Their hearts pulsed with silent thunder; their skin glowed with lightning's heat. Breaths mingling, gusting, they melded with interlacing, licking tongues, drinking each other. Ecstasy, vibrant as life, imperious as death, raced along their veins, blending into a rampage that stunned thought and banished inhibition.
As one, in absolute communion, they came together. Pulsing hardness, entreating softness, they merged body and spirit. And paused, dazed, at the violent perfection of the consummation.
Then they were caught in the whirlwind, for its power and ferocity was in them. Tempered by caring, harnessed by discipline and desire, they rode it.
Carita took the lunging force of his movements against her and felt her heart expand. Strong, vital, she thrust upward, needing, wanting his jolting power. He gave it, and more.
Turning with her, he drew her above him, allowing, following her pace. She sank upon him, taking him deep, deep, absorbing him even as she dipped and swung to her own throbbing rhythm. Her hair flailed him, stroked him, shielding them in silver-gold glory. And her strength, her endurance, was without end. Beyond fear.
Immortal, they strove, assaulting in concert the constrictions of time and space. Surmounting them. Sweeping with windblown fury toward violent surcease, supreme victory.
It burst over them, a thunderous cementing of mind and soul, the ultimate immortality. And they took it as a gift, and gave it as a benediction, each to the other. Sealed in rapture, immutable, they held each other with aching tightness, and did not let go. Even afterward, when the grandeur passed and the rapture faded to a sweet and sensual memory.
“Did I tell you,” he said long moments later, “that I love you desperately, forever and without end.”
She shifted a little, burying her face deeper in the strong curve of his neck. “I think so; I can't remember.”
“I will, or will again, then,” he said on a low laugh, “when I catch my breath.”
“Would you like me to say the same?”
“No,” he answered, lifting a strand of her hair and letting it fall, glittering, back onto his chest. “I can hear it in my heart.”
“That isn't possible,” she objected, though merely for form.
“Listen,” he said, and gathered her even nearer, physically and mentally, merging his being with hers.
Nothing moved for some time then. The fountain played, the flowers waited, pale in the moonlight, breathing perfume. A soft breeze meandered over the mosaic floor and, finding them, cooled their skin, swung the tassels of their cushion, and departed.
Then a wide square of light was flung toward them and across their entwined forms, as the doors to the house opened. The gray cat stepped out and padded softly to the steps. It sat down, observing them with unblinking concern.
The cat's shadow moved, stretched, elongated. In the next instant, the animal was gone and in its place was a distinguished gray-haired gentleman in evening clothes. He regarded the pair on the cushion with relaxed complacency.
“I knew,” he said in deep and cultured tones, “that you two were suited, and would find it out if thrown together.”
Renfrey made a quick, sweeping gesture and a white silk sheet billowed above them, settling to cover their nakedness. Carita clutched it as she sat up.
“Father!”
“My love,” the older gentleman said, inclining his head. “Are you well—but no, don't answer. I can see you are blooming.”
“You—you've been watching us,” she said.
He held up a strong, yet elegant hand in negation. “Acquit me, if you please, of anything so depraved. I was merely keeping an eye on your welfare from a discreet distance.”
Renfrey, supporting himself on his elbow, spoke then. His voice carried a hint of menace. “And are you satisfied now that she will come to no harm?”
The elder warlock smiled. “Quite. Though you will admit I have, or had, reason for concern. The two of you have turned my hair quite white.”
“I'm surprised you didn't feel compelled to intervene.”
“How do you know,” Carita's father said gently, “that I didn't?”
She leaned forward to say in low tones, “Did you? Really?”
His gaze was benign as he shook his head. “No, but I would have if there had been the need. You are very dear to me, my Carita.”
She hesitated, then said, because there might never be another chance, “My mother—”
“Your mother was a woman of rare bravery. Her heart was strong in spirit but weak in fiber, something we did not discover until it was too late. I loved her. The rest,” he said quietly, “is none of your affair. But you need never fear loving, or being loved.”
She glanced up at Renfrey, and he down at her. They smiled together.
“Yes, well ...” The older man said and cleared his throat of some apparent obstruction. “There is a manservant inside who needs occupation to calm his nerves. And I rather thought you might both be in need of sustenance to repair your strength. There is, you will remember, an excellent supper inside which should take care of both problems. Will you join me?”
Renfrey looked down at Carita. “Shall we?”
“If you like,” she answered, “though not, I think, in our current state of dress.”
“Undress, I would have said,” her father corrected with a wicked twinkle in his eye as he rose to his feet. “I shall see you two in the dining room, then.”
They were not particularly prompt, in spite of their manifold advantages. They decided to dress each other, and their mood, turning a little giddy, ran through several varieties of uniforms and national costumes, fabrics and modes of decoration. And it was necessary, naturally, to snatch a kiss or a touch between each change—or to change in order to have an excuse for it. They settled at last, however, on the same clothing they had so rashly discarded earlier.
