Bound by Darkness

by Annette McCleave

  Then he faced her. “I’m not applying for the job. I’m just curious.”

  The pause had given her a chance to recover her aplomb. The shock was gone, replaced by her usual bland expression.

  “My sex life is none of your business.” She marched over to the table, pulled out a Shaker chair, and sat. “Your language is quite unbearable. Are you even capable of having a conversation that doesn’t include cursing?”

  Cursing? He claimed the seat opposite her and picked up his fork. Did anyone use that term anymore? “Of course I am. Do it all the time. When were you born?”

  She poured syrup over her pancakes. “Does it matter?”

  “Hey, come on. This is me having a conversation that doesn’t include cursing. The least thing you can do is participate.”

  “Eighteen seventy-three.”

  “No shit.” At her grimace, he amended, “Sorry. I mean, no way.”

  It never occurred to him she’d been born in a different century. Her physical age, like his, was forever locked to the time of her death, and since they seemed to be of a similar age, he just assumed ...

  “That makes you a hundred and six years older than me.”

  She smiled. “Don’t forget it.”

  He explored her face, looking for evidence of longevity, but the only hint of hardship and experience was that wary look in her eyes. The one that never really left, even when she smiled. The one he had the craziest urge to banish, if only for a moment. “I bet you’ve got some great stories to tell.”

  The smile dropped away. “Not really.”

  Okay, some not-so-great stories. He took a new tack. “You’ve got a slight accent, but I can’t place it. Were you born in England?”

  “No.”

  Brian almost smacked himself. He knew better than to ask closed-ended questions. “I was born in Brick, New Jersey, in a little postwar house a lot like this one. My parents still live there. What about where you grew up? What was that like?”

  “Different.” She picked up her plate and stood. “Are you done?”

  His food sat untouched. “No.”

  Faced with two choices—pursue the conversation, or eat the pancakes and avoid insulting her—he chose the latter. Why he thought it would matter to her, he didn’t know. But he ate. When he was finished, he brought his plate to the sink, where Lena was washing the rest of the dishes. He slipped it into the suds, then picked up a towel and dried the stuff in the dish rack. “Want to show me around while we wait?”

  “Not really.”

  He sighed. “Let me rephrase that so we’re both clear about the way this works: While we wait for Mr. FedEx to arrive, you’re going to give me a tour of the house.”

  Hands deep in a sinkful of hot water, she scrubbed the bottom of the pan. “And if I refuse?”

  The steam did him in. Once glance at her flushed cheeks, damp hairline, and the host of tiny curls framing her brow, and his resolve to leave her alone became a distant memory.

  “There’s only one way to know what the fallout will be,” he said quietly. “Try it.”

  Lena stood perfectly still.

  It was surprisingly tempting to refuse. From the moment he’d entered her little house, she’d been under siege by a potent combination of intelligence, humor, and sexual charm. It didn’t help one bit that he carried off his expensive clothes with aplomb, moved with natural grace, and melted her into a puddle with the intensity of his stare. He made absolutely no attempt to disguise that he was attracted to her.

  And the feeling was mutual.

  In another time or place, she’d have happily pushed him over the edge. But her deadline was looming ever closer, the coins remained scattered, and Heather was in peril. Now was not the appropriate moment to indulge in a liaison, no matter how mutual and symbiotic the attraction was. No matter how spectacular the fireworks would be. No matter how hot her blood ran or how eager her skin was for his touch.

  Regrettably, she was going to have to take him on a tour of the house... and forever be left wondering whether he tasted as good as he smelled.

  His beautiful little felon lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

  Seconds dragged by, each one heavily weighted with anticipation. Although he knew pressing her was a mistake, Brian couldn’t summon an ounce of regret for uttering the words. The air between them practically vibrated, and Brian found himself praying for the wrong answer as she considered her choices. The rapid pulse at her throat told him everything he needed to know—she wanted him.

  She abruptly pulled the plug in the sink and turned away. “It’s a small house. The tour won’t take long.”

