Mine (8 page)

76

Alex arrived at home to find a stack of mail waiting for her. After flipping through it and finding nothing of importance, she got down to the business of packing. She phoned Cole on the drive back to his estate and security had opened the gate the moment her car approached without even stopping her for a crackled hello.

Cole greeted her at the front door this time around. He’d showered and changed into a clean, black tee and sexy, black leather pants, though he’d kept the sturdy combat boots. His hair was still wet and hung in long strands the color of raw honey past his broad shoulders and down his back. Once again, the impression of a conquering Viking warrior, brazen and fearless, came to mind. He was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, a serious threat to a girl’s moral resolve. He looked good enough to nibble on—nibble until she’d glutted herself—but she’d forced her eyes away and reminded herself that nibbling was not on the agenda.
He
was not on the menu, regardless of how scrumptious he looked—and smelled.

He’d given her a brief tour of his home. As Rita would concisely put it…Holy Mother of God!

Then he’d shown her to her rooms where he left her to settle in alone. A silver tray piled with fresh fruit, hors d’oeuvres, and an icy pitcher of sweet tea rested on the coffee table. The thoughtful gesture eased the knot of tension balling between her shoulders. A few hours later, Alex scowled at the flashing cursor on the glowing screen for a 77

moment, rubbing her temples over the number of emails waiting in her inbox. Shaking her head in a rare fit of irresponsibility, she ignored her inbox altogether and fired off a brief memo to Rita before she closed her laptop. She yawned and stretched, flexing her stiff ankle, and stood to wander around her room.

True to his word, Cole had indeed found her a quiet room, tucked away in a little used wing of the museum he called home. Room, hah, she thought with a delighted giggle. It was more like a suite. Very large.
Very
luxuriant. She had her own comfortable living room and her own private bath. Her bed was big enough to lose the entire defensive line for the Denver Broncos in, and her Italian-marble, gilt-handled shower had not one, not two, but three—count them—three shower heads. And if that weren’t bliss enough, the bathtub was large enough to sink the Queen Mary in.

She’d rushed to unpack, then headed straight for the bathroom, torn between the pull of the tub and the tug of the shower. She’d ended up spending close to half an hour letting the showerheads pulse and pound the lingering stress from her flesh. When she’d emerged at last, she’d never been more relaxed. There was no doubt about it, she’d died and gone straight to Heaven, courtesy of Cole Gunnarrson. Alex let out a delighted little sigh as she sank down onto the plush sofa in front of a large plasma TV. All in all, things had taken a much needed turn for the better.

Now that she thought about it, aside from the unsettling attraction that smacked her right between the eyes every time Cole was around, this could be a positive experience. A working vacation of sorts. It didn’t appear that Cole would 78

demand too much of her time, which would allow her the opportunity to relax, something she hadn’t allowed herself to do in a long, long time.

And the pool out back was positively screaming her name…provided she could find a moment when she wouldn’t have to vie for swim space with a bunch of Malibu Barbie wannabes.

Snuggling beneath a chenille throw, she shot a guilty glance at her laptop, and settled back, flipping on the TV. It wasn’t long before her eyes grew heavy and sleep tugged her into a dreamscape of warrior Vikings with sexy smiles, tempting tattoos, and sultry, glowing eyes.

A knock on the door startled Alex awake.

Snow filled the TV screen. She reached over and clicked the remote off. Yawning, blinking, she sat up and shoved her hair back out of her face, scrubbed her hand over her eyes, and pushed herself to her feet. Her head groggy, Alex glanced at the clock as she stumbled past the desk. Two a.m. barely registered as she staggered to the door.

****

Cole stood in the hall outside her door, staring at her in slack-jawed shock. He’d been expecting the cool, sophisticated woman in the sexy, scarlet blouse and the flirtatious skirt. He’d been expecting the gorgeous businesswoman who did her level best to keep him at arm’s length. He sure as hell had
not
expected to be thoroughly seduced at the first glimpse of this stunning, enthralling creature before him. Alexandra Sinclair blinked sleepily up at him from her doorway, unadorned by makeup and jewelry, wearing nothing more than a well-worn, abbreviated tank top and a thin pair of men’s boxers. Her hair trailed down her back and over her shoulders in wild, damp tangles. Her nipples, 79

puckered from the cool evening air against her damp shirt, pushed at the soft material, giving him the very solid realization that not only did she have nothing on beneath the skimpy shirt, but that she also had very,
very
nice breasts.

