He had little enough to give her now. Only tonight. Only one night, instead of the lifetime they’d once dreamed of. But for one night, at least, she would know she was wanted. She could feel she was loved.
I’ll be damned first, he’d told Puck.
You’re damned anyway, boyo. Might as well make the most of it.
He took a step toward her. “Don’t go,” he said, his voice low.
Her neck was bent. Her hair veiled her face. All he could see was the tip of her nose and her unsteady hands, clutching her keys.
Tenderness for her welled in him. Tenderness and desire.
He crossed the moonlit yard until he was right behind her rigid back, close enough to feel the mortal warmth of her body, to hear her sudden intake of breath and smell the simple, ordinary scents that clung to her, the scents of soap and human skin.
He wanted her so bad he was shaking.
“Don’t go,” he repeated.
She kept her face turned from him, her keys tight in her grasp.
“I should,” she said.
With the back of his knuckles, he brushed aside the heavy curtain of her hair, exposing the soft curve of her cheek, the pure line of her neck, the skin as delicate as a child’s. He fit his mouth to the pulse beating in her throat, tasting her rising excitement.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
He rested one arm on the roof of her car and pressed the other against the door, so that she was trapped between the cool metal and his hot body. He nuzzled her neck again until she shivered and swayed. He felt the soft brush of her buttocks against his heavy erection.
In fourteen years’ captivity, he’d learned a lot about seduction.
She didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter Three
JANET knew better.
Really, she did.
This hot, young Ross look-alike could only have one motive, other than pity, for asking her to stay. He thought she was easy, a stereotypical small-town librarian flattered by attention and hungry for adventure.
And she was.
She still clung to the metal door handle. She ought to climb in her car and drive away.
Except his body was hard and close. His voice was low and sincere, and his scent, that potent combination of warm male and engine grease, evoked a response in her blood and her brain. It was as if she knew him, remembered him along her nerves and in her bones.
And he . . . Well, if the thick rod prodding her behind was his only motive, it was a pretty good one. At least it seemed genuine.
So Janet let herself be—Not seduced, she decided. Persuaded.
His mouth was warm. He kissed the hollow of her neck, making the muscles there loosen and tension coil tight in her belly. Her heart pounded with fear and anticipation.
Was it so bad, that he only wanted one thing from her, if it was what she wanted, too?
He kept on kissing her, using his teeth and his tongue, taking tiny, tasting bites of her throat and shoulders. His hair was thick and soft, brushing her neck. His breath rasped in her ear. He reached down, his warm hand searing her bare arm, and uncurled her death grip on the door handle. Lacing his fingers with hers, he raised her arm and flattened her palm on the roof of the car. The touch of cool metal made her shiver.
He crowded her against the door, widening his stance so she could feel all of him, his hard, broad torso against her back, his heavily muscled thighs on either side of hers, that thick, hot ridge riding the cleft of her buttocks. Dimly, she could hear the music, the pipes rising and falling, the drums driving like a heartbeat.
She should tell him to stop. She would tell him to stop. In a minute.
With her arm raised, there was nothing to block his hand from exploring her body. He palmed her breast, weighing and shaping it through her shirt. The nipple poked shamelessly against the thin cotton, and when he felt that, he murmured in satisfaction, tracing the shape of it through the fabric. Janet opened her mouth to breathe. His long, clever fingers played with her, stroking, squeezing, teasing.
She wanted to turn in his embrace, to feel him, to touch him, his soft hair and his hard muscles. But he wouldn’t let her. He held her in place against the car with his strong, corded arms and the press of his lean body, while his hands roamed at will.
There was no breeze under the trees. No air. Janet gasped as her lover stroked her, his long-fingered hands blunt-tipped and sure, sliding over her blouse, rubbing her through her skirt. She was hot. Really hot. She should take off her clothes.
She frowned. No, she shouldn’t. She should—
Gently, he bit the side of her throat, and she moaned and dropped her head back against his shoulder. He rocked against her, the hard thrust of his body making her melt. Her insides were molten, her knees wax. His cool hair brushed the side of her jaw. He slid one hand inside the low vee of her blouse while the other glided over her clothes, stroked over her body, kneaded her stomach and thighs. She felt the harsh intake of his breath, the heady heat of his body. She did this to him. The knowledge gave her a rush. The tension in her belly coiled tighter and tighter.
