But tonight they crashed down around her with one simple thought:
Rafe could have died.
She didn’t want to care about Rafe Cooper. She didn’t want to be here in this hotel room alone with him, his arms wrapped tightly around her body, holding her close as she greedily licked his salty skin. Caring raised the stakes. Caring left her vulnerable. She didn’t want to care. Or to fall in love.
But she didn’t know how to stop it.
Tonight, she let go. Tonight, she touched Rafe the way she’d wanted to for weeks. She pushed aside his earlier comments about not settling for a one-night stand. She’d worry about that tomorrow.
She kissed Rafe’s chest. His biceps. The soft skin on the inside of his elbow. She kissed each of his fingers in turn, slowly, wanting to know every inch of his body. She kissed his stomach and stopped when her lips brushed his bandage.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “Maybe-”
He grabbed her forearms and pulled her up, his mouth hard on hers, silencing her excuses. He rolled over so her back was flat on the bed and he towered above her. His voice was a low, primal growl. “If I bleed, you can stitch me up later.”
Then there were no more words between them, only the heat that had been building exponentially until together, they turned combustible.
Rafe pushed aside his doubts, all anxiety over what they had faced and what they would face, and focused on Moira beneath him. Kissed her so she couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell him to stop, to slow down, to think. He didn’t want to debate whether making love to Moira was right or wrong; it couldn’t be wrong. Not when she warmed his cold heart; not when she gave him the will to live, a reason for fighting the pain of memories that weren’t his, or the unspoken traumas of his own distant past.
With Moira, he could face the world and any battle the underworld threw at them.
He had to. For her. For them.
Rafe wanted all of Moira now, and he wanted to savor each second, every kiss, every touch. He kissed her softly, lightly, but she reached up and pulled him down to her, opening her mouth so he could fully appreciate her lush lips, her eagerness. He’d been waiting for Moira to accept not only their attraction, but the very real feelings that had been simmering from the beginning. He could have had her earlier, he’d wanted to make love to her against the dresser, on the floor, anywhere, but he’d known she wasn’t fully there with him, and he wouldn’t pressure her any more than she could handle.
But now, tonight, she’d made the leap. She might not know it, she might think she could talk herself out of this relationship, but she wouldn’t do it. And he wouldn’t let her.
“Rafe,” she said, her voice muffled against his mouth. “Shirt.”
He raised himself on his forearms and Moira reached down and quickly pulled off her shirt, tossing it aside. Rafe stared at her skin, her beautiful, soft skin marred by a long, jagged scar across her stomach. Rage bubbled in the pit of his stomach, an anger so hot and wicked he wanted to punch something. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed every centimeter of the scar, top to bottom, then he licked it slowly, bottom to top. Moira shivered beneath him, her hands gripping his biceps.
“A demon attack?” Rafe asked quietly, then kissed the top of the scar.
“I heal pretty well from demon attacks,” she said. “That one came from my mother, after I ran away the first time.”
The torment Fiona O’Donnell had imposed on Moira-physically and emotionally-was cruel and sadistic. Anyone else would have been broken under the repeated assaults. But not Moira-she was made of resilience and the strongest of wills. She was a survivor of the highest order.
“Don’t think about it, Rafe,” she said.
“I’m not. I’m thinking about you. How amazing you are.” He kissed her. “How much you mean to me.” He kissed her again, longer, savoring her tongue, drawing in her bottom lip to nibble.
His mouth traveled from her lips to her neck and back to that spot behind her ear that she loved so much when he kissed it. She gasped and reached for his belt.
He rose from the bed and stared at the beautiful woman. His beautiful woman. His Moira. He unbuckled his belt.
Moira’s breath hitched as Rafe stared at her with his bottomless dark blue eyes. She watched him take off his belt, unbutton his jeans and push them-and his boxers-to the floor. His long, perfect penis stood straight out, moving as if it had a mind of its own. She reached out for him, but he turned away and walked to the end of the bed. He grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her down until he could reach her waistband. He unzipped her pants, curled his fingers under her panties, and in one fluid movement pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. He never took his eyes from hers as he lay back down on top of her.
