Species (34 page)

“Lee Anna,” Sil repeated. “Of course. I sure will.” She had no idea what the housekeeper was talking about, but the woman nodded her appreciation and pulled the door closed. As Sil glanced around, her teeth ground together in frustration when she saw that there was no adjoining door to the room the dark-haired man had entered. Separated by a wall, she could sense his presence when she pressed against it, almost
smell
his male scent through the wallboard and paper. There was something else, too, the sounds that had nearly made her break through the door in the hallway.

The sounds of mating.

Sighs, whispers, the sweetness of flesh against flesh. Sil could recognize the dark-headed man’s voice as he murmured, knew the tone of the redhead’s as she replied. The
redhead
—she should have killed her in the ladies’ room when she’d had the chance. Now she had stolen Sil’s mate and Sil might never get him back.

The sounds of pleasure from the other side of the wall increased and Sil felt heat and desire flush her own body in unintentional response. Pressing herself against the wall, she could imagine what his hands on her would feel like, what it would be like to touch him, stroke his skin,
have
him. She
needed
that man, more than the woman in there, more than anyone else. Jealousy ran through her in physically painful streaks and her hands ran down the satiny wallpaper, unconsciously forming claws. She would go in there, she thought wildly, and kill the woman and claim the man who should have been
her
partner. He would see her strength and appreciate her desire, he would—

Something
clacked!
behind her—the door lock—and she whirled, her breath coming in short gasps. Her gaze tripped hastily around the room, but there was no other way out. Trapped, she waited anxiously as the door opened and closed and she found herself facing a different man from Dr. Fitch’s group, the one who had offered her a drink in the bar downstairs and whom she had rejected.

“Hey,” he said with a frown, “how’d you get in here?”

“The maid,” Sil said. The story formed in her mind so quickly she didn’t even pause. “She was in here checking your room, so I acted like it was my own and walked in.” He stared at her and she knew he was debating whether or not to believe her lie. He was, she saw, a handsome man, too. Not as resourceful or bold as the other, he was here and available and would nevertheless make a suitable substitute.

“I remember you from the bar,” he said doubtfully. “It’s damned strange to have you blow me off there, then show up in my room.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take you up on the drink downstairs,” she continued quickly. She let her eyes drop demurely for a moment, then met his gaze again. “You were with all your friends, and I don’t . . . do well around a lot of people.” Sil gave him a lazy, sexy smile. “But I do much better one-on-one. My name’s Nicole. What’s yours?”

He seemed to relax a little, dropping his card key on the dresser and coming closer. “Stephen, Stephen Arden. So”—he tilted his head quizzically—“Nicole—what can I do for you?”

“Actually, I . . .” Sil glanced around again to assure herself that everything was okay, then stepped as close to Stephen as she could without physically touching him. “I’d really like to . . . you know. Get to know you better.” She reached out a finger and played with the tip of his shirt collar, but held herself back from anything more.

“Really? Me?” Stephen’s cheeks went red and he looked incredulous, but his responsive smile was beaming. “Well, hey—that’s great! How about a couple of drinks? Or maybe you’re hungry—I could get room service—”

“No, no,” she cut him off. “When I said I wanted to get to know you better, I meant now.” She slid her hands down her chest, over her breasts, then up and under her blouse, slowly pulling it over her head. “I want you,” she whispered unexpectedly. “All of you. Right
now.”

Stephen’s mouth dropped open, then his hands began groping for the buttons on his shirt. “Jesus,” he said in awe. “This kind of stuff
never
happens to me!”

Sil tugged at her skirt until it slid over her thighs and dropped around her ankles. She stepped out of it and kicked it away, standing before him in nothing but lace-and-silk panties and black patent-leather high heels. “I want you
now,”
she purred.

She opened her arms and he didn’t need another invitation. He was all over her, hands everywhere on her bare skin. She arched to meet him, finding the buttons on his shirt where he was too slow and ripping them open to feel his warm skin against hers. They bumped lightly against the dresser, then the wall, finally found the bed and tumbled onto it. She didn’t need foreplay or the flowers and wine and diamonds she’d seen on the television and in the magazines; she was ready
now
and by all appearances, so was Stephen. His shoes and socks were gone by the time they got to the king-size bed, and he couldn’t wait to get his slacks off, moaning when she tugged his briefs past his hips and fondled him. His skin was smooth and covered in fine black hair that felt soft and sensual against her skin. His mouth and lips were everywhere, until she couldn’t take it any longer and straddled him on top of the deep green bedspread. A quick yank and the black bikini she wore went sailing onto the floor, revealing a patch of body hair more than a few shades lighter than the black-dyed hair of her head. Stephen never noticed.

“Wait!” he gasped as she started to lower herself onto him. His hands gripped her upper arms. “What about protection?”

Protection? From what? Sil ignored his question and shrugged free of his hold, then dipped forward to kiss him. Her breasts brushed the muscles of his chest as she drew her nails deliciously up his thighs, feeling the coarser growth of leg hair scrape along the pads of her fingers.

“Nicole, we shou—
oh, Jesus!”

She slid onto his body anyway, and the two of them cried out in unison as they began to move against each other.

D
an’s mind wasn’t really focused on the television until he saw a reed-thin model with platinum hair who looked like Twiggy in an obscure sort of way do a computer-aided swirl and come around to face the camera with black hair instead of blond. Geez, he thought as the television shots flashed by and the commercial’s music blasted through the inadequate speaker in the television, now she looks like Liza Minelli.

