“Got yourself a lady friend, sweet cheeks?”
“Fook orf, Syd.” Florien ducked without breaking stride. “She’m Erik’s.”
Erik’s. The casual assumption hit her so hard, Prue gasped aloud. She knew she ought to be outraged, and truly, she was, but she didn’t have the energy to spare to deal with that right now. The world was slipping sideways faster than she could grab it and haul it back. She’d never been one for emotional ups and downs, but merciful Sister, from the moment Erik Thorensen had opened his mouth, she’d been hurtling from the pinnacles to the depths and back again. It wasn’t good for her, truly it wasn’t.
Unobtrusively, she hauled in a couple of steadying breaths. She’d just have to do better, that was all. Keep her wits about her.
As they turned down yet another passageway, she glanced back over her shoulder. The dancer stood stock still, staring after them. Her pretty mouth drooped.
Catching up with the boy, Prue asked, “Who was that?”
“Sydarise.” Florien shot her a sly glance. “He was sweet on ’er month afore last.”
The woman was tall enough to fit his large frame. From the male point of view, it all made perfect sense. Not only beautiful, but convenient.
Prue slowed. What in the seven hells was she doing? She’d always been brutally honest with herself. Here she was, trotting off to Erik’s dressing room with her heart in her hands, brushing past his previous conquests on the way. She’d already decided the ephemeral pleasures of the present weren’t worth the certain pain of the future.
Hadn’t she?
“Wait.” Prue grasped the boy’s thin shoulder. She swallowed. “I need a minute. Somewhere quiet.”
Florien stopped, studying her face from under his tangled fringe. Apparently satisfied, he grunted, grabbed a fistful of skirt and towed her down another passageway and into what was evidently a storeroom. The light spilling in through the doorway created a dusty twilight crowded with grotesque shapes—the gigantic haunch of some hoofed animal, a ship’s tall prow, four tattered shields hanging on hooks on the wall, all askew.
Leaning against the leprous trunk of an improbable tree, Florien fished a toothpick out of his tattered trews and stuck it in his mouth.
“Alone,” said Prue.
The boy’s brows drew together. “Why?”
Because what I decide to do tonight will change my life. And I’m scared. “Never mind why.”
“But I sed t’ Erik I’d bring ye.” His sharp features grew pinched with worry.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find him. Promise.”
The child’s extravagant lashes swept down, then up. He had the most beautiful eyes, dark as Concordian chocolat. “Kin we shake ’ands?”
“Shake—Yes, of course, but why?”
“ ’Cos then ye ’ave t’ do it. On yer honor.” His skinny chest expanded. “Erik tol’ me.”
“Oh.” Prue’s heart gave the strangest little skip. “Show me which is his door before you go.” She extended her hand.
His pale cheeks flooding with color, Florien shook his head. “Nah,” he said, whipping his right hand behind his back. Clearly holding his breath, he offered his left.
Gravely, Prue shook it, the small fingers like a bundle of thin winter twigs in her grasp. “There,” she said. “My solemn promise.”
“Yah.” His good humor restored, Florien paused in the doorway. “Back t’ way we come, left an’ then third on t’ right.” He disappeared around the corner.
Behind the ship was a tall, freestanding swing, the upper part of its frame embellished with garlands of limp paper flowers. Slowly, Prue walked toward it, her skirts stirring up little eddies of dust.
It wasn’t as if she was incapable of taking a risk. By going into partnership with Rose and purchasing The Garden, she’d gambled with Katrin’s future as well as her own. Nonetheless, she’d left as little to chance as possible. By the time the decision was made, she and Rose knew everything there was to know about The Garden and how it operated.
With one hand, she set the seat swinging, testing the strength of the old timbers. Satisfied, she gathered up her skirts and sat, studying the toes of her evening slippers as she swayed gently to and fro.
What did she know of Erik Thorensen? Almost nothing—except he made her ache and burn for things she hardly understood. As clearly as if he stood before her in the gloom, she saw his delightful smile in all its incarnations, a spectrum he seemed able to range at will, from dazzling to apparently genuine, innocent to downright wicked.
