Nuala broke the kiss. “What’s troubling you? What you did with Haider last night?”
“I’ve made my peace with his death as best I can.”
“Peterson?”
“His ass is in the slammer. I got him to spill the truth about his plans. Isabeau was not only a witness, she recorded the whole thing.”
“He didn’t demand a lawyer? He just told you what you wanted to know?”
“He wasn’t under arrest. But he was under my influence. He couldn’t help himself. He even admitted to killing Mike to stop my brother from exposing his manipulation of the gangs.”
Nuala stared into his eyes as though she was reaching down to his soul. “You should be happy, but I sense you’re conflicted.”
“About my part in Mike’s death,” he agreed.
She took his hand and pulled him down the hallway toward the bedroom. “You can tell me everything. After.”
After? She wanted him now. That was obvious when she stopped at the foot of the bed and shrugged off her garment—the only thing she was wearing—so that it spilled to the floor. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her breasts. He couldn’t resist holding their weight, thumbing her nipples into hard buds. A cry of pleasure escaped her as she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, after which, her hands were on his flesh. He thickened and grew harder and had a difficult time focusing.
“It’s about Mike,” he said again.
She pulled his pants down and made him step out of them.
He lifted her to face him, saying, “Before we do anything, I have to be honest with you.”
She grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped it open.
Okay, this was more difficult than he’d imagined it would be.
“I want you more than anything, Nuala, but first, you need to know the truth about what happened that night. Mike died because of my selfishness.”
“All right.” She slid onto the bed and patted the turquoise coverlet next to her. “Lie down with me and tell me everything.”
He hesitated. She patted the bed again. Sighing, he stretched out next to her. They were both naked and aroused, yet he held himself back from getting too close as he finally told her what had haunted him for the last decade.
“I had plans that night. Mike wanted me to cancel them because he said he had something important he needed my help with. I was in a high mood, didn’t want to hear anything negative. I was horny and hot for a girl I’d been dating. I thought I was in love and finally had my shot at her. Joy’s parents were out of town, and we were going to spend the night together. My first night with a woman. Mike said I could do the girlfriend any time, but he had a situation that needed to be addressed right then. I was angry at the way he talked about Joy and that he was trying to spoil my plans…”
“So you left with anger between you.”
She moved closer and tucked her head along his neck. A wave of tenderness and longing shot through him. As if in answer, she began stroking his chest.
“I told him to grow up and deal with whatever problems he had himself for once. The last words I ever spoke to my brother. They’ve haunted me for the last decade.”
“But now you can let it go.” Her strokes moved lower and more seductive.
How could she want to be so intimate with him after what he’d just told her? She was devoted to her own brothers and would do anything for them. Surely she saw this as a horrible betrayal. Joy certainly had.
“After the funeral, when I went to see Joy, I told her about how I’d put my brother off so I could be with her. How guilty that made me feel. She was horrified, thought I was blaming her for his death. She said Mike would still be alive if getting her in bed hadn’t been more important to me than helping my own brother.” If his heart hadn’t already been broken, she would have finished the job. “When I tried to apologize, she turned her back on me, said there was no forgiving me for choosing sex with her over Mike’s life.”
“You didn’t know the kind of situation your brother had put himself in.”
“I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to have sex that night,” he admitted.
He’d never gotten emotionally close with a woman since. He’d never wanted to until Nuala.
“You were young and made a mistake.” She trailed her hand down his hip and along his thigh. “We all make mistakes.” And then moved it to his center, making him forget why he’d been so anxious when she said, “There was nothing to forgive.”
He found her mouth. Sucked on her lower lip. Slid his tongue inside. She met him stroke for stroke, rolled over him and landed on top. Grasped him and drew his tip toward the wet warmth between her thighs.
He had a moment’s hesitation. “Are you sure about this?”
“Never more sure of anything.”
“It hasn’t even been a week since Maeve was born.”
“We Kindred heal fast,” she reminded him. She pressed down so her slick inner walls made him forget everything but the pleasure she offered.
He thrust into her, but she evaded him, making him wait while her labia sucked the tip of his cock. He was going to go out of his mind if she kept this up. Fair was fair. He slid a hand around her thigh and kept going until he reached the wetness gathered in her sex. Finding her clit, he rubbed with a rhythm that she couldn’t resist. Finally… thankfully… she slid down his length and then back up again.
Sensation shattered him. “I can’t hold on!” he growled.
“Then don’t. Just love me.”
Even though she meant the love in terms of sex, he said, “I do love you, Nuala.”
And then he came in a wave that made him cry out.
She was close. He could feel it. He flicked her clit and teased a nipple with his teeth. Her moan gave him a bigger thrill than he’d just had in coming.
Nuala collapsed against him and Ethan pulled her close. He’d told her he loved her, but she hadn’t returned the sentiment. Even though she’d said there was nothing to forgive, he wondered if it had merely been in the heat of the moment.
