“That’s right.” Probably wrong of her, but Camellia was beginning to enjoy herself, liked seeing Laev startled out of his cool manner. Laev the man.
No, she didn’t want to think of Laev the man.
Another sip of the alcohol, his lovely purplish gaze locked on hers. She couldn’t look away from those eyes. The color was so beautiful. A few Families had lavender or purplish eyes, but the tint of the Hawthorns’ . . . exquisite.
“Tab Holly,” he repeated, setting the glass aside, leaning his head back onto his chair, eyelids lowering.
“Yes,” Camellia said.
“The Hawthorn-Holly feud is long past,” Laev said. But the darkness of old pain shaded his expression. “It is good that Tab Holly is . . . now . . . Cal Marigold. Another link between our Families. But I am not prepared for this.” More than a shadow of pain glinted in Laev’s eyes. Rawness of tortured memory. “I thank you for telling me, GraceMistrys.” Another flick of his fingers and the scry panel went blank.
He’d called her GraceMistrys, and she was thinking of him as Laev. Time to pull back a bit more.
Sixteen
He’d been rude in ending the call with GraceMistrys Darjeeling . . . Camellia . . . so abruptly, but the past had overwhelmed him.
Cal, the boy he considered his nephew, a reincarnation of Tab Holly!
Laev pressed fingers to his temples. It wasn’t often that he was confronted with a tenet of his culture made real.
He’d known and respected Tab Holly, the man had been his teacher at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon for years.
And Laev loved Cal.
Reincarnation.
There was no escaping the past. He could handle this. He must handle it. The present and the future were always based on the past.
His mind switched from Cal to women. Camellia Darjeeling’s face had faded and mind’s eye images had flashed through his head—mostly of Nivea. She’d always been beautiful to him, always had been perfectly groomed.
Even in bed, she hadn’t ever seemed to have lost herself in him. Something he’d denied for a long time, hating to realize it, feeling diminished as a man.
And Nivea had had an ideal of what a prospective FirstFamily GreatLady should look like, how she should dress and act, and had molded herself into that shape. She’d been the title and not the woman.
Camellia Darjeeling seemed all woman, and he couldn’t imagine her setting aside any aspects of her own character to fit into some title. He couldn’t quite imagine her with a title at all, though he thought she was in line for it. At the Salvage Ball, she’d been gorgeous in a formal robe, but still approachable, making the robe a part of her statement as to who she was, instead of living up to how an expensive, unique robe would define her.
The next time he’d seen her, in her office, she’d seemed an intelligent, sharp businesswoman, dressed well in a professional tunic and trous. When he’d had her to tea, she’d been pale, dealing with an emotional blow, but in control.
And she’d fit well in his ResidenceDen—as both the Residence itself and his housekeeper had made a point of mentioning to him.
At the salon this evening, she’d been all woman, again. More female than any woman he’d seen for a long while. Tender, caring, soft of face and body while cradling a child.
Tonight she’d looked so adorable and silly and female and emotions had clashed in his chest with the thought of reincarnation and the past.
By the end of their scry conversation, he’d known she was dangerous. Ruffling and riling emotions of the past. It seemed like the past was haunting him more—because he was finally trying to deal with it instead of stuff it away?
It had always been difficult for him to deal with his nearly fatal childhood mistake. He’d almost killed D’Holly with a blade, lost his head when he was in a street fight, didn’t even know he was stabbing and slashing at a woman. D’Holly was a HeartMate. If she’d died, her husband, the greatest fighter of Celta at the time, would have died, too.
He’d almost killed two people. He’d seen D’Holly dying in the HealingHall, people surrounding her, draining themselves of energy to save her. That vivid memory was one he’d never forget.
His mistake with D’Holly. His mistake with Nivea.
He didn’t dare make a mistake with Camellia Darjeeling. A third mistake with a woman could shatter the self he’d managed to glue together after the first two disasters. Even if no one else saw the cracks in his being, he knew they were there.
But she’d been beautiful, hair showing strands of light and dark, deep pink lips, shining eyes more blue than gray.
And, infinitely charming, the tips of her toes had been gold.
Over the next couple of weeks, Camellia met Laev T’Hawthorn unexpectedly several times. Their schedules at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon dovetailed. The one evening she’d been invited to the general melee, she’d seen him there and had watched, not taken part. She’d made sure their contact was brief and in passing.
And despite the fact that she’d intended to keep her distance from him, she and Laev shared wild sex dreams.
Her friends took an avid interest. Glyssa, disappointed that she couldn’t be admitted to the Green Knight to watch events unfold, began training with Acacia Bluegum. Tiana was closemouthed about Temple stuff but smug that fate was bringing Camellia and Laev together. Camellia figured that fate was getting a push from Tinne Holly and, of course, the cats.
She and her friends still had dinner together several nights and talked. That comforting habit got her through the days. Since she was concentrating on her relationship with Laev, she put her secret regarding Lugh’s Spear and her heritage out of her mind.
She knew it was only a matter of time until Laev deduced who she was, but he was, manlike, concentrating on the sex and willfully ignoring clues. For her part, she was trying to avoid anything that might force him to confront the truth.
