Those too he set on the floor to go through later. Some he’d keep. Some he’d frame. But when he moved his house into this one, he wouldn’t have room for every memento his parents had diligently packed away.
And there was also the matter of Steve’s daughter, Allison. That bitch would be here soon, eager to get her filthy paws on things that didn’t belong to her. The only use she’d ever had for her father was the support he sent and the occasional bill he paid when she guilted him.
Bending into the trunk, Mick withdrew a leather-bound Bible and an old journal. He set the Bible aside and opened the hardback notebook, looking down on entries made during the war. Definitely reading for later. He leaned over the accumulated pile to set the journal closer to the stairs where he wouldn’t forget it. But as he made to set it on the ground, it slipped out of his hands. Loose papers tumbled free, stirring up more dust as they fell to the floor. Muttering, Mick grabbed them up, opened the journal, then paused as he got a good look at what he held.
Not writing—not English at least. Elaborate runes decorated the pages, line after line, corner to corner. And the paper…Well, it wasn’t. Thicker, covered with a waxy substance, even in the dim light, Mick could make out the significant age.
Odd, to say the least.
Frowning, he sat down Indian style and brought the stack of drawings into his lap. At the top of the first page, elaborate Celtic scrollwork decorated the margin. Nothing was legible though. Where in the hell had Steve found this?
As he turned to the second page, the doorbell rang. Mick glanced at his watch—5:30. Damn, how had he lost so much time?
Another thought rose, conflicting with all the rest of his fraying emotions. Rhiannon McLaine was standing on his doorstep. His heart kicked, the way it always did when he parked in front of her flower shop. She was bringing the flowers, but he’d fantasized one too many times about her showing up at his door.
He’d rejected the fantasy equally as often. That woman was too damn good-hearted for someone like him.
The doorbell issued another sharp peal. Mick stuffed the loose papers inside the journal, dropped it back into the trunk, and hurried to the stairs. Rhiannon might be here, but in an hour and a half so would half the town. Thank God, he’d had the good sense to hire a caterer. His brain was such mush he’d nearly forgotten food was expected at a wake as well.
He jogged down the stairs, through the wood-paneled living room, and into the marbled front hall. Shaking hands fumbled with the handle, but on his second attempt, Mick managed to pull the door open.
Rhiannon stood on the columned front porch, her beautifully tattooed face framed between two enormous flower arrangements. She smiled, and all the depression, all the heartache, all the death, slid from Mick’s shoulders.
“Hi, Mick.”
Oh, God, she was so alive. He’d give anything just to feel that life, that heartfelt warmth, in his arms. Just for a minute. Long enough he could convince himself he still walked amongst the living. That he hadn’t died too, the morning he’d found his stepfather.
Chapter Two
“Here, let me help.” Mick reached for one of the arrangements in Rhiannon’s hands, his smile strained, void of its usual hidden secrets.
Concern pulled her brows into a slight frown as she angled one arm forward, allowing him to take a weighty pottery vase. But as his warm fingertips grazed her elbow, a shockwave rolled through Rhiannon, awakening the darker half of her soul. The sublime scent of sweet amber and patchouli engulfed her. She breathed it in until her head felt dizzy and her body threatened to sway into the nearby closeness of his broad chest. It was all she could do to summon a nod and swallow down the rising tide of sudden, unexpected awareness of Mick. Unlike anytime before, his very nearness bore down on her like heavy weights.
Weights that threatened to crush her under the power of dark desire.
“I, ah…” She swallowed again, forced an unsteady smile, and avoided those mesmerizing dark eyes. “I’ll just set this inside the door and go get the other one.” If she didn’t move now, didn’t do something to escape this overwhelming poison of her demonic blood, she’d forget why she was here. Why she needed to avoid Mick Farrell, no matter how delicious the temptation.
Before she could put the planter on the floor inside his door, he swept it out of her arms. “I’ll wait here.”
Damn. Not what she needed.
