Touch of Darkness (15 page)

Why the
hell
wasn't he inside her yet?

She gave a soft, incoherent murmur, one that couldn't be interpreted as encouragement, but was.

He kissed her; then his lips slid along her jawline
to the lobe of her ear. He sucked that, which she found mildly interesting, then bit it, a swift, slight punch of pain.

She arched off the bed.

He laughed again.

She did
not
understand what he thought was so
funny.

His hand brushed her bare throat, then a little lower, then a little lower. . . . Mrs. Reddenhurst's nightgown swamped Tasya in lavender-scented flannel. It was so large and so ridiculous, and the attic was so freaking cold, Tasya had felt safe in wearing it.

Apparently Rurik had managed to overlook its absurdity and find its weaknesses, for she realized he was unbuttoning the four buttons down the front. Only four buttons near her throat—yet the gown was so big, what might have been protection for Mrs. Reddenhurst provided easy access for Rurik.

His hand slid inside, allowing in wisps of cold air to whisper along her tender skin. Spreading the gaping nightgown, he found Tasya's breast, and plumped it in his cupped palm. He lifted it, and his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard, pulling it to the roof of his mouth, massaging it with his tongue.

The wave of passion hit, and Tasya went under with only a long moan.

It had been so long . . . weeks since she'd had him. Weeks of sleeplessness, of fruitless wanting, of waking from erotic dreams with her body shuddering in the grips of orgasm.

Now he was here, and he took her to the edge of climax ... to the edge of climax . . . and left her trembling and bereft.

She caught her breath. Opened her eyes.

The sun would rise in probably a half hour. She could see Rurik leaning on one elbow, watching her. His massive shoulders were nude, with taut skin stretched over every muscle.

He was gorgeous, big, clean, and male. And she wanted him.

"Please," she whispered.

He shook his head. "No, honey. I want you right where you are."

"What are you talking about?"

"While we're traveling, I want to know that you're wanting me. While we're looking for the treasure, I want your desire to be a low hum in the background, the thing you're aware of every minute while you go on with life." His voice was low, deep, layered with smoky intent.

"You're crazy." She meant it, too.

"I'm obsessed." He leaned close enough that his breath caressed her cheek right in front of her ear. "And I want you to be obsessed, too."

He
was
crazy.

So was she, because she was half-flattered by his intentions—half-flattered, and thoroughly pissed.

"It's not like I don't know how to take care of myself." She slipped her hand down her belly ready to touch herself.

He caught her wrists and lifted them above her head. "And I know how to stop you." His leg stirred between hers, bringing her right to the edge again. She fought against his grip. He held her easily.

She was in great shape, yet while she thrashed beneath him, using every self-defense move she'd ever learned, the bastard never broke a sweat. Finally she tired.

When she lay there, panting in rage and frustration, he kissed her, long, slow, sweet kisses that started at her forehead and worked down to her lips, her throat, her breasts. He found the bare flesh of her belly, and finally his tongue glided between her
folds. . . .

During their first night together, they'd made love more times than she could remember, but they'd never got to this point.

So it was a delight to discover how thoroughly Rurik knew a woman's body . . . where to lick, how much pressure to apply, how to build desire in slow swells of pleasure.

She wasn't surprised; he exuded that masculine aura of expertise that promised so much, and he delivered with languid enjoyment.

Then, at the moment her senses began to crest, he pulled back.

She forgot dignity and grabbed for him, but he slipped from the bed and stood, proudly naked, his erection prominent and tantalizing. "We need to get going."

Had she thought he exuded a masculine aura of expertise?

Yeah, he was masculine, all right. He was a big, fat jerk.

"That was mean." She sat up and yanked the covers back, hoping the cold air would subdue her rampant libido.

Unfortunately for her libido, he walked across the room to get his clothes, and his butt reminded her of Michelangelo's
David.
Only living.

"Yeah. Almost as mean as spending a great night making love to me, then running away without a word like I was some kind of monster." He turned, T-shirt in hand. The tattoo that had fascinated her before snaked down his arm, along his shoulder, and across his chest, a great, glorious slide of color to his waist.

He caught her staring, and in a slow, exotic reverse
striptease, he lifted his arms over his head and pulled on the stretchy material. Her mouth dried at the panorama just inside the
window.

"Maybe you'd like to tell me why you chickened
out?" he asked.

"I didn't chicken out. I just . . ." She was just afraid. Afraid he was the one man who would stick with her. Afraid he was the one man she could love. Then, if anything happened to him . . . But she couldn't say that, could she? That revealed way too much of a soul scarred by loss. "I always knew there was a chance the Varinskis would catch up with me. I didn't want you to get hurt."

"That's noble. So noble." He didn't sound like he meant it. "It was so good of you to make the decision to save my life from possible injury by slinking away in the early morning like some prima donna photo-journalist afraid I'd ask for an autograph." "That's not what I did!" "Then tell me why you left." He didn't believe her. How could he not believe her? "I'm afraid you'll get hurt," she said stubbornly. He crossed to the bed in one smooth, fast move. She tried to avoid him, and got caught half on, half off the bed, off-balance and vulnerable.

