by Autumn Dawn
"I can sympathize,” Fallon murmured from the far side of the room. “My mother is much the same. However, as you gave your word and I'm still in need of a caretaker, this changes nothing."
"What are you talking about?” she demanded, lifting her head. “You said yourself it was a mistake."
"Actually, I was referring to something else entirely. This arrangement will work well enough. I do have one request, though.” He glanced at the vivid curtains and winced. “If you could pack away your grandmother's decorations while she is gone I would appreciate it. She seems to have been busy since last I was here.” He looked her over speculatively. “You don't have an affinity for bright colors, do you?"
She couldn't help it, she laughed. “It is pretty awful, isn't it? But—"
Visibly relieved, he nodded at Mathin. “He'll be glad to assist you in any way you require. Just take him shopping with you and he'll see to your purchases.” He grinned at Mathin's scowl. “Mathin adores shopping.” When the scowl turned positively lethal he added, “He'll also be available to answer any questions you may have, since I don't plan to be home much. This is somewhat of a vacation for him so he might as well make himself useful. Do you drive a stick?"
Distracted from her list of objections, Andrea nodded.
"Good. Take your pick of the cars in the garage for work or pleasure. Mathin knows where the keys are.” And with that, he was gone.
Andrea ran to the hall to stop him, but there was no trace of the man.
"Where would you like to start?"
She turned and scowled at Mathin, who lounged negligently against the doorframe. “Doesn't anyone around here make noise when they move?” Before he could answer, she continued, “Besides, I didn't agree to stay, in case you didn't notice. I was lured here under false pretenses. Tricked. Why should I stay?"
His gaze became very serious. Measuring. “Because you gave your word?"
That stopped her cold. Never in her life had she gone back on her word. Ok, there had been that one time when she was seven ... but she prided herself on her record since then. Her word was her gold standard.
She glared at Mathin. “Fine, I'll stay, but let's get something straight. I'm not your neighborhood boy toy. You lay a finger on me and I'll bite it off."
No hint of a smile showed on his face, but some unknown humor lurked in the black depths of his eyes. “I understand ‘no’ very well, lady.” His eyes dropped to the rapid flutter in her throat. “And ‘yes’ even better. Care to wager you'll be saying: yes, Mathin, very soon?” His voice dropped an octave over the ‘yes, Mathin,’ making it sound breathy and eager.
The flutter in her chest grew. That deep drawl of his would be her undoing. His confidence also made her mad. “Give it up!"
He came off the wall. “You want it?"
Attempts to best him verbally appeared to be futile. Determined to ignore what she couldn't change, she turned her head to survey the hall. “I guess I ought to start with the sitting room."
She never saw his silent laugh.
* * * *
There was a certain grim satisfaction to be found in yanking off her grandmother's slipcovers and pulling down drapes. In a way she couldn't help feeling some sympathy for her grandmother's attempts to hide the starkly masculine leather beneath, but at least that was tasteful, and Andrea felt more comfortable with the simple lines than with her grandmother's flowered flounces. It was the only comfort she found in the situation, though.
Much to her surprise Mathin actually helped—and silently, too. After his earlier, wolfish display she would have pegged him as too macho to ever do anything as mundane as housework. Yet there he was, standing on a chair as he took down curtains, letting in the light.
White heat flared inside her at the picture of all that masculine beauty displayed on a pedestal. No wonder the man was so confident. Everywhere he went women no doubt spoiled him. And who could blame them? Just look at the way the light haloed his body, outlined those long legs and that perfect rear end.
"Was there something you wanted?"
Caught with ink on her hands, Andrea looked up, straight into a pair of knowing dark eyes. Unable to think of a likely excuse, she blurted, “Um ... I was wondering where you got your accent. I don't recognize it.” Nice save, Andrea, she congratulated herself.
He glanced at his backside, then slanted her an amused look from under his lashes. “Did you think my country was written on my pockets?"
