Twilight Illusions (12 page)

“This is writing?”

“Man's earliest form of writing. Cuneiform script. This piece was done around 4000
B.C.
, in Sumer.”

She studied it more closely, as if trying to absorb its meaning. “Does anyone know what it says?”

Damien nodded. “It's part of the story of Gilgamesh.”

She looked up quickly, and he saw regret in her eyes.

“Gilgamesh. Oh, God, Damien, your book…the fire—”

“It's all right.”

“But I—”

“Shannon, it's just a book. The latest translation. I have dozens of others with the same story in them. You've seen them yourself—”

“But it's precious to you.”

It was. They all were. But how could she know that? “I can get another one.”

“
I'll
get you another one. And a copy for myself while I'm at it.” She sighed, her hand resting feather-light on the glass. “It was a wonderful, terrible story. I'm glad I read it before the book burned.”

He frowned at her, trying not to see that in the firelight her skin resembled fine silk, trying not to hear the sincerity in her voice. “You did?”

She nodded absently, her gaze going back to the uneven chunk of stone. “Tell me what it says.”

He closed his eyes. “You don't really want to hear—”

“I do. That story touched me, Damien. I think I understand the pain that drove Gilgamesh into the desert. I lost a best friend, too, you know.”

“I know.” And he did. “This is a recounting of Enkidu's death. Gilgamesh was at his side, clutching his hand. Enkidu looked at Gilgamesh and spoke to him. This is what he said.”

Damien turned his eyes to the stone. “‘You will be left alone, unable to understand in a world where nothing lives anymore…”' He tried not to feel the pain of that horrible day again. It had changed over the centuries, even altered its form, but never dulled. He still felt it like a freshly whetted blade slicing his soul. His voice thickened as he read on.

“‘You'll be alone and wander, looking for that life that's gone, or some eternal life you have to find. Your eyes have changed. You are crying. You never cried before. It's not like you. Why am I to die, you to wander alone? Is that the way it is with friends?' Gilgamesh sat hushed as his friend's eyes stilled. In his silence he reached out to touch the friend whom he had lost.”

Damien stopped with one hand braced against the mantel and stared into the flames. He only brought himself up out of the well of pain when he heard her sniff. He lifted his head, glanced at her, and saw tears in her amber eyes.

“It's so sad. And you read it with such emotion.” She sniffed once more and ran the back of one hand over her eyes. “You should have been an actor.”

“I am.”

She nodded, biting her lip, turning toward him again. “You told me that you'd lost a friend, too. That's why you feel so strongly about this epic, isn't it?” He nodded, not trusting his voice just then to speak. “You've read so much about Gilgamesh. Was there more?”

“More?”

“To the story.” She looked at him with so much hope in her eyes. “It's so sad to believe that's all there was. There ought to be more. Did he ever find the secret? Did he manage to bring his friend back?”

Damien sighed, shifting his gaze back to the stone. “He found immortality, but it didn't make him a god, the way he'd thought it would. It didn't give him the power to bring Enkidu back. It made him a demon. The people who'd adored him hated him and called him a monster. They didn't even believe he was Gilgamesh anymore, but some evil imposter. Their king was dead. His foolish search for eternal life condemned him to an endless existence, where he was forced to witness over and over again the triumph of the one enemy he'd hoped to defeat. Death.”

She turned again to the stone. “It
says
all that?”

“No, Shannon. That part of the story hasn't been uncovered yet. It's just my own theory.”

She stared at him for a moment, her jaw slack. Then she blinked her shock away and lightly punched his shoulder. “Cheerful SOB. Aren't you? Couldn't you come up with a better theory? Something with a ‘happily ever after' at the end?”

“I wish I could.”

She smiled, but her lips trembled just a little. She reached down to the stack of logs, picked one up and tossed it into the fireplace. A shower of sparks rained out, and Damien jumped out of the way. He thought his heart skipped a beat. But none made contact, and he hastily replaced the glass screen in front of the flames.

Shannon didn't seem to notice. She was settling down on the floor, amid the pillows on the Turkish rug. She crossed her legs and patted a spot beside her. “I could discuss Gilgamesh all night. He fascinates me, but I'm hereby tabling the creation of a happy ending for him until another time. There's something a little more immediate we need to talk about.”

“Like what?”

“Like how we're going to catch Tawny's killer. We haven't made a hell of a lot of progress so far, in case you haven't noticed.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Does that mean you've finally decided I didn't do it?”