  He grinned. She just didn’t want to want him. Tossing the dish towel on the countertop, he followed her down the short hallway.

  “This is the laundry room.”

  Not much to look at here. Washer, dryer, a stacked shelving unit containing cleaning supplies. And a neat pile of folded clothes on the counter. Mostly blues, greens, and darks. Nothing pink.

  “This is the guest bedroom.”

  She opened the door next to the laundry room, and he peeked inside. A single bed with ivory sheets and a quilted comforter, a small dresser, and a chair. No personal effects, just a landscape print of a windswept seaside.

  “And this is my bedroom.”

  Her introduction was unnecessary. He knew it was her room the instant he stepped inside. Not simply because it was larger, but because a trace of her uniquely spicy scent lingered in the air, taunting him. The bed itself was a queen-sized mattress covered in a fluffy white duvet and a million pillows. A small two-seat sofa sat between the two windows, which were hung with a gauzy set of blue drapes.

  Although his eyes were naturally drawn to the enticement of the bed, curiosity tugged his gaze to the top of the mirrored chest of drawers. A carved mahogany jewelry box, a hairbrush, and a miniature brass sarcophagus. Stacked on the shelf of the nightstand were three books—two tomes on ancient hieroglyphics and a paperback novel. The large painting over the bed was very simple, just sand dunes and a cloudless blue sky. It could have been a beach scene, but somehow, he didn’t think so.

  “You were born in Egypt,” he guessed.

  Her brows lifted. “Do I look Egyptian?”

  “Not exactly.” But those eyes definitely had a Nefertiti tilt to them. And the dark, almost black color of her hair worked with his theory. The part that didn’t really fit was the porcelain complexion. “Half-Egyptian, maybe.”

  Her sudden stillness told him he was spot-on.

  “My past is irrelevant.”

  Oh, baby, that was so not true. One look in her eyes and he knew the past was everything. But that oddly fragile look was back on her face, and he decided not to push it. He’d already found out plenty. The technical details, like the names of her parents, could be gleaned another time.

  “The living room,” he prompted.

  “No, I’m done,” she said, abruptly exiting. “Explore the rest on your own.”

  Since all that remained was the living room and the kitchen, he let it go. He trailed her, glancing in the bathroom as they passed. Spotless, like the rest of the house. Perfectly matched towels on a bar, liquid soap in an etched-glass jar, no goop anywhere. His Lena was a bit of a neat freak.

  While she sorted through her trunk, putting items away or tossing them in the laundry, he wandered through the living room. The pewter picture frames held photos of smiling people, but when he examined them closely, he discovered they were the original glossy sample sheets. Just for show.

  Bored, he appropriated the flowery sofa. Kicking off his shoes, he propped his feet on the coffee table and watched Lena work. She knelt on the hardwood floor, digging the last of her belongings out of the trunk. One shiny, dark curl of hair had escaped her tight knot, and it grazed the elegant line of her jaw, swaying with her movements. Forward to the point of her chin, lingering just for an instant, then swinging back.

  There was a definite disconnect between his br
ain and his body. His brain kept insisting it was just a lock of hair, but his breathing grew less steady the more the damned thing swayed.

  “What if the FedEx guy doesn’t come?” she asked, refastening the brass latches.

  “When I called the depot, they said the package would be delivered between nine a.m. and noon.” Man. Of all the women in the world, why did he have to want this one? He checked his watch. “It’s five twenty now, so he could be here in a couple of hours.”

  “Or you may end up wasting half the day.”

  “In that case, I might have to resort to watching TV,” he said dryly. Watching her the entire time was out of the question.

  A smile played around her lips. “That would be just awful. But certainly less sweaty than some of the other options.”

  Damn. Just one tiny, teasing comment and his skin felt as if it were on fire. Having a vivid imagination had its drawbacks. “We could always get naked instead,” he offered breezily.

  Her eyes lifted, and his heart stopped.

  Christ. If she didn’t stop looking at him like that, he was not going to be responsible for his actions. He was way out of practice with flirting.

