"Jake. Let's ankle. The house is only three blocks from here."
They left El Jardín, and the Chicago summer night was perfect. It was balmy, and the street lamps along Magnolia Avenue shimmered brightly against the dark sky. Automobiles clogged the street, and pedestrians choked the sidewalks as people headed for the various clubs. The brand new Aragon drew thousands of dancers every night, but he himself preferred the smaller clubs like El Jardín. The Aragon was a little upscale for the likes of him.
"What do you like, Neva? Besides dancing, of course."
She tossed her head, and her bobbed hair swung like drapes being closed, a shiny curtain of black. “Men, of course,” she answered with a laugh.
He slipped his arm around her waist as they walked, pulling her to him. It was a more intimate touch than the formal dance hold of the tango, and he splayed his fingers to maximize the contact. He felt her heat through the thin material, and it warmed him all the way down to his cock-knuckle. “And what do you like to do with men?"
She circled his waist with her right arm. “Oh, motoring, ball games, anything that's got action, you know?"
He didn't care much about ball games, but if she wanted action, she'd get it. They'd make an appearance at the party, and then they'd make their excuses. Five minutes later they arrived at a brick Georgian, and Neva knocked. Garran heard laughter behind the door, and a moment later a young man answered, wearing trousers and an undershirt. His belt was undone.
"Neva!” The man's gaze, however, was all on him. No doubt the young man was expecting Neva to show up with someone else.
Neva was quick to explain. “Edward couldn't make it tonight. This is Garran. No jokes, now, Harry! It's a perfectly good Irish name."
Harry opened the door wide. “Come on in. We've got drinks if you want one, otherwise just make yourself comfortable."
They stepped into the living room, where one couple was necking on the sofa and a young woman was curled up on a love seat, obviously waiting for Harry's return. The girls had their skirts bunched up mid-thigh, and their stockings were rolled down to the ankles. The second young man, like Harry, wore no shirt. Unlike Harry, his trousers were not only unbelted, but unbuttoned.
Neva knocked him on the arm. “Screw your headlights back in, mister. Haven't you ever been to a petting party before?"
He hadn't. He'd had group sex in a whorehouse before, but he'd never had sex with a woman like Neva in front of her peers. Still, he adjusted to the idea quickly. Vampires were not inhibited creatures.
When he'd died the first time, he'd gone to hell. Just now he felt like he'd died and gone to heaven.
Chapter Nine
Cate disconnected the call. She had the strangest feeling her words had been heard. She'd purposely hesitated before ending the call, hoping that Garran would pick up and talk to her. But he hadn't.
She put the phone down slowly. She could understand Garran's despair and reluctance to talk. It was obvious he'd suffered a great trauma to have caused part of his soul to retreat to the Land of the Dead. Just as the lost soul part wasn't ready to return, neither was Garran ready to talk about the trauma. People needed time, and she knew well that soul retrieval was not the quick-fix a ten-minute oil change was.
And not least of all, there was the uncomfortable fact that they'd had sex afterward, not clumsy, awkward fumbling and groping, but the mind-blowing stuff dreams were made of.
She'd never had sex with a client before. She'd never worried about it, wondered about it, or ever thought it could happen. But it had. And she hadn't wanted to stop it one bit. It had been unprofessional, of course, but it had been everything she'd fantasized about, and more. Garran had made her feel free in her body and as desirable as the most beautiful of women. No matter what happened from this moment on, she was grateful for that.
No, it wouldn't be easy for Garran to continue. Nor would it be easy for her. She knew that. For all the things she did know, though, there was even more that Cate didn't know. She'd done over a hundred retrievals, but none like this one. She'd never had a client's spirit appear to her in the form of a corpse. She wasn't sure what that meant, and she could only speculate that either Garran was terminally ill, or that he'd been through a near-death experience.
