Prince of Fire: Black Phoenix, Book 1

by Tawny Taylor

  He didn’t speak as he strolled into the room. Instead, he just stared at her, his expression totally unreadable.

  She decided it was a good time to watch television and tried to tear her gaze free from his. It didn’t work.

  God, she was so effing weak.

  Remember your worries! This guy could be the worst kind of trouble. Good-looking men were always bad news. And didn’t it make sense then, that this amazing-looking one would be that much worse?

  She didn’t know what to do now. Should she confront him, and give him the chance to confess? Or should she just play along, until she could find some way to safely escape?

  Argh, she wasn’t thinking straight. He could just as easily be a real bodyguard trying to protect her from danger. She was afraid. Scared to trust him. Petrified about what she did know about all this and even more terrified about what she didn’t.

  Dammit, if her best friend were only in town. Lori had left a couple nights ago to attend a romance book convention in Florida. While Lori was stomping around in fairy costumes, snapping pictures of her favorite authors and filling her suitcase with free books, there was a major crisis going on here.

  Keri glanced at her purse, thinking it might be a good time to take a shower. The sound might muffle her voice…she hoped. Not that her friend could do anything to help her, down in the land of the alligators and Mickey Mouse, but she needed someone to talk to, a level head to help her decide what to do next.

  Heading for her purse, she said, “I think I’ll get cleaned up too. It’s been a long day and I feel dirty.”

  “It’s all yours.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the bathroom then watched her like a predator tracking its prey as she rushed by. “I need to make a call to the police while you’re getting cleaned up.”

  Hmmm, so he hadn’t called the police yet. What made him think to do it now?

  “Good idea.” Inside, she locked the door, cranked on the shower and frantically dug into her purse for her phone. She checked the time—it was the middle of the afternoon. Lori had told her she would keep her cell phone on this year. Last year she’d shut it off right after she boarded the plane and didn’t turn it back on until she stepped foot back in Detroit’s Metro airport. She punched in her friend’s cell number and crossed her fingers.

  One ring.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Not looking good.

  Then, she heard that telltale break.

  Her call was going to voicemail. Damn.

  She cupped her hand around the phone and turned toward the back wall, hoping her voice would be muffled. “Hey. You leave, and all hell breaks loose. I need you to call me back. Like now. Pleasepleaseplease get this message.” She snapped the phone shut, went into her overnight bag, found the charger and plugged it in.

  Not knowing what else to do, and liking the idea of killing a little time, she went ahead and took a shower. She washed. Washed again. Shaved everywhere. Just stood there, letting the hot water beat on her back. Finally, fearing she’d be a puckered prune for days, she cut off the water and got out.

  She stared at the phone as she dressed.

  It didn’t ring.

  Still on edge, she studied the door for a while. Finally, she opened it.

  Quietly crept into the room.

  And released a huge sigh.

  Talen was lying on his back, one arm thrown up over his head, the other resting on his torso. The television remote lay beside his hand. His eyes were closed. His breathing slow, deep and steady.

  Sleeping.

  This was it—the perfect opportunity. She could run away. Go to the police. Call the police. Do something besides sit there and wait for someone else to give her answers.

  The police station. It was only a few miles. A short stroll.

  She headed back to the bathroom, quickly gathered her things. Arms loaded, she tiptoed across the room, to the door, watching Talen as she hurried past him.

  She stopped at the door, gently twisted the knob. Pulled it open. But when it came time to walk out, she couldn’t make herself do it. Not with the memory of that attack in her apartment so fresh in her mind.

  A million what-ifs flew through her head. What if the killer was out there, waiting for her? What if Talen wasn’t the fiend she suspected? What if the police didn’t help her? Did she have any proof that she’d been attacked? What if she didn’t make it to the police?

  Her gaze swept the room again, and she noticed a white business card sitting on the nightstand. She set down her things and plucked up the card.

  It belonged to a police officer.

  Talen had called the police. When? While she was sleeping at Talen’s apartment? Or here at the hotel, while she was in the shower?

  This only raised more questions. The policeman hadn’t asked to talk to her. Why not? Had he blown off the complaint? Or perhaps he would be returning later, after checking out some things?

  Nonono. If Talen had called the police, the officer would have insisted on talking to her. He would have taken a statement. Talen had put the card there to make her think he’d called.

  Still, she had no proof of anything. Only lots of suspicions.

  Her determination waned, and what had seemed such a brilliant plan suddenly seemed like a really dumb idea. It was one thing to wonder if Talen had something to do with the attack. A wise person considered all possibilities when facing a life-or-death situation. But it was foolish to take stupid risks.

  She was no fool.

  But she was thoroughly exhausted from all the stress. And even though the clock said it was only a little after three in the afternoon, her body told her it was much, much later.

  Would it be wise to get some rest now?