Chavis had never had Erik’s lightness of touch, let alone his intelligence, but his smile had been just the same—an expression of complicity, one that promised a warmth that never came. Godsdammit, what was wrong with her? She thought she’d learned that lesson. There must be some inherent flaw in her personality, a weakness for sunny blue eyes and guileless smiles, for a man who could make her laugh.
Prue massaged her aching temples. If her only gift was balancing the books, then that’s what she’d do—assess the risks and make a rational decision.
What did she really want? Lifting her head, she stared blankly at the shields on the wall.
Yes, she wanted Erik—the pleasure of being encompassed, enveloped by his uncompromising masculinity. Her breath hitched. Gods, she wanted so desperately to be taken over, filled and fucked ’til she screamed aloud with the wanton joy of it. She’d never experienced that degree of abandon, but she knew, without a doubt, Erik could give it to her. And in return? In that Magickal chamber inside the Leaf of Pleasures, the taste of her most intimate flesh had brought him to climax. As he’d emerged from the water to burn her with his gaze, she’d felt the heady power of her femininity, a balm after the way he’d set her aside the night before.
Her hands clenched hard on the ropes of the swing. She was tingling all over, breathing hard. Prue’s lips quirked in a wry smile. The poets had it right. Desire was definitely a kind of insanity. All right, put physical pleasure on the plus side of the ledger. What else?
She liked him.
Prue frowned. She hadn’t expected that. He’d sneaked past her defenses with his easy undemanding company, the cunning way he ambushed her with humor. She admired his quick wits and determination as much as that fabulous voice. And there was more. Erik hadn’t made hasty judgments about Prue McGuire the way most people did. In the strangest way, she felt she was safe with him.
She worried at her bottom lip.
Now that was an interesting thought. He didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t all fluttering eyelashes and languishing sighs. He wasn’t fazed by her intelligence or efficiency, nor by her looks—or lack of them.
Mentally, Prue contrasted her own plain, neat person with that of the tall blond dancer. Her heart sank. Time to fill in the other side of the ledger.
How often did a woman reject Erik Thorensen? Her mouth twisted. Wounded vanity was a powerful incentive for seduction. She’d never meant to intrigue him, but gods, she knew enough to recognize the hunter’s gleam in his eye. What did it matter that he’d made her like him? Charm, talent, acting—they were all his stock in trade. Once she’d succumbed and he’d worked off his pique on her willing body, he’d be off to the next conquest. Godsdammit, if his self-imposed mission to save the city took too much longer, he might finish up doing it right under her nose.
Afaçade—that was it. Prue struggled on. Behind the veneer of the man, there was either a wasteland or a raging storm, and she couldn’t decide which prospect was the more unsettling. A chill ran down her spine and she drew the shawl closer around her shoulders. It could be that the mystery of Erik Thorensen was grubby and commonplace and he had a woman waiting for him on every world. Children.
She gave a huff of disbelief. No, it wasn’t so, she’d stake her life on it. He valued his freedom too greatly. He had his own sense of honor, skewed though it might be. Once it was over with a lover, it would be over.
Oh gods. As it would be when he left her.
Shuddering, she gazed at the imbalance on the page of her imaginary ledger. The heart wanted what it wanted, but oh, the risks! She’d had a taste of what he could offer and Sister save her, she wanted more. Her head was spinning, her stomach tight with tension.
Burying her head in her hands, she cursed softly. Suppose, just suppose for a mad instant, that she reached out for what she desired? Grabbed with both hands?
The memories might be worth the pain.
Prue sat up. She wasn’t a frightened girl, abandoned by the man she’d trusted with her whole heart. Not anymore. She had maturity, resources, Rose and Katrin to love her and pick up the pieces.
Gripping the ropes in both hands, she rose, concentrating on keeping her knees steady. Outside, female chatter approached and then receded down the passageway, Florien’s gruff little treble raised in response to some laughing comment. A door banged shut and the noise cut off.