She was perfect, right down to her perfect pedicure, and he was certain—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that he’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted Alexandra Sinclair.

And, most likely, never would again.

That realization should have sent him reeling in the opposite direction. A warning flashed somewhere in the back of his mind, vibrant as a neon sign. Warning!
Mortal female
! Danger!

It didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe it had been too long since he’d taken a woman to his bed. Maybe it was the way she looked right now—had looked earlier—two very different sides to the same coin. Maybe it was the simple fact that she was here, not to ride on his celebrity, but because she was immensely talented in her own right and could contribute to what he’d built for himself. Whatever it was, he was just too far gone to care.

He’d come to her room to deliver the iPod and to ask if there was anything else she needed. The time hadn’t occurred to him, at least not until she opened the door looking as though she’d just tumbled out of bed, drowsy and sexy as hell. If he were honest, maybe he’d come to do a little more flirting, a little more seducing. He was as hot-blooded as the next male, after all. Only the tables had been turned on him, with resounding success. He, who in his long, long life had knelt before no one, was seriously contemplating dropping to his knees before this female and begging her for just one taste.

Yet somehow, instinctively, he knew…one 80

taste of her would never be enough.

Alex’s eyelids were heavy with sleep as she blinked up at Cole. It took her a moment to focus, but once she did, Alex offered him a serene smile that went straight to his head…and his loins. “Do you need me already?”

Cole’s throat closed. His mouth went dry as a tinderbox, odd considering it had been salivating from the second she’d opened the door.

She offered him a sleepy smile and drew back into the room, leaving the door wide open for him to follow. “I didn’t realize you’d want to start tonight.”

Cole stepped into the room. His gaze darted to her bedroom door, then settled on the sofa with careful consideration. It
was
closer after all.

Closing the door behind him with a soft click, he stalked her across the room, the iPod dangled in his fingers, forgotten. The scent of her was everywhere, undeniable and intoxicating, and the closer he got to her, the stronger it became. He paused less than a foot behind her, drawing her scent in…deep. Shampoo, soap, and female. Yet that particular essence that was purely Alex was there too. Undeniable and all too alluring. Like a fresh breeze rolling in off the ocean, with the subtle hint of wild honey. Irresistible.

His pulses quickened, his fangs stretched, his pupils dilated. Hunger swelled in him, ravenous and insatiable. The hell with the sofa…right now, the floor looked damned good. Then he eyed the table she leaned across. His eyebrow lifted in speculation. It, too, had definite potential.

Alex stretched for a stray piece of sheet music, her back to him, and began shuffling papers together. A dark shadow at the base of her spine drew Cole’s eyes. Every time she stretched forward, he got a delicious peek between her 81

boxers and the hem of her tank top. The edge of his lips edged upward. Prim Miss Sinclair had herself a tattoo. She stretched again, a little farther, and he frowned. Those very distinctive upper lines of the symbol were suspiciously familiar.

His fingers itched to slip into the waistband of her boxers and tug them down to reveal the rest of her tat and confirm his suspicions. But then his mind wandered away from him. If he slid his hands beneath her tank, would the rest of her skin be as soft as her legs. If he could just slip her clothing aside, would she let him sink into her… Hell, who was he kidding, he mocked himself. He wanted to tear them clean off and bury himself deep inside her.

“Let me just grab this stuff and my laptop,” she called over her shoulder. “I started messing with a few lines earlier in the shower, and I think I might be on to something, provided the lyrics fit the mood you’re looking for.”

Vivid images of Alex, wet and soapy, water cascading down over her lithe body, slithered through his mind, tormenting him. “Are we going straight to the studio? If you give me just a moment, I’ll change clothes.”

Her assumption hit him like a bucket of ice water in the face, a harsh reminder that she was there with one purpose in mind. Work.

“No,” Cole croaked as she turned to face him with a curious frown. He gritted his teeth and cleared his throat, trying one more time. “I didn’t come here to take you to the studio.”

“Oh? I just assumed…”

He was sure his eyes must be glowing in the darkened room, paler than she knew them to be, his pupils overly large and unnaturally elongated.