He’d tossed the remote at the foot of the bed and now he searched for it and hit the mute button, wanting silence but unable to bear nothing at all. He pulled himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was a damned nice room, a lot better than anything he’d ever stayed in, and in a way it was too bad the job was over and they were all going home tomorrow. He liked his teammates, Laura, Stephen, especially Press. Dr. Fitch . . . well, Dan felt terrible for him. The man had let himself become so involved with his work that he’d lost touch with the rest of the world and could no longer make or keep friends. There were things Dr. Fitch wanted that he would never get—a wife and family, love and companionship—all because of his single-minded devotion to science. Dan could feel need radiating from the man every time he was close to him, but there was nothing to be done about it. Sil, made with Fitch’s chromosomes, had been the daughter he’d never fathered and never would. She had filled that need for a short
—very
short—time, and now that she was dead, Dr. Fitch’s hopes and dreams had shattered and his heart had become an empty black hole into which Dan dared not sink too far.

Stephen Arden was another matter. Successful and good-looking on the surface, the ladies loved him most of the time. But they never
stayed,
and that’s what he needed most in his life, even if he didn’t—or wouldn’t—realize it. Stability, someone on whom he could depend beyond a single night of ecstasy . . . he unknowingly drove away his more suitable female colleagues by fawning attention on the front-row airheads who giggled over him during his lectures. No wonder he had been so bewitched by Dr. Baker.

The most well-rounded of them all, she was a saner, younger version of Dr. Fitch. She didn’t know it, but if she wasn’t careful, she could end up just like the doctor.

And Press—

Press could change things for both Dr. Baker and himself, if he’d only try. Another solitary man filled with bleakness, and pain, too, from emotional wounds so far back in his childhood that they were only shadows of misery now.

For some reason, the emotions tonight were too much for Dan and he stood on wobbly legs and went into the bathroom. He felt surrounded by loneliness, nearly suffocated. And something else was nagging at him, like a word on the tip of his tongue that drove him crazy as he struggled to remember. He tried but couldn’t find it, not yet.

At the sink he adjusted the flow from the faucet to lukewarm, then lowered his head and splashed his face. Cold water was too much of a shock and Dan never used it—wouldn’t even drink it, much less put his hands under it. As he raised his face to the mirror, the sheen of water on his skin under the fluorescent fixture made his dark skin look eerily light, almost Caucasian, but when he grabbed a hand towel and rubbed his roughening cheeks, the illusion disappeared. He grinned at his reflection, his teeth white and strong below tired, bloodshot eyes. Can’t hold that trick for long, he thought. Even if I dyed my hair like on that commercial, it wouldn’t work for very—

Dan’s mouth dropped open.

Blond hair, black hair.

A flash memory of a tall, exquisite woman with platinum hair in the back passageway of the ID, her eyes the color of tropical water in the sunlight.

Another memory, a glimpse across the bar as Professor Arden offered a Long Island Iced Tea to a woman with a dark, shaggy haircut that reminded him, outlandishly, of the woman in that commercial.

Blond hair . . .

Black.

Sil!

39

S
omeone was in the room with Professor Arden.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Dan stood outside the door. Nobody inside was trying to be discreet, and the sounds finding their way through the barrier were explicit enough for Dan to know that if he knocked, he’d probably be ignored. If Press was in his room, he wasn’t answering either. That left Dr. Baker or Dr. Fitch; Dr. Fitch had a private suite on another floor and Dan didn’t think he wanted to face the scientist with what he was thinking. His mind made up, Dan strolled one door over and knocked on the door to Dr. Baker’s room.

“Dr. Baker—Laura? It’s Dan.” He knocked again. “Please open the door.” He heard movement, finally, and gave it a few seconds before rapping on the wood again. “Laura, please—it’s urgent! I really need to talk to you.” His knuckles were starting to feel bruised.

Laura’s voice came through the door. “Hang on a minute, Dan.”

Relieved, Dan waited. About thirty seconds later the door was jerked inward and he stared straight into Press’s face. Trying not to look annoyed, Press was struggling to pull on his shirt while behind him stood Laura, fastening the tie belt on one of the Biltmore’s plush terry-cloth bathrobes.

“Press—I—I’m sorry!” Dan exclaimed. “I went to your room, but you weren’t there.” Dan shuffled his feet, feeling like an idiot. Under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t have been surprised—hadn’t he told Press that Laura was waiting for him? But tonight his mind was all mucked up with theories about Sil and an overload of strong emotions from the rest of his team. No wonder it had taken so long for him to slip what he had seen in the lounge into place.

“Well, I wasn’t there,” Press said dryly. “What’s the problem?”

Dan opened and closed his mouth several times before he figured out how to start. “I’ve just had this terrible
feeling,
all evening—”

“The whole time?” Laura asked over Press’s shoulder. Her face was flushed but her eyes were keen. “Even in the bar?”

“Later,” Dan admitted. Standing in the hallway gave him the inexplicable sensation of vulnerability, but he was too embarrassed to step through the door into Laura’s room. “I was in my room, lying down with the television turned on. Channel surfing, that’s all. Then I saw this commercial, combined with how I’d started feeling downstairs, and I realized that nothing is . . . damn it! I don’t know how to explain it. Nothing is
right.”
He looked at them both, his eyes wide. “I think—I think Sil is alive. I think she’s
here.”