Laev drifted, then a wash of sensuality ruffled over his skin and his sex rose and he knew she was there.
He closed his eyes.
Then she was lying atop him, aligned. Her body on his . . . and clothed. He put his hands on her back, feeling the firm muscles that shivered under his touch, and he groaned. Her tongue swept into his mouth and he arched and his aching erection moved against the soft silkeen of her tunic.
But her taste was—almost—more important than his erection. Rich and flavorful with exotic spices he’d never tasted before.
Nothing was like he’d ever experienced before, not with any other woman. Only her, only in dreams.
With a thought, he banished her clothes, and soft breasts flattened against his chest. His hands curved over and squeezed the soft-over-firmness of her ass, trailed down her thighs. Perfect.
Her mouth worked his . . . dueling with his tongue, rough, then the sharp nip, laving, soothing, sweeping across his lips, nibbling.
He feathered his fingers down, between her thighs, into sweet dampness, played. She opened her thighs wider, breathed unsteadily. She arched, her upper body curving away from him.
Lifting her, angling her, he thrust into her, and what was left of his mind spun away. Only the physical was important. The scent of her arousal, the feel of her body around him, over him. The sweat between them as they moved.
His groan was matched by her panting whimpers. His thrusts complemented by the rotation of her hips.
Each twist in the rising spiral of passion was prime. He didn’t want this pleasure to end. The slower they went, the more explosive the orgasm, and he wanted that, yearned for that—to give her that—more than anything in his entire life.
And one thought squeezed through his mounting passion. She’d leave him as soon as they shattered together.
He’d be left alone, holding nothing. Knowing that they’d only connected in their minds.
He was beginning to hate that.
She began to move faster.
No!
His hands clamped
on her hips, forced her slower.
She mewled, but he paid no attention. Was ruthless in draining each drop of honeyed delight from their loving.
Slowly, slowly, the rub, the twist, the clamping of bodies together, straining, reaching, and there!
Orgasm shuddered through him. Pure bliss.
Vaguely he heard her high, piercing cry.
He’d been shattered and remade. He was whole. He was loved.
He opened his eyes, she vanished.
He was alone.
Laev awoke. As usual, they’d kept to the shadows, but he sensed his HeartMate knew who he was. And wasn’t claiming him.
It hurt and relieved him at the same time. He’d heard tales of men and women hunting their HeartMates—usually the man, who was older and matured first, went through Passage first. Passages were when one linked with one’s HeartMate, experienced those famous sexual dreams.
Much like the ones he’d been having lately.
So, yes, the woman who called him lover was his HeartMate. Whom he didn’t want to claim, either.
He was putting his linens in his new suite cleansing unit, as he was doing every morning lately, when he was notified that Garrett Primross was at the gate.
“Please send a glider down the drive for him and invite him into the breakfast nook, offer him breakfast.”
“Of course we will, T’Hawthorn.”
Laev shrugged off the irritation of the Residence’s tone and headed down to the nook. It was a chamber he and his FatherSire had begun sharing after the death of his father, more intimate than the formal dining rooms—even the smaller ones. The room was on the ground floor of the Residence, close to the kitchen, in a round tower with tall windows facing the courtyard and a sheltered and weathershielded herb garden that was green all year.
The table was small, seating no more than six, and a work of art in itself. Made of greeniron, the legs twisted upward looking like gnarly hawthorn wood, spreading up to hold a glass table insert. The rim showed hawthorn branches and blossoms.
Primross rose as Laev walked in. A large omelette and toast were on his plate—one of the good china plates commissioned by Laev’s FatherSire. Beside the plate was a tall glass of citrus juice in a rock crystal tumbler. Laev was pleased to see the man was being treated well, and even more pleased to see the investigator.
They clasped arms and Laev said, “Greetyou. Please finish your breakfast. It looks good.” Before the words were out of his mouth, a server delivered his favorite omelette and he thanked her.
“Breakfast is great,” Primross said, winding melty cheese around his fork.
It is. Brazos burped.
Yes. My FamMan is the best chef in Druida, Black Pierre said. He was lying in the sun on one of the window seats.
Primross smiled. He could obviously hear the Fams well, a good talent for a detective.
Brazos snickered. You are too old and fat and always stay at home. All Fams know that Ash chef is the best.
Black Pierre snored loudly.
Laev laughed. He and Primross ate in companionable silence, then Laev gestured for Primross to follow him and they left the Residence to walk across the great lawn down a path toward the ocean. Brazos remained sitting in the sun.
The investigator stopped just before the trail angled down to the beach and strode over to the bluff. “Don’t want sand in my boots,” he said.
“Ah,” Laev said.
“I suppose you have a spell on your boots to keep sand out?” Primross asked.
“That’s right.”
Primross’s mouth flattened, but he said nothing and looked out toward the endlessly rolling ocean. When he turned, his gaze was penetrating. “You aren’t as focused on retrieving the lost Hawthorn objects as you were.”
Blinking in surprise, Laev realized the man was right. “No.”
“Nor your HeartGift, either,” Primross shot out in a commanding tone.
“No,” Laev answered quickly, then shook his head at the detective’s technique. “No, I’m not.”