They were mounting the steps toward the vestibule, hand in hand, when Renfrey stopped. His face serious, though his eyes were not, he said, “Pity the poor mortals. They can never know what we have found.”
She looked into his mind, caressed it, and left her own half-mortal impression. Her smile was generous, tantalizing.
“Can't they?” she said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Blake has been called a “pioneer of the romance genre,” an “icon of the romance industry,” and a “grande dame of romance.” A New York Times and international best-selling author since 1977, she is a charter member of Romance Writers of America, member of the RWA and Affaire de Coeur Halls of Fame, and recipient of the RWA Lifetime Achievement Rita. She holds numerous other honors, including the “Maggie,” the Holt Medallion, multiple Reviewer’s Choice awards, the Career Achievement Award from RT BookReviews Magazine, and the Frank Waters Award for literary excellence. She has written 65 books with translations in 20 languages and more than 30 million copies in print worldwide. Jennifer and her husband live on a lake in northern Louisiana.
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Books 2 and 3 of the NO ORDINARY LOVERS collection will be available for the Kindle in September 2013:
BESIEGED HEART
DREAM LOVER
Subscribe to Fresh Leaves, the Steel Magnolia Press newsletter, to be notified as soon as they are released: http://eepurl.com/gCgrX.
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To find out more about Jennifer’s award-winning books and to purchase direct from your favorite outlet, see the Steel Magnolia Press website at: www.steelmagnoliapress.com.
FALLEN
~ BOOK 1 : DRAYCOTT ABBEY FALLEN SERIES ~
Christina Skye
PROLOGUE
2 A.M.
London
West End
Archer Sloan hunched forward, closing his thin overcoat against the rain. It was typical weather for October. He hated the drizzle and the fall cold. He hated the incessantly gray skies.
But he wouldn’t have to endure them much longer. The thing that he had wrapped up in his briefcase would guarantee that.
&nb
sp; As a senior researcher at the British Museum, Archer Sloan had access to restricted documents and locked storerooms. He knew every security guard and every curator. It was time that he was rewarded for all his years of drudgery and politicking.
They were going to boot him out next week anyway. Retirement would be a pleasant change, they assured him, and he would always be welcome to help out on special projects.
A sneer twisted his mouth. Damned right. He was going to enjoy being retired, but not the way they imagined. As it happened, his contact was waiting for him already. Every detail had been arranged. With luck, in two hours he would be on a jet tucked snugly into first class, bound for South America.
To hell with their ideas of retirement.
A sound echoed up the empty street. He frowned, glancing behind him at a nearby parked car. Something moved in the darkness. But it was only an old box carried past him by the wind. Sloan told himself to stop being so jittery. If he let his nerves get the best of him, he would die the way he had lived, captive of his ineptness, his life a lesson in failure.
Instead, he was going to have 20 more years of pleasure, reveling in all the good things that a million euros could buy—starting with a glass-walled mansion on a private island far off the radar of the British police force.
Yes, he had already planned how he would spend his reward for being very clever. He had found the perfect property. He would use his new Swiss account to wire through the funds and complete the transaction within hours.
He smiled as he pushed open the door to his building, lost in pleasant images of sun and wine and bare, tanned women. His flat was on the ground floor, in the same cheap building he had found right out of university. There had never been money for anything better.
But all that was about to change.
He glanced behind him, then unlocked the door’s three latches and went straightaway to the table, where he laid his briefcase down carefully.
He couldn’t be careless now. Not with a million euros waiting for what was in that case.
Something skittered through the darkness behind him. Sloan swung around nervously, frowning as a tall figure separated from the shadows by the kitchen doorway.
“You’ve got it?” the low voice said.
“Everything here, just as I promised.” Sloan tried to act irritated. “Now I want my money.”
“Of course.”
The figure turned. The curtains moved beside him. Sloan heard the hiss of low voices.
Dozens of voices. The air seemed to hum. To churn. He was no longer alone.
No—
His face caught in a mask of terror.
By the time the cold wind from the window hit him, Archer Sloan was already torn to pieces.
1
The shrill cry of the phone woke him.
Izzy Teague rolled over with a muffled curse. 3:14 A.M.?
No one ever called with good news at this hour. It was always a security breach, a missing agent, a bio-terrorism threat. And Izzy was always the one they called first.
He tried not to think about the warm leg anchoring his—or about the things they had done in the last two hours. It had been an amazing night—and it was just starting.
Or so Izzy had thought.
The warm, naked woman’s body turned, driving him down against the crisp sheets. It took more will power than he imagined possible to sit up, grab the phone and trot into the bathroom.
“Izzy, come back.” The woman’s voice was husky, still half asleep. The sound was sexy as hell.
He wished he drop everything and oblige her, but the number on his cell phone was highest priority. The coded message that came next signaled an alpha-priority threat level.
Hell. So much for his first real date in six months. This is what he got for being married to his job.
Grimly he pulled on his shirt and jeans, then coded in a response.
On the way.
Fill me in at HQ.