Aside from its gruesome appearance, Garran's spirit was also the oldest she'd ever encountered. He'd told her he was twenty-nine when he'd first called her. Sometimes people didn't want to admit to their real age and claimed to be twenty-nine even into their thirties. But he couldn't possibly be over forty. She'd gotten a good look at his face close up, and signs of age had clearly been absent. No fan of lines at the corners of his eyes. No sagging skin tone. No deeply etched smile lines at the edges of that perfect mouth.
She closed her eyes, and the memory of the feel of those perfect lips on her nipple, suckling her as though he would swallow her, filled her with warmth. A pool of liquid heat settled low in her body. She tried to erase the memory, but a new one formed. She felt him holding her legs, exposing her wet, throbbing yoni to his gaze, waiting, then waiting some more, until she thought she'd go mad with wanting him. Her little lava pool sank to an even lower spot. Finally, the memory of his penis driving into her, over and over, deeper with every stroke, made her squirm.
Forgive me, Cate. The recollection of his words filled her head.
She tried to block out his voice with her own. Forget it, Cate. He's not your boyfriend, he's a client. But she couldn't convince her body. The lava pool trapped inside her simmered and seethed, and she creamed her pants. No, she definitely had a situation on her hands, and she had no idea how to deal with it. Falling for your client hadn't been covered in Shamanic Counseling 101.
She tried to distract herself by returning to her office to make sure everything had been properly put away. The blanket, drum, and rattle had been tucked back in the cedar trunk. The CD player was off. The candle was out. She was on her way out of the room when a spot of white against the beige carpeting caught her eye. She bent over to pick it up. Garran's business card. He'd probably shoved it in his coat pocket yesterday after pulling it out to show to her, and it had fallen out tonight when Garran had grabbed the coat in his haste to leave.
Moves On Tap ... Step into dance ... Group and private lessons available ... Garran Lux, Instructor.
The address and phone number were below. She'd never heard of Moves On Tap, but it was in Highland Estates, not too far away. Cate smiled as something productive popped into her brain and started to take shape in the mush of her mind. She had a plan.
If Garran didn't call her back tonight or tomorrow, she'd make a little trip to Moves On Tap.
* * * *
Cate had no trouble finding Moves On Tap, but not because of an outdoor sign. A brightly lit room was visible to the street through a large front window, and in that room, better than a neon sign, Garran worked his stuff. She parked across the street, out of the direct glare of a street light, and cut the engine.
Stunning in his familiar white shirt and black trousers, his female partner was equally striking in a knee-length red dress and silver heels. As Cate sat, spellbound, she felt an unfamiliar pang of envy, first because the circle of Garran's arms was an enviable place to be, and secondly, because she wished she could dance like that.
He was so liquid in his moves, as though he had no bones. Correction. He had one, and it was a big one. But his limbs and torso were fluid in all their movements, as if his body was water instead of muscle. Yet there was nothing soft about him, and nothing seemingly uncontrolled, at least not tonight.
Her own body, on the other hand, felt helplessly out of control whenever he was near her. Even now, at the mere thought of his hard body on top of hers, her nipples tightened and her lower lips softened.
She wondered why he hadn't returned her phone call. Was he embarrassed that following the spirit journey he'd undressed her and raped her? No, it hadn't been rape. She'd made no attempt to stop him. Truth be told, she hadn't wanted
to stop him—not one little bit. In his own mind, though, perhaps he feared she'd perceive it as rape.
Maybe he hadn't called because he truly believed she couldn't help him. Maybe he felt that she would listen to her guardian wolf. Maybe he thought she believed he was evil.
Was he?
No. In spite of her wolf's warning and her own image of the woman in her dreams pleading for help, she couldn't believe Garran was evil. Lost, perhaps. Not evil.
The dance stopped, and his partner left the room. Garran picked up a towel, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and stared out the window. Could he see her? It was dark out, and Garran didn't know her car. Yet, just like in the dark of the Pony Express, she felt his gaze right on her. She waited, feeling trapped. If he would only smile, she'd take it as encouragement. She'd get out of the car and make an attempt to talk to him in person. But his gaze was steady and dark, and no expression of recognition lightened his serious demeanor.
