The Sign of Seven Trilogy (19 page)

He brushed his lips over hers. “After this dance, why don't we sneak off to the storeroom upstairs and neck?”

“Why wait?”

With a laugh, he started to bring her close again. And froze.

The hearts bled. The glittery art board dripped, and splattered red on the dance floor, plopped on tables, slid down the hair and faces of people while they laughed, or chatted, strolled or swayed.

“Quinn.”

“I see it. Oh God.”

The vocalist continued to sing of love and longing as the red and silver balloons overhead popped like gunshots. And from them rained spiders.

Q
UINN BARELY MANAGED TO MUFFLE A SCREAM,
and would have danced back as the spiders skittered over the floor if Cal hadn't gripped her.

“Not real.” He said it with absolute and icy calm. “It's not real.”

Someone laughed, and the sound spiked wildly. There were shouts of approval as the music changed tempo to hip-grinding rock.

“Great party, Cal!” Amy from the flower shop danced by with a wide, blood-splattered grin.

With his arm still tight around Quinn, Cal began to back off the floor. He needed to see his family, needed to see…And there was Fox, gripping Layla's hand as he wound his way through the oblivious crowd.

“We need to go,” Fox shouted.

“My parents—”

Fox shook his head. “It's only happening because we're here. I think it only can happen because we're here. Let's move out. Let's move.”

As they pushed between tables, the tiny tea lights in the centerpieces flashed like torches, belching a volcanic spew of smoke. Cal felt it in his throat, stinging, even as his foot crunched down on a fist-sized spider. On the little stage, the drummer swung into a wild solo with bloodied sticks. When they reached the doors, Cal glanced back.

He saw the boy floating above the dancers. Laughing.

“Straight out.” Following Fox's line of thought, Cal pulled Quinn toward the exit. “Straight out of the building. Then we'll see. Then we'll damn well see.”

“They didn't see.” Out of breath, Layla stumbled outside. “Or feel. It wasn't happening for them.”

“It's outside the box, okay, it's pushed outside the lines. But only for us.” Fox stripped off his jacket and tossed it over Layla's shaking shoulders. “Giving us a preview of coming attractions. Arrogant bastard.”

“Yes.” Quinn nodded, even as her stomach rolled. “I think you're right, because every time it puts on a show, it costs energy. So we get that lull between production numbers.”

“I have to go back.” He'd left his family. Even if retreat was to defend, Cal couldn't stand and do nothing while his family was inside. “I need to be in there, need to close down when the event's over.”

“We'll all go back,” Quinn linked her cold fingers with Cal's. “These performances are always of pretty short duration. It lost its audience, and unless it's got enough for a second act, it's done for tonight. Let's go back. It's freezing out here.”

Inside, the tea lights glimmered softly, and the hearts glittered. The polished dance floor was unstained. Cal saw his parents dancing, his mother's head resting on his father's shoulder. When she caught his eye and smiled at him, Cal felt the fist twisting in his belly relax.

“I don't know about you, but I'd really like another glass of champagne.” Quinn blew out a breath, as her eyes went sharp and hard. “Then you know what? Let's dance.”

 

F
OX WAS SPRAWLED ON THE COUCH WATCHING
some drowsy black-and-white movie on TV when Cal and Quinn came into the rental house after midnight. “Layla went up,” he said as he shoved himself to sitting. “She was beat.”

The subtext, that she'd wanted to be well tucked away before her housemate and Cal came up, was perfectly clear.

“Is she all right?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, she handles herself. Anything else happen after we left?”

Cal shook his head as his gaze tracked over to the window, and the dark. “Just a big, happy party momentarily interrupted for some of us by supernatural blood and spiders. Everything okay here?”

“Yeah, except for the fact these women buy Diet Pepsi. Classic Coke,” he said to Quinn. “A guy has to have some standards.”

“We'll look right into that. Thanks, Fox.” She stepped up and kissed his cheek. “For hanging out until we got back.”

“No big. It got me out of cleanup duty and let me watch…” He looked back at the little TV screen. “I have no idea. You ought to think about getting cable. ESPN.”

“I don't know how I've lived without it these last few days.”