Holding her pressed against his body, he kissed
her, a slow rekindling of barely controlled desire. When all her resistance was subdued and she held him with her arms around his neck, he let her slide back onto the sheets.

Matter-of-factly, he went back to his clothes.

She shoved her hair off her damp forehead. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want every breath you take to be empty unless you're close enough to smell me. Every word you speak to be unimportant unless it's to me. Every sound you hear empty unless it's my voice. I want you to remember that whatever pleasure you have from now on, you'll have it from me." He looked into her eyes. "I want you to trust me enough to tell me the truth, all the truth—about Tasya Hunnicutt."

Funny how he put the trouble with the Varinskis , right into perspective.

Six feet four of trouble stood right in front of her, putting on his pants.

Chapter 14

Tasya and Rurik stood, on the curb in front of the Edinburgh train station and watched Hamlin and Serena Kelly drive away.

"That was the longest trip of my life," Rurik said. "How would you know? You slept through most of it." Tasya hadn't. Tasya had been awake, listening to the Kellys and their constant prattle about their home, their neighbors, their travel, their lives. And just when she thought she would kill if they didn't change the subject, they did—and gleefully pointed out that, yes, indeed, she and Rurik were steaming up the back windows.

Since by then Rurik was snoring, Tasya didn't know why that was so funny, but it kept the Kellys entertained for miles. If it had stopped raining, Tasya could have rolled
the windows down and let the wind whisk their voices away. But no, the mist continued unabated, and she had been stuck.

Stuck between a happily sleeping Rurik, two exuberant Canadians, and the memories of the night before.

Damn Rurik. Because of him, she walked carefully, sat gingerly, and wanted all the time. He'd turned her into a horny teenager again, and she did not appreciate having her every thought consumed by one thing—sex. And more than that—sex with him.

Now Rurik hailed a cab, and she asked, "What are you doing?"

"We're going to see when the ferry leaves for Belgium."

"The ferry for . . . ? But we told Mrs. Reddenhurst and the Kellys we were taking the rail line through the Chunnel."

"We lied." He held the door of the cab while she climbed in, and gave the cabbie directions. Sliding his arm across the seat to rest on her shoulders, Rurik murmured in her ear, "Someone we don't like may question them, and the less they know, the better."

"Oh." She was used to being cautious; a single woman who traveled in the parts of the world she visited had to be. But this trip felt like
The Bourne Identity,
only with someone better looking than Matt Damon.

She glanced out the window. She had to stop thinking like that. She used to know Matt Damon was the best-looking guy in the world. Surely, if she avoided looking at Rurik, she could convince herself again. "Do you think we were followed?"

"Anything's possible." He put his finger on her lips, and indicated the cabbie.

In fifteen minutes, they had their tickets for the ferry. The boat took eighteen hours to make the crossing to Zeebrugge, Belgium, and included restaurants and casinos. The boarding was in two hours, the departure in the early evening, and Rurik decided that was enough time to visit a secondhand clothing shop.

Tasya found herself trading in her casual khakis for an outfit that looked vaguely Goth and totally outrageous.

Afterward, as they walked down the street, she looked down at the black swirl of cotton gathered around her hips, and at her cleavage, bared in a bright pink shirt with Marilyn Monroe's face embossed on her midriff. "I thought we were trying to look inconspicuous."

"No." Rurik wore a black leather duster that covered him from his neck to below his knees, faded black jeans, and a snap-front shirt. All he needed was a cowboy hat and Ke could pass for a Texan. "We
want people to look somewhere besides your face. We have the added bonus that now, with your hair and that outfit, you look fifteen. If someone has to describe you, that's a good thing."

"They're never going to believe you're a cowboy," she informed him.

"I'll be satisfied if I look a little less massive." He held the door to a coffee shop. "It's my size I can't disguise."

The place was large, smelled rich with coffee and scones, and had televisions high in each corner and computers lining the back wall. Going to the counter, he bought them two cups and the password for the Wi-Fi, and settled her before one of the empty computers.

He took a chair beside her, faced out into the room, and in a soft voice said, "Send those photos to your boss."

Funny, to have her heart thump with excitement as she did something she'd done hundreds of times— upload and send pictures to Kirk Lebreque at National Antiquities. She imagined him receiving the files, studying the photos, putting them in production, and from there spreading them across the country. He would realize she was still alive, and he'd be so glad—he liked her as a person, yes, but he
loved
her as a reporter.

And what a relief not to have the whole responsibility for the record of the finds.

The entire process took less than fifteen minutes, and as she slid the memory card back into her backpack, she nudged Rurik. "We can go now."

But he sat rigid, staring at one of the televisions.

She heard a voice she recognized. She turned and looked.

Mrs. Reddenhurst stood sobbing in front of her smoldering bed-and-breakfast, saying over and over again in a broken voice, "I don't know why they did it. Those men just walked in and set my house on fire. I've lost everything. Everything."

***

Kirk Lebreque sat watching the photographs pop up, one after another, and desperately tried to memorize details, estimate sizes, materials, age.

When the last one had come through, he carefully placed them in a folder in Photoshop. He sat, his hand hovering over the mouse.