When she said, “I have something I need to tell you,” he feared that might be right.
“About Mike?” he asked.
“About me.”
He was still on edge, not knowing how she truly felt about him. “Is there something wrong?”
“Something right I hope. I have my own soul again…”
“Your own soul.” He remembered seeing Cezar remove the soul of the woman who’d lost in the high-roller room. “That had to be painful. Why would you do that?”
“For you. I wanted to be a woman you could accept in your life. I’m still Kindred. A shifter… but no longer immortal. I love you, Ethan, and hope you have room for me in your heart.”
The last but most joyous thing he’d expected to hear. He wanted to celebrate by making love to her again. Realizing he was ready to do so mere moments after the first time, he guessed the tattoo gave him another added bonus.
“I have all the room in the world for you and for Maeve,” he agreed. “And for a sister or brother for her. Maybe both if you like.”
Her brilliant smile of approval went straight to his heart.
The End
Kindred Souls Series
Chicago’s supernatural underground is inhabited by predator shapeshifters who have turned Northerly Island from a nature preserve into an entertainment venue. There, The Ark, the city’s first casino boat ruled by the Lazares, is a breeding ground for humans who bet their souls to win their heart’s desire. Sibling black panther shifters protect their own even while finding temptation with partners who may be “something else” even more powerful.
Book 1: Animal Instincts
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Book 2: Animal Attraction
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More by Patricia Rosemoor
Eyes of the Tiger
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Eyes of the Tiger
Patricia Rosemoor
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Fog shrouded the Upper East Side, concealing anything above the second or third floor. Impossible to distinguish the high rises on Fifth Avenue from the five- and six-story townhouses on the side street.
Despite the fine drizzle that continued to fall, he stood on the corner, his gaze focused on a classic limestone facade, waiting for the front door to open. He’d seen the collar necklace on her neck tonight, so she’d better still be wearing it. He checked his watch. Again. Nine minutes since the car had left them off, and he was running out of patience. He knew her routine. He’d been watching and waiting long enough.
Why the delay?
Where the hell was she?
The brass door suddenly swung open and her shaggy mutt burst through the opening as if he was getting out of jail.
“Wait for me, Gizmo!”
The moment he heard her laughing rebuke, he slid into the shadows and pulled his billed cap lower to hide his face. Then he waited for the little dog to drag her to Fifth. On the opposite side of the street, he crossed with the same light as she.
Not much middle-of-the-night traffic. No other pedestrians.
With the fog and drizzle offering cover, tonight was the perfect night.
A creature of habit, she always walked her dog in Central Park before going to bed. Even with a short-hooded raincoat partially obscuring long skirts that sparkled over four-inch heels, Zara Hewitt had the confidence of the uber-wealthy. No fear. Nothing could touch her.
Except him.
Knowing the dog would pull her east, toward him, he turned east, too, sliding away from the street side closer and closer to the park fence. A short distance from the intersection, he became one with a large tree trunk and listened for them.
A yap and another feminine laugh. Some soft words. His muscles tightened. He prepared to lunge.
The mutt passed.
So did she.
Before either woman or dog knew he was there, he was on her, hand over her mouth, dragging her back, back toward the fence.
She struggled. The dog yapped.
He easily tossed her over the stone fence into some bushes and followed, leaping over the obstruction and on top of her before she could get to her feet.
“What do you want?” she cried, circling her body with her arms, as if that would protect her. “I’ll give you anything…”
“I know you will,” he said, grabbing for a scarf she’d wrapped around her neck.
Glimpsing the necklace made him smile in relief.
“Just don’t hurt me, please.”
He was going to hurt her, all right, and take so much pleasure from her pain.
Distracted for a moment by the dog growling and barking, nails clacking against the wall as it tried to jump over the top, he wasn’t prepared for her to grab his hat and tear it from his head.
Her eyes widened as she saw his face.
“Now that was a mistake.”
She fought him, but she was twice his age, half his weight, a fourth of his strength. She didn’t stand a chance. She twisted her body around as if she could run from him. But having seen his face, she could identify him to the police.
Not in this lifetime. He wrapped an arm around her neck, levered a hand against her head and—SNAP!—her struggle was finished.
Damn it! With her dead, he’d been deprived of the pleasure he would have gotten from her pain and terror. But he’d done what was necessary.
Still trapped on the other side of the fence, her mutt squealed and began to howl.
So the wait was finally over. Now the real hunt could begin. He was feeling for a way to remove the gold collar, heavy with gems and pearls, when a man’s deep voice put a chill up his back.
“Police! Show yourself!”
A beam of light suddenly illumined the area before him as a large silhouette pressed up against the stone wall. His gorge rose. He couldn’t let the cop nail him. Regretfully, he would leave the necklace on the dead woman and come up with a new plan to get his hands on it.
Avoiding the beam searching for him, he disappeared into the night.