He eased his hand under her bra, closing his hand over her breast, making her entire body pulse with need, wilder than the music, more compelling than the drums. The stars whirled and spun. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and let the dark wash over her as he flattened the folds of her skirt with his hand, as he rubbed and plucked, as he made the darkness surge inside her, made it move and swell to his rhythm, made her shudder, made her come.
Janet cried out.
He held her while the aftershocks shook her, his chest and thighs hot and solid, his hands warm and reassuring. His jaw brushed the side of her face. He kissed her temple.
He still hadn’t kissed her mouth.
Janet quivered against him. Her senses shivered and sang while her mind tried desperately to grasp what had just happened here. Had she really let this beautiful stranger touch her, grope her, make her come—against her car—while they both were still fully dressed?
Yep, her body told her smugly. Sure did.
As soon as she could think, she was going to feel horribly embarrassed and guilty. As soon as she could move, she was going to leave.
He turned her in his arms. Her breasts squashed against his chest. His shirt was warm and damp. She couldn’t look at him and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Dance with me,” he whispered against her lips.
It was so not what she was expecting that her eyes popped open. “But you didn’t—”
“No,” he said. “And you shouldn’t let me. You don’t know me, what I’ve done, where I’ve been.”
That was for sure.
“I’m not sure I know myself tonight,” Janet confessed.
In the darkness, she thought she saw him smile.
She sighed and rested her head against his chest. The night wrapped itself around them. The stars wheeled overhead. The music, in rhythm with his heart, thudded against her ear.
A thought insinuated itself into her brain. She raised her head.
“You don’t have anything, well, contagious, do you?” she asked.
“No!” he said, so automatically she believed him.
Janet frowned. “Then, why—”
He kissed her.
To shut her up? Janet wondered, and then the heat and the darkness surged into her again, and she didn’t care. She raised on her toes to kiss him back.
His arms tightened around her. She had time to register that he was still fully, heavily aroused before he gripped her upper arms and set her away from him. Her body protested the loss of his.
“We’re going to dance,” he said firmly.
Janet blinked. Her eyelids felt heavy. Her whole body felt heavy, and her head was strangely light.
“Do we have to?” she said.
His laugh sounded strangled. “Yeah,” he said. “Or I’m going to kiss you again.”
She watched him pluck a rose from the hedge and strip it of its thorns.
> “Would that be a bad thing?” she asked.
He tucked the rose carefully behind her ear. Its stem was scratchy, its scent wild and sweet. Her heart swelled at the tenderness of the gesture.
“For you,” he said.
Did he mean the rose? Or the kiss? A kiss would be a bad thing for her?
Janet was still wondering when he took her hand and led her toward the lights and music.
The trees drew back, revealing a motley ring of dancers and a bonfire shooting sparks into the night. Why anyone would want to build a six-foot fire in the middle of June escaped Janet, but there was no denying the curling, leaping flames were pretty.
And the dancers didn’t seem to mind the heat. They circled, stepped, and swung, their calm faces an unsettling contrast to their restless feet and outrageous costumes. Janet stumbled. They looked even more bizarre than she remembered. Or maybe she saw them more clearly this time, her eyes more accustomed to the dark? Some wore masks or crowns of jewels or flowers on their flowing hair. Some wore velvet and fur. Some wore leaves and feathers. And some wore . . .
Janet blinked. Some wore next to nothing at all. No wonder they didn’t mind the fire.
The fiddles scraped. The drums rolled. But under the driving beat of the music, the gathering was oddly silent. The dancers seldom spoke, and their bare feet made no sound. It was like watching Riverdance with the volume turned down.
Janet’s lover tugged her hand to lead her forward.
She hung back. “I can’t do this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You can’t dance?”
She looked at the swaying, bowing crowd and shook her head vigorously. “Not like that.”
He didn’t release her. “It’s like square dancing.”
“I haven’t square-danced since fifth grade,” Janet muttered, but he only smiled at her and held out his other hand.
Janet felt a quiver of panic in her stomach. She still wasn’t sure she hadn’t made a fool of herself back there by the car. Now he expected her to hop and twirl in front of a bunch of strangers?
But his smile, his gaze, his hand never wavered. The music skipped and swirled, beckoning. Beguiling.
Janet gulped, and took his warm hand, and let him lead her into the dance.