She turned for the driveway and her SUV. As she walked, she focused on breathing. In. Out. Deep and easy. Slow and controlled. But the mantra did nothing to override awareness. The very air churned with his energy, making it impossible to ignore the feel of his stare boring into her back.
Goddess be, she shouldn’t have come here. Not tonight, with the sabot so near. The last time Mick had walked into her flower shop, she’d been tempted. But that stirring of want was nothing compared to this, and she had only her father to blame for the festering yearning. Her father and the demonic blood he passed to his eight children so many centuries ago.
Momentarily shielded from Mick’s observation beneath her cargo door, Rhiannon sucked in air like she might never have another breath and shut her eyes to the torment. Sure, this attraction had been building—how could it not when once a week, for the last year or so, Mick Farrell waltzed into her shop and flirted his handsome head off? He’d even brought her coffee now and then, but in all fairness that hadn’t been because he meant anything by it. She’d just allowed herself to be taunted. To fall into the trap he wove so easily around so many other women. Plain and simple, honest cop that he might be, Mick was a ladies man, and any attention he’d given her was nothing more than he gave any other woman.
So why couldn’t she get the rest of her soul to understand the logic her brain recognized?
With shaking hands, she scooped up the third arrangement and braced for the next few minutes. She could survive this without making a fool of herself, and without yielding to the callings of her father’s incubus blood. All she needed to do was set the arrangements where Mick wanted them, take a few seconds to tweak any cock-eyed blooms, express her condolences, then leave. Nothing she hadn’t done a hundred times before.
Ancestors, give me strength.
She reached over her head, shut the cargo hatch, and headed for the open front door once more. On the porch, Mick’s soulful dark stare latched onto her gaze, setting off tingles throughout her body.
He backed away from the entry, inclining his head down the long hall toward the rear of the house. “The living room’s back here.”
As she followed, she became aware of the slight hunch to his shoulders. The proud and erect way he usually carried himself bent beneath the hand of grief. His stride was shorter, his gait diminished. Compassion bubbled through the darker aspects of her spirit, choking down misplaced desire. Mick was hurting.
He set the two planters he carried on the hearth of the brick fireplace, one at each end, framing the ornate blue and white urn. Absently, he gestured at a dark walnut baby grand. “You can set that one over there.”
On the polished wood? He had to be kidding. Frowning, Rhiannon glanced around for a better option. Though she didn’t play, she couldn’t tolerate the idea of damaging such an elegant instrument. Someone had cared about the piano once. Maybe not Mick, but someone he was close to.
Sighting a more appropriate metal planter stand that currently held a dead spider plant, Rhiannon exchanged the bright floral array for the withered and dried basket of leaves.
“That works too. I’m really not any good at this. Thanks, Rhiannon, for bringing them by. I’ve just been so busy.”
As Rhiannon turned around to tell him she didn’t mind delivering the flowers, Mick pushed a weary hand through his thick dark hair. He stared at the sealed urn. It was then she got a good look at him. Though his light denim jeans were clean, his collared, short-sleeved shirt sported veins of wrinkles. Every time she’d seen him before, his short hair had been styled. Trim and tidy like the rest of him.
Today, however—well, that surely wasn’t the first time he’d shoveled a hand through his hair. Little rebellious clumps stuck out at odd angles, and one thick lock belligerently dangled over his forehead.
The deep creases around the corners of his eyes, and the dark circles beneath that shadowed his already fathomless stare, tugged at her heart. He hadn’t shaved, not in a good day or two. She’d bet he hadn’t done much to take care of himself at all.
The sight of his disorganized state spoke to the chaotic nature of his emotions, and sympathy grabbed her in a chokehold. The way he gazed at his stepfather’s sealed remains clawed at her heart. Death had never really affected her. Maybe because she’d become immune after dozens of centuries of loss. Maybe because she had brought death upon others periodically throughout her lifetime. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t say, but the sight of Mick’s obvious grief lanced through her like knives. She let out a sigh. “Mick, have you eaten anything?”