*
“Exquisite artifacts,” Damon Underwood murmured, as he paged through the portfolio on his desk. “More exquisite designs.”
Sitting across from him in his minimalist Soho office—white walls and floor, slim black and glass furniture—set in a high floor of a historic cast-iron building, Gemma Hewitt allowed her lips to bow into a natural smile for the first time since her mother’s murder. Grief and guilt had consumed her, taking away her drive to work. A gallery manager who was a mutual acquaintance had recommended her to Damon, who had called her to set up a meeting. Still feeling lost, self-blame burdening her heart, but knowing she couldn’t stay frozen in her grief forever, Gemma had forced herself to use this opportunity to revive her stalled professional life.
“Your work is very eclectic, my darling. How do you choose your next project?”
“My next project usually chooses me.” Literally, though she didn’t say so. “I go where my muse leads me and I find pieces that interest me.”
Damon nodded as he studied the photographs of her Tibetan snow lion cuff bracelet and the artifact decorated with the snow lion that inspired it, ironically a piece of armor meant to protect a knee.
He said, “So you’ve been to Tibet.”
“No, not yet.” Though she did spend half her time traveling the world, searching for inspiration. She’d been on more than a dozen junkets abroad in the last four years. “Actually, I picked up the armor in a bazaar in Istanbul.” The way she usually made her finds.
“It’s authenticated?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know what you had in your hands?”
She shrugged. The moment she’d touched the artifact, she’d seen the mythical snow lion attacking seven dragons, symbolizing fearlessness and victory. “The pieces always speak to me.”
He laughed. “All right. Don’t tell me.”
She wasn’t being evasive. From the time she was a child, old objects with a history had always drawn her to them. She remembered finding a fragile gold ring on the beach in the Bahamas when she was eight. The moment she’d touched the ring, it had vibrated in her hand, and she’d known it had been from a downed ship. She’d “seen” it sink, if only in a flash.
“I’ve actually admired samples of your work at the Met,” Damon said. “Including this bracelet.” He tapped the photograph, then closed her portfolio and leaned back in his leather chair. “The reason you caught my interest and I asked for this meeting.”
Damon Underwood appeared as minimalist as his office. Dressed in black trousers and a black designer shirt, his light brown hair slicked back from a broad forehead, he wore only a single piece of jewelry—a platinum ring set with an impressive black diamond.
He said, “You’re well thought of at the Met.”
“Good to know.”
“Admiration well-deserved. What’s next? Where does your muse lead you?”
Still dealing with the emotional repercussions of her mother’s death, she said, “I don’t have a specific destination in mind. Yet.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
Having been intrigued by the invitation to audition for a gemologist who worked with top jewelry designers, Gemma asked, “You have something you want me to design for you?”
With one of the gems on his walls? He’d decorated only with large unframed photographs of stones of different cuts and colors.
“It’s the other half of your job that most interests me. The research half. I perhaps have something—rather some things—I would like you to find,” he said. “A client who is also a good friend might be interested in hiring you for a personal quest.”
“Who? What kind of quest?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that just yet. I will meet with her, tell her about your ability to find unusual artifacts. I’ll highly recommend a meeting. If you’
re interested, of course. The project would involve some traveling.”
“One of the reasons I love my work so much.” Gemma kept her smile, but her mind was twirling a mile a minute.
Why the mystery?
Damon Underwood had a reputation for doing whatever it took to get what he wanted, not that she would mind working for or with him. She could handle herself in demanding situations. Since earning her MFA from the Rhode Island School of Design, she’d been tracking down artifacts to use for inspiration in designing jewelry for museums and high-end stores and boutiques. Her extrasensory ability helped her find extraordinary pieces and pry out their history. A decent living for an artist. Working with a private client to do the same would take her in a new, potentially more challenging, direction.
“So you are interested?” he asked.
Her curiosity aroused by the secrecy, Gemma couldn’t resist. “I’m more than interested. I’m intrigued.”
“Good. Then I’ll speak with my client and get back to you.” He slid her portfolio across his desk, and his expression grew serious. “I know this comes late, but I would like to offer you condolences on your mother’s death.”
Gemma’s mood immediately shifted. Of course he would know. At least the part that had been the focus of the media for weeks, until they’d gone on to fresh blood. He couldn’t possibly read her heart. “You mean her murder.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you…”
She forced a smile. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, as would be expected of a proper Hewitt. “And I really must leave now. I’m hosting an open house at an apartment in the Village.”
“You’re in the real estate game, as well?”
“My father is a broker. I’m simply helping him.”
Her mother Zara used to arrange the open house fetes for multimillion-dollar properties. Now her father wanted her to step into her late mother’s shoes. Her father was still trying to convince Gemma she would be better off working in real estate than as an artist. More practical, maybe, but certainly not as fulfilling. Thinking Damon might know someone who would be interested in the apartment, Gemma took a card from her purse and slid it across the desk to him.
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