After a minute more, he slung the towel around his neck and left the room.
Maybe he hadn't seen her after all. Maybe he just needed more time. Maybe she didn't have the strength to help him after all.
Failure. The word echoed in her mind, over and over, and as she started the engine and drove home, all she could think about was that it had happened again. I've failed with a man.
* * * *
She'd been watching him, like a voyeur, like she had at the Pony Express, sitting in the dark pretending he couldn't see her. He could have relented and invited her in, but he needed her to make the next move. He needed her to break out of her shell. He needed her to want him for more than one quick lay, and he needed her to want him badly enough to risk heaven and hell to come to him.
She'd come this far tonight. He had little doubt that tomorrow she'd be back.
Chapter Ten
Ten Years Earlier
Chicago, Illinois
Living in a dorm room filled with more raging hormones than text books was hard enough, but when one roommate was in love and the other couldn't even drum up a date, well, it was a bitch.
Cate couldn't blame Zoe, though. Zoe was her best friend, and Cate couldn't hate her best friend just because Dion was attached to her hip like a Siamese twin. Zoe and Dion were always kind enough to include Cate for dinner out or after-school swimming or volleyball, but Cate always felt like the odd man out.
The only respite, like tonight, was when Zoe spent time at Dion's off-campus house. But instead of providing Cate with breathing space, it was torture. It wasn't just being alone, because Cate had always been alone. It was being alone and knowing what Zoe was doing. Well, Cate didn't know everything, of course, but she'd witnessed enough public displays of affection between the two to know what went on behind closed doors.
Cate stood in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom and experimented with her hair. She knew she was pretty, and she knew her hair was a big part of it. When she was little, her hair had been the color of chili spice. It was darker now, but long and thick. She tried feathering her bangs, then threw the brush into the sink. Zoe was probably getting laid at this very moment, and Cate didn't have anything better to do than to try to curl hair that didn't want to curl.
She knew she should be studying, but it was Saturday night, and she wanted to be enjoying herself. She wanted a guy like Dion to kiss her and touch her and gaze longingly into her eyes. Well, she might as well want the moon. She was shy, and she'd never known what to say to boys or how to act with them.
The phone rang. She grabbed the receiver from the wall phone between the narrow beds. “Hello?"
"Hey, Cate, it's Zoe. Listen, Dion and I are going to the Pizza Shack to get something to eat. If you want to come, we can pick you up. Bret's coming, too, so we thought a foursome would be nice."
"Okay, sure."
"Great! We'll pick you up in about forty-five minutes."
She bounced off the bed and ran back into the bathroom. She'd met Bret before. She'd met Bret lots of times. He was Dion's best friend, and he was absolutely gorgeous. He had blond hair that swirled to his collar, blue eyes, and clean-cut features that spelled sweet with a capital S. She'd had a mad crush on Bret since the day she'd met him, but she'd never admitted it to Zoe, of course. Or to Bret.
She waited outside the dorm for Dion's car and was more than happy to share the back seat with Bret. He looked as delicious as ever, and when he smiled at her she felt all gushy inside.
Dinner flew by in a whirlwind of stories and laughter, and when it cam time for the ride home, Bret held the car door for her. He always held doors for her and helped her on and off with her coat. While she knew he was just being a gentleman, she loved the attention. He slid in next to her, then put his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder for the entire length of the ride. She was in heaven for the first time in her life, yet she was very definitely still alive. She was aware of the arm holding her close and of Bret's fingers stroking her shoulder and playing with her hair. His knee touched hers, and she prayed he wouldn't move it. She certainly wasn't going to move hers. They rode the whole way back to the dorm snuggled together. When Dion pulled the car to a stop and kissed Zoe long and hard, Bret peeled his arm away.
Cate looked at him, and Bret rolled his eyes. She smiled, feeling closer to Bret than ever. He, too, obviously knew what it was like to have a best friend in love. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.
"You want to do something tomorrow afternoon? I can pick you up on the cycle."
