Marked by Moonlight (9 page)

“Well, yes, ma'am. You could say that.”

“Claire never mentioned—” Mrs. Morgan stopped abruptly, her gaze lowering. “But she wouldn't. My daughter's very private. Mike would just pester her to bring you home for dinner.”

And this, he judged by her nervous little laugh, was something both women hoped to avoid.

“I'd love to come over for dinner.” Recalling the message from Claire's machine, he added, “I've heard you make a mean pot roast.”

“Oh,” she laughed and glanced to the door as if it could speak on Claire's behalf. “We'd be thrilled to have you over—that is if it's okay with Claire.”

“It might be sooner than you think,” Gideon replied, feeling only a twinge of guilt at the hopeful gleam entering Claire's mother's eyes. He could almost see the wedding plans formulating in her head.

“Wonderful. I'll look forward to it.” She looked down at the keys in her hand as if suddenly remembering her purpose. “I'm here to get Molly. Claire's at our lake house.” Her brow wrinkled. “You didn't know that?”

He made a display of slapping his forehead. “Oh, that's right.”

She smiled tentatively, and he wondered if it struck her as odd that an alleged boyfriend didn't remember when his girlfriend went out of town. It certainly would send a red flag up in his face. That Mrs. Morgan didn't possess a discerning nature was fortunate for him.

“Yes, she said she wanted to get away for a bit, and we hardly ever use the place. I sometimes wonder why we even bought it.” She shrugged and unlocked the door. “Just glad to see it get some use.”

“Sure.” He nodded, forcing himself not to ask which lake.

“Well, it was nice meeting you.” Mrs. Morgan hovered in the doorway. “I hope Claire brings you around soon.”

“Me, too,” he murmured, trying to keep the anxiousness from his voice. He had a lead, and as soon as Claire's mother left he could work on developing that lead.

He tossed out a quick good-bye and waited impatiently in his Jeep until Mrs. Morgan stepped back out of the apartment with Molly tucked in her arms. The instant she exited the parking lot he broke in to Claire's apartment by way of the sliding glass door.

This time he inspected her apartment carefully, with deliberation—not the idle inspection of that first night, when he broke inside to rid the world of another lycan menace.

He knew what to look for this time. Knowing the address wouldn't be plastered to her wall, he started with her journal. Finding no mention of the lake house in the pages of painstakingly neat handwriting, he dug through drawers as immaculate and organized as the rest of her apartment. He eventually pulled a floral print box from beneath the bed. Inside he found photo albums. Sitting on the floor, he browsed through pictures, catching himself smiling at Claire in different stages of life. His smile slipped when he came to a teenage Claire on a boat, looking distinctly uncomfortable with a fishing pole in her hands and her father looking on with a critical expression.

He turned the page, the plastic crackling in the silent apartment. His heart skipped when he came to the photo he'd been waiting for. Claire, her parents, and an elderly couple—grandparents, he guessed from their resemblance to her father—posed in front of a restaurant, the name of which was boldly displayed above their heads. Riverside Bar and Grill. He dropped the album, launched himself into her desk, and turned on her computer, tapping his thighs impatiently until the screen lit up. In minutes, he had a list of Riverside Bar and Grill restaurants before him. He narrowed his search to the state of Texas and arrived at two restaurants. One in downtown San Antonio on the Riverwalk and another located in Canyon Lake. Last he heard there weren't any lake houses along the Riverwalk.

For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened. A grim smile spread across his face. One more search and he had the address of one Michael Morgan, Canyon Lake, Texas.

“Claire, baby,” he vowed, slipping out of her apartment, an excited thrill coursing through him, “I'm coming for you.”

Even trained dogs need instruction.

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

A
rms stuffed with grocery bags, Claire kicked the door shut and weaved her way into the small kitchen. After a morning idly strolling antique stores and then grocery shopping, she had almost convinced herself that everything was normal, that she was on a holiday. Almost.

Unpacking her groceries, she paused to rip open the expensive deli cheese, roll a slice, and take a bite. Her tongue savored the woody flavor as she continued putting her hoard of food into the refrigerator. The blinking red light on the answering machine caught her eye. She punched play and reached for the can of Reddi-wip. Swallowing her last bite of cheese, she tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and squirted the luscious whipped cream onto her tongue.

Her mother's voice filled the air, assuring her that Molly was safe and sound. Claire pulled a face at the machine. Disloyal cat. “Should have bought a dog,” Claire mumbled, crouching down to store the fresh vegetables in the bottom drawer, fending off feelings of resentment over her cat's betrayal.

“…Oh, and I bumped into your friend, Gideon. Such a nice young man, very handsome…”

Claire stood so fast her head smacked against the freezer door she had left swinging open.

Rubbing the top of her head, she scowled at the machine, her unease exploding into full panic as her mother went on to say, “I told him you should bring him to dinner when you get back from the lake….”