Prue smiled. Such a strange child. Erik tol’ me. She sobered. No wonder he was wary, poor little mite, with that broken finger and the marks of privation still on him. Yet the boy hero-worshipped Erik, even if he didn’t entirely trust him.
All the whirling thoughts within her subsided into a pool of silence. Even damaged, even too wary to trust, the heart still wants what it wants.
The prow of the ship looming over her shoulder, Prue stared her shrinking soul in the eye. Remaining steadfast in the face of overwhelming temptation was a grinding, exhausting business. She was heartily sick of it.
Her pulse raced. She didn’t have to trust Erik to enjoy him, to take what she longed for, but on her own terms. Was it possible to be weak in one way and yet stay strong and whole in every other? Erik Thorensen might be temptation personified, but that didn’t mean he was entitled to all of Prue McGuire. She snorted. Hah! The very prospect would have him running as far and as fast as possible.
Finger by finger, she released the ropes. Examining her stinging palms, she discovered the coarse fibers had rasped her flesh until it glowed.
No, thank the Sister, she wasn’t a complete fool. Physical pleasure was all very well, but she’d shield the tender underside of her heart by tucking the most essential part of herself away, deep and safe. A balancing act above a bottomless fall, but hell, she’d spent all her years at The Garden keeping her nerve, walking a fine line between ruin and success. It had been . . . stimulating.
Stepping into the corridor, Prue pressed a hand over the chilly void behind her breastbone. Don’t dither, breathe. She turned left and began counting doors. Breathe. One, two . . .
Squaring her shoulders, she rapped briskly on the third one along. Breathe.
“Come in.” Erik’s voice.
Her pulse leaped. Breathe. Head high, Prue swept in, stopping short after two steps.
Such a stark contrast to the opulence of the theater upstairs. Almost bare—a rack for costumes, a small shabby couch, Erik’s chair and the makeup table. The absolute minimum, and all used and worn.
When Erik looked up, their eyes met in the mirror.
The words dried in her mouth.
Although he was seated with his back to the door, he filled the small space, his shoulders so broad and strong, the taut line of muscle in buttock and thigh shamelessly outlined by the skintight breeches. He’d removed the demon king’s trim goatee, but his eyes were still rimmed with dark pencil, the lids dusted blue and highlighted beneath the brows with pale glitter.
Prue had never thought a man could be called beautiful, but the makeup made his eyes so brilliant she thought she might drown in the blue of them, as vivid as polished lapis lazuli from Trinitaria. The entire effect was disturbingly androgynous. Why it should emphasize his potent masculinity so compellingly she couldn’t fathom.
But it did and she couldn’t give him less than his due.
With quiet finality, the door snicked shut at her back.
20
“Gods,” she said, “you’ve got an incredible nerve. That was magnificent.”
He ducked his head, reaching for a sponge and a wide-mouthed jar of some kind of cream. “I did what I had to do,” he muttered.
“You forced them to listen.” Prue shook her head, bemused. “I’m only just beginning to understand. You never give up, do you? On anything?”
“No, Mistress Prue, I don’t.” Erik drew the sponge across his cheek. “I can’t,” he said. “Especially not now. One Leaf is bad enough. What if there are others? Think of the bridges that link them. The potential for disaster beggars the imagination.”
“I saw the first purplemist tree in bloom today. It’ll be storm sea son soon.”
He didn’t move a muscle. “Is that bad?”
Prue cleared her throat. “Could be. Can you still smell it . . . whatever it is?”
“Only when the wind changes.” Erik got busy with the sponge. “It’s getting fainter the more the tide turns.”
She folded her hands together to keep them from trembling. “The whole city’s talking about you now. You managed that much at least. Well done.”
Twisting around, he stared at her, one side of his face clean, the other still painted. Prue resisted the temptation to squeeze her eyes shut. She’d never been at all imaginative, but she found the sight dislocating, as though he wore a diabolical half mask. Two Erik Tho rensens, both brutally handsome, one hard and demonic and flashy, the other . . .
She tilted her head to one side, frowning. The naked side of his face should have looked vulnerable, exposed as it was. Instead, it was closed, revealing nothing but a control as hard as winter iron.
