Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  At least for now, it was over.

  Jackson wasn’t a drinker, but tonight—this morning, rather—he poured himself a double Scotch before going to his office. He sat at his desk and booted up his computer. While waiting, he sipped his drink and consoled himself with the fact that he hadn’t lied to Moira. In fact, he’d told her the truth—he was still looking for Courtney.

  He would never have considered breaking and entering to obtain the information he needed—information he suspected Wendy Donovan had—but when the opportunity arose, he’d jumped at it. How could he not? His daughter’s life—her eternal soul—was at stake. He couldn’t stand by and not try to save her.

  If Wendy Donovan’s contact list and computer files didn’t ultimately help him track down his daughter, at least he would have a much more comprehensive list of witches across America to add to his database. Jackson was confident he would someday find Courtney. He knew the name of the witch who had recruited his daughter, and now with Wendy’s files he could track down her associates. Eventually, he would find and save his daughter.

  Even if it took his last breath.

  EIGHTEEN

  After Moira helped Rafe recline on one of the double beds in their hotel room, she took her knife and cut away his shirt from the wound. Her field dressing had held, but the bandage was soaked bright red. He’d somehow reopened the wound. Dammit.

  “I liked that shirt,” Rafe said, eyes closed.

  “You have at least six other black T-shirts,” she said. Rafe was pale, but at least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. She willed her hands to remain steady as she carefully removed the dressing and inspected the injury.

  The wound had stopped bleeding again, but it had gone in deep enough to have Moira debating whether to take Rafe to the hospital. What if the blade had nicked a vital organ? She must have stared too long, because Rafe said, “Forget about the hospital. I’m fine.”

  “You lost a lot of blood.” She showed him the bandage she’d just removed. “How are you feeling? Honestly. Nicole stabbed you with her asthame. We don’t know if the knife was poisoned, or cursed, or—”

  “I am fine. Just exhausted, like you. I think I saw orange juice in the mini-fridge.”

  She rose and crossed the room. “I forgot there was a refrigerator. I’m so used to the generic, cash-only, fleabag motels.”

  She pulled out orange juice for Rafe and a water bottle for herself. Then she grabbed a mini-bottle of vodka.

  “I didn’t know you drank the hard stuff,” Rafe teased.

  “Me? Hell, no. If it’s not beer, don’t bother me with it. This is for you.” She shoved a folded towel under him. “It’s going to sting.”

  “Don’t—” he began, but she’d already poured half the bottle over his wound. “Shit,” he gasped, biting down on his lip.

  “I warned you. Sorry.” She kissed Rafe near the cut, not realizing she’d done so until her lips touched his warm skin, tasted the alcohol on his body, and smelled the sweat from their battle with the witches.

  In silence, Moira finished cleaning and taping his injury, trying to ignore Rafe’s watchful eyes. “You’ll live.” She tried to sound flip, but it came out relieved. She finally looked at him, and he took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  Her racing heart was finally slowing as the adrenaline from the last hour faded. “But if you feel any sharp pains, start bleeding, get a fever—I’m taking you to the hospital. Or else back to Santa Louisa to have Dr. Fielding look at you.”

  “I don’t need a coroner yet,” he said with a half smile.

  “I’m serious!” She tried to stand, to pace—worry and fear battling for primacy—but Rafe didn’t let go of her hand. He pulled her down on top of him.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. But it’s nice to have someone worry about me.”

  For a split second she thought about his wound, not wanting to reinjure it, but his bare chest was flat against her, his lips right in front of her, his eyes staring into hers.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered again.

  She kissed him, not wanting to hear he was okay because she knew he wasn’t. He’d been stabbed; he could have died. She shivered uncontrollably. They were partners; she’d never forgive herself if he died during one of their operations.

  They were more than mere partners.

  “I can’t lose you,” she said, her mouth moving from his lips, to his rough jaw, to his neck. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  The thought that tonight could have been their last night on earth terrified her. For two weeks they’d been talking around their mutual attraction—every time Rafe brought it up, she avoided the conversation. She didn’t want to talk about the kisses they’d shared, the hot touches, the way she missed him when they were apart, the way she knew when he entered a room even when her eyes were closed. She had kept the protective shields surrounding her heart, her emotions, erect and strong.

  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 t
he 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 dance 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.”