With her heart in her throat, Claire spun around, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the cabin as possible. Only she collided into a wall. A wall that hadn't been there a moment before.

With a cry, she staggered back, crashing into the open refrigerator door. The bottles and jars lining the door rattled noisily. Had she been small enough, she would have crawled inside the refrigerator and closed the door. But she wasn't. She had nowhere to run. Her eyes lifted and settled on a furious Gideon March.

He twirled a pair of handcuffs on his index finger and took a menacing step forward. “You have no idea how much trouble you've put me through.”

Obviously not enough. He had found her. No thanks to her mother.

She darted past him. Hard fingers caught the ends of her hair and gave a yank. Arms flailing, she careened into that familiar wall of muscle. His arms came up to lock around her, squeezing her ribs until she couldn't draw air. Even panicked, she was conscious of the way her breasts rose and fell on top of his forearm, conscious of how heavy and achy they suddenly felt, of how her nipples hardened. The air deepened into shadows of hazy red and purple, mirroring her varying emotions—rage, fear, excitement.

He pressed his mouth close to her ear and growled in a voice that sent shivers down her spine, “We're through talking.”

Oh God. He's here to kill me
.

Guided by instinct, she flung her head back, crashing it against his chin. With a grunt of pain, he loosened his hold. She broke free and bolted, snatching her purse from a wall hook by the door.

Her hand barely grazed the doorknob before her feet flew out from under her. One moment she was airborne, the next flat on her back—every bone in her body painfully jarred. Dazed, she saw a flash of silver overhead and remembered what had dangled from his hands. Handcuffs. Crouching over her, he grabbed one of her wrists with the cuffs poised in the air, ready to shackle her.

“No!” Her leg shot out, kicking him in the shin, bringing him toppling down on top of her, washing her in the male scent of him. She concentrated on keeping her hands away from those cuffs, concentrated on ignoring the wild need pumping through her bloodstream.

Cursing, he caught one of her flying hands and chased after the other one. An ache throbbed at the center of her thighs. The proximity of his body, the male musk of him, even his rough handling, excited her.
He excited her
. God, she was demented. Or sick.

Pinning both her wrists above her head, he flattened his body along the length of hers. “Enough,” he barked.

Nose to nose, they glared at each other, hot breaths mingling, his smell overwhelming her, his hammering heart loud between them.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he warned, his green eyes wild. The catch in his voice sent a tremor through her body.

Her breath came in short, rhythmic spurts, each one thrusting her breasts harder against his chest, pressing the hard peaks into his solidness. “Like what?”

“Like you wanna fuck.”

Heat suffused her face, rushing through her entire body like a firestorm. Her mouth sagged open. His accusation was ridiculous, absurd, impossible.

“Right,” she choked out, trying for sarcasm but her reply sounded more like agreement to her ears.

But it was too late. The damage was done, the fuse lit from the mental image his coarse language inspired. An image she couldn't shake. An image so vivid she wanted—no, needed to make it a reality.

Thrusting her face forward the last inch separating them, she kissed him like a woman starved. She kissed him with a savagery that shocked her. He was still for only a second before surrendering and kissing her back. Releasing her wrists, he grabbed hold of her face and angled her for his slanting mouth. The feel of those large hands on her face, his calluses rasping her cheeks, awakened a hidden Claire, a Claire that felt feminine and desired. Bold and hungry.

Grabbing his shoulders with both hands, she strained against him, moaning into his mouth. His tongue slid against hers, stoking the inferno inside her even higher.

Desperate, driven by desire, she ran her hands down his back. Tongue parrying with his, she dropped her hands to clutch him, hating the denim that stopped her from feeling the texture of his skin.

Spreading her legs, she let him settle his weight between her thighs, moaning softly into his mouth as he rubbed and ground his hardness against her.

He tore his lips from hers to drag his mouth down her neck. His teeth clamped gently on her nipple through her shirt. She shrieked, bucking against him. Through the thin cotton of her shirt he continued to bite and suck her nipples into turgid pebbles, drawing each deep into his mouth. She brought her hands to his head, tangling them in the long, thick strands of hair. The roll of his tongue over the wet cotton created a delicious friction, drawing mewling, animal-like cries from deep in her throat.

Wild for the taste of him, she shoved at his chest and rolled him over, straddling him with a strength and speed that surprised even her. Something other than desire flickered in his gaze as he looked up at her, but she did not give him—or herself—time to think. Scooting low on his hips, she ran her hands down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. Unzipping him, she found him through the opening in his boxers. Closing her hand around the hard length of him, she gently squeezed. The blood burned through her veins as he pulsed in her hand. She traced her thumb over the silken tip of him, rubbing the bead of moisture that appeared there.

Groaning, he clamped hard hands around her arms and rolled her under him. Slamming his mouth over hers, he kissed her with a savagery that should have shocked her. A growl swelled deep from her throat. He thrust himself against her, driving her into the floor.