“Do you think I'd be here if I hadn't?”

It wasn't really an answer. Actually, he thought she just might be here either way. She had a little too much courage sometimes. “You have an idea where to begin? Because I certainly don't.” He crossed his legs and sat down beside her.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

His head came up quick at the tone in her voice. Why did the way she said those words, that slight lifting of her chin and that hint of stubbornness in her eyes, send a chill up the back of his neck?

“Tell me, then.”

She tilted her head to one side, eyes sparkling again. “You're not going to like it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

She smiled, and he knew he'd made a mistake by sitting down here with her. She was too close, and her scent twined into his mind, tying it up in knots. His gaze moved over her face, such an exquisite face, high cheekbones, mouth like a plump bow, small turned-up nose. He'd like to see that face twisted in an ecstasy so sweet it was painful. He could give her that.

Problem was, he was afraid he might kill her in the process.

Her brows drew together, her hand lifted to touch his face. “You all right?”

Her touch on his skin was agony. He turned away, and her hand fell. “Fine. What's this idea I'm not going to like?”

She seemed a little hurt by his action, but she went on anyway. “The killer is only striking the women who've volunteered to assist you. At least, that's the way it looks so far. I thought he might try for me when I became your latest volunteer, but he didn't. So we have to rebait the trap. I'll be your one-and-only, full-time, exclusive assistant from now on.”

“Absolutely—”

“Starting tomorrow night.”

“Not.”

“I knew you wouldn't like it.” She held his gaze, and in the bright challenge shining from her eyes he could almost see her daring him to dish up his best arguments.

“You'd be risking your life.”

“Moot point. I might already be on his hit list.”

“And you might not.”

“You can't keep using audience volunteers, Damien. It isn't fair to make them targets—”

He stood, paced away and turned to face her again. “I won't use them anymore.”

“Then he's liable to start preying on your paid assistants.” She rose, too, and came toward him. “At least with me, it's an informed decision. Those other women have no idea what they're letting themselves in for.”

He pushed one hand through his hair, hating that she made sense. “I'd rather close the show, cancel the rest of the performances.”

“You'd be sued.”

“I don't care.”

She lifted her chin, standing close to him and practically on tiptoe, trying to look him levelly in the eye. “We'll never catch him unless he tries again. This is important to me, Damien. The risk is nothing. I've got nothing to lose. All I care about right now is catching this bastard and making sure he pays for what he did to Tawny.”

“Shannon—”

“And I'm willing to make a concession.” He waited. “I'll stay here with you, make it easier for you to continue in this role you've taken on as my protector, much as I don't need one. If you say no, then I'm out the door, right now, tonight.”

“Where would you go?”

“I still have my office. I could bunk on the couch there.”

Stubborn, beautiful witch. “I could camp on your doorstep and watch over you anyway.”

“But I'm safer here. This place is like a fort.”

He lowered his eyes, knowing defeat when it was staring up at him from a pair of honey golden eyes. “All right. All right, I give up. You win.”

Her arms snaked around his neck, and she squeezed him hard. “Thank you, Damien. You won't regret this.”

Oh, but he already did.

It was nearly dawn when she finally noticed the time and said good-night. And while he hated using mind control on her, he did invade her psyche just a little, instructing her to sleep the day through. He couldn't have her snooping around the mansion during the day, or taking off on her own and getting into trouble when he couldn't help her. She was just spirited enough to do either. Probably both. He was endlessly thankful that fire at her place had occurred at night. Otherwise, she'd be gone already.

Gone. The thought put a lump in his throat. He tried not to let it keep occurring to him over and over again after she'd gone up to bed, but it persisted anyway. He swallowed hard, and walked up the stairs to peer in at her. Some stupid need to see her once more, just to confirm that she really was alive and here with him.

He cracked the bedroom door. Naked longing, hunger, bloodlust welled up within him when he did. She lay there, amid the pile of covers she'd kicked away. Sound asleep. Her robe was a small soft puddle on the floor. If he were an artist, he'd paint her, just like this. Naked, relaxed, alive. Beautiful. One corner of the sheet clutched in her fist, held between her breasts. With everything in him he wanted to go to her, touch her, run his trembling hands over her flesh, explore her moist recesses with his fingers, his lips, his painfully erect arousal.