He glanced at her, his expression far away, as if he hadn’t quite heard her question. But as she made to repeat herself, a humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Not really in the mood.”
As she’d thought. Oh, damn, why couldn’t she have had the good sense to ask Dáire to deliver these arrangements? Her brother wouldn’t be tempted to try and heal the wound Mick wore so obviously.
“You should eat something. You’ve got people coming soon.”
Mick shrugged. His gaze drifted to the adjoining formal dining room and the long table bedecked with a white tablecloth and cutlery. “The caterer will be here shortly. I’ll eat later. I’m sure I’ll have leftovers.”
Rhiannon pursed her lips. “You need food. Where’s your kitchen?” She didn’t wait for him to answer and strode into the dining room. His footfalls sounded on the wooden floor behind her as she peeked through an arched entryway, searching for signs of a kitchen.
“Left,” Mick mumbled.
Flashing him a quick smile, she turned as instructed, pushed open a swinging, white-painted door, and let herself into a kitchen that hadn’t made it out of the 1970s. Floral carpet, faded and threadbare in patches, spanned wall-to-wall in shades of avocado and burnt orange. The harvest gold appliances and yellow paint made her want to cringe. But despite the throwback in decades, the room held a touch of valuable life. The sense of love, the unity of what had once made this empty house a home. She thoughtfully ran her hand over the scarred, Formica countertop. Energy met her fingertips, proof that at one time this room had acted as a heart stone.
“Mom used the kitchen. Steve didn’t have much use for it except for the microwave,” Mick offered apologetically.
Dismissing his remark, Rhiannon waved him toward the round table against the far wall. “You sit. I’ll cook.”
He dropped into a vinyl-backed chair, unmistakable relief passing across his face before he once again pushed a hand through his unruly hair. “This isn’t really necessary you know. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
At the moment, Rhiannon could think of nothing more important. The need to mend ran deep within her soul, almost as deep as the dark blood her father cursed her with. That healing gift came from her mother, as well as the intimate knowledge of plants that Rhiannon used as a means of keeping her busy throughout the centuries. And right now, employing the craft she knew so well, topped her list of priorities.
Ignoring Mick’s attempts to dissuade her, she opened the fridge, half-afraid she’d find it empty. To her surprise, the shelves were stacked with casserole dishes, no doubt brought by those who hoped to make Mick’s life a little easier during this trying time. She plucked out a covered dish of broccoli and rice and a plastic container of brisket.
“You haven’t eaten, yet you’ve got enough food in here to feed an army.” She grinned over her shoulder as she set the dishes on the countertop. “Plates?”
Mick pointed at a stack of paper plates and plastic cups tucked into the corner by the sink.
She couldn’t resist another teasing grin. “Really, Mick. It can’t get much easier.”
The faintest hint of true humor wafted on his soft chuckle. “I’ve been preoccupied with getting the house ready. Going through closets, the basement, the attic.” Chair legs grated across the floor as he pushed away from the table and stretched his legs. “You’d be surprised what forty years can put in a house.”
Rhiannon stifled a laugh as she tore open the sack of paper plates. More like he’d be surprised to discover what over two thousand years could put in a house. “I can only imagine.”
“I swear, Mom and Steve saved every scrap of newspaper they ever encountered.”
She nodded, sensing his need to talk.
“I don’t know what to do with it all. Part of me feels like I should keep it. The other part knows it’s not practical.”
“So you’re not selling the house then?”
“No. Not yet, at least. I’ll move in here, fix it up, and then see what the market’s like. I’ve got a little house across town—it should sell pretty easy.”
The thought of someone forsaking this heartwarming kitchen sent an unexplainable pang of regret through Rhiannon. It seemed like betrayal. Like a dishonor to the loving hands that had once taken so much pride in this golden room. She shook off misplaced feeling, and tried to block the energy that radiated off the inanimate objects around her. What Mick did with this house didn’t involve her. It wasn’t her kitchen, wasn’t her family. If he wanted to sell the place, that was his call.
“Did you grow up here?”