He kissed her firmly, possessively, neither too soft nor too hard. His hands moved from her thighs, skimming past the spot she wanted him to touch, up her stomach until he found her breasts. She sucked in her breath when he slid down to take one breast in his mouth while rubbing the other. At the point past where she couldn’t take the exquisite torture, but was too aroused to speak coherently, he switched sides.
Moira couldn’t stop moving her hands. She was never one to sit still, and with Rafe Cooper lying naked on top of her? She needed to feel him, to remind herself that this was real, that she was worthy, that Rafe was safe. She tried to take control of the lovemaking-she didn’t like giving up control in anything, even bed-so she reached down and caressed his penis, urging him to speed up.
Rafe groaned and said, “Not so fast.”
“I’m ready.”
“I’m past ready, sweetness.” He removed her hand and brought it up above her head. He took her other hand and held it tight as well, not giving her the chance to explore his body.
“Rafe-” Her voice was low and seductive.
He kissed her again, his breath coming faster, mimicking her own urgency. She pulled her hands away from his grasp, and he held them again, on either side of her head, then adjusted his body between her legs. She opened for him, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.
Rafe stared at her and she nearly stopped breathing. The passion and intensity in his expression had her frozen.
Never had anyone looked at her with such raw desire.
He let go of one of her hands, but she didn’t move. She didn’t know if she could. He reached down between her legs and ran his finger lightly back and forth. It skimmed that too-sensitive spot and she shivered, the warm pit in her stomach instantly turning hot and fluid. She felt so damn needy and wanton; she leaned up to kiss him, then licked his jaw, salty with his sweat and restraint.
He groaned, his veins tight on his neck, holding himself back.
“Make love to me, Rafe,” she whispered and fell back onto the bed, her arms out and open, showing him with her body how ready she was. How much she wanted this. Wanted him. Now.
He replaced his finger with his penis, and slowly-too slowly-pushed himself into her. Moira didn’t want to wait. Couldn’t wait. She reached down and grabbed Rafe’s hard ass and pushed while she arched her pelvis forward. He thrust in completely and they both stopped moving. Moira didn’t think she could breathe. Waves of emotion, physical and emotional, flooded her. Rafe’s emotions and her own. She relaxed, trying to absorb them all without drowning. She was teetering on the brink when Rafe said, “I love you, Moira.”
Rafe held himself in check, his physical desire for sex battling his emotional need for intimacy. He craved to show Moira deep affection and the sincerity of his love, not just say the words. But urgency propelled him, as if he was going to lose her. His heart skipped a beat and he eased himself down, sinking even deeper inside her warmth, his chest against hers, their hands locked.
“Rafe,” she murmured, her breath caressing his lips.
Her voice wrapped around him and he set a slow rhythm, but together slow was not an option. They increased their sensual tempo, their bodies, slick with sweat, entangled in the dan
ce they shared. Moira’s breath quickened to match Rafe’s, a gasp escaping as they tried to pace themselves. But slow wasn’t working, he wanted to make the exquisite sensation continue all night, it had been so long for him, and never like this. Never had his emotions been equal to the physical act of sex. Here it was all about Moira, about him, about them together.
He moved within her, slow, steady, deep, prolonging each thrust until he tumbled over the abyss. He gathered her into his arms, held her tight as his body shook almost violently.
“Moira,” he whispered. “Moira, love.”
She quivered beneath him, her arms and legs wrapped around him, and she gasped twice, then her breath stopped. He let go of everything inside with a long, low-pitched groan. Everything, including his heart.