He pulled her door closed, pressed his back to the wall and drew a tormented, openmouthed breath, expanding his lungs until he thought they'd burst.

The thirst raged. The need. The hunger. And if she was going to be safe in this house, he had to find a way to assuage it. He knew, too well, that if he resisted, if he denied his savage nature too long, the craving would build and build until he was out of control. Until
it
took over.

That was the way it had been with the two dead women. He'd thought it would be all right. It had always been before. He'd only taken what they'd offered, sating his endless thirst in the process, feeding at their tender throats, quieting the monster within that demanded sustenance.

And for a few insane seconds in their arms, he might have taken leave of his senses. It was possible. Maybe he only regained his grip on sanity when he was home again, lying still, feeling their warm blood rushing through his veins.

No, dammit! He was certain he'd left them alive. He'd only sipped. He'd never be the instrument of a living being's death. Never. Anyone, a newborn baby, would be more likely to commit murder than Damien.

He tore himself away from the wall and stalked through the wide hallway, down the winding staircase. Now the hunger called again. This time, he wouldn't be stupid enough to deny its power over him. He wouldn't try to fight it or put it off. He couldn't let it grow until it reached the point of madness. Not again. Not with Shannon in the house. So near. So sweet.

She'd be succulent.

“No!”

Damien stopped in the center of the foyer, closed his eyes and focused on her mind, her soul. It took only a second to be sure she was still asleep. Before he left, he armed the security system. What he had in mind would take just a few minutes. No one could get to her in that amount of time. She'd be safe.

Damien slipped out into the night, whirled until he became only a gray blur to human eyes. And then he flew, a dark streak across the sky.

S
hannon opened her eyes to see Damien standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her. His black eyes blazed. His jaw was tight, his stance rigid. He said nothing, just watched her.

She sat up, let the covers fall away from her body, and realized she was naked beneath them. She drew a gasp and jerked the covers up to her neck again. Then lifted her gaze to his. It hadn't wavered. She knew he'd seen her breasts for just an instant. She felt heat moving up through her face, a rush of embarrassment, and she couldn't keep looking at him. Her chin lowered until she saw only her fist, clutching the blankets to her throat.

She felt a tug. Then another. She glanced up fast. Damien held the bedclothes in his hands, just below her feet. He pulled them toward him. Slowly but steadily, the covers slipped away. She wanted to jerk them back…or at least part of her did, but she couldn't seem to move. Her arms were numb, heavy, useless.

Her breasts were visible now, and the blankets and sheets still kept slinking lower. Satin whispered over her hips, her thighs, her knees. She shivered, but it wasn't cold. Her ankles were exposed now. Her feet. Damien held the rumpled bundle of covers to one side and let it fall to the floor.

She couldn't roll away from those probing eyes, or lift her arms to cover herself. She sat still, immobilized by some force she didn't understand, as Damien's hot gaze explored every inch of her body. She saw the bulge at the juncture of his thighs beneath those tight black jeans he wore. She knew what was going to happen. She wasn't afraid. No. It was time. She wanted this. He took a single step toward the bed.

“Damien,” she whispered.

“Let me love you, Shannon.”

She couldn't catch her breath to answer, so she only nodded. He reached out to touch her—

Her eyes fluttered open, and she was alone in the room. Alone in the bed, under the soft weight of blankets and a comforter. She lifted the covers and peeked underneath. She'd slept in the buff for lack of a nightgown or any clothing at all except the loose-fitting robe, which tended to tangle around her legs. No wonder she'd had erotic dreams. The feel of satin sheets against her skin had been the inspiration, not the strange man of illusions. That was all it was. Just because he'd been invading her waking thoughts lately didn't mean he'd been the cause of her dream.

But she knew better than that, didn't she?

She grated her teeth and punched the pillow. She'd had a hell of a time getting to sleep. In some ridiculous part of her mind she'd been waiting for, even
expecting,
him to come to her. But he hadn't. Of course he hadn't.

She looked around for her robe, belatedly realizing it was dim in the room. Night already? She glanced at the little wind-up clock on the nightstand—7:15. Dusk. God, she never slept this long at once. Then again, she'd never had dreams like the one she'd just had, either. She sat up in bed, ran one hand across her forehead, and found it damp with sweat.

The knock came at her door and she jumped. Her gaze flew to the wood as his deep voice floated through.

“Shannon? Are you awake?”

