by Anna Windsor
“About not wanting a babysitter—I wasn’t trying to say I didn’t want to be here. With you.”
God, this was only getting worse.
He should tell her how it felt to wake up over and over again and feel her gentle hands on his face, hear her voice urging him to fight, to heal.
Hell, he should spill about how many times he’d imagined peeling that leather jumpsuit off her naked body. That would be endearing and charming, right?
He glanced at his right arm. Maybe I’ll just hit myself in the head with this cast.
Bela walked toward him, her movements graceful and athletic. Duncan’s pulse picked up, and his breathing accelerated.
Steady, John urged from deep in his brain.
Duncan jumped and blinked, and Bela stopped where she was, about five feet away from the edge of his bed.
“Did he just speak to you?” she asked. “Did you hear John Cole’s voice?”
Oh, yeah. Dead guys talking in my head. Great icebreaker. Duncan let out a breath and thought about bashing himself with his cast again.
“It’s okay. I know something about ghost voices.” Bela’s smile was more wry than happy, which put Duncan at ease even faster than her words. “I have a few of my own, chattering and haunting, but mine aren’t real ghosts. Just memories. With attitudes.”
Duncan watched her smile get a little sadder. “How did you know John was talking to me?”
“I can see it here.” Bela pointed to her dark eyes. “The color changes. The first time it happened, I thought you were turning into a demon.”
The first time it happened … Yeah. Duncan kind of remembered that. Just a weird, cloudy image of Bela backing away from him. The sound of her shouts for help echoed across his memory, and shame coiled and rattled like a snake in his gut.
A new reality opened in his awareness, and he didn’t like it one bit.
How could—
But it was what it was. Denying it wouldn’t help. Fact was fact, and the truth was, he’d spent his life fighting to make sure people like Bela didn’t have to worry about attacks from crackpots, murderers, and scum. And now—
Had he become the problem?
“I’m sorry.” He heard the gruffness in his own voice, and hoped she didn’t take it wrong. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
She might have believed him, and she might not have believed him. He couldn’t tell, and that made him sick. As soon as he and John took care of the Rakshasa, he’d take himself away from here, then take himself out of this game in one big hurry. A bullet to the head while he set himself on fire—that would probably do the trick. He wouldn’t risk even the leftovers of his body in cat-form doing any kind of damage to innocent people.
“You’ve got a lot to absorb, Duncan.” Bela started moving again, and hearing her say his name made him go half soft in the head. His thoughts careened wildly from becoming a monster to becoming everything this woman could ever want. Her eyes touched his face, his neck, his chest, and left trails of heat everywhere they roamed, distracting him until both futures seemed possible.
“I know it must be overwhelming,” she said as she reached the side of the bed and put her hand on his forearm, just below where the bandages covered the ends of his slash wounds. Her long fingers looked so smooth against his desert-and-street-weathered hide. When he turned his head upward to see her face, he wanted to press his mouth against her neck and taste all that softness. She was everything female, everything he longed for but had never really let himself appreciate. Not like he should have, not like he would have if he’d known how fast his clock was ticking.
Damn, he was being selfish, even thinking that way. He had to stop.
But he didn’t want to.
Bela leaned down until her eyes were level with his, and he could feel the sweet tickle of her breath on his cheeks. His muscles went tight as he tried to hold himself back, but blood pounded all over his body.
“Is John listening right now?” she asked.
“No. He takes a powder whenever you get close to me.” Duncan absolutely couldn’t stop looking at her, not for any reason. “You’re private. You’re all mine.”
Her dark eyes widened, somehow gentle and unyielding at the same time. “You’ll get through this, Duncan.” Bela’s voice, her smell, the feel of her, danced through his awareness. “We’ll help you. I’ll help you find a way to save yourself.”
“I think I’m beyond salvation,” he admitted, and he kissed her.
(15)
Bela couldn’t think of anything in the world beyond the firm pressure of Duncan’s mouth on hers. Hard, but soft. Hot and electric.
She wasn’t surprised.
Of course she wasn’t.
Hadn’t she wanted this to happen again?
Of course she had.
Complicated. Probably not smart. And she so didn’t care. When she wanted a man, she never held back, and this man—damn. She had wanted to know more about him from the moment she found him in DUMBO, and the days she had spent taking care of him only deepened that interest.
He tasted like fresh water, natural and satisfying, and his muscled arm tightened under her fingers. With her free hand, she touched his thick, soft hair, then the rough stubble of his jaw. He didn’t try to press or take over. He didn’t even lean his powerful body forward. No. He was leaving her in total control, and she was still kissing him, and feeling the flutters in her chest, her neck, her mind, her entire being.
I’m taking advantage of a wounded man in a hospital bed.
The thought should have sobered her, but she kept kissing him, then kissing him and touching him. His arms, his chest, his shoulders. His muscles got tighter and tighter under her palms, her fingertips. His breathing more ragged against her face. His mouth more demanding.
Bela’s thoughts tilted and spun, and she just couldn’t convince herself to stop.