Quietly, Primross asked, “When was the last time you used your Flair to probe for your HeartGift?”
Laev’s brows rose. “It’s been a while. You want me to try now?”
“That would be good.”
Laev grimaced. “I haven’t been able to find it for years.”
“Try again.”
Shrugging, Laev closed his eyes, thought of his HeartGift. For an instant he had the same feeling as all the other times, a dark, cramped place, a hint of scent—Nivea’s scent, that had him instinctively pulling back.
Then his senses whirled and he almost heard the chatter of people, the warmth of a gathering, bustle. His HeartMate radiated contentment.
He jerked his mind away, opened his eyes, sank into his balance to keep his feet as the morning blue of the sky seemed to wheel around him. And he understood the point Primross had wanted to make. Any focus he might have for his HeartGift was being diverted by a true attachment to his HeartMate—whom he also should have wanted to find. His body and Flair yearned for her, wanted him to look for her, find her. His emotions didn’t.
“So,” the impassive detective said, “do you want me to continue to look for the lost Hawthorn objects and your HeartGift?”
With his own gaze steady, Laev met Primross’s. “There was nothing new in my search for my HeartGift.” He took a couple of sea-cleansed breaths.
“And?” Primross prompted.
“And none of my Family or the Residence is as upset as I was about the missing Hawthorn heirlooms.
“But, yes, I want you—Prime Investigations—to continue to look for my lost property.” The quest had become less important since his nightly loving with his HeartMate. She’d begun to soothe Nivea’s wounds, and he and his HeartMate seemed to have an unspoken understanding.
“Then the deal is still on.” Primross relaxed beside Laev.
“Yes.” Laev angled himself more to the ocean. “If you ever want an investor . . .”
Primross’s fingers bunched into fists. “No.”
“The offer stands,” Laev said mildly. “Don’t let your pride get in the way if you need help.”
“I don’t. I won’t.”
Laev sent him a half smile. “I’m good with gilt, but as you are no doubt thinking, I have much gilt to be good with. I’ve also had exceptional training.”
Primross slid his gaze toward Laev, stretched out his fingers. “You’re good at investing not at investigating.”
“Not my specialty.”
“And you’re still beating yourself up about misjudging a woman when you were seventeen, though I bet you haven’t misjudged a person with regard to that business of yours for years.”
Laev said, “Is that all you want to say this morning?”
“Not hardly.”
“All right, talk and walk, the breeze has become cold.” Laev turned back toward the Residence.
After a couple of minutes Primross stopped again, this time staring at the castle, the long lawn and pretty paths up to it. “Makes a statement.”
“That it does. I imagine the colonists were so relieved to find Celta and land here that they built the city in a fit of exuberance.”
“All the FirstFamilies made good castles,” Primross said grudgingly.
“Takes some gilt to run and maintain,” Laev said.
“I’d guess a damn fortune.”
“You’d guess right. Where do you live?” It was a question a friend would ask. Would Primross answer? Was Laev testing himself and his judgement of the man, whether Laev was right in thinking the detective was a friend?
“I don’t have a house of my own,” Primross said, but Laev heard the yet.
“But you get to choose where you live,” Laev said lightly.
“Yes. I do.” Primross sounded surprised at the thought. He grunted. “Right now I’m living in MidClass Lodge.”
“Pretty place,” Laev said. “I like the courtyard and the fountain.”
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That Laev was familiar with the property also seemed to take Primross off guard. “Yeah,” he replied.
Once they reached one of the outlying gardens, Primross again angled off, gesturing to a greeniron bench. Since he didn’t sit, Laev didn’t, either, just lifted his brows.
“Since our deal is still on, I’ll tell you that I took the initiative in buying this.” Primross dipped his hand in his pocket. When he withdrew it, his forefinger had a large ring on the tip. “It has no Hawthorn mark, but I was assured it originally belonged to your late wife.”
Laev recognized the light yellow of the square-cut topaz set in the rainbow-catching metal called glisten. Channel diamonds glittered on either side of the main stone. His gut clenched in surprise and pain, and the day seemed to dim.
Someday Nivea’s actions would not surprise or pain him. His renewed anger split, also directed at himself that he was still affected by the past.
“That was Nivea’s,” he confirmed. “It was part of a set: necklace, two bracelets, and earrings.” He’d commissioned T’Ash to create the jewels from the first good gilt Laev had made through investments, no more than six months after he’d married Nivea. His shock and disappointment at her not being his HeartMate had faded under her charm and sexual ministrations. She’d kept that up until they moved from Laev’s small estate outside southern Gael City to T’Hawthorn Residence in Druida.
He supposed she’d considered she’d earned all the jewels and other expensive presents he’d gifted her throughout the years. Laev’s FatherSire had not given her any of the Hawthorn ancestral jewelry.
“Nothing was said about a set.” Primross studied the ring.
“I don’t want it,” Laev said. “But I will pay for it and any information regarding anything else that was Nivea’s.”
“Understood,” Primross said. He flicked his fingers and the ring disappeared. “I’ve translocated it to the breakfast table. I’m sure one of your staff will take care of it.”
Heart Search Page 17