Unable to look at him, she glanced around the room, her face on fire. Desperate to save face, she continued on, “So where is it? Denmark? Holland?"
"A bit farther than that.” Still smiling, he dropped the curtain he was holding to the floor, replaced the rod and stepped down from the chair. He moved toward her, enjoying the way her eyes widened and her breathing quickened as he approached. Oh, yes. She wanted him. There was no mistaking the glow in those deep blue eyes, and he was more than willing to match it.
The moment he invaded her space she shifted, placing the bulk of the chair she'd been stripping between them. He stopped, respecting her barrier. For now. “If you like I could take you there."
Andrea started to laugh, but stopped. She didn't know him well, but she'd swear he was dead serious. “Why would you want to do that?"
She didn't see him move, but suddenly he held one of her braids in his hand. His attention fixed on the silky skein, he slowly looped it once around his finger.
Andrea swallowed.
Mathin closed his eyes and drew the sable tip across his lips, enjoying the sensual feel. A small sound escaped her, a cross between protest and something more inviting. Though her scent drew him, surrounded him with drugging allure, he allowed the braid to slip between his fingers, setting her free.
It never paid to rush the game.
* * * *
It was only after he'd left the room that Andrea discovered he hadn't answered her. Suddenly she realized she stood there, watching an empty doorway with vision gone hazy. A sharp jerk of her head brought the world back into proper focus. Angry with herself, Andrea flopped back down into her chair and gave the discarded pile of slipcovers at her feet a good kick. Why did she keep falling for his tricks when she knew he was just playing a game?
Because he's so good at it, her mind whispered back. And it was true. The man was a master at flirtation, and he'd gotten his confidence from somewhere. The thought of where he'd earned his experience soured her mood enough to get her up and cleaning again. No doubt he'd had an army of women. She yanked off a slipcover. A man like that she didn't need.
Safe. Steady. Dependable. There had to be a million guys out there with those qualities. There was no need to compromise with a man who'd break her heart when he inevitably got tired of her. Men like him didn't settle for ordinary girls of no special beauty. Why would they when they had herds of females panting after them?
Not that she cared, she told herself. He could do whatever he wanted as long as she wasn't around to see it happen. Very well. If Fallon wouldn't release her from her promise then she would just have to avoid Mathin. Alaskan summers were short. Three months, max, and she'd be out of here. She might even have Zoe pick up some applications for her during the last couple of weeks so she could start job hunting. In the meantime it wouldn't hurt to wow Fallon with her cooking. Surely he'd be willing to write a letter of recommendation for her resume?
It couldn't hurt to be listed as a private chef—a well paid private chef. Come to think of it, what kind of salary had she just agreed to? Her grandmother had mentioned the generous salary she'd received—a lavish sum that had gone a long way toward soothing Andrea's sensibilities. Would Fallon pay her the same?
He'd better, she decided, sending a dark look toward the door. Especially if she had to put up with his friend in the interim.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Mathin appeared in the doorway with a steaming plate held in one hand. “I thought you might be hungry."
"Thank you.” Surprised
by his thoughtfulness and intrigued by the tempting scent of curry, she followed him back to the kitchen. Another plate sat at the breakfast bar. Mathin set down the one he carried and moved around behind her.
"It's traditional to give thanks in this way,” he said before any questions could come out of her open mouth. “We always say a blessing before meals where I come from."
"I wouldn't have taken you for a religious man,” she said skeptically.
His answering expression was that of a man who had nothing to prove.
Chastened, though still suspicious, Andrea grudgingly allowed him to place his hands on her shoulders as she faced forward. It was hard, but she did her best to ignore the warmth spreading through her shoulders at the contact.
Mathin intoned a blessing in his low, rough voice and seated her before going around the island to take his own seat. He said nothing as he picked up the silver chopsticks beside his plate and began to eat.
