Touch of Darkness (20 page)

"Tell a four-year-old who's lost her parents and her home, who's lost the governess she's known her whole life, and who's been put with people who regularly foster at least ten children at a time, that she hasn't been abandoned. I doubt if that child will listen."

"You're not that child anymore." Her capability for carrying a grudge worried him . . . when she had so much more reason to hate him.

"When I need the motivation
to
do what needs to be done—"

"You mean, when you want to thoughtlessly charge into the fray."

"Whatever." She made a shooing gesture toward
him. "Whenever I need to overcome fear or fury, I remember my parents, and the Varinskis, and I plan my revenge. That's why I wrote a book guaranteed to tap into the public's fascination with religion and legend, murder and oppression. That's why I'm willing to travel the world and face the Varinskis to get the icon. If I can bring proof to the National Antiquities, have them verify the authenticity of the icon, and give witness to the Varinski legend, that'll capture the world's attention, focus the spotlight on the Varinskis, and the rulers in Sereminia will be forced to convict them."

"And what will that accomplish?"

"The Varinskis make millions every year performing assassinations. They have a mythological prestige among the criminals of the world. It'll be the beginning of the end for them, and I will be the person who pulled the trigger." Her smile was a symphony of white teeth and vengeful satisfaction.

"You'll be the target." He didn't know why he bothered. This was Tasya Hunnicutt. She wouldn't listen. She would do as she thought right. And when she found out who he was . . . who his parents were, what his family name had been before it had been Wilder . . . that he was a Varinski, that he lived with the devil's pact every day of his life, that he would take the icon from her to free his father . . . she would never forgive him. Never.

And yet he loved her. She was his woman, the one fated to find the icon.

He knew it, and the tragedy of his life was that who and what he was could never be changed.

And who and what she was would never accept him . . . when she knew.

But she didn't know yet.

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for she scooted back. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Perhaps, if he made the right moves, said the right thing, showed her how he felt, she would remember him, and understand why he'd done what he intended to do.

"Soon the porter will be by to make the bed." He stood. "You're tired. Go ahead. Get some sleep. We're coming into a stop. I need a few things, and I want to think."

"All right," she said slowly. "Are you okay? You look funny."

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Is your wound bothering you?" She pressed her hand to his chest and left it there, worried about him. Trusting him.

The spur of guilt dug into his side.

She didn't trust anybody, and for good reason.

He stood hastily before he betrayed himself with
the truth. "Lock the door behind me. I've got the key."

He paused outside the door until he heard her turn the lock before he walked to the end of the car. He waited for the train to stop. He disembarked, and bought everything he needed from the row of vendors lined up selling food and sundries. He very carefully chose what he needed, and when he boarded again, he held a bag in his hand.

At least, when he finished with her tonight, she would never forget him.

Chapter 20

Rurik stood in the viewing car, watching the passengers board the train. When it pulled away from the station, he made a sweep of the cars, examining every person, making sure that once again he and Tasya were safe.

Tonight he needed to know they would be safe.

Tonight he would concentrate on Tasya. Only on Tasya.

When he was satisfied, he went back to their compartment.

Tasya was deeply asleep. She lay facedown on the covers in her clothes, snoring lightly. He smiled to see her so relaxed . . . and locked the door, taking precautions to ensure no one—not an enemy, not a friendly porter—could enter.

She'd left the blind open so that the lights of the passing towns shot through the window and covered the wall in ephemeral bursts of red and blue and white.

He shut it, making sure no beam could penetrate. He shoved a rug forward to block the glow under the door. In here, the darkness was complete. No human eye could see . . . anything.

Taking care not to wake her, he removed her clothes. Using the oils he'd bought, he rubbed her back, her thighs, her calves. He took his time, liberal with his attentions, using the opportunity to stroke every part of her, to learn her body as she would never allow him if she were awake. He rubbed her earlobes, the soles of her feet, the bones of her hands. He stroked her breasts, probed her navel, spread her legs, and explored, arousing her gently, but not seeking response.

Response he would demand later.

She slept still, but she moaned and stretched like a baby in the hands of one she trusted.

"Yes," he murmured in her ear, and he stroked her hair back from her face. "Sleep."

He shed his clothes and climbed on the bed. The scents of sandalwood and orange rose from her body, stirring his senses . . . stirring hers. Or perhaps it was his hands, kneading her muscles, that brought
her to wakefulness. He heard her breath hitch as she realized she was in the dark, that she rested on her stomach, and a man was above her.

"Sh," he said. "It's Rurik."

Convulsively, she tried to rise.

He held her down with his weight across her thighs. Sliding his hands up her hips, over her waist, up her arms, he caught her wrists and lifted them above her head. "You knew I wouldn't wait forever."

"Don't!"

"Trust me," he murmured. In a long, slow undulation, he settled atop her. He held her legs together with his knees. He pressed his chest to her back, his penis against her bottom.

He felt the heat of her skin as her passion blossomed.