That was another cool thing about Bret. He had his own motorcycle. “Sure. What time?"
"I'll pick you up around three."
Had Bret Evans just asked her for a date? It was so perfect. She was Zoe's best friend, and Bret was Dion's best friend. What was more natural than for Cate and Bret to hook up?
* * * *
He picked her up on time, and as promised rode her to his house on his cycle. By the time she arrived, she was already in love. The ride, with the wind whipping at her and Bret's body warm against hers, was more fun than anything she'd ever done. When he asked her if she wanted to see his room, she agreed without question. It was his parent's house, but Bret had a room in the basement. He proudly showed her his custom-installed quadraphonic speakers and his stereo system, and when he saw her eyeing the hard-to-miss king-size bed, he smiled and hitched his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Want to get naked?"
She didn't know what to say. He's joking. It's a joke. Of course it's a joke. She waggled her brows back at him. “Sure."
But when he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth, she wasn't so sure it was a joke. Still, he felt so good she didn't want him to stop. His lips were incredibly soft, and he didn't try to shove his tongue down her throat, but limited his lip action to slow kisses that explored her lips and just a little of the inside of her mouth. She felt warm and tingly all over, and she couldn't believe it was finally happening. A man who could have any woman he wanted had chosen her.
When he unbuttoned her shirt, she made no move to stop him. His hands were warm and gentle on her skin, and she felt so wanted that she wanted in return. She fumbled with his buttons, eager to gaze on what she'd only felt on the motorcycle ride—hard muscle. When he pulled his undershirt off he wasn't as hard as she'd thought, merely lean, but she didn't care.
His hands and hers both groped, more clothes hit the floor, and they fell on the bed laughing. When he put his fingers on the front closure of her bra, she covered his hands.
"I've never done this before,” she muttered.
"It's okay,” he whispered. “It's okay. It's just you're so beautiful. Your skin is so soft. Let me see all of you.” His voice was tender, and his hands and mouth hadn't been anything but gentle. He wouldn't hurt her. She knew he wouldn't.
She lifted her hand from his, and he unhooked the closure. He slid the straps down her arms, but she covered her breasts, suddenly embarrassed. He stretched out beside her and merely hugged her.
/> "Shhh,” he whispered. “It's all right. Don't be embarrassed. You're beautiful."
He kissed her again, all warm and wet and soft, and his mouth erased all hesitancy. Heat and joy and longing wrapped her in an unfamiliar cocoon, but she wasn't alone. She wasn't alone. All she felt was him, skin on skin, mouth on mouth, a tangle of limbs and sweat and warm breath and current that made her alive and a part of not only him but the universe. She no longer needed to be jealous of Zoe. She no longer needed to wonder what it was like. She no longer needed to be alone.
His fingers probed her and stroked her and stretched her, and all the while his mouth reassured her with kisses and words of encouragement. Whatever he was doing was working, because she throbbed and ached as she never had before—as she never knew she could—and when he finally pushed into her, she cried out and clung to him like he was the only solid object in an ocean of liquid sensation.
"Relax, honey, just relax as much as you can,” he whispered in between grunts.
With each stroke he stretched her more, and with each stroke came more pain. But the more she expanded, the deeper he drove. By the time he developed a steady rhythm, the pain had turned to pleasure. He increased the speed of his thrusts until the sensations blurred into an all-encompassing nirvana. She didn't want it to end, but the feeling was too exquisite to maintain. When she reached that point, Bret stopped, deep inside her, then thrust one more time, groaning into her ear. He pumped a few more times, and warm liquid flooded her.
Afterward, she lay next to him with her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, and the joy and satisfaction was unlike anything she'd ever imagined. She'd wanted to cry in gratitude for what he'd given her, and she wondered if it was going to be this good every time.
"I wish I could stay all evening, but I have to help my mother with a journey tonight,” she whispered.
"A what?"
"A soul retrieval journey."
He moved his head to the side and looked down at her. “What's that? I don't get it."
Dance with Me, My Lovely Page 7