He grinned as he pulled on his coat. “Humankind shouldn't live by network alone. Call me if you need anything,” he added as he headed for the door.

“Fox.” Cal trailed behind him. After a murmured conversation, Fox sent Quinn a quick wave and left.

“What was that?”

“I asked if he'd bunk at my place tonight, check on Lump. It's no problem. I've got Coke and ESPN.”

“You've got worry all over you, Cal.”

“I'm having a hard time taking it off.”

“It can't hurt us, not yet. It's all head games. Mean, disgusting, but just psychological warfare.”

“It means something, Quinn.” He gave her arms a quick, almost absent rub before turning to check the dark, again. “That it can do it now, with us. That I had that episode with Ann. It means something.”

“And you have to think about it. You think a lot, have all sorts of stores up here.” She tapped her temple. “The fact that you do is, well, it's comforting to me and oddly attractive. But you know what? After this really long, strange day, it might be good for us not to think at all.”

“That's a good idea.” Take a break, he told himself. Take some normal. Walking back to her, he skimmed his fingers over her cheek, then let them trail down her arm until they linked with hers. “Why don't we try that?”

He drew her toward the steps, started up. There were a few homey creaks, the click and hum of the furnace, and nothing else.

“Do you—”

He cut her off by cupping a hand on her cheek, then laying his lips on hers. Soft and easy as a sigh. “No questions either. Then we'd have to think of the answers.”

“Good point.”

Just the room, the dark, the woman. That was all there would be, all he wanted for the night. Her scent, her skin, the fall of her hair, the sounds two people made when they discovered each other.

It was enough. It was more than enough.

He closed the door behind him.

“I like candles.” She drew away to pick up a long, slim lighter to set the candles she'd scattered around the room to flame.

In their light she looked delicate, more delicate than she was. He enjoyed the contrast of reality and illusion. The mattress and box spring sat on the floor, covered by sheets that looked crisp and pearly against a blanket of deep, rich purple. His tulips sat like a cheerful carnival on the scarred wood of her flea market dresser.

She'd hung fabric in a blurry blend of colors over the windows to close out the night. And when she turned from them, she smiled.

It was, for him, perfect.

“Maybe I should tell you—”

He shook his head, stepped toward her.

“Later.” He did the first thing that came to mind, lifting his hands to her hair. He drew the pins out, let them fall. When the weight of it tumbled free, over her shoulders, down her back, he combed his fingers through it. With his eyes on hers, he wrapped her hair around his fist like a rope, gave a tug.

“There's still a lot of later,” he said, and took her mouth with his.

Her lips, for him, were perfect. Soft and full, warm and generous. He felt a quick tremble from her as her arms wound around him, as she pressed her body to his. She didn't yield, didn't soften—not yet. Instead she met his slow, patient assault with one of her own.

He slid the jacket from her shoulders, let it fall like the pins so his hands, his fingertips could explore silk and lace and flesh. While their lips brushed, rubbed, pressed, her hands came to his shoulders, then shoved at his jacket until it dropped away.

He tasted her throat, heard her purr of approval. As he eased back, he danced his fingers over the alluring line of her collarbone. Her eyes were vivid, alight with anticipation. He wanted to see them heavy. He wanted to see them go blind. Watching them, watching her, he let his fingers trail down to the swell of her breast where the lace flirted. And watching her still, glided them over the lace, over the silk to cup her while his thumb lightly rubbed, rubbed to tease her nipple.

He heard her breath catch, release, felt her shiver even as she reached to him to unbutton his shirt. Her hands slid up his torso, spread. He knew his heartbeat skipped, but his own hand made the journey almost lazily to the waistband of her pants. The flesh there was warm, and her muscles quivered as his fingers did a testing sweep. Then with a flick and a tug, her pants floated down her legs.

The move was so sudden, so unexpected, she couldn't anticipate or prepare. Everything had been so slow, so dreamy, then his hands hooked under her arms, lifted her straight off her feet. The quick, careless show of strength shocked her system, made her head swim. Even when he set her back down, her knees stayed weak.

His gaze skimmed down, over the camisole, over the frothy underwear she'd donned with the idea of making him crazy. His lips curved as his eyes came back to hers.

“Nice.”