She struggled against his grip. She said, "No . . ." But she whispered.

He rubbed his body on hers, using the oils to ease the friction, reveling in the sensations of her skin against his. Her body was built to contain him, to please him. He pressed his cock between her legs, seeking the silk there, the warm skin, the glory within her. He rubbed himself between her thighs, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin.

"No." It was more of a breath than a word.

"Do you know what I feel when I'm inside you?" He used his cock like a ram, thrusting against the

gates of her body, and the oil he'd used on her allowed him to open her. Just a little. Just enough to almost enter her.

Then he slipped toward the front of her body, and the most sensitive part of him rubbed against the most sensitive part of her.

She caught her breath.

He groaned.

"You can't do this." She turned her head from side to side, tried to lift herself off the bed.

Although he had no intention of hurting her, he enjoyed controlling her. He had a point to make.

"Trust me." Her personal scent was strongest at the back of her neck, and he breathed it in, and kissed the tender skin. "I love the taste of you. Do you know, since that night when we made love, all I have to do is stand close, and I can taste you again?"

"You cannot."

He put both of her wrists in one hand, and slid the other between her rib cage and the bed to cup her breast. "When I rubbed oil on your nipple, you moaned in your sleep."

"I imagine I did." She sounded snappish, more Tasya, less vulnerable.

Yet her nipple beaded in his palm. She might not want to want this: the dark, or him. But her body betrayed both her fear and her desire.

"Damn you. Get
off."
She tried to turn over.

Gently, he squeezed the tiny bead. Once. Again. Again. A slow, steady rhythm guaranteed to irritate her senses.

Her exertions, and that inexorable rhythm, worked their magic. She panted, and perspiration formed on her skin. The scents of her body grew stronger, blending with the perfumes. Beneath him, her movements made him aware of her strength, her weakness, the promise of her femininity.

And he could see her.

The dark was not dark for him.

He saw the mixture of anger and fear on her face, the dawning of passion, the strength with which she held it back.

Yes. This was the right thing to do. For she didn't stand a chance.

In a single quick motion, he let her go and donned the condom.

She hesitated not at all, but made the dash for freedom.

He caught her, put her back where he wanted her, and started again. Holding her down, massaging her, arousing her.

She yielded more easily this time, forgetting for many long seconds the dark and her rebellion. Whenever he touched somewhere new, pushed her toward some new pleasure, she would struggle again. But her resistance grew less and less, and finally she ac
cepted his attentions, relaxed into the mattress, waited for the next caress.

Again he pressed her legs together, then slid his cock between her thighs and higher, finding the entrance to her body and seating himself. He held her arms above her head, held her down with his weight, and murmured softly in her ear, "When I am here, where your body begins to yield, the pleasure is only at the tip, and yet so strong and concentrated I want to scream. Then I push a little"—he did—"and you accept me, squeezing me and promising paradise."

"Please. It's dark."

"You're afraid of the dark."
         

"No, I'm not. I'm not afraid of anything."

He kissed her ear, bit her lobe, tasted her skin. "I get about halfway inside, and you flex. You welcome me."

"That's not welcome."

"Isn't it? Let me convince you." He slipped one well-oiled hand beneath her, down her belly and between her legs, and on one finger, he had attached a tiny vibrator. He flicked the switch, bringing her to instant, unwilling ecstasy—while he thrust all the way inside.

She writhed beneath him. She whimpered in desperation. Her fingernails clawed at the sheets.

Inside, her climax squeezed him, caressed him.

"When . . . when I'm as far inside you as I can go,
you're still so tight"—he should have spread her legs, this ecstasy was almost painful—"so tight and hot. . . . Inside, you're so hot. . . and the folds inside you tug at me, begging me to come. To fill you . . ." He was losing the ability to form words. As her spasms dragged him into heaven with her, the primitive beast within him clawed to get out. He thrust faster and faster, desperate for release, determined to claim her, to show her the man he was and make her know she was his.

Their climax built to a crescendo, then gradually faded.

He turned off the vibrator, dropped it on the floor, listened as she sobbed the last of her release.

She was exhausted. He could feel it in the trembling of her muscles, the way she rested, quiescent, beneath him.

Good. That would make the rest of the night easier.

He lifted himself, rolled her over, leaned down be- 1 tween her legs, and kissed her there.

She gasped, tried to scoot away.

He pressed his hand to her belly. "I want you to forget about the dark. I want you to forget where we're going. I want you to forget who you are. I only want you to know what pleasure is—and who is giving you that pleasure." He tasted her, a long, slow savoring of the flavors of aroused woman and satisfied man.

She couldn't believe he wanted to continue as if
he'd never come. As if he hadn't held her down and forced orgasm after orgasm from her until her legs trembled. "You can't. . . you can't do me again. Not so soon."

With a bound, he rose above her. Taking her hand, he wrapped it around his arousal.

It should be impossible, but he was as hot and hard as he had been the first time.

That first night, he'd been like this. A man of massive appetites, tightly leashed.