Panting, she tore her lips from his. “Please,” she begged, writhing beneath him.

She was lost. Mindless. She had to have him. Now. On the floor. She didn't care as long as he was inside her.

“I know,” he murmured, hands sliding down her arms to her wrists in an almost gentle hold.

The soft, grinding click did not immediately register. Not until he pulled back. Not until it was too late.

Staring up at him, she blinked in bewilderment, bereft without his hands and mouth on her.

Then it hit her.

“You bastard!”

She tugged her wrists apart, but the steel handcuffs imprisoned her hands together. Fury exploded inside her—and with it an irrational sense of betrayal. He hadn't wanted her at all. Her heart clenched in pain. He had only wanted to distract her. So he could kill her. With a bellow of rage she swung her cuffed wrists toward his head with all the strength she possessed and made contact with a satisfying whack.

 

Flat on her belly, cuffed to the leg of her mother's antique woodstove, Claire wondered why he hadn't simply killed her. Especially after the murderous look he gave her after she struck him.

Cold steel handcuffs chafed her wrists and she coughed up dust balls with every inhalation. She cringed at her once white T-shirt, covered in grime from the linoleum floor. Dropping her forehead to the floor, she wished she'd had the guts to shoot him back at her apartment when she had had the chance. Now it was too late. She had missed her chance, and now it appeared he would carry out his threat and kill her.

Heavy footsteps signaled Gideon's return from the bathroom. Craning her neck, she readied her glare. He came into view, dabbing what appeared to be wet toilet paper on the nasty gash above his eyebrow.

Her nostrils quivered as a warm coppery scent assailed her. Her mouth watered and a strange sensation, much like desire, spiraled through her as her gaze narrowed on the dark crimson trickling slowly from the gash on his forehead.

“Hurt much?” She struggled for a bland tone.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, his shoulder muscles rippling against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Probably needs stitches.”

“Good,” she replied, unable to suppress her anger.

He scowled, tossed the wad of toilet paper onto the table still holding the weight of several bags of groceries, and planted both hands on lean hips. “Comfortable?”

“No.” She jiggled the cuffs for emphasis.

“Good,” he returned, tit for tat.

“Look, these are hurting my wrists—”

“Then stop tugging,” he advised, looming over her. From her prone position, she felt like an ant at his feet.

Claire couldn't help pressing herself deeper into the floor. “If you're going to kill me, just get it over with.” Her lips quivered despite the brave words.

“There are worse things than death,” he replied enigmatically.

She went still, trying to imagine what he could possibly be implying. Her imaginings made her blood run cold. Did he intend to torture her first?

“Get that look off your face. I'm not going to kill you.” His soft sigh sounded impatient to her ears and Claire wasn't too sure if his impatience was directed at her or himself.

She eyed him suspiciously, unconvinced. “Then how about taking these off? You can't keep me cuffed to the stove forever.”

“You're coming into your strength.” He shook his head as if this were a great shame and pointed at the wound above his eyebrow. “You nearly knocked me out. I can't trust you. At least not until you're convinced—”

“I'm not strong. Really.” Claire beat her head on the gritty linoleum, no longer caring how dirty the floor was. “I was afraid. It was just an adrenaline rush.”

He snorted in clear disagreement. “I'm out of options. There's only one thing left to do.”

The hair at the back of her neck prickled. She didn't like the sound of that. Lifting her head, she watched warily as he moved back into the bathroom, out of view.

“W-where are you going?” she stammered, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of him.

He emerged from the bathroom holding his holstered gun. At the smooth sound of the gun sliding from its leather home, her throat constricted.

He took aim.

“No,” she choked, the word weak and strangled as she struggled to sit up despite the uncomfortable pull on her arms.

“I didn't want it to come to this.” His lips thinned into an unforgiving line. Hard malachite-green eyes looked down at her, and she knew hope was useless. “It'll be quick,” he promised.

Jamming her eyes shut, she tried to shrink into the smallest ball possible in anticipation—

The gun didn't explode in her ears. Not like in the movies. A soft zing stabbed the air. At first, she felt only pressure. No pain. Claire opened one eye. Then the other. Gideon stood in the same spot, observing her with mild interest as he unscrewed the silencer.

Then came the pain, washing over her in undulating waves of hot, then cold. Bracing herself, she sucked in a breath and looked down. Blood soaked the front of her shirt, making it impossible to tell exactly where she had been hit. So much blood. The coppery scent overwhelmed her.

“Oh God,” she wailed, turning accusing eyes on him. “You really shot me.”

Only moments ago she had kissed him, drank passion from his lips, his body, reveled in the feel of his callused hands on her face. Hands that had now delivered her death. The betrayal hurt more than the hole in her chest. Which only made her a fool since she had known he was dangerous from the first moment they met and failed to do anything about it. She glanced back down at the blood spreading across her shirt like an orchid in bloom and cursed her stupidity. Why hadn't she gone to the cops? Or used her gun?