It was all he said, and her mouth went dry. It was ridiculous. She'd had other men look at her, touch her, want her. But he did, and her throat went dry. She tried to find something clever and careless to say back, but could barely find the wit to breathe.

Then he hooked his finger in the waist of her panties, gave one easy tug. She stepped toward him like a woman under a spell.

“Let's see what's under here,” he murmured, and lifted the camisole over her head. “Very nice,” was his comment as he traced his fingertip along the edge of her bra.

She couldn't remember her moves, had to remind herself she was
good
at this—actively good, not just the type who went limp and let a guy do all the work. She reached for the hook of his trousers, fumbled.

“You're shaking.”

“Shut up. I feel like an idiot.”

He took her hands, brought them both to his lips and she knew she was as sunk as the
Titanic
. “Sexy,” he corrected. “What you are is stupendously sexy.”

“Cal.” She had to concentrate to form the words. “I really need to lie down.”

There was that smile again, and though it might have transmitted
self-satisfied male
, she really didn't give a damn.

Then they were on the bed, aroused bodies on cool, crisp sheets, candlelight flickering like magic in the dark. And his hands, his mouth, went to work on her.

He runs a bowling alley, she thought as he simply saturated her with pleasure. How did he get hands like this? Where did he learn to…Oh my God.

She came in a long, rolling wave that seemed to curl up from her toes, ride over her legs, burst in her center then wash over heart and mind. She clung to it, greedily wringing every drop of shock and delight until she was both limp and breathless.

Okay, okay, was all her brain could manage. Okay, wow.

Her body was a feast of curves and quivers. He could have lingered over those lovely breasts, the strong line of torso, that feminine flare of hip for days. Then there were her legs, smooth and strong and…sensitive. So many places to touch, so much to taste, and all the endless night to savor.

She rose to him, wrapped around him, arched and flowed and answered. He felt her heart thundering under his lips, heard her moan as he used his tongue to torment. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, his hips, her hands squeezing then gliding to fray the taut line of his control.

Kisses became more urgent. The cool air of the room went hot, went thick as smoke. When the need became a blur, he slipped inside her. And yes, watched her eyes go blind.

He gripped her hands to anchor himself, to stop himself from simply plunging, from bulleting by the aching pleasure to release. Her fingers tightened on his, and that pleasure glowed on her face with each long, slow thrust. Stay with me, he thought, and she did, beat for beat. Until it built and built in her ragged breaths, in the shivering of her body. She made a helpless sound as she closed her eyes, turned her head on the pillow. When her body melted under him, he pressed his face to that exposed curve of her neck. And let himself go.

 

H
E LAY QUIET, THINKING SHE MIGHT HAVE FALLEN
asleep. She'd rolled so that her head was on his shoulder, her arm tossed across his chest, and her leg hooked around his. It was, he thought, a little like being tied up with a Quinn bow. And he couldn't find anything not to like about it.

“I was going to say something.”

Not asleep, he realized, though her words were drunk and slurry.

“About what?”

“Mmm. I was going to say, when we first came into the room. I was going to say something.” She curled closer, and he realized the heat sex had generated had ebbed, and she was cold.

“Hold on.” He had to unwind her, to which she gave a couple of halfhearted mutters of protest. But when he pulled up the blanket, she snuggled right in. “Better?”

“Couldn't be any. I was going to say that I've been—more or less—thinking about getting you naked since I met you.”

“That's funny. I've been more or less thinking the same about you. You've got an amazing body there, Quinn.”

“Lifestyle change, for which I could now preach like an evangelist. However.” She levered up so she could look down into his face. “Had I known what it would be like, I would've had you naked in five minutes flat.”

He grinned. “Once again, our thoughts run on parallel lines. Do that thing again. No,” he said with a laugh when her eyebrows wiggled. “This thing.”

He tugged her head down again until it rested on his shoulder, then drew her arm over his chest. “And the leg. That's it,” he said when she obliged. “That's perfect.”

The fact that it was gave her a nice warm glow under her heart. Quinn closed her eyes, and without a worry in the world, drifted off to sleep.

 

I
N THE DARK, SHE WOKE WHEN SOMETHING FELL
on her. She managed a breathless squeal, shoved herself to sitting, balled her hands into fists.