be his final warning. No more putting it off. The time had come to take precautions against Gideon March. The man was dangerous. Her hand brushed her lips, still warm and tingling from his kiss. In more ways than one.

Even the most docile animal can be provoked to attack.

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

N
othing had changed. The same carefully laid table bearing the weight of her mother's wedding china and a five-pound pot roast sat before her as it had every Sunday of her life.

Claire looked around the familiar dining room. The smell of lemon-scented Pledge filled her nostrils. Every wood surface gleamed from a fresh polish. The silverware, displayed on a heavily starched tablecloth, winked at her beneath the light of the chandelier.

Her mother looked neat and tidy in a white eyelet blouse and flowing skirt. Her father, on the other hand, had merely donned his bowling shirt over a sleeveless white undershirt. The bowling shirt hung open, unbuttoned, giving her an unrestricted view of his bulging belly pushing against the thin white cotton.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing except Claire.

She felt different—a stranger sitting in a chair grooved and worn from years of family dinners. A lifetime had passed since she last sat at her parents' table. She felt as different on the inside as she looked on the outside.

The gun filling the wide pocket of her cargo pants—its weight a frightening, all-too-real reminder that she wasn't the same person—had a lot to do with it. The gun was solid, a reassuring presence against her thigh. Strange. She had never imagined bringing a gun into her father's house. Hell, she had never imagined
buying
a gun, but that had been the outcome of her last run-in with Gideon March.

Self-protection had prompted her to search the yellow pages for a gunsmith. Texas law enabled her to walk into Carter's Country and walk out an hour later with a gun. No days of waiting. Just a quick online background check.

Next time she saw Gideon March, she would be ready.

Only Gideon had been surprisingly absent the last few days. Even so, she remained vigilant, carrying her gun on her at all times. Her gut told her this wasn't over. He would be back. Like a tiger, he would pounce. Only Claire wasn't a mouse. Not anymore. She would be ready. She would make certain he never made good on any of his threats.

She watched her father's unfriendly face as he chewed. The sight reminded her of a cow working a cud between its teeth.

“Gravy?” Before she could protest, her mother leaned over her shoulder and covered her plate with the thick brown sauce.

“Sure,” Claire murmured, watching the congealed grease slither a muddy river over her meat and potatoes. She quickly tried to save her green beans and corn from contamination by scraping them out of range with her fork.

Ladle in hand, her mother slanted her head to get a better view of Claire's eyes. “Very…interesting, but—” She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn't you have chosen a different shade? Silver is so…so—”

“Weird,” her father readily supplied, his voice hard.

Claire sighed, wishing the ophthalmologist had been more helpful. His diagnosis that her eyes were exceptionally healthy had failed to comfort her. He didn't seem to understand that they weren't
her
eyes.

Her mother's slight form flitted around the table like a bird, refilling bowls of steaming vegetables and her father's sweet tea, having yet to take her own seat or eat a single bite of the food she had slaved over all day.

“Glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to have dinner with us,” her father grumbled as he swirled the meat on his fork into his mashed potatoes and gravy. He was a brawny man, not particularly tall, with a square frame, square face, and large, square hands. A dying breed—he earned his living by the sweat of his brow working oil rigs in the Gulf. The best thing about his job was that he was gone weeks, sometimes months, at a time. The worst thing? He always came home.

As he shoveled food into his mouth, Claire studied with detached interest those square hands, her father's weapon of choice when she, or her mother, had ever gotten out of line. Fortunately for them, they had learned how to stay in line. Actual instances of physical abuse were rare in her memory, but those few had made a lasting impression. To this day, Claire still ducked when someone raised a hand too quickly. Old habits died hard.

Her mother refilled her glass, squeezing her shoulder in encouragement as she passed. Claire glanced appreciatively into her mother's soft doe eyes. They had learned to communicate silently a long time ago. A touch. A look. A gesture. In her father's presence, all three served as communication.

“I'm sorry about missing dinner last Sunday.” She decided to try to explain again. “I caught a bug at school—”

“You could have called.” The quickness with which his voice cut in, sharp as a whip, made her flinch. Another old habit.

Her mother eased into her chair, a wobbly smile on her lips as she removed her napkin from the table. “It's all right, Mike. I don't mind—”

“Don't contradict me, Kathleen. You always stick up for her. Your precious little angel over there.” He jerked his head in Claire's direction.

Her mother dipped her gaze and fiddled with the food on her plate but offered no further comment. She knew better. For that matter, so did Claire. She hadn't perfected the art of invisibility for nothing, after all.

“You spent all day in there.” Her father jabbed his knife toward the kitchen, lips smacking around a mouthful of beef. “And Miss High-and-Mighty can't even pick up a phone. But she sure as hell found the time to fix herself up like some kind of tramp.”

She recognized the stark misery in her mother's face, the slump to her shoulders. She had seen it almost every day of her childhood. If not for her mother, Claire wouldn't subject herself to these visits.

“Well. We're glad you're feeling better,” her mother ventured to say, darting an anxious glance at her husband, as if seeking permission to speak on his behalf.

He studied Claire beneath hooded eyes as he briskly mixed his beans and corn. “Go to the doctor?” he grumbled as though resenting his concern.

“Yes,” she answered, not exactly a lie. After all, she had spent that Friday evening in the emergency room. “I got some antibiotics and only missed work on Monday.”

Grudgingly, he nodded and returned his attention to his plate. “A woman your age shouldn't be working at all—”

Claire bit her lip. She could recite the rest of this lecture from memory.

“You should be married.” He waved his fork at the empty seats surrounding the dining room table. “I should see some goddamn grandkids sitting in these chairs by now. Have you even once dated since that Brian guy jilted—”

“Mike,” her mother interrupted, gentle reproof in her voice as her worried gaze darted to Claire.