  Silently, she cut off the lights, crept over to the other bed, slipped beneath the covers and closed her eyes, hoping she’d be able to fall asleep. Even the slightest stress kept her awake at night. This situation was beyond slightly stressful.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine something pleasant. Her body grew heavy. She felt herself drifting, drifting…

  Talen heard Keri’s breathing slow down and deepen. The moment he was certain she was asleep, he rolled over to face her. Although their room wasn’t on the ground level, they’d kept the room-darkening curtains drawn. She’d shut off all the room’s lights, but the television still offered muted illumination. It was enough to provide him with a dazzling view.

  In sleep, her face took on an angelic, sweet expression, as he’d expected it would the first time he’d seen her. Her features were relaxed, lips slightly parted, the corners curled up a little. A Mona Lisa smile.

  He wondered what she was dreaming about.

  Not at all tired, he piled his pillows on top of each other to prop himself up a little. She was fascinating, both asleep and awake. Gods help him, he couldn’t get enough of her.

  Thoughts of their earlier discussion raced through his mind. What she’d said was true—he had no right asking her the questions he had. She wasn’t his. He had no claim to her. Not when he knew damn well he’d be facing his death in a short time, whenever that might be.

  By running from his fate twice, he’d tested the gods in a huge way. He was sure they wouldn’t let him get away with that a third time. As it was, he was worried about the consequences. He could only imagine what they might be if he tested his gods’ mercy again.

  And yet, he ached for another hour with Keri. Another day. A week. She was struggling with something, and he wanted to uncover what that issue was, help her overcome it. Force her to, if that was what it took.

  An unexpected thought crossed his mind. Perhaps the gods had planned this all along, had intended for him to spend time with Keri? Was it wishful thinking or a true possibility?

  Knowing the gods as well as he did, he understood that such a thing would only occur if there was a very significant purpose.

  What might he do for this woman, offer her, that no other hum
an being could? A cursed man. One who didn’t deserve mercy or kindness at all, but the opposite. What? It had to be something that would require a short time, a few hours or days at most. It couldn’t be love.

  Again, what could it be?

  Still sound asleep, she stirred, her brows drawing down, her smile pulling into a frown. Her breathing grew shallow and fast. She tossed an arm out and whimpered then jerked upright, suddenly wide awake.

  Gasping, she glanced at him. Her eyes were wild, full of terror.

  “Did you have a nightmare?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She nodded, shaking hands scrubbing her face. She sighed. “I don’t think I can fall back asleep. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. That was one freaky dream.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She shook her head and tossed the covers off her legs. “No. I’d rather forget it.”

  He watched her go to the bathroom and shut the door.

  Would she call her friend again? He’d heard her earlier, before she’d taken her shower.

  Things had changed between them. She didn’t look at him the same way anymore. Where there was once open trust and plain desire there was now leery distrust and confusion.

  It had to be the way he’d talked to her earlier. The tension between them made him feel sick. His stomach burned like he’d swallowed a gallon of acid. He wished he hadn’t needed to say those words. But he did, and he couldn’t take them back now. Wouldn’t. He’d meant them. In fact, after thinking about the situation, he’s even more convinced he’d done the right thing.

  He was destined to help this woman. To do more than simply surrender his life. He wondered how long it would take for him to figure out exactly what kind of help he was supposed to lend.

  She exited the bathroom scowling, and he guessed she’d had no luck reaching her friend. Or if she had, the friend hadn’t told her what she’d wanted to hear.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, anticipating the answer.

  “Tons,” she responded sarcastically.

  Damn, he hated the way she looked at him now, talked to him. What would it take to earn her trust back? “Look, about our conversation earlier—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She climbed back into her bed and jerked the covers over herself. “I’m tired. This whole thing has me all messed up and I’m going back to sleep.”

  “I can tell you’re angry with me. I’d like to talk about it.”

  “We can talk later, after my nap.” She rolled away from him, leaving him to stare at the back of her head and neck. Even though most of her was covered, he could still see the tension in her body. “Goodnight.”

  He swallowed a sigh. “I wish I could take you home, since you’re obviously unhappy.”

  “But you can’t, since there’s some merciless monster hunting me down for no apparent reason. Right?”

  “Are you asking if I know why someone wants to kill you?”

  Silence.

  “Maybe. No.” She sighed. “I don’t care.”

  “I don’t know anything. Who wants you dead or why. Does that surprise you? Make you feel worse about the situation or better?”

  Still facing away from him, she shrugged.

  He stood and moved to her bed, sitting on the edge.

  She stiffened even more, but she didn’t speak, not for several seconds. Finally, when he didn’t move away, she glared over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting next to you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Then why ask such an obvious question?”

  “I was expecting a less obvious response.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She scooted away from him.

  “If there was any way to change this situation, you know I would.”

  “Do I?”

  Her sniped comment took him completely by surprise. Yes, something was going on between them. She was upset. That was clear. But the thought that she’d somehow blame him for the killer chasing her had never occurred to him—until now. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you think I want you to be afraid?”

  She shrugged again.