She paused, blinking up at him, then glanced 82

suspiciously at the moonlight pouring into her window before she turned back to him. But he’d turned away by then, giving her his back. The feather soft touch of her fingers brushing his back sent a violent wave of need rolling through him. He sucked in a sharp breath and took several steps away to put a little distance between them. He held the iPod up as he turned back to face her.

His voice was deeper, edgy and gruff. “I thought you’d want to hear what you’ll be working with.”

“Oh…” She stepped closer to him and took the iPod from his hand, her eyes averted, as she worried her lower lip. Their fingers brushed, and a tremor passed between them. Stepping back, she murmured, “That was very thoughtful. Thank you, Cole.”

He nodded, liking the way his name rolled off her lips a little too much. He remained silent, however, and her curious gaze lifted to his. His face felt tense, muscles strained, and his throat burned. Disappointment cut him off at the knees.

“Cole?” She tilted her head. A slight frown wrinkled her brow.

He opened his mouth, only to snap it shut again. He let out a low, frustrated growl that reverberated through the room. Shaking his head, as one would after taking a vicious right hook to the jaw, Cole pivoted on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving behind a trail of whispered, furious expletives.

****

He sat back on his heel, braced his forearm on his knee, and lowered the camera. His steady gaze followed the petite redhead as she entered the apartment building across the street. The metal door closed behind her with a heavy thud, 83

blocking her from his view. The sound echoed in the night, teasing a small grin from his lips.

Humans were so predictable. They ate at the same restaurants, followed the same routes to and from work, kept the sa
me hours. And they all thought hiding behind metal doors,
a
nd
deadbolts, and programmed security systems would keep them safe from the things that went bump in the night.

Monsters like him.

Silly sheep.

Running his tongue over his fangs, he lifted the camera again, aiming the extended lens at the second floor, third window on the left. And he waited.

Three, two, one… The light blinked on, then the next one over. Any moment now, she’d pick the watering can up to give the thirsty plants on her windowsills a drink.

Plants watered. Check. Cue the music.

Michael Buble poured from her open windows.

Apparently, she was feeling a bit mellow tonight.

Human females were laughable. A well placed compliment here, a small token of affection there, and they were putty in your hands.

Stowing the camera, he eased back into the shadows. He’d have to stop off and develop the pictures on his way back tonight. The memory stick was full now, thanks to Cole’s little blonde acquisition. She was a tiny morsel all right, hardly more than an hors d’oeuvres. But, in his experience, the little ones were often the sweetest.

Ms. Sinclair was an interesting development. One he’d be following with close interest.

84

Late the next morning, Cole’s mood was already ten degrees south of dangerous by the time he arrived at the studio, exhausted and late.

He’d spent a long night tormented by visions of Alex in that sexy, abbreviated tank and boxers, with freshly washed, sleep-tousled hair and not an ounce of woman’s war paint on her beautiful face. A pint of bland, chilled blood and an hour in an icy shower hadn’t helped to put his lust to bed.

His agent had called in the wee hours of the morning, informing him there’d been a marked drop in sales. There’d also bee
n some woman in Denver making accusations about several
members of Stolen Innocence holding her captive in her basement and assaulting her—never mind the fact that at the time of the supposed crime the entire band had been on tour in Brisbane, an entire hemisphere away. Tommy had also reminded him they were long overdue to iron out the plans for their next tour, including going through the list of projected dates and cities.

Then security had phoned the main house reporting an attempted break in. It was the third in the last two weeks, and, once again, the intruder had managed to elude them. That call had been followed, nip and tuck, by one from the TFRA agent—a chillingly calm TFRA agent—

informing him that the Rogue had mailed the agent a detailed stack of photos, boasting his handiwork and rubbing their collective noses in 85

his continued freedom.

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, the cherry on top was walking in to the studio to find Alex, the very female he’d spent a sleepless night obsessing over, sandwiched between Zack and Danny without enough air between them to breath. Styx occupied a chair in the corner, taking the scene in with a mischievous, self-indulgent grin, letting her flounder her way through.