  Lena rose to her feet in the most erotic unfolding of limbs he’d ever witnessed. Fluid, elegant, and supremely feminine. She stood there for a moment, staring at him with that openly sensual look in her eyes, and then she advanced.

  His heart restarted, this time pumping blood thickly through his veins, hot and heavy, all in one direction: south. As he watched her close in on him, step by sexy step, her breasts bouncing ever so slightly, he briefly considered telling her to stop. She was dangerous, and he knew it. But he let her reach him instead. And when she bent toward him, engulfing him in her perfume, he closed his eyes and breathed her in.

  The touch of her lips to his, satiny cool and honey sweet, ended all rational thought. He knew only that he wanted her. Badly. Had he really sworn off sex? God, why?

  A quick grab and he had her beneath him on the sofa.

  Her hand slipped under his sweater, hunting for skin, while his hand palmed her breast through her crisp cotton shirt. It overflowed his hand, the soft give of her flesh everything he had imagined and more. Groaning at the urgent scrape of her fingernails over the muscles of his back, he deepened her tentative kiss to a hungry joining of mouths, every inch of him pulsing with sudden, explosive need. He actually forgot, just for a second, about the object she’d artfully scooped off the side table.

  Unfortunately, a second was all she needed to smack him on the head with it.

  Only instinct saved him. When he felt the muscles in her shoulder bunch, he lifted his elbow and deflected the full force of her blow. The crystal paperweight made a lovely dent in his skull, but it didn’t knock him out.

  “Goddamn it.” Pissed at his stupidity, he wrenched the heavy globe from her hand. “You’re really testing my resolve never to strike a woman.”

  Dropping the paperweight onto the floor with a loud thud, he grabbed both her wrists and hauled them over her head. Then, just because he could, and because the heavy pulse of frustrated lust coursing madly through his body demanded he do so, he kissed her. Long and hard.

  Just once.

  “Stop trying to kill me.” He spoke quietly, looking deep into her eyes.

  She was impossible to read. A slight flush colored her cheeks and her breathing was shallow—reactions he would normally attribute to arousal. But with Lena, who knew? Not trusting himself entirely, he let her go and rolled to his feet.

  Really, when it came to this woman, his brain didn’t function properly. He knew she’d try to get away, knew she’d try to manipulate him, and still he’d given her an opening. Why?

  She sat up. “You did strike me, you know. Back at the hotel in Nice.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said. “Murdoch did.”

  “But you told him to do it.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll accept that. I’m sorry.” But there was only so far down that road he was willing to go. “I have to warn you, though: Try to pulverize me again and the gloves are coming off. I’ll kick your ass as severely as I would any guy who did the same thing. Got it?”

  Hussy that she was, she smiled. “You know I’m not going to stop trying to get away, don’t you?”

  Hell, yeah, he knew. What he didn’t know was... “Why?”

  Her eyelids dropped like shutters, closing him out.

  “Why not just tell me the truth?” he demanded sharply, reacting to the loss. Damn it, for a brief moment, she’d been plain old Lena Sharpe, no lies, no artifice. Now she was back behind the mask. “Tell me why you stole the coins. I know there’s more to it than money, so share. Maybe I can help.”

  She stood and walked over to the patch of early-morning sunlight streaming in the picture window. Staring at the run-down house across the street again, she said, “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I told you a really good story. A touching, poignant story that convinced you I had a valid reason for taking the coins. Would you let me keep them? Be honest.”

  Saving the world from Satan trumped a heartbreaking story any day. Satan and his hellish army would never let up, and he couldn’t afford to let up, either, even for a beautiful woman with the power to rock his world. Plus, the memory of the girl in the church—the starved face and bloodied clothing—still hung in the quiet spaces of his mind. “No.”

  “Then I have nothing to say.” She spun around to face him. “Because the truth’s not even half that good.”

  5

  Lena was still dealing with Brian’s frustration when their cab pulled up in front of his elegant two-story ranch house in the hills above San Jose five hours later.