“What? Is there a spot on my nose?” Despite the growl, his lips twitched. Tossing the soiled sponge aside, he reached for a fresh one and turned back to his reflection. “My mind’s made up about paying the fine, so don’t argue.”
“Likewise. And Rose does what I tell her, so the advantage is mine. You said you have brothers, didn’t you?”
“Mmm. Three. But don’t bet on Rose.” His teeth flashed. “I can be extremely persuasive.”
“I know,” said Prue, with more feeling than she’d intended. She hurried on before he could reply. “How long since you’ve seen them? And your mother? You mentioned her.”
Erik wiped the remnants of cream from his face with a small towel. Slowly, he folded it and placed it in the precise center of the dressing table. Still in silence, he rose and turned to face her. Prue pressed her spine to the door and squared her shoulders. She was having difficulty with her breath again, though a stray draft swirled through the rack of hanging costumes and toyed with the fringes on her shawl. Where had it come from? The room was snug and warm.
Completely without expression, he studied her face. “Twenty years,” he said at last. He took a leisurely step forward. “I see you wore it.” A triumphant curve of the lips. He flicked the jade fringe with a long finger. “Why won’t you do what you’re told, Prue? I’ve got plenty of money. I’ll pay the fine.”
“No. It was my mistake, my responsibility.” Prue’s blood thrummed with the joy of battle. Defiantly, she raised her chin, trying to decide whether it felt like flying—or coming down with a fever. “Twenty years is a long time when it’s family.”
“Stop trying to change the subject. You’re a worthy foe, Prue McGuire.” Erik’s eyes lit with unmistakable heat. “All bluff and challenge. The irresistible force meets the immovable object.” A second step brought them almost chest to chest. His scent washed over her, a strange mixture—a trace of cosmetics, the cleansing cream, and his own male, musky warmth. Oddly arousing.
He stared down at her. “Do you have any idea how badly I regret the way I hurt you?” Very slowly, he raised a hand to touch her face. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone.
When she didn’t move, his expressi
on lightened. “And how much you tempt me?” A slow, crooked smile bloomed on his lips.
“Stop it.” Her voice cracked. “For the gods’ sake, just . . . stop it.”
Every vestige of charm disappeared. “Stop what?”
“Flirting. Seducing.” Prue blinked hard. “I know how I must seem to you.”
Erik frowned down at her. “You do?”
“Ordinary,” she said. “So sensible I’m a bore.”
He reached out to cradle her jaw in one palm. “That’s strange,” he said. “So you’re a mind reader now? And here I was thinking you’d been expressly designed by the gods to tempt me.” His thumb stroked gently over the cheek with the dimple.
Prue stiffened her spine. “You resisted temptation perfectly well last night.”
He raised the other hand to cup her face. “I made a terrible mistake and I caused you pain,” he said. “I swear on my honor I won’t do it again.” His eyes were intensely blue, steady on hers.
She shook so hard, currents of air swirled between them, vibrating with tension. Wrapping her fingers around his thick wrists, she used the grip to anchor herself. It took all the courage Prue possessed to speak. Hurling herself off a cliff would be easy in comparison. In fact, the falling sensation was so vivid she would not have been surprised to see a vast chasm open up at her feet, in the center of the threadbare rug.
“You . . . you . . .” Gods, she couldn’t do this.
“Prue, give me another chance.” His thumbs continued to caress her cheekbones, but he didn’t crowd her. Such an experienced hunter.
Recklessly, she pinned a smile on her lips. A shield for her heart, like the ones in the storeroom.
“If I do . . .” She plunged forward, headfirst over the vertiginous drop. “. . . you won’t . . . turn away again?”
“Not unless you tell me to.” His voice dropped to the velvet rumble that liquefied her bones. “Prue, love?”
Wordlessly, she nodded. Then she closed her eyes and held her breath, her heart trying to knock itself free of her ribcage. Her breasts swelled, so tight they tingled unbearably. Restlessly, she shifted her hips, the tender flesh between her thighs aching with slow, hot tears.
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