“Yeah. Well…yes and no.”
Glancing over her shoulder as she filled the plate, Rhiannon cocked an eyebrow. “Yes and no?”
“Mom and I didn’t really have a place to call ours until she met Steve. We lived with friends of hers after my father left her buried in debt. I was eleven when Steve bought this place for her—for us. So yeah, I grew up here, but I was already half grown.”
The peek into Mick’s personal life gave Rhiannon an oddly pleasant feeling. Somehow, she doubted the women he rotated in and out of his life had ever heard such an in-depth glimpse of his childhood. How could they when they never lasted more than a week?
She set his plate down in front of him. “There’s soda, orange juice and water in the fridge.”
“Really, you don’t need to wait on me.” He straightened, coming half out of his chair.
“Sit down and eat.” Rhiannon set her hand on his forearm and gave the hard muscles there a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t mind.” Before he could fully rise, she let go and plucked a cup off the stack.
When she’d filled it with cola and set it back in front of him, gratitude shone in his dark eyes. “Thanks, Rhiannon.” He gestured at the chair beside him. “Join me?”
“I think, while you eat, I’m going to do something with that box of brownie mix over there.”
He let out a low, pleasured groan. “Brownies are my weakness.”
“Well, then, you’ll have to indulge. Tell me more about Steve. How did your mom meet him? I’m guessing you two were close?”
Quietly, Mick answered, “He was the only father I ever had.”
Chapter Three
It surprised Mick how easy it was to talk to Rhiannon. While she bustled at the counter, mixing the brownie batter and encouraging him with that devastating smile, memories spilled forth, the pain they had brought only hours earlier now balmed.
More surprising, however, was the unsettling ache that hollowed out his gut when she turned that smile on him and the tattoos across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones danced to life. That intricate artwork fascinated him. It always had, just like the woman. And as he found himself laughing at the memories of childhood, he also found himself caught in the same battle between desire and logic that waged each time he entered her store. He wanted her, yet knew he didn’t dare go down that path.
Beyond the numerous other reasons he shouldn’t consider how easily his hands would fit around her tiny wais
t, or how soft her mouth would feel beneath his, he was too tainted for her gentle spirit.
Too immersed in darkness.
She shut the oven on the batter, smoothed her hands down the sides of her thighs, and cerulean blue eyes met his. Air rushed from his lungs. His ribs cinched together like iron belts. Holy heaven, she could cow whole armies with one simple look.
In that instant, all the reasons he should stay clear of Rhiannon McLaine sank into the recesses of his mind. All he knew was that she was vibrant, alive, and warm. Nothing like the cold nothingness that filled this house. Or the void that had opened inside him at his stepfather’s death. He needed that life. Needed to bask in it, submerse himself in it before he suffocated in the chasm of death surrounding him.
Mick caught her hand as she neared the table. Holding her fingers gently, his gaze remained locked with hers as he rose to his feet. His free hand moved of its own accord, lifting to run his knuckles across her silken cheek. Her gaze flickered. Blue eyes darkened for a fraction of a heartbeat before her full lips parted and her breath caught audibly.
Driven by too many months of longing, he took a half step closer and dipped his head. She didn’t look away. Merely swallowed as understanding registered in her mesmerizing eyes. Long, thick, strawberry lashes fluttered, clung to her high cheekbones, then lifted with effort.
Yeah. He needed this. More than he’d ever needed something from a woman before.
Yielding to the irrationality of it all, Mick closed his eyes and feathered his mouth over hers. Soft and warm, her lips clasped his gently. The tightness in his chest let go at her faint encouragement, and the need to possess everything she was engulfed him. He slid his hand to the base of her thick auburn braid, twining his fingers in the loose hair there. Holding her where he wanted her, he nudged her lips apart and tangled his tongue with hers.
Rhiannon’s response was instantaneous. Her hands fisted into his shirt, short nails grazing his pectorals through the lightweight cotton. She held on as if she might topple over, despite the way her body swayed so close they connected from waist to toes.
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