It wasn’t until her mind moved on to the four pairs of handcuffs lying on the counter beside the sink, and all the things they could do with those handcuffs when Duncan felt a little better, that she managed to get a grip enough to pull back.
Her heart was beating so fast she could barely breathe, and the distance between her mouth and his immediately frustrated her. She wanted to kiss him again, but instead she ran her finger across his lips.
Duncan’s winter-gray eyes grabbed her and held her as forcefully as any embrace.
Bela’s skin got so hot she thought she might be feverish, and parts of her body ached for his hands, his mouth, and more. He let her trace his eyes, his ears, his neck. The muscles of his chest seemed to bulge against her palm.
“I should probably apologize,” she whispered, taking her hand away from his face, but keeping her fingers on his arm.
The corner of his sexy mouth twitched. “Why? I kissed you.”
A little flood of pleasure and surprise washed through her chest. She thought about unzipping her bodysuit to fan herself, but found enough sanity to delay that urge. “I thought it was the other way around.”
Another twitch of that sensual mouth almost made her come undone. “Want to fight about it?”
“No.”
That drawl could kill a woman.
Bela kissed him again, making damned sure she moved first this time. She pressed both hands against the sides of his face, and he raised his good arm, resting it carefully across her back, his fingers gripping her waist.
When she turned his mouth loose, he didn’t let go of her, and this time she thought his eyes would melt her into a puddle of leather and wishes, right there at the side of his bed. He seemed to be looking into her essence, searching for something way down inside of her, and whatever it was, she wanted to give it to him—or at least let him taste enough of it to want more later.
And there would be a later. An after this.
He would have a next week, and a week after, and a week after that. She was an earth Sibyl, a trained scientist and researcher, with a specialty in biology and medicine. Sh
e would find a way to save this special man. Duncan Sharp wasn’t going to die or become a Rakshasa.
Bela leaned hard against the edge of his bed and pressed her forehead against his. His eyes were so close to hers that her vision blurred, and she couldn’t see anything but a sea of gray-blue. He was still searching, searching—but what was he trying to find?
“Tell me what you need,” she murmured as she stroked his jaw.
Duncan let out a breath. Closed his eyes. Opened them. She had a sense that he was struggling to find words, and she felt him give up. She leaned away to better see his face, and caught the frustration and embarrassment.
“Tell me.” She brushed her lips against his, ready to give him anything at all.
“Are you—” He broke off, and she could tell that whatever he needed to ask her, it was costing him. Duncan’s magnetic eyes filled with pain, the kind that her earth energy couldn’t soothe, and his grip on her waist tightened as he struggled to make himself finish. “Are you … afraid of me?”
The words came out in a rough whisper, almost a plea, and the devastated look on his handsome face almost broke Bela’s heart. This was a man who had spent years—maybe even given his life and soul—protecting people. It must have torn him in half to have to ask that question of anyone.
Tears jumped to her eyes, and her throat tried to squeeze shut when she answered him. “I’m not afraid of you, Duncan.”
He turned her loose and lowered his head. “Maybe you should be.”
“Not happening.” She grabbed his face and made him look at her again. On instinct, she drew earth energy straight through the floor to calm herself and drive away the tears trying to rush down her cheeks. “If I have anything to say about it, there’s a lot that won’t be happening—and I think I know what you need to help you believe me.”
This got his attention, and his gaze dropped to her jumpsuit zipper.
Tiny earthquakes of desire rattled Bela in every important location.
For a few seconds, all she could do was stand there trying to look determined and strong even though her mind was filled with a detailed movie of him pulling that zipper down, reaching inside her leathers, and sliding his big, strong hand across her stone-hard nipple.
His palms would be rough, and his pinch strong enough to make her scream.
Duncan’s uninjured fist strangled the bedsheet like he was reading her mind.
Bela couldn’t resist a quick glance lower, to where the sheet was lifting away from his hips.
Oh, yeah.
That was one fabulous erection.
And she was so damned hot she might have to come out of her leathers, even if it wasn’t quite what she intended.
Duncan cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough yet.”
Yet.
Sweet Goddess, get out of the way. I’m about to shake down the whole brownstone.
Bela let go of his face and fanned her neck with her hand as she leaned over to the pile of clothes beside the room’s only chair. She grabbed a pair of jeans off the top and stood again to find Duncan still giving her that five-alarms-need-ice-cubes stare.
There wasn’t enough earth energy in the world to keep her calm around this man now that he was awake.
“The Brent brothers got this stuff from your apartment.” Bela was surprised she got the words out, and she enjoyed his quizzical look when she dropped the jeans on the bed beside him. “Since you yanked out your own IV earlier, and all the cuffs are off, the way I see it, you’re fit for duty. If you can get out of that bed, put your pants on, and get upstairs, you’re strong enough for what I have in mind.”
Duncan looked disappointed for a second, but also relieved. He picked up the jeans with his good hand. “Blackjack probably won’t like this.”
