by Amanda Quick
When he inserted a finger deep inside her she cried out and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. He felt her body draw tighter. Deliberately he inserted a second finger.
She gasped. Her small, delicate muscles closed even more securely around him. She released his heavy erection and clutched his forearms.
“Now relax,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to,” she said into his shoulder. “I like it this way.”
“You’ll like it even better if you do as I say. I give you my word. Relax.”
Her narrow passage loosened almost imperceptibly. He withdrew his fingers partway.
“Now hold me as if you’ll never let me go.” He pushed back into her.
She tightened snugly around him again. Another tremor went through her. She was very wet now. He breathed in the scent of her body.
“Yes,” he said. “Like that.”
He removed his fingers partway and eased his thumb up under the taut little bud of her clitoris until she strained against him. Then he penetrated her again with his fingers.
“You are as tight as a handmade glove,” he said.
He hooked his fingers a little so that he could press them more firmly against the sensitive area just inside her hot channel. Then he slowly started to withdraw.
“No,” she gasped, and tightened abruptly, trying to keep him inside. “Don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of stopping. Relax.”
She did but just barely. She had the pattern of the dance now, and she was taking control, alternately clenching and releasing as he eased his fingers in and out of her. With each stroke he dragged his half-curled fingers against the roof of her passage, pressing harder and harder.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice rose to a faint squeak. “Yes.”
He knew she was hovering on the precipice. He felt the sudden release of the tension deep inside her and sensed the onset of the small convulsions even before she did.
Her lips parted. He covered her mouth quickly with his own to swallow the sound of her climax. Her fingers dug into his arms.
He let her ride the currents, glorying in the knowledge that he was the one who had sent her soaring. When the small tremors started to ease, he pushed her onto her back, fitted himself to her and plunged deep.
“Owen,” she managed. “Owen.”
He was beyond any coherent response, beyond the boundaries of his own control. He no longer cared.
He thrust in and out of her, his senses dazzled by the energy of their hot auras.
And then he, too, was poised on the high cliffs above the deep, mysterious waters. His release slammed through him, taking him over the edge. Virginia cried out softly again. Another rush of energy rippled through her.
It seemed to him that they fell together, their auras fused in a moment of searing intimacy. When the last of the shuddering waves faded he opened his eyes and looked down at Virginia’s flushed face. She was watching him with a strangely intent expression.
Do you feel it? he wanted to ask. Do you sense this bond between us?
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She sprawled across his damp chest. He wrapped her close, indulging his exhausted senses in her warmth and the soft, vital weight of her body.
He let himself drift into the hazy place that marked the indefinable border between the dream state and the waking state. It was a good place, a fine place. He could not remember ever having been in a better place. He wanted to stay there until morning.
THIRTY
They called him Wolf because he was as fast and as savage as any beast of prey. He had bestowed the nickname on himself while still in his teens, when he had realized that he possessed senses that the other street boys did not have. No one had dared object.
His talent had served him well. Over the years he had acquired a brutal reputation that was the envy of his colleagues. He was known and feared on the dark streets of London’s underworld.
Until recently he’d made a comfortable living taking care of problems for one of the city’s most powerful crime lords. Luttrell had appreciated his talents and paid well for his services.
But all good things must come to an end, Wolf reflected. Luttrell had been killed recently by another crime lord, Griffin Winters. Luttrell’s demise had thrown the always delicate balance of power in the underworld into disarray. To further complicate matters, Winters himself had sold off his operations and vanished. Some said he was no longer even in London. No one knew where he had gone, but one thing was certain. Until the surviving crime lords got things sorted out among themselves, hardworking men like Wolf were on their own, obliged to make their livings by hiring out their services to whatever clients came their way.
Business had not been what anyone would call brisk lately. When the small man who called himself Mr. Newton had approached him outside of a tavern last night and offered a job, Wolf had accepted without asking too many questions.
He waited now in the deep shadows of the graveyard one street over from Garnet Lane. If he had calculated correctly, Sweetwater would pass this way when he left the Dean woman’s town house.
The anticipation of the kill sparked an intoxicating excitement. All of his senses were heightened, but he was not yet making any attempt to focus. For the moment, he simply savored the darkness and the prospect of what was to come. It had been a while since anyone had hired him to kill a man, but he knew he hadn’t lost his lightning-fast reflexes.
As if in response to his own flaring energy, the handle of the strange mirror that the odd little client had given him seemed to grow warmer in his hand. He doubted that he needed the device, but Mr. Newton had been very insistent.
“He’s a talent of some kind,” Newton said. “I don’t know what sort, but I’m certain he’s strong. There must be no mistakes. You will not take any chances.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Newton said. “I just want to ensure that you are successful. Use the mirror in exactly the way I described. It’s dangerous.”
Although the graveyard was shrouded in darkness Wolf was careful not to look down at the mirror. He had made that mistake the first time he had removed it from the black velvet bag, although he had been warned.