Her father threw his utensils down on his plate, the loud clatter on her mother's china making her cringe. Leaning back in his chair, he tossed his hands up in the air. “What now, Kathleen? Can't I speak my mind in my own damned house? What is she? Some goddamned piece of crystal that will break if I mention—”

“Stop yelling at her.” Claire's words were barely audible, just a puff of air, a whisper of sound as her hand strangled a homemade roll into crumbs. Yet she might as well have shouted. Her mother gasped.

Her father glared at her, the tic that always warned of a dangerous mood jumping wildly at the corner of his left eye. Claire rubbed the edge of her eye as if she felt it herself, as if she could rub it away. Years had passed since she'd seen the tic, but some things remained permanently etched in memory.

“What did you say to me, girl?” He spoke slowly. Precisely.

Something dark and dangerous unfurled in her belly and this time she had no trouble finding her voice. She lifted her chin. “Don't yell at her. I don't like it.” Ignoring her mother's swiftly shaking head, Claire continued. “I've never liked it. And I can't imagine she does either.”

“You don't like it!” His face turned a deep shade of red as he leaned forward in his chair, pushing his face close to hers. Too close. Her sensitive nose twitched, revolted by the stink of onions on his breath. “Since when does what you like matter in this house?”

A dull roaring started in her ears, increasing in volume as Claire reached for her sweating glass, needing something to hold, to grasp—to stop herself from hauling back and cracking that square jaw of his with her fist.

Only her father didn't know when to quit. Never had.

His eyes raked her with disgust. “No man even wants you. You're just a dried-up—”

“Mike!” His name flew from her mother's mouth sharp with reproach. Her hands slapped over her mouth. But too late.

This time her father offered no warning. He lurched from his chair, hand poised high in the air to deliver a slap to her mother.

“No!” The word erupted from Claire's mouth, an explosion of sound, freezing his hand midair.

His head snapped in her direction, then, for some reason, swiveled to the wall. He lowered his hand and dropped heavily back into his chair, still staring intently at the wall.

Claire followed his gaze, eyeing the large stain marring the burgundy wallpaper. Shards of glass, almost impossible to distinguish from the melting ice cubes, sparkled like diamonds on the floor.

Still, a long moment passed before understanding sank in—before she realized that she had flung her glass of iced tea against the wall. So quickly. So violently. So abruptly she had not even realized she had moved.

Slumped in his seat, her father fixed wide eyes on her like he had never seen her before, like a stranger sat before him and not his daughter. Varying emotions flitted across his face. Shock. Anger. And, she realized with mingled surprise and disgust, a tiny kernel of respect.

“Claire.” Her mother's voice broke through the roaring in her head as though from far, far away. “Don't do this.”

“No more,” Claire ground out, wildly shaking her head. “No more. Do you understand, Dad?”

She had hurled the glass instinctively, thoughtlessly, without strategy, but she wouldn't back down. Something inside her wouldn't allow that. Only one thing was definite: she wasn't afraid. Not of him. Not for herself. Maybe for the first time in her life she was totally, finally, unafraid. And perhaps he recognized that because, incredibly, he started to laugh. The noise sounded strange and fragmented.

“Guess I have to think up a new nickname for you.
Mouse
won't fit anymore.” He smiled, or tried to, but something other than humor shaped the curve of his mouth.

Staring into his face, Claire recognized what lurked in his eyes. Could smell the stink of it on the air, taste the faintly coppery twang of it.
Fear
. Her father was nothing more than a bully. A scared little boy. Fitting, considering he had raised her to be a scared little girl. Today, however, that girl was nowhere to be found.

“Looks like you got a bit of the old man in you after all,” he declared.

His words filled her with rage, snapping the last of her control. Looking down, she noticed the slim, ebony-handled steak knife clutched in her white-knuckled hand. In one swift motion, she flung it into the table directly in front of him with a soft, vibrating thud. Over the shuddering knife, her eyes locked with the man that had cowed and intimidated her since birth.

“I'm nothing like you,” she hissed even though the words sounded foolish. Tossing a knife into the table only proved him right. She was no better than he. A bully.

Unclenching her fist, she let her arm drop to her side. Suddenly, she remembered the gun in her pocket, so available, so ready. Her loose fingers twitched at her side, and she knew she had to leave. Immediately. Before she went too far. She shoved back from the table and fled her father's stunned expression and her mother's muffled sobs.

With a numb heart, she strode through the hallway lined with studio-perfect pictures of a model family, pausing when she came abreast of one photograph. She turned and looked at a younger version of herself. She was maybe six. Outfitted in the customary Christmas sweater with her parents on either side of her. Her father gripped her shoulder, his sun-darkened hand twice as large as the pale smudge of her face. Her smile looked fragile, brittle as glass. That scared little girl seemed a lifetime ago.

Shaking her head, Claire removed it from the wall and walked out the front door into the deepening night, not breaking stride when her mother called her name. She paused at the curb where the garbage waited for tomorrow's pickup, the fetid odor seeming to taint the air in streaks of yellow.

Without hesitating, she dropped the picture into one of the cans, stealing a glance at the charcoal sky as she did so. The moon stared down at her, a small slice of white against the starless night. Gideon March's voice floated from memory.
On the next full moon, you will shift.

Claire shivered in the warm air and slid inside her car, ridiculously relieved to escape the pale orb's watchful gaze. Sighing, she forced herself not to estimate how many days remained until the full moon.

Her gaze drifted to her reflection in the rearview mirror. The silver eyes glowed back at her, mocking, challenging. There was no hiding from them. Or the stranger she had become. She swallowed the lump in her throat. At least she knew the little girl in the photograph. This woman—she didn't know her at all.