When he emerged, the beautiful, caramel skinned woman was blinking sleepily. Izzy took an appreciative glance at the vision she made wearing only hot fantasies and cool air. He leaned down and smoothed a heavy strand of mahogany hair behind her ear. “Sorry, Kadra. I have to go.”
“Go? It’s almost 4:00 A.M.” She gave a sleepy, sated sigh. “Why now? I don’t want you to go yet. We were just getting…started.”
Hell, Izzy didn’t want to go either. But that was that. When you got the call, you went. If you signed on for this particular job, you gave up any claim to free time or personal life. Izzy had known exactly what he was getting into—and he happened to love his job, loved the adrenaline highs and the constant mental challenge and the certain knowledge that he was making the world a safer place.
Well, most of the time he loved his job. Right now, watching his X-rated fantasies go up in smoke made him think about turning in his resignation.
“Sorry, gotta go. Just had a call.”
His sensual eyes narrowed. Kadra worked for the same agency that he did. They had been circling each other carefully for months, both interested and yet trying to hide it. It was a relief for Izzy not to have to worry about everything he said. Her security clearance was actually higher than his—and that was saying something.
“Do you want me to call you a cab? I’d wait for you, but I—”
“No need. You’d better go. My apartment is just up the street. I’ll walk back, grab a change of clothes, and meet you at HQ.” Her eyes moved along Izzy’s long, rangy body, dark with regret. Then she sat up and reached for her blouse. “They haven’t called me yet, but they will.” She ran a hand through her long, black hair and then made a quick brushing motion. “What are you standing for, Izzy? Get going.”
Izzy frowned and picked up the fully packed field bag he kept at his front door. “I—well, I’m sorry.”
She gave a crooked smile. “At least we got half a night. It could be worse. No complaints from me.” She stretched a little, smiling as she watched his eyes move over her full curves. “But if you keep staring at me like that, all bets are off. I’m going to jump you and pull you back into bed, work or not.”
“I only wish,” Izzy muttered. But they both loved their work too much to give it a second thought. That was one of the reasons Kadra had impressed him so much.
He caught the elevator down to the lobby and dug in his pocket for a $20 bill, which he handed to the sleepy attendant at the front desk. “My friend will be down shortly. I’d appreciate it if you would call her a cab. And be sure that she takes it,” he said firmly.
Kadra had a lot of skills, but downtown DC was no place for a single woman to be wandering around alone at three in the morning. The least he could do would be to see that she got a cab to take her home safely.
Izzy was just strapping on his motorcycle helmet when a black sedan prowled around the corner and blocked his way.
A tall man got out of the front seat. His eyes were cold as they assessed Izzy’s mode of transport. “Ditch the cycle, Teague. You’re coming with me.”
“I’ll make better time on this, sir.” Izzy hid his surprise. His superior officer never met him personally. What was going on?
“Not this time. Plus we have to make a stop.”
Curiouser and curiouser, Izzy thought. Where would they be stopping at this hour?
But he knew enough to muzzle his questions. His boss was waiting impatiently by the car.
The details would have to wait.
Izzy studied the road as they headed south. There were no research facilities in this part of DC and no reason that Izzy could think of to be going in this direction.
He racked his brains, trying to think of any operatives in the area, but came up empty.
He turned and cleared his throat. “I haven’t been in this part of DC since college.” Wind gusted around the car, tossing newspapers and garbage bags across the road. “Not exactly Alexandria, is it?”
“You could say that. But you should remember the area. You h
andled surveillance about a mile from the next intersection.”
Izzy rubbed his neck, working back through his various cases.
And then he stiffened. There had been that mess six years ago. The hackers. They had actually managed to breach security at the Pentagon before Izzy had tracked them down.
It still made him angry at the thought of this waste of talent. A waste of government manpower, too, seeing that all of them had been less than fifteen years old when they were arrested.
He sat tensely, staring out at the dark and abandoned buildings marked by neon graffiti. The area was far worse than he remembered.
He took a deep breath. “Is this about Madisson?”
“Good memory. Yes, she’s involved. We’re using her on this operation and we need her active compliance and participation. That’s where you come in.”
“Me? The man who broke her and got her arrested? What makes you think she’ll listen to me?”
“Because you can be very persuasive when you want to be.” The department chief passed Izzy a thick file. “And we need her particular talents. We also need someone who’s an outsider. There’s her file. Find something in there to elicit her cooperation. I don’t care how you do it, just make it happen. And do it fast. You two have a jet waiting for you at Dulles.”
“You’re not going to tell me what this is about or what she’s getting involved in?”
“No tire for that. Just get her aboard that airplane with her commitment to work. I have files waiting for you in flight.”
The powerful car eased to a halt at an alley lined with garbage cans that hadn’t been emptied in weeks. Something moved between the cans, and Izzy didn’t think it was a cat or a dog.
Izzy felt a small stab of guilt at the way things had turned out. And why the hell hadn’t he kept in touch with Madisson after her sentencing?
Water under the bridge.
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