“Have a care when you handle the artifact,” Newton said. “It responds readily to psychical energy. It is best not to look directly into the glass, but if you must, be certain to keep your senses lowered. It requires a great deal of talent to control the Quicksilver Mirror.”
But Wolf’s curiosity had got the better of him. He had removed the mirror from the sack and looked into it with his talent slightly elevated. He shuddered, remembering the dazzling energy that had temporarily blinded his senses. He did not want to speculate on what might have happened if the client had not come to his rescue.
“Fool,” Newton said, yanking the mirror out of Wolf’s hand. “I warned you. Too much of that energy and you will destroy your own senses permanently. The object of the exercise is to blind Sweetwater to ensure that he cannot use his talent against you. When you have dealt with Sweetwater you will return the mirror to me.”
Wolf had been more careful after that. If the Quicksilver Mirror worked as advertised he had no intention of returning it to Newton. The relic might come in handy in the future. It would give him an edge against his rivals. In London’s underworld there was always plenty of competition.
THIRTY-ONE
Owen felt Virginia stir in his arms. She gently pried herself free from his grasp. He let her go. The room immediately grew colder. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and looked up at her.
“It’s getting late,” she whispered.
“I know.”
He levered himself up on one elbow and watched her get to her feet. Her hair was wildly tousled. Her stockings had come free of the garters and were draped around her ankles. The top of the chemise was crumpled at her waist. Her face and breasts were still flushed. He felt his senses stir.
“You look delicious,” he said. “Good enough to eat. I believe I’m working up an appetite.”
“There will probably be some muffins left in the kitchen,” she said very seriously. She pulled the chemise up over her breasts. “Unless your nephews ate all of them.”
He smiled and got to his feet. “I had another dish in mind. But it’s getting late. You need your sleep.”
She glanced at the tall clock in the corner. “Good heavens, it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. Your nephews will be wondering what is going on.”
He fastened the front of his shirt, taking his time. “If either of them asks any questions, which I very much doubt, I will tell them that we were discussing the case.”
“I dread facing Mrs. Crofton in the morning.” Virginia leaned down to strip off her stockings. “I shall be lucky to get breakfast before she gives notice. She has been remarkably tolerant of the eccentricities of this household, but the business of bodyguards watching the house will be too much for her.”
He reached for his trousers. “You know, Virginia, it is probably not a sound idea to go about in fear of your housekeeper.”
“I’m not afraid of her.” Virginia straightened and stepped into the center of the pool of fabric formed by her discarded gown. “Well, perhaps I am, in a manner of speaking.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you understand? No, you probably don’t.” Virginia inserted her arms into the sleeves of the dress and concentrated intently on doing up the hooks of the bodice. “If Mrs. Crofton goes back to the Billings Agency to seek another position, she will naturally inform Mrs. Billings of the rather odd goings-on around here. Mrs. Billings takes great pride in making certain her people are sent only to respectable employers. I suspect that after all that has happened here lately I will no longer qualify.”
He thought about that while he secured the knife sheath to his ankle and got his trousers closed. He fastened his waistcoat with quick, practiced motions and pulled on his low boots. When he was dressed he crossed the room to stand in front of her.
“Is respectability that important to you?” he asked.
She raised her chin. “My father was a gentleman who kept his glass-reader mistress in the shadows. I have lived my entire life with the stain of illegitimacy. I am burdened with a talent for perceiving the most unwholesome afterimages in mirrors. That is not exactly a fashionable or ladylike skill. I make my living in a way that Arcane, the one organization that should accept and understand my psychical nature, finds disreputable.” She fastened the last hook of her gown and dropped her hands. “Yes, Owen, respectability is important to me.”
He caught her chin on the edge of his hand. “I grew up in a family that does not concern itself overmuch with the outward appearance of respectability. But the Sweetwaters do care a great deal about honor and courage and strength of will. It is how we have survived. Those qualities are what bind us together as a family.”
She smiled. “I do not doubt that.”
“You are endowed with all of those attributes that Sweetwaters hold dear. I would trust you with my life and my secrets.”
She went still. “Truly?”
“Truly.” He brushed his mouth across her parted lips and straightened. “Speaking of family secrets, I have revealed a number of them to you. Which leaves me with only one safe alternative.”
“What is that?”
“You must marry me, of course.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
“Otherwise I shall have to spend the rest of my life worrying that you will reveal all of the dark Sweetwater secrets to some other man.”
“What?”
“I’m teasing you, of course. This is not the time to discuss our marriage plans. It is late, and you must go to bed.”
He released her, picked up his black evening coat and headed for the door.
“Owen, wait.”
“We will finish this conversation some other time,” he promised. He unlocked the door and moved out into the shadowed hall, smiling a little when he heard the quick patter of her bare feet behind him.