“Good.” Bela felt her face brighten at the possibility of helping Duncan and annoying Jack Blackmore at the same time. Double score. And damn, but she wanted to watch Duncan uncover and put those jeans on, but she mentally slapped herself and made herself turn around and bend over to pick out a T-shirt for him. She selected the black one from the stack Saul and Cal Brent had brought by, even though she knew it would make her drool to watch Duncan wander around in it. “When you went after John Cole, it was because you thought he’d killed Katrina Drake.”
“Her, and six other women by my count—but just the one in New York City.” Duncan sounded a little surprised by the shift in conversation, but interested, too. “I caught the pattern when I was studying some files in the FBI’s serial killer database, hunting down something for another case. I saw a photo and a sketch artist’s take on one of the suspects, and I knew it was John right away. So I found him and started tracking his movements.”
He had gotten to his feet when she turned around, and she found herself facing his bare back.
Bela almost dropped the T-shirt.
His jeans rested snug against his tapered waist, and muscles rippled all across her visual field as he worked to fasten them. Jagged lines and round marks stood pale against his tanned flesh. Shrapnel scars. A lot of them—old, from what she could tell. Bela was reminded once more that Duncan was a warrior in the truest sense of the word.
That did nothing to cool her off.
At all.
“The Alsace heiress.” Bela heard herself talking, but her mind was back to very detailed movies about where and how she’d like to touch him next. “We got her name from our liaisons at the OCU, and a list of suspects who might have set the Rakshasa on her. Any idea why somebody would want her dead?”
“Yeah. That’s definitely the question.” Duncan muttered something she couldn’t make out, and she realized he was having trouble with the snap and zipper on his jeans because his injured arm and hand weren’t cooperating. She dropped the T-shirt on the bed, reached around, and moved her arms under his to help.
Duncan went very still as she hugged him from behind, and she laid her cheek against the steel of his back, glorying in the rugged feel of his strength and his scars. Her own fingers didn’t want to follow her commands, but she fastened the snap, then slid the zipper slowly, slowly upward.
It wasn’t easy, given the bulge trying to shove the fabric out of its way.
When she finished zipping his pants, Bela let her hands slip down to cradle him through the thick fabric.
Damn …
His head snapped back, and the groan he let out was so low and husky that she felt it in her bones.
You’re an ass, Bela. He said he wasn’t strong enough, and you know he’s right.
But a split second later, he turned around, his gray-blue eyes blazing like a sunrise.
Bela barely got a breath before Duncan grabbed her by the waist. He pulled her to him fast and hard, and she stumbled against his chest, his bandages, and the cool, metallic dinar. The coin’s unusual elemental power buzzed against her throat as his good arm gripped her so firmly, so tightly that he lifted her to her toes. His cast pressed against her back, and she melted into him, winding her arms around his neck as his lips took hers fiercely, desperately, desire driving each thrust of his tongue.
Was the room shaking?
Did she care?
Tongue to tongue, leathers to bare chest, she kissed him back with every ounce of energy she possessed, and yeah, hell yeah, the room was shaking, and no, she absolutely did not care. Bela moaned into the kiss, and Duncan’s answering rumble of satisfaction made her whole body vibrate.
When he finally released her lips, she wanted to whimper and beg, but she doubled her fists against his chest and pushed herself back. She was shaking now, but the room had settled down, at least. When she opened her eyes, if she ever did, she’d check to see if there were any cracks in the walls or floor.
“You’re, ah, stronger than I thought,” she said, her voice not much more than a squeak. “But this isn’t happening. Not until the Mothers finish your healing and I know it won’t kill you.”
“You’re already killing me, Angel.�
� Duncan’s slow drawl flowed all over her, touching her in places his hands hadn’t found. “Every time you talk. Every time you move. Every damned time I look at you.” He kissed her forehead, her eyes, then so, so, gently, the corners of her mouth. She thought she might die right there, and be happy anyway.
Angel. He keeps calling me Angel.
Is that really how he sees me?
She had never had a man call her by a nickname that didn’t irk the shit out of her, but this one didn’t bother her at all.
“Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, “are you telling me no?”
Bela opened her eyes to find that his were nothing but blue-hot fire. He was hard against her belly, still about to tear out of those jeans she had fastened, but he didn’t try to kiss her again. She wanted to shove him backward on the bed, mount him, and ride him until the walls fell down. She wanted to scream with passion until she didn’t have any screams left, and stare into those gorgeous eyes the entire time.
Her throat worked for a few seconds, not making any sound at all, before she forced out, “I’m telling you not yet.”
Duncan seemed to consider this seriously, without any kind of anger. “Okay. I can live with that.”
Bela laughed, surprising herself. “That’s kind of the point.”
For a time after that, he just held her, his face in her hair, his warm breath trickling past her ear. The man might not have earth energy, but he could soothe as well as he could excite. Did everything about him have to be so sexy?
She might have a chance at rational thought if he wasn’t a walking, drawling poster boy for all-American male.
Later, almost in a trance, Bela pulled away from him, picked up the black T-shirt, and helped Duncan pull it over his casted arm and his bandaged neck and shoulder. She rolled the taut cotton over his firm chest and abs, then moved her hands over the soft fabric until she didn’t see any wrinkles—or any ceiling dust from the shake she’d given the basement.