Rafe rolled onto his uninjured side, pulling Moira and the blankets with him, wrapping her up with him. He kissed her repeatedly, many small kisses everywhere on her face, her lips, her neck. Her heart thudded against his chest, and he put one hand over her breast, feeling her life beating against his palm. He slowed down his kisses, drawing each one out, savoring the taste of her salty skin, swallowing her sighs in his mouth. She nestled against him, and with a final sigh, Moira slept.
Rafe watched her. Asleep, Moira was just as beautiful, but surprisingly vulnerable. Delicate. Two words he’d never associate with her while awake.
But he had known, deep down, that Moira was vulnerable. What they did-what they must do-put her at risk. He wished foolishly that he could take her away from everything evil in the world. Pamper her. Show her the beauty of the mountains, the serenity of the meadows, the majesty of endless fields of wildflowers. He would give his life to give Moira peace in hers, peace and security she’d never had before.
Someday they would have it. He might not deserve it, but Moira did.
NINETEEN
Anthony’s homecoming was more bitter than sweet.
Father Philip, the man who’d raised him from infancy, was not alive to greet him at the doors of St. Michael’s. His small cottage on the island was closed and stuffy from disuse. And the monastery was virtually empty. Only fourteen men remained-ten of whom were over sixty, including the head of the sanctuary, Bishop Pietro Aretino, who seemed to have aged a decade during the three months Anthony had been away.
“Bishop.” Anthony knelt on one knee and kissed the bishop’s hand in respect.
“Anthony.” He sounded relieved to see him, and very old.
Anthony took the old man’s hands and squeezed them gently. “Father Philip rests at the mission, with the others, as you wanted.”
The bishop nodded, his pale eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He knew he was going to die.”
Anthony’s heart skipped a beat. “Why did he leave?”
“He was called. Philip listened well, and never refused a call.”
Anthony averted his eyes to avoid shedding tears. He’d wept for the only father he’d known at the funeral mass; he could weep no more. Yet they were on the cusp of change. Their numbers had thinned; every single one of their order was needed, and more. St. Michael’s, which at its peak had more than two hundred men living within these walls, could not function with just fourteen. Even three months ago there were more than forty studying, researching, providing wisdom and information to the hunters that Olivet trained.
“What happened to Dr. Lieber?”
Pietro shook his head. “He was eighty-six. The journey tired him.”
“Bishop, excuse me, but I find that unbelievable.”
“God’s ways are not our ways.”
“It is a coincidence I find difficult to accept. Dr. Lieber had not left Switzerland in more than twenty years. He must have wanted to speak with me desperately to travel this far.”
“The trip took more than fifteen hours. John said dear Franz slept most of the time. It was difficult, but he brought all his journals. They are now yours.”
“I’ve read most of them. I needed his interpretation.”
“The answers are there. He would not have brought them if they weren’t.”
“What did the magistrate say?” Anthony asked.
“They haven’t said anything. They came this morning after Gideon went to retrieve Dr. Lieber for brunch and found him passed on. I suppose they’ll inspect the body, whatever it is that they do, then send him home for burial. I contacted his granddaughter-”
“Granddaughter? I didn’t know he had any family, that he was even married.”
“Oh, yes, he simply never discussed it. He’s Catholic; his wife was Jewish. One day while they lived in France, she simply disappeared, leaving him with a young daughter to raise. He moved to Switzerland, and hadn’t left since-until yesterday.” Pietro sighed wearily. “Later, he learned his wife was killed in a concentration camp. His daughter married and had one daughter-I don’t remember her first name, Dr. Zuelle. She’s an archeologist at Oxnard.”
Anthony had, of course, heard of Dr. Katja Zuelle. She’d written extensively on religious artifacts in Europe and the Middle East. He’d never met her, nor known she was the reclusive, paranoid Dr. Lieber’s granddaughter.
“Is she coming?”
Pietro shook his head. “Dr. Zuelle hadn’t spoken to her grandfather in many years. She told me she’d contact his lawyer about his will and find out what his wishes were. We, Anthony-you and I and Philip and the others-have no family, except one another. To have blood relatives and be estranged-it saddens me deeply.”