She bit her lip. Her dreams had been accurate, if farfetched. They'd reproduced that satin touch of his voice on her senses. And the warmth of his breath, dampness of his lips as he'd whispered against her skin.

Not him, she reminded herself. My dream.

“Shannon?”

“Just a minute.” She hopped out of bed, hugging most of the covers around her, still frantically looking for her robe or the clothes she'd taken off the night before. Nothing was to be seen. She made it to the door, opened it a crack and peeked through at him.

He stood close to the door, as dark and mysterious as ever. Spotless white shirt, tight black pants with tapered legs. God, he was sexy.

“I brought you something to eat.” He held a plate in one hand, but his gaze was fastened to her shoulders and her neck, and the fist with which she held sheets and blankets to her breastbone trembled. “Can I come in?”

She blinked. “I'm not exactly dressed—”

He shrugged and shouldered the door open, strolling in as though it were an everyday thing. “Shannon, I'm around half-dressed, beautiful women all the time. I can handle it, I promise.” He sent her a smile as she clumsily adjusted her coverings under her arms. He set the plate on a nightstand.

“Yeah, maybe you can, but I can't.” She crossed to the bathroom, blankets and sheets trailing behind her like Lady Di's bridal train. Tugging her tails in behind her, she closed the door. “Where are my clothes?”

“I asked Netty to get them cleaned for you. They're in the closet.”

He sounded as if he stood right outside the bathroom door. She didn't hear him move away. “Well, would you kindly hand me something to put on?”

He chuckled, but a second later he knocked. She cracked the door and his hand poked through, clutching a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and fresh new underwear. “Those aren't mine.”

“Netty did a little more shopping today. Can't have you wearing the same thing everyday, can we? Take them, Shannon. They won't bite.”

She took the clothes and closed the door again, then quickly dressed.

“I don't know why you're bothering. You won't be in them long.”

Shocked, she stared at the bathroom door. Finally, it seemed, he was ready to make a move. It wasn't at all what she'd envisioned. “That's the crudest proposition I've ever had.” She opened the door and stood, hands on hips, facing him. Butterflies battled inside her stomach. She'd been right in reading the signs last night. He did want her. The moment of truth was here. “Can't you do any better?”

He touched her face, trailing warm fingertips over her cheek, until she fought the urge to close her eyes and lean against him. “I can do better. Don't doubt it. But that wasn't a proposition, Shannon. Just a statement of fact.”

Her eyes popped open and she scowled. “You're taking this just a bit for granted, aren't you?” She hadn't even decided to say yes yet.

“You said you wanted to be my assistant until we caught the killer, didn't you?” She nodded mutely. “Well, you certainly can't do it dressed like that.”

Embarrassment brought heat to her face, but she turned her head to hide it from his sharp gaze, and tried to convert the discomfort to something more constructive. “If you think I'm parading around onstage in one of those skimpy sarong skirts with a bikini top, the way your other assistants do, you're in for a surprise, Damien.”

“You won't be parading. You'll be graceful, floating, dancing. And we only have about an hour to rehearse, so will you kindly eat this feast Netty cooked for you so we can get on with it?”

 

This was not right. He'd fed, just to be sure the hunger was assuaged, just to prevent himself from feeling this powerful lust for her. And he'd been sure he was perfectly in control when he'd come to the room. He'd marched in, with Shannon wearing nothing but a tangle of blankets, just to prove it to himself.

But all it had taken to convince him otherwise was a single glimpse of her smooth skin, bare shoulders and delicate neck, the outline of her collarbone under her skin, the shape of her jaw. The lust hit him again the second he'd set eyes on her, hit him as powerfully as it had before he'd fed. Something was wrong. This damned thirst must be getting stronger. He'd never felt the need again so soon. Never!

And it wasn't a temporary thing. The feelings grew more intense with every second he spent near her, until he was thinking of little else. He wanted to feel her warm flesh pressed to his own, to hear the sounds she made as he worked her body, drove her to madness, made her want the things he did.

But he couldn't make love to her. For all he knew he might kill her if he did. And even if he wasn't the one responsible for the deaths of those other women, he still had reason to keep a distance from Shannon. He didn't want to let his feelings for her get any stronger. It would kill him to care that much again. When she left—as she must—it would kill him.

What was wrong with him? There were so many things he ought to be focused on right now. The killer who stalked the streets of Arista, the person who might make Shannon his next target, for one. If he hadn't killed those two women himself, then he had to know who had, or the murders might go on and on. And this new power his nature seemed to be gaining. He needed to explore it, to find answers to the questions tormenting him. He should contact this Marquand. The man might have some answers.