Disconcerted to find chopsticks at her own place setting instead of more familiar utensils, Andrea nevertheless chose to exercise her rusty knowledge of them instead of seeking out a fork. By the stony look on Mathin's face she'd truly offended him and she didn't want to make it worse by scorning his selection of silverware.
The first bite of curried chicken and vegetables took her by surprise, and she opened her eyes wide at the sublime combination of coconut and heat. “This is really good!” she said, astonished. “I've never had anything like it."
"Glad to have pleased you,” he answered, looking anything but thrilled.
So, he's still angry, she thought. Disliking his moodiness, she continued, “It was very thoughtful of you to cook some for me. After all, it's supposed to be my job."
He gifted her with one oblique stare and returned to his meal, ignoring her as if she'd never existed.
Her own mood soured by his fickle attitude, she returned the gesture and ignored him in kind.
One thing she had to say for the man, she admitted to herself as she took another scrumptious bite—the man could cook. Too bad it was the only thing praiseworthy about him.
Chapter 2
"Here."
Fallon handed Mathin a small packet. Inside were several sets of nose filters, the best defense a male Haunt had against a sylph, short of walking around changed. Only in his other form could a Haunt be unmoved by the pheromone, for a changed Haunt had no sex drive. “I went back to get some today. Jayems and Keilor were most amused to hear of my dilemma, you can be sure."
"And how is your fearless leader?” Mathin asked dryly, pocketing the packet. No doubt Fallon had already inserted the unobtrusive device, even though Andrea was nowhere in sight. Nor was she likely to invade Fallon's private study.
Not that it looked much like a study, save for the laptop computer on the desk and the rows of books. No, with the numerous sheer red curtains and golden accents, it appeared to be fitted for more pleasurable pursuits. The impression was only reinforced by the red velvet chaise lounge between the diamond paned windows and the statue of twined lovers in the corner.
It was a vivid reminder that although Fallon might appear stuffy due to the distractions of this visit, he was still a sensualist at heart.
The ‘your’ did not go unnoticed by Fallon. “Still unwilling to admit formal allegiance, are we? It's fortunate that Jayems takes your actions as fealty enough.” He settled back in his chair and inclined his head, watching Mathin with wry amusement. “You might be a lord, Mathin, and unarguably one of our finest warriors—"
Mathin raised a brow. “One of?"
Ignoring the interruption Fallon continued, “But even you have to admit that Jayems is the Lord of First Rank sometime."
"Have I challenged him?” Mathin countered. So long as he did not he would happily go his way, never having to admit to anything. It had never been his way to make commitments, no matter what he felt in his heart. Any fool could give mere words. Actions were his way.
"Are you planning to give a filter to every male who comes calling, then?” he asked, returning to the original topic. He ran a finger over the bird's eye maple that formed the top of Fallon's desk and the matching bookcases. “They will not enjoy the loss of scent and taste.” He grimaced, remembering the weeks he'd spent escorting Jasmine through the swamps, unable to taste a single thing. “Better for them to remain in Haunt the entire time."
"And frighten Andrea senseless?” Fallon half-grinned, picturing it. “Or are you hoping she'll run to you for protection?” When Mathin didn't answer right away he cocked a curious brow, “What is this? Has time spent away from her cleared your head? Or are you still planning on claiming her?"
A muscle in Mathin's jaw ticked. “I might have spoken too soon."
Concerned for his friend, Fallon leaned forward and asked quietly, “Did something happen while I was gone?"
He was silent for a moment and then admitted, “She said I did not strike her as a religious man when I wished to bless the meal.” He grew furious again just thinking of it. On his world men were measured by their strength of will and by their honor. For believers, that also meant a test of allegiance to the Deity.
Besides all of this, he was a man of rank who'd earned his place. It was considered a great honor for a man such as himself to share a blessing with a woman—especially one of no special status. Another man might have become enraged at her slight, but he had endured it in silence. Still, even though he had never been a stickler for tradition and the privileges of rank, coming from her the insult stung.
Fallon blinked. Then he chuckled. “No, she wouldn't, would she?"