The beast inside him roared to vicious, protective life, snapping at his control, snarling rabidly.
My female
. If looks could kill, the entire room would have dropped on the spot. Cole tensed, poised to attack. A deadly, savage growl ripped from his chest when Danny gave her cheek a brazen squeeze—and not the cheek on her face—but then he halted in his tracks as Alex beat him to the punch, literally. She responded to Danny’s advances by planting a sharp elbow in his midsection, hard.

One would have thought—given the fact Danny had fallen back several steps holding his middle and gasping for air—that Zack would have taken the hint she didn’t appreciate their attentions. He must have convinced himself he was a much better lover. That or he simply had a death wish, because as soon as the other man moved away, he swooped down to plant a kiss on her lips. Once more Cole tensed, fangs lengthened, claws curled. He could already feel Zack’s blood dripping from his fangs.

Shocked silence filled the room when she brought the tall, fair-haired lothario to his knees in nothing remotely in the ballpark of sexual gratification.

Cole froze, biting back a howl of laughter. His little female had used not one, but two pressure 86

points to bring Zack to his knees. It never occurred to him that he had no right to think of her in those terms—as
his
anything.

Her patience, her businesslike composure had abandoned her. Absolutely. Ferocious vengeance writhed in her eyes, dangerous enough to give a trio of Furies pause.

“If you don’t mind,” Cole drawled from the doorway, deceptively calm despite the riotous emotions swelling in his chest. “I’d appreciate it if you’d wait till
after
the session to give the guys their little lesson in polite manners.” Then he caught sight of the snickering Styx. “On second thought, you want to take a couple pot shots at Styx first, by all means, be my guest.” With a snort of disgust, she released Zack and stepped back, glowering as he gained his feet and carefully backed away from her, an odd mixture of insulted pride and grudging respect shining in his bottle green eyes. She rounded on Danny and shot him a warning glare, just for good measure. Then she turned lethal eyes to Cole.

“Thank you so much for gracing us with your presence,” she hissed icy sarcasm. “Perhaps now
you
can explain I’m not here for their entertainment.”

Cole shot a dry glance at the disgruntled men, and the laughing Styx, and settled his eyes on her once more. Damn she looked hot. What was it about a woman with her temper on that made a male’s mind turn to matters best left behind closed doors? Then, when he noticed the fire in her eyes aimed solely at him now, he cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the here and now.

He had to work to keep his lips from twitching. Judging from the way his band eyed 87

her and hung back, hugging the walls, it was a safe bet none of them planned to get within arm’s reach of her. Ever again. “I’d say, by the looks of

’em, they figured that out for themselves. Well, all of them except maybe Styx…”

Brushing them off in her fury, she advanced on Cole with driving purpose, mayhem dancing in her eyes. A manicured finger shot out and thumped him painfully in the chest. “I will
not
put up with being groped every time I walk in the damned room.”

Her mask of cool professionalism had vanished. Hellfire couldn’t have been hotter at that moment in time than she was…in more ways than one. How would she react if
he
wrapped his arms around her and attempted to kiss her senseless?

Before he could find out, she gouged at him again, warning flashed in her fierce glower. “Fix it, or I’m finished here!”

Alex sailed from the room, an offended, regal queen, leaving a stunned hush of unworthy peons in her wake. Cole stared after her, then turned burning eyes back to skewer the gawking men.

Aiming an unholy flash of his icy blue glare at the laughing drummer, Cole bared gleaming fangs, and snarled. Styx’s laughter choked off and his eyes widened as he sat straighter in his chair.

Cole stalked from the studio. He went to her room first, spent almost ten fruitless minutes cajoling and pleading with her door before he stopped to think. Tipping his head back, he drew a deep breath, realizing by the faded scent trail she wasn’t on the other side. Raking a frustrated hand through his hair, cursing his band to Helheim, he stomped down the hall toward his study.

She’d better be there, because the only other 88

place he could think to check was the garage.

And if she’d gone there… Well, he wasn’t all together certain he wouldn’t drag her back, willing or not. He’d deal with the band later.

Wild honey beckoned him as soon as he rounded the corner, just past the Monet. Her scent enveloped him in a warm cloud of longing.

Soaring music poured out of his study, drifting down the hallway on the tender, passionate strokes of a haunting melody—one he didn’t recognize. It grew and grew. Anger began building in the notes, and the music hit a staggering crescendo. Then the notes fell away and the melody faltered, insecure and heavy with heartbreaking uncertainty.