And then there was Shannon and this mysterious illness he'd worried about since he'd first seen its effects. He had, he thought, the answers to that in his possession, in the supposed CIA man's files on her. But he hadn't had time to go over them yet, with her always so close. Or maybe it was the guilt he felt at blatantly invading her privacy that way. But he needed to do that, to find out what was wrong with her before it became worse. She'd admitted that attacks like that had happened before—

She whirled across his room, into his arms, and flipped backward in an apparent faint. He nearly dropped her, he'd been paying so little attention. Her body's jerking movements were proof she was fighting laughter, and her eyes popped open a second later.

“I don't know how I'm going to get through this without giggling, Damien. It's so dramatic. I'm not a dramatic person.”

He couldn't help but smile at the sparkle in her eyes, the dimples in her face. “No, I'd call you more irreverent than dramatic.” He lifted her upright again and took his arms from around her. Holding her like this was too much, even now.

Netty's clapping came from the doorway and she hustled forward. “'Course it seems absurd now, Shannon, wearing blue jeans and dancing in a living room. It'll all be different onstage, when you're in costume and the music is thrummin' in your ears and all that misty stuff is twirlin' around your legs. You'll see.”

“You think so?”

Netty wiped her hands on her apron and sent Shannon a wink. “Oh, I know these things. Toured with the Somerset Theatre Troupe in London when I was in my prime. Played Eliza Doolittle. Knocked 'em dead, I did.”

Damien frowned. “You never told me that, Netty.”

“You never asked,” she replied. “Truth be told—” she tilted her head, addressing Shannon “—he's always been such a cold fish, I was beginning to wonder if there beat a heart in that big chest of his. He's different now, though, since you been comin' round.”

Damien opened his mouth to tell Netty she was overstepping, but she cut him off before he said a word.

“Got to get to it, if I'm going to get to the theater in time to see Shannon's debut. If there's nothing else…?”

Damien shook his head.

“Thank you for the clothes, and the meal, and everything else you've done for me,” Shannon said as Netty turned to go.

“Nothin' of it, child. You remind me of an orphan in need of motherin'. I like coddling you just a mite.”

Shannon's eyes widened, but Netty was already on her way out the door. She glanced at Damien as if dumbfounded.

“What is it?”

“What she said, I…” She blinked twice, then shook her head. “Just a coincidence, I guess. Never mind.”

 

A short time later, she tugged at the bottom of the leopard-print bikini top and nervously adjusted the knot in the side of the matching sarong skirt. Roxy, Damien's former assistant, had not been happy about the change. In fact, she'd thrown a fit, and Damien had been tossing out one excuse after another, until, fed up and wondering who the hell had a name like “Roxy” anyway, Shannon had stepped between them. “Look, toots, I'm a PI. Repeat it and you'll wish you hadn't. I'm taking your place because Damien's assistant is liable to end up as some lunatic's target. Repeat
that
and I'll break your jaw. If you think I can't, try me. Any questions?”

Roxy, tall and elegant, stared down at Shannon for a long moment, gaping. Finally, she glanced at Damien again. “This had better be legit, Namtar. I have a contract.”

“You'll still be paid for every performance.”

She nodded once, spared a parting glare at Shannon, then turned on her heel and left.

Shannon sighed, shaking off the memory of the nasty little confrontation and focusing instead on Damien's every move out there onstage. She struggled to remember everything he'd told her. Keep her head up, back straight. Be graceful, confident.

That she was beautiful, and would be terrific. That was the second time he'd called her “beautiful.” She could learn to like it.

When he nodded toward where she stood, she braced her hands against the prop table-on-wheels and pushed it out onto the stage. Damien introduced her as his “delectable assistant, Shannon.” She waved to the crowd as he'd told her to, and was surprised when they applauded her loudly. The rock music swelled, and the show got easier as she went along, handing Damien the props from the table, adding little flourishes of her own now and then. When the trick was finished and Damien gallantly kissed the back of her hand, she fanned herself and winked at the audience. They loved it, applauding wildly as she sauntered offstage, pushing the little cart. It wasn't nearly as tough as she'd expected it to be. And it was kind of fun. She could flirt with him as much as she wanted, and he'd just consider it all part of the act.