And it wasn’t so bad. She didn’t utterly suck, although she suspected her partner kept his steps simple for her sake. His hand splayed on her back. He held her close enough that her breasts brushed the wall of his chest and his thighs slid against hers. She could feel his rhythm, anticipate his moves, and inside she loosened, relaxed. Her body was soft and ready for him. Her heart was turning to mush.
Up close like this, she could smell his musky, male scent and see the faint prickle of beard along his jaw. Sweat sheened his upper lip. Against the harsh planes of his face, his eyelashes were dark and impossibly long.
Like Ross’s.
Don’t think about that, she ordered herself. Don’t think about him. Don’t think.
To distract herself, she stopped gazing at him, stopped watching her feet, and began to look around. Beyond the flickering ring of the firelight, she could see the low roof of the farmhouse and the hulking shadow of the barn. But no booths. No rides. No stands or stalls or anything to suggest what these people were doing here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.
She turned her face up to her partner’s. “So, what is this?” she asked.
The arm around her stiffened, but his voice was mild. “What do you mean?”
She smiled, hoping she wasn’t spoiling the mood with her curiosity. “Well, it’s too late for Mardi Gras and too early for Halloween. So, why the big deal with the costumes and all? What’s the occasion?”
She thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer her. In the shifting red glow of the fire, his eyes were oddly blank, his mouth hard. But then he said, “Summer solstice.”
She digested that as he guided her through another movement of the dance, turning her to promenade beside him.
“And before?” she asked, when he spun her again in his arms so that they were face-to-face. “When I was here before, what was it?”
“Beltane.” He hesitated. “May Day, I guess you’d call it.”
“Beltane?” Janet stumbled and stepped on his foot. Wordlessly, he caught and supported her.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “But isn’t that, like, a witches’ holiday?”
He didn’t say anything.
Unease ran over her skin like the tall grass tickling her ankles, like moth’s wings brushing her cheek in the dark.
She laughed a little breathlessly, trying to make a joke of it. “You’re not a witch, are you?”
His gaze met hers, dark, implacable. Her heart thumped.
“No,” he said finally, briefly. “I’m not a witch.”
Right. Janet swallowed. All right.
But the feeling of disquiet didn’t go away. It followed her like a touch on the back of her neck, as if she were somehow being watched, weighed, judged.
She turned her head; twisted in his arms.
Someone was watching her.
There, at the edge of the circle of dancers, caught between the fire and the moon, a woman watched and waited. How had Janet missed seeing her before? Even in this exotic company, she glowed. Her skirt was red as flame, her skin gold as honey. Her breasts were heavy, dark-tipped, naked.
Janet’s mouth dropped open. She craned her neck. She couldn’t say if the woman in red was beautiful or not. She was simply the most striking, compelling person Janet had ever seen, with a figure that would stop traffic and a face to make women whisper and men groan.
And she watched them, a faint, knowing smile on her full lips, her black eyes at once indifferent and hostile.
Janet shivered.
Her partner felt her tremble. He turned his head to see what had caught her attention, and swore.
“Who is she?” Janet asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” His arm tightened around her waist. His hand gripped hers. “She doesn’t matter.”
But Janet knew he lied. Her confidence and pleasure leaked away. Under the weight of that coal black gaze, she felt awkward. Unfeminine.
“I don’t want to dance anymore,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “Okay.” His tone was gentle. “Let’s go.”
Tucking her against his side, he guided her out of the glittering, weaving circle and into the shelter of the trees. Janet bumbled along beside him, grateful for his warmth and supporting arm. It was cold away from the fire, and she couldn’t see her feet.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as they made their way through the trees.
“Back to your car.”
She dug in her heels. “No.”
SHE didn’t want to go.
Just for a second, Ross warmed himself with that thought, let himself enjoy the weight of her, soft and solid against his side, let himself imagine she could stay.
But only for a second.
Because now that Lilith had seen her, Janet needed to go. He had to get her out of here. Fast.
“It’s late,” he said.
Time didn’t mean anything to him anymore. But he remembered it had been a big deal with Janet. It used to frustrate him, her awareness of clocks and calendars, her insistence that commitment required a timetable. As if love proceeded according to some kind of freaking schedule.
He understood her better now.
Oh, yeah. Now that it was too late for them, for him, