by Dee Davis
The wind whipped across the yard, spraying gravel against the window, and she jumped back startled, his arms closing around her waist to steady her. She started to pull free, but before she could move the lights went out, plunging the lounge into darkness.
His grip tightened, and reflexively she turned to face him. The storm gathered fury, rain lashing the window, lightning flickering through the room with the power of a strobe. One second Marcus's face was illuminated, their eyes locked in silent communication, and then the image was gone, his heat the only physical proof she had that he was still standing there.
But heat was more than enough.
Framing her face with his hands, he bent his head, his mouth slanting over hers, the moment before contact seeming to last an eternity, and then when his lips touched hers, it was as if something inside her combusted, a fire blazing with the fury of the storm outside.
It was almost as if it were only the two of them, bound together by the kiss. Nothing else was real. There was only this moment, this man. She threaded her hands through his hair, pulling him 1 closer, opening her mouth, delighting in the taste of him.
He dropped his hands, one sliding to the small of her back, urging her closer still, the other cupping her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the exquisite pressure triggering ripples of heat, pooling between her legs.
With a groan, he swept her into his arms, taking the stairs as if she weighed nothing. In seconds they were in his room, the storm outside still rattling the windows, sheets of rain beating against the glass.
He dropped his arms, his body sliding against hers, the friction unbearable. She tore at his shirt, mindless of buttons. In turn, he pulled off her sweater, making short work of her bra, and then pressed her to him, his lips on her eyes, her cheeks, her ears, and her neck, licking, stroking, each rasp of his tongue setting her nerves on fire.
She grabbed his head then, forcing a kiss, her tongue sliding deep into his mouth, wanting to possess him as he had possessed her. They moved backward until her body was braced against the wall, his penis hard against her belly. Fumbling in her need, she tore at his zipper, sliding it down with trembling hands. Breaking contact for only a moment, he removed his pants, and watched silently as she slid out of her panties, her skirt joining them on the wooden floor.
The bed was only a few steps away, but they couldn't wait, and he pressed her back against the wall, lifting her up so that she could twine her legs around him, opening herself for him as he thrust into her. The door leading to the balcony blew open with the force of the storm, cold rain drenching them as he thrust harder and harder, the two of them struggling for rhythm, striving for release.
Pleasure surpassed itself until it bordered on pain, every muscle responding to her need for release. He kissed her face and breasts, biting her nipples, and using his hands on her hips to push himself deeper—and then deeper still.
She screamed his name, certain now that she was riding the thunder, and then the world split into white-hot light and she forgot where he ended and she began, wanting only for the pleasure to go on forever.
Shaking now from the sheer joy of it, she drifted slowly back to reality, his body hot in contrast to the cool of the rain. The thunder faded as he held her against the wall, his breathing ragged, their bodies still connected.
Then gently, he carried her to the bed, as if she were the most precious thing in his universe. And she smiled up at him, watching through layers of contentment as he secured the door, and then lay down beside her.
His kisses now were almost reverent, as he cherished what he had moments before so violently taken. His hands and his tongue moved over her in a leisurely exploration that sent spirals of sensation dancing through her, her body reawakening to his touch, the banked heat beginning to build again.
He kissed her shoulders and the soft skin along the inside of her arms, stopping to leisurely suck on each of her fingers. Then he kissed his way across her belly, giving equal attention to the hand resting there, then up the other arm with tiny kisses that led to her ear, his tongue tracing the whorl, then drawing her earlobe into his mouth, the gentle sucking sending her squirming against the bed.
With a smile, he slid lower, kissing the tender skin of her feet and ankles, moving ever so slowly upward, ratcheting up her need with every stroke, every kiss, his hands clearing the way— massaging, kneading, exposing nerves she hadn't even known she possessed.
And then just when she thought she couldn't possibly feel any more—when she was certain he'd satiated every part of her—he pushed her legs apart, his hair tickling the skin high on the inside of her thighs. One minute she closed her eyes in anticipation and the next she was arching off the bed, his hands holding her hips in place as he sucked her clitoris, each stroke of his tongue sending her closer and closer to the edge.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, urging him onward, her mind splintering with her rising desire. Color formed behind her eyelids, burning hot, and she almost forgot to breathe. She was close, so close ... and then he was gone.
The cold air taunted her.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was there again, on top of her. She lifted, opening, wanting nothing more than to be a part of him, her need for him overriding everything else. And then he was inside her, and they were moving together, the friction unbearable, her pleasure and his coming together into a crescendo of light and sound and magic unlike anything she'd ever experienced, for a moment she was afraid, frozen on the edge of nothingness.
And then she could feel his fingers linking with hers, feel his body moving inside her, and she let go, the world disappearing into the fury of their climax against the soft rumble of the dying storm.
*****
The room had grown cold with the passing of the storm and Celeste shifted sleepily under the comforter, reaching for Marcus's warmth. When her hands encountered nothing but down, she opened her eyes, frustration quickly turning to alarm.
Marcus's side of the bed was empty.
She'd been duped again.
Moving with a haste that belied the fact she'd been sleeping only moments before, she started to gather her clothes, then abandoned the idea in favor of the neatly folded ones in her room. Marcus had undoubtedly gone to search for the ruby, taking advantage of the fact that she'd been lulled into a passion-induced coma. She cursed herself for her stupidity, wondering if it was already too late.
Maybe he'd managed to figure out where Hans had hidden the stone. Or maybe he'd known all along. She ran through the things that Frau Mueller had said as she pulled on jeans and a sweater. The only conceivable place was the charnel house. But nothing beyond Hans's seeming obsession with making restitution seemed to point to the little cemetery.
Still it was a starting point, and if she was lucky, maybe she'd catch Marcus before he had the chance to find the Devil's Delight. She bent down to tie the laces on her boots, and then tiptoed back out into the hallway. The door to Marcus's room was still open.
And the room was empty.
How could she have been so stupid?
She moved quickly down the stairs, trying to remember exactly where the charnel house was. She'd found it on the map, but hadn't bothered to translate its location from paper to reality. Another mistake.
And to top it off, Marcus would have the car. Which meant that she would have the further disadvantage of having to find transportation should it turn out that he'd already left Hallstadt.
At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated for a moment, her heart twisting at the thought that what had seemed so beautiful had in fact been nothing more than a sham. Fool me once ... the saying went. Well, she'd definitely been played. And there was no question of blaming anyone but herself. She'd known better. Walked into it with her eyes open, and damn it all to hell, she'd let need override common sense.
Her father would never forgive her if she let the Devil's Delight slip through her fingers. Never. Squaring her shoulde
rs, she headed for the front door. She'd be damned if she'd let Marcus Diablo get the better of her.
"Going somewhere?" The familiar voice rasped through the dark like black velvet.
"Marcus." She spun around, trying to find him in the shadows. As if on cue, the clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight illuminated him. He was sitting in the wing chair, barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans not even fastened properly.
She swallowed, just the sight of him sending her pheromones into overdrive.
He hadn't gone anywhere.
"Running out on me, again?" There was a mocking note in his voice that she hadn't heard before.
"No. I... No." She stuttered, trying to think, trying to pull herself together. She'd been so certain that he had deserted her.
"Well, you could have fooled me." His eyes traveled from her head to her toes, taking in the heavy sweater, the boots—definitely traveling gear.
"I woke up and you... you were gone." She hated that she sounded apologetic. He was the one who'd gone missing. Not her. And yet here she was defending herself. "Damn it, Marcus, I thought you'd run out on me."
"Well, that hardly seems likely now, does it?" He laughed, waving a hand at his bare chest. And what a chest it was.
"I didn't know."
"You could have checked before running off with guns cocked and loaded."
"I'm not..." She stopped, anger rising. "What did you expect me to think? It's not like you haven't made it perfectly clear that I'm—what did you call it—a tagalong? That we're only working together because my father forced it. That I am nothing more than a momentary distraction, a sexual conquest to be used and discarded." The last came out before she could stop herself.
He was across the room in the second, eyes flashing. "I'll admit I have used women to get what I want. I'll even admit that the first time I slept with you it was with one eye on the prize; however, tonight was not about anything but the two of us. I don't know what the hell it is between us. But it's there and you can't deny it any more than I can. It takes two to make love, Celeste, and at least by my recollection, you were right there with me."
"But you told me yourself there's no future in it."
"There isn't." His face shuttered, all expression lost, and she fought the urge to reach out and touch him, to try to bring it back. "There can't be. I'm not the kind of man who can settle down."
"Well, maybe I'm not the kind of woman who wants to."
"All women want a future, Celeste. And I can't give that to you. It's as simple as that."
"So, what? You take the ruby and you're out of my life?"
"Something like that." He shrugged, running a hand through his hair, the gesture making him seem less hardened, younger— almost vulnerable. "Look, I don't want to discuss this. I didn't run out on you. That's the point. I couldn't sleep so I came down here to look at the photograph Helga gave us."
"In the dark."
His teeth were white against the stubble of his beard. "Yeah. I've got superpowered vision. Didn't I tell you?"
"That's not funny." And it wasn't, although she couldn't exactly put her finger on why. There was just something about him that made her feel like anything was possible. She shook her head and reached for the lamp, the light blinding for a moment until her eyes adjusted.
He looked even more devastating in the light, and she swallowed the urge to tell him to go put a shirt on. Surely she could handle her libido enough to keep from letting his half-dressed state distract her—again.
"I had the lamp on earlier. I just turned it off so that I could think."
"About?"
His eyes met hers, his gaze intense. "Everything."
The word hung between them for a moment, and she debated trying to get him to say more, but knew it would most likely be a fruitless exercise. Marcus wasn't the kind of man to discuss his feelings. He'd said there couldn't be a future. And whether she agreed or not, she knew that no amount of argument would change the fact.
And in all honesty, she wasn't certain what she'd argue for. She'd never really thought of her life beyond her work with her father. There'd been men of course, but no one of consequence.
And then Marcus had come along all brash and self-contained, and he'd swept her literally off her feet. But then, just as easily, he'd deceived her and left her high and dry—although she'd turned the tables quite nicely, thank you very much.
But still she hadn't been able to stop herself from wishing it had played out differently. And now he was back. Only nothing had changed. Except that the thought of him walking away again left her feeling so empty inside.
None of which she was going to share with him.
"So did you come up with anything? About where Hans might have hidden the ruby, I mean?" It was a coward's way out. But there was something compelling in the idea of self-protection.
"No." He shook his head, accepting the change of subject. She swallowed her disappointment. "Just that the charnel house seems as logical a place as any. The photograph doesn't really reveal anything. And I even studied it with a magnifying glass on the off chance that there was something."
She'd done the same earlier and come to a similar conclusion. But she picked the photo up again and stared at it, willing inspiration to hit. The picture showed a somber-looking Hans Weisbaum standing in front of an artfully arranged pyramid of bones.
On closer examination, one could see that some of the skulls were artfully painted with rose garlands, strands of ivy, and the occasional black cross, the deceased's name and date of death stenciled in black script. M. J. Schmidt, 1879. Liesl Gasterman, 1899. Sandor Balog, 1965. Michael Stuben, 1654. T. G., 1981. L. Prager, 1922. F. M. Heinnman, 1785. And the list went on. Memories contained in the calcified remains of what was once human. Edgar Allan Poe with a folk-art twist.
"The photograph shows only a small part of the charnel house," she said, setting the picture back on the table. "Maybe there's something else there that will give us a clue."
"No time like the present." Marcus stood up.
"But it's not even daylight yet."
"It will be soon. And the rain's stopped. So unless you're afraid of ghosts, I don't think we have anything to worry about."
"I don't believe in ghosts or cursed stones, or any kind of magic for that matter. I believe in what I can see. The rest of it, I'll leave for the clerics and psychics."
"All lumped together." He laughed, but his eyes didn't reflect the emotion, and she wondered what she could have said to upset him, then dismissed the notion altogether. She was just being oversensitive. Which wasn't all that surprising, considering the situation.
"Something like that." She shrugged. "But if we're going to go to the charnel house, I think maybe you need to dress a little more appropriately? "
He looked down at himself, and then bowed, the movement courtly and mocking all at the same time. "Right then, clothes for milady. I'd hate to offend your sensibilities."
She opened her mouth to retort, but he was already gone. Maybe Marcus Diablo was a pirate. Or at least had his ancestor's blood flowing in his veins. Either way she had the sudden premonition that she was playing with fire.
And even an idiot knew that was the fast track for getting burned.
Chapter Eight
"There's nothing here." Celeste said, sinking down to the ground, her head in her hands.
They'd been over the place three times, with nothing to show for it. The charnel house hadn't been locked, which in a small village in Austria wasn't really all that surprising. There was a respect for the dead here. That and a healthy fear of the authorities. Other countries could take a lesson.
Marcus joined her on the gravel-covered floor. "There's got to be something we're missing." He let his eyes travel around the length of the room. It was small and simple, the stone facade without adornment except for a large crucifix.
Three walls were covered with rows of skulls resting on femurs and tibias packed together in such a way as to provide
a shelf of sorts. The back wall held an additional level of painted heads, resting on a crude wooden shelf, votive candles adding an eerie light as dawn broke over the mountains outside.
"Hans must have been standing there in the photograph." Celeste pointed to the left-hand corner of the beinhaus. He was surprised at how well she seemed to be handling it all considering her aversion for human remains. He supposed he should have given her more credit. She had been anything but incompetent the first time he'd met her. It's just that in trying to put her out of his mind, somehow he'd forgotten all of that.
He wasn't allowing himself to examine the depth of his feelings for the woman; it wouldn't serve any purpose, but admitting that he admired her surely couldn't hurt. Although that's as far as it could go. In the end, he was going to betray her trust. He was going take the ruby.
He'd accepted his father's challenge because of the prospect of besting his brothers. And the idea still held great appeal. But if he were honest, he'd also have to admit that he'd accepted because his father had asked so very little of him in his life. And now because of that he intended to keep his end of the bargain. Even if it meant hurting Celeste in the process.
In truth, some things were just not meant to be. And even if the chemistry was amazing, hell, even if he cared about her, there were limitations that simply couldn't be overcome. His parentage for one. The fact of his immortality another.
He'd tried to be normal once, centuries ago, and that had ended in disaster. Since then he'd managed to avoid entanglements that threatened his heart. Hell, he'd thought the thing long dead.
Turns out he'd been wrong.
But that didn't change anything.
"Earth to Marcus," Celeste prompted, her breath crystallizing in the morning air.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Sorry," he said with a sardonic smile. "Too much late-night activity."
She blushed and ducked her head as he pulled the snapshot out of his pocket. Celeste was a strange combination of sophistication and innocence, the combination seductive in a way he would never have predicted. He stared down at the picture, then at the area of the charnel house Celeste had indicated. "I think you're right about where he was standing. But I'm not sure what that tells us."