Cole paused in the doorway of his study. The poignant notes tugged at him until his arms ached with the need to offer her solace and protection. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, staring at her with his heart on his sleeve.

Her head tilted back, her eyes closed, the arch of her neck a pale column in the shadowed room. Those notes flowing from her fingers through the piano had never seen paper. He was as sure of that as he was of the fact that strolling on the Santa Monica Pier at dawn would be detrimental to his health. This music was instinctual, pure, straight from the heart. She was composing it as she played. Floored, he took a step forward, drawn by the emotion swelling in the room.

The music died on an abrupt, discordant note, and Cole reached a hand toward her. The sudden loss of her music a stake in his heart.

Painful. Lethal. She didn’t look at him though.

Instead, she sat with her fingers poised above the keys and her eyes closed, as if finishing the piece in her mind. Once she’d regained her composure, 89

she swiveled on the bench and stared at him. Her hands folded serenely in her lap.

Cole stared back, lost. He couldn’t read her, and it was killing him. What was she thinking?

There was so much more to this woman than he’d ever imagined. Until he’d met her yesterday, she’d only been a talented Human female, albeit a sexy one, he hadn’t been able to shake from the fringes of his mind. Then he’d seen her in her room last night, sleepy and wantonly tumbled, and he’d begun obsessing over her.

Truly obsessing.

Until last night, he hadn’t known the meaning of the word.

When he’d walked in the studio and seen her with Danny and Zack, jealous rage had burn through him, raw and unmistakable. Jealous rage—him! He’d never been jealous of a female in his entire existence. And a Human female—a
Mortal
female—by Odin, it was unthinkable.

Jealous, possessive instincts of that magnitude in a Vampyre could only mean he’d found his…

No!

He ruthlessly shoved that thought away faster than a Leprechaun could hide his gold, cringing from the possibility as he would a prolonged shot of direct UV. That kind of thought was nothing short of emotional suicide. Taking a walk under the full moon with a pack of Werewolves would have been less painful. He didn’t understand this primal pull between them, but that didn’t mean he had to give in to it, that he wasn’t able to control himself. It sure as hell didn’t mean she was…

No!
He had the hots for her. No big deal. He’d take her, drink her, and get her the hell out of his system. Simple enough. One shot and then it would be over.

90

But the music…

He wasn’t aware she could play like
that
.

Then again, a tiny little thing like her shouldn’t have been capable of fending Danny off and bringing Zack to his knees either, but she’d proven herself on both accounts. True, Danny was only Human. But Zack was Werewolf, regardless of the fact he was self-admittedly more lover than fighter. Moreover, they were both damned near twice her size. Either one of them could have easily overpowered her in the blink of an eye. Yet she’d fended them both off without breaking a nail. He knew that for a fact. He rubbed at his chest with a rueful half-smile.

Her haunting melody hinted that the incident in the studio was merely a reaction to something far more troublesome. It bothered him that she suffered.

Helheim, the fact that it bothered him that she suffered…bothered him.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out and, for the life of him, he wasn’t sure where they’d come from. Since when did he apologize to anyone?

She remained silent. Detached. Empty. Her eyes followed him as Cole crossed the study and lowered himself to the sofa. “I got detained this morning. I should have been there to smooth the way for you.”

She remained silent for long moments, and despite his inherent self-confidence, Cole wanted to squirm, something he hadn’t wanted to do since…well, since he was Human. When she spoke at last, her voice was cool. Her eyes were downright frosty. “You could have explained things to them before this. Didn’t you tell them I was here?”

“Well, I…” He paused, thinking back on his exact words. He grinned sheepishly at her. “I told 91

them we’d be working with a new lyricist. But I think the only one I actually mentioned your name to was Styx.”

Her teeth grated in the ensuing silence and a long breath seethe out of her. In no way did he feel let off the hook.

For a man used to getting his way in all things, pleading did not come easily. “Give this another shot…please.”

She rose without a word, crossing the short distance to stare through the tinted window.

Holding herself rigid, she folded her arms over her middle. The defensive gesture sat like a rock in his gut. The despair on her face, the utter dejection in her stance made him want to call the words back. God, he sucked at damage control.

What now?