Mathin's scowl grew darker. One knuckle began to rap on the wood.
"Wait!” Fallon raised a hand and tilted his head, signaling patience. “Hear me out. Religious men are not warriors in her culture. She would not recognize a man who boldly acts on his desires as spiritual. The words don't even exist together, according to this culture.” His gaze grew sly. “Not that our culture encourages sex before marriage, either. But she wouldn't know that, would she? Not with you as an example."
"As if you're any better,” Mathin retorted, but accepted Fallon's point. She had not intended to insult him, and that was what mattered. Perhaps he could forgive her.
"Not that I'm encouraging you,” Fallon said quickly. “One sylph in the Darklands is more than we need."
"Is that disappointment I hear talking?” Mathin teased. “As I recall you pursued Jasmine right beside the rest of us."
A wave of Fallon's hand dismissed the notion as ridiculous. “I was no more in love with her than you were, you randy stag; but it was obvious Keilor was hopelessly smitten. At the time he was just too stubborn to admit it. I just helped to hurry things along by pretending to chase her."
The look Mathin gave him was patiently unconvinced. “Is that something I'm going to have to worry about?"
"Are you in love?"
"Of course not!” Mathin exclaimed, horrified. Lust was one thing, as was the desire to commit, but love? Definitely not a wise thing.
Fallon's grin was piratical. “Then why are you worried?"
* * * *
The sitting room looked very different when Andrea finished with it. Tired and dusty but triumphant, she stood near the door with hands on hips and surveyed the room in the late afternoon light. The tall windows sparkled from their cleaning and there wasn't a flowered print in sight. Brown leather overstuffed furniture, trimmed in brass, had emerged from the fluff. Once free of knickknacks, the end tables had proven to be topped with black and white marble and hand-carved of dark wood. Crystal lamps sat upon them, glinting with the polishing she'd given them. Add a fireplace and the room would be perfect. The overall effect was a touch stark, but she was confident that the reintroduction of a few feminine touches would soften and blend the rough edges. The next time she went to town she'd have to see about purchasing a few decorative pillows and a nice throw for the couch.
Her attention went to the bare parquet floori
ng, and she added an oriental rug to her mental shopping list. The pattern was very nice, but rugs did add a nice tactile touch under the feet. An arrangement of silk flowers here and there and a few houseplants and the room would go a long way toward being comfortable.
Satisfied, she left the sitting room and headed upstairs, intent on cleaning up. At the top of the curving staircase, though, she paused, looking at the first door. Should she take a peek inside? After all, she hadn't really explored up here in the short time she'd been here and her duties did extend to cleaning these rooms now and then, didn't they?
Of course the fact that she knew it to be Mathin's room had nothing to do with it.
Whatever she'd expected to find as the door swung silently open, it was not the plain, almost austere room within. If her grandmother had ever been here, it didn't show, for there wasn't an ounce of decoration anywhere, if one discounted the furniture. The only point of interest in the entire room was lying on the black comforter.
Drawn closer by curiosity, she left the door ajar and went to investigate. The object turned out to be a black belt with a holster for a gun and a dagger. The blued gun she left alone, but the obsidian metal of the dagger drew her attention. For a moment she traced the leather bindings of the hilt, fascinated by their texture, then she carefully unsheathed the knife. It came free with a soft hiss.
Its blade was as dark as the hilt but the most surprising thing was the grooves in the haft on either side of the blade. Careful not to touch the edge, which appeared razor-sharp, she probed the grooves, wondering at their purpose. Why would anyone want such a thing in their knife? If one were to actually use it, it would only collect ... blood.
A little nauseated by the idea, she was about to slip it back into its sheath when an arm came around and gripped her hand over the hilt. Startled, she screamed and tried to twist away.
"Easy!” Mathin's voice came in her ear, sounding rather pained. He released his grip on her waist and turned her about, carefully prying her hand from the hilt. “This isn't for chopping vegetables, you know."