Pietro sounded depressed, very unlike the serene and stately bishop Anthony had grown up with.
John stepped into the great room and said, “The cardinal is waiting in the east library.”
Anthony couldn’t shield his surprise. “Cardinal DeLucca? He’s here?”
“He arrived this morning to meet with Dr. Lieber,” Pietro said. “He didn’t have the chance.”
Anthony hadn’t even known the cardinal was on the island. “Bishop, John,” he said quietly, “everyone must be extremely cautious. Until we know what happened to Dr. Lieber.”
John nodded. Anthony realized John had the same concerns. He needed to speak to his brother in private. Ever since he had set foot in St. Michael’s, something felt wrong. It could simply be the absence of Father Philip and the empty halls. Or it could be something more nefarious. For the first time, he wanted to call upon Moira and have her use her abilities-namely her ability to detect magic-here at St. Michael’s. He loathed to summon her back here, but if the Order was in jeopardy he would do anything to save it.
Pietro seemed confused, and Anthony wondered whether at his advanced age he might not have complete control of his faculties. “Dr. Lieber died of natural causes,” Pietro said.
“We can’t assume that. He was old, but I hope a full autopsy is done. Bishop, do you know the magistrate who is handling the death investigation?”
“Not personally, no.”
“Whoever you trust the most, someone who understands the people and demons we face, please call him and request a full autopsy and investigation.”
“I know who to call,” John said.
Anthony was relieved that John fully understood the situation.
“Anthony, the cardinal is waiting,” Pietro said.
“Of course.”
“I’ll take you,” John said. With a slight bow toward the bishop, the two men left the room.
“What’s going on, John?” Anthony asked quietly.
“I don’t know, but Rico sent almost everyone here on assignment. Only the oldest and most infirm are left-it puts them at risk. I told Rico I needed to stay.”
“You must-this is our sanctuary. If we lose it-” Anthony didn’t have to finish his sentence.
“We have no one to spare. I will stay as long as necessary. While you meet with the cardinal, I’ll walk the grounds and investigate even the most trivial signs.”
“Thank you.”
They parted in the main entry, and Anthony proceeded down the long, wide s
tone hall to the east library. It was midafternoon. On a sunny day, light would have been streaming through the stained-glass windows, but not today. Still, it was one of his favorite rooms in the monastery, where he had spent a great deal of time here over the years.
Francis Cardinal DeLucca was in his late fifties, with a full head of dark hair liberally shot through with silver. He was a stately man, physically fit, and well-respected in both the Vatican and Italy. He had been instrumental in stopping a small but vocal movement close to the previous pope that had attempted to close down St. Michael’s after Peter’s death at the hands of the demon who’d possessed Moira. Without the cardinal, then a bishop, running interference and using his oratory skills and extensive network and personal friendships with many of the pope’s inner circle, Anthony suspected St. Michael’s would have closed its doors seven years ago. That was only the most recent time St. Michael’s had been at risk.
The cardinal had three priests with him, as was common when traveling. Anthony strode over to the cardinal and kissed his ring. “Cardinal.”
“Anthony.” He put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder and gave him a blessing. “I am saddened by these events.”
Anthony didn’t want to discuss the situation with the other men in the room. He didn’t know them, and while Cardinal DeLucca had been a crucial supporter of St. Michael’s and the work they did, he wasn’t of the Order.
The cardinal, as if sensing Anthony’s reticence, told the men, “I need to speak with Dr. Zaccardi about spiritual matters, if you would please wait for me in the great hall?”
Anthony shifted uncomfortably at the title of “doctor.” He had his Ph.D., but he never used his title. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had addressed him as such, except jokingly at his graduation.
The priests left, and the cardinal motioned for Anthony to sit. “I asked John to bring in Dr. Lieber’s papers. I have the rest of the day clear. I hope you’ll allow me to help with your research.”
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