  “Do you really?” He couldn’t stand it anymore, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled hard, forcing her onto her back. She stared at him through enraged, squinty eyes but she didn’t say a word. “You honestly believe that?”

  Silence.

  Her chest rose and fell swiftly, her breathing quick. Her gaze was razor sharp, slicing to his soul. Eyes icy as Siberia in winter.

  Insides, his guts twisted. His heart surged to his throat then dropped again. “I swear to you, I never wanted you to be afraid.”

  Her eyes narrowed even more.

  “What makes you think such a thing?”

  Finally she opened her mouth to speak.

  Desperate to understand, he held his breath and waited. Blood like ice. Heart pounding so loudly in his ears, he could hardly hear anything else.

  “Now it’s your turn to ask the obvious questions,” she snapped.

  What the hell?

  Confused, he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on!” She huffed a loud sigh. “Maybe if you explained why you went to so much trouble to get my attention I might—I emphasize, might—decide I don’t hate you as much as I do right now.”

  Huh?

  What?

  Trouble?

  Ohhhh.

  She thought he’d…what…? Faked the break-in? And the attack?

  He shook his head. Somehow, he had to make her believe this was no joke or ploy. There was a real danger out there, waiting for her to make a wrong move. To keep her safe, he had to have her cooperation and trust.

  “I swear I didn’t fake anything. There was a man in your apartment, someone I don’t know. And that man did attack you, and I had nothing to do with that. Other than if I hadn’t stopped him, you would have died.” He paused a moment to gauge her reaction. Still, she didn’t believe him. “I would have to be a sick bastard to cook up such a scheme.”

  “Exactly!”

  He caught her hands in his and gave them a slight tug, just enough to let her know he meant business. “Listen, I may be a bastard, and some of the things I’ve told you might seem like utter bullshit, but I would never do such a selfish, underhanded thing. I need you to believe me.”

  She shook her head, wrenched her hands free from his fists and rolled away from him. “I don’t think I can. Not when everything seems to point at your guilt.”

  “What everything?”

  “Just tell me this—when exactly did you call the police to report the attack, and why hasn’t anyone asked me to write up a report, describe my attacker, anything?”

  “I reported the attack while you were sleeping, after we…that first night, in my apartment. Just like I promised.” He paused, snatching the card off the table and fingering a curled corner. “Well, a little later than I promised. I wouldn’t let them wake you that night. And we’ve been on the move since, so he hasn’t been by to question you yet. But he has checked out your apartment, has been keeping an eye out for anyone returning to the scene. I’ve been keeping in contact, letting him know where you are. I have a card. You can call to verify.”

  Silence.

  He stared at her back for several long moments, wondering if he should continue trying to convince her he was speaking the truth. After all, wouldn’t it be easier for her to say goodbye later if she believed he was a scoundrel? However, facing the stark truth could come as a horrible shock, and then she’d regret her actions.

  Once more, he questioned the reason why he’d been allowed to stay with her for so long. Surely the gods could have interceded by now if they had wished to.

  He decided he would try to convince her of the truth. It was his duty. More than that, he needed to know she believed him.

  Inside, he felt as broken and torn as any wounded warrior on the battlefield. He’d never felt this way about a woman. He stood, pace
d, struggled to come up with a way to show her he hadn’t planned this whole incident as a ruse to get her into his bed. How sad that such a thought had even come to her, but with things as they were between men and women, it was a reasonable conclusion. Hell, when he’d been at his worst, he’d done more than one shameful thing to find his way between a woman’s legs.

  He had brought very little when they’d left his apartment, just a small bag with the basics. Nothing that would prove he’d lived for centuries. All those things were safely stored at his temporary home, the apartment he’d subleased for a couple of weeks. He had his ring, which he wore at all times. It was very old, but to the average eye looked very much like a modern piece.

  No, that wouldn’t help.

  He hurried to his bag, desperate to find something that might help her believe his seemingly farfetched story. Toothbrush, comb, shorts, T-shirts… No, no, no, no.

  He checked the pockets, not sure what he’d find. Razor. Deodorant. Nail clippers.

  A miniature?

  He couldn’t remember packing it, but there it was, the miniature he’d commissioned in Italy centuries ago. Not expecting it would be finished before he died, he had taken a chance and paid the artist for the piece. And it hadn’t been finished. But much to his satisfaction, he learned many years later, when he returned to that same town, that the artist had completed it as promised. The artist had died, but his wife—who was blind—was more than happy to sell it to him.

  He kissed it then went to Keri. He could tell from the stiffness in her shoulders that she wasn’t sleeping. “I have something to show you.”

  “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “You’re not sleeping. Because you’re upset. This will help you.”

  She blew out an audible sigh, and he smiled. She truly was a delight. “Fine. What?” She rolled onto her back, crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a glare.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits, but she did as he asked.

  He set the locket in her palm.

  She glanced at her hand then shot him a questioning glance.

  “It’s a miniature, painted in Italy during what is now known as the Renaissance. It’s all the proof I have that I’m telling the truth.”