“You cannot just run off like this,” she hissed urgently. “Explain yourself, sir.”
He opened the front door and paused long enough to steal one last kiss.
“There is nothing more to explain, when you get right down to it,” he said. “I am asking you to marry me. I can only hope that you will say yes.”
“Damn it, Owen—”
He went out into the night. She started to pursue him and then evidently thought better of it when her bare feet touched the cold stone of the step. She moved back into the hall.
The shadows shifted down in the front area.
“I’m leaving now, Matt,” Owen said. “I expect you and Tony to take excellent care of Miss Dean.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said cheerfully.
“Mr. Sweetwater,” Virginia snapped, her tone excruciatingly formal. “You can’t just leave like this. I have questions for you.”
“Another time, Miss Dean,” he said. “Don’t forget to lock the door.”
Virginia said something indistinct in a very low voice and closed the door with considerably more force than was necessary.
He listened for the rasp of iron on iron that told him Virginia had turned the key in the lock. When he heard it he went down the steps to the pavement.
“Uncle Owen?” Matt called softly.
He stopped. “Yes?”
“She’s the one, isn’t she? The woman everyone in the family says you’ve been waiting for.”
“Yes,” Owen said. “But I would take it as a favor if you don’t mention that to Miss Dean.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t understand that, not entirely. Not yet. I’m trying to break it to her gently. She needs time to become accustomed to the notion of marriage to me.”
“No offense, sir, but judging by the tone of her voice just now, I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of explaining the situation.”
“What do you expect? It’s the first time I’ve tried to do so.”
“You mustn’t hit her over the head with it. Women like to be romanced like the heroines in the sensation novels.”
“What the devil do you know about sensation novels?”
“A man can learn a great deal about women from novels,” Matt said. “You should try it sometime.”
THIRTY-TWO
Owen went to the end of the street and rounded the corner into the narrow lane that bordered the graveyard. The gas lamps were few and far between now, but he scarcely noticed the deeper darkness. His senses were slightly elevated, as they always were when he walked the night. He registered the small sounds and the shifts in the shadows around him without consciously thinking about it.
The hunter in him was on the prowl, searching for the spoor of the monsters, but he was aware that something was different tonight. He did not feel driven by the relentless compulsion that had been riding him so hard in the past year. The obsessive need to hunt had faded to a normal level or, rather, a level that felt normal for a Sweetwater. The men of his line would never be wholly civilized, he thought. But it was good to regain a sense of balance and perspective, good to be able to ignore, for now, at any rate, the terrible allure of the abyss of night that had been calling to him for months.
And, yes, it was good to feel this pleasantly euphoric, if unfamiliar, sense of well-being. Virginia had given him back his future, although she did not realize it yet.
Virginia. She was his talisman. The bond between them gave him the power not only to resist the dark forces that had been drawing him toward the edge but to control them once more.
He had to admit that Matt had a point, though. I’m botching the job of explaining the Sweetwater bond to her.
He would have to come up with a better way of making sure that she understood their relationship. Although when he thought about the situation closely he could not comprehend the
exact nature of the problem. Virginia was obviously attracted to him. There could be no doubt about the depths of their mutual passion. She was as warm and sweet as melted honey in his arms. Women were supposed to be especially sensitive to powerful emotions. Where the devil was he going wrong?
He sensed the faint shift in the atmosphere between one step and the next, a subtle whisper of heightened energy. The hunter in him pricked up his senses. There was another strong talent abroad tonight, close at hand.
He did not change his pace. He was too experienced to give any outward indication that he had picked up the telltale signals of the other’s presence. Nevertheless, his senses flashed into full strength. He knew he was giving off a lot of hot energy. If the other sensitive was paying attention, he or she would surely realize that there was another talent in the vicinity.
It was not uncommon to encounter a stranger on the street who possessed a measurable degree of talent. But passing someone who was unusually powerful was a relatively rare experience. There were not that many high-level talents around. He could not afford to assume that this encounter was a coincidence, not when it was taking place so close to Virginia’s address.
He studied the lane without appearing to do so. There was no one else visible. That meant that the other talent was probably concealed behind one of the ancient stone monuments or in the crypt up ahead.
The crypt, he decided. That’s the place I would choose for an ambush.
He kept walking, waiting for his quarry to leap out of the shadows. He heard the faint rush of movement from the yawning darkness of the crypt a few heartbeats before the figure swept toward him. The preternatural speed and the certainty with which the attacker moved in the darkness told him everything he needed to know. He was dealing with a strong hunter-talent.
Although he was not a true hunter when it came to his physical abilities, he understood their nature and their talent, having grown up in a family littered with the breed. When they were in their full senses, their night vision was excellent and they moved with the speed and agility of wolves. He could not hope to match his attacker in those attributes, but he was not without resources. The critical thing was to make certain the other man did not get close enough to use his greater speed and strength against him.