  He thrust a wad of money at the cabdriver, grabbed her arm and his suitcase, and hauled them both up the steps to the wraparound porch. Hands full, he actually used a spell to shove open the door, which immediately gained him the attention of everyone inside the house.

  A eans-clad man seated by the stone fireplace surged to his feet. Well built and tall. Several inches over six feet. “Webster, what in the blazes—” His gray-blue gaze fell on Lena. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “Because I wanted to, that’s why.” Brian tossed his suitcase into a corner. His hold on her arm didn’t gentle. “And because I don’t have the fucking coins. They weren’t in the FedEx package. It was a goddamned chess set.”

  “Brian.” One of the other occupants of the room stood up, a dark-haired woman with an easy smile. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch your language in front of Em?”

  The blond teen curled up on the leather couch next to the young Hispanic Lena knew as Carlos rolled her eyes. “I hear way worse than the F-bomb at school, Mom.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to listen to it here, too.” The mother stepped forward, her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Rachel MacGregor. You must be Lena.”

  Lena took her hand and immediately frowned. “You’re not a Gatherer.”

  “No,” agreed Rachel, wrinkling her nose. “I still have a soul, thank goodness.”

  “Rachel, love, why don’t you take Lena upstairs and settle her into a room?” suggested the big man by the fireplace. The much-discussed MacGregor, perchance? He certainly had the look of a warrior.

  “Give her the room next to mine,” Brian said. “And take someone with you, in case she tries to run.”

  The bearded Gatherer who’d traveled on the plane with them stood up. Murdoch. “I’ll go.”

  For some reason, that offer seemed to annoy Brian. His body heat escalated dramatically. But beyond a glare, he said nothing to the other Gatherer. Instead, he tugged Lena a little closer and whispered in her ear, “Hurt Rachel and I’ll be very, very annoyed.”

  “I would never—”

  He cut off her protest with a kiss. A bold, full-on-the-lips buss. In front of everyone.

  The public staking of claim sent a rush of heat up her throat and earned her frowns all around. Rachel recovered first
. She pitched Brian a strange look, then guided Lena toward the maple stairs. Murdoch followed.

  “Where’s your suitcase?” she asked.

  “All I’ve got is my purse and what I’m wearing. He wasn’t in the mood to let me pack.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re thinner than me but roughly the same height. A pair of my pajamas ought to do you for tonight.”

  At the top of the staircase, they turned left. Rachel shook her head ruefully as she guided them down the hallway. “Gotta say, I didn’t see this coming.”

  “What?”

  The other woman bit her lip. “You and Brian. As an item.”

  Lena was about to deny they were an item, but the clearly bemused look on Rachel’s face altered her comment. “Why is it such a surprise?”

  “Because we thought he was a bloody queer,” said Murdoch.

  “Gay,” Rachel said, reprimanding the bearded Scot with a frown. “We all thought he was gay. Well, all of us except Lachlan.”

  Lena snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “What on earth would make you think that?”

  Murdoch held up a big, square hand and counted on his fingers. “He shops incessantly, he gets his nails manicured at a damned spa, and he hasn’t dated, not once, since we’ve known him. Rather obvious, I’d say.”

  “But he’s so ...”

  “Big and masculine-looking?” Rachel nodded. “He put on most of that weight in the last few months, training with Lachlan. We just figured he was compensating.”

  Murdoch grunted. “Admit it, lass. He’s awful pretty for a man.”

  Pretty? Not in a million years. Brian’s good looks were a heady blend of sensuality, strength, and dark promise. Had they never looked into the man’s eyes? Lena couldn’t believe anyone thought, even for a moment, that he was gay.

  Rachel halted before a six-paneled wooden door, turned the antique brass knob, and threw it wide. Inside was a heavy, four-poster maple bed with a lovely cedar blanket chest at the foot. The decor was classic southwestern, dominated by browns, green, oranges, and creams. A woven area rug covered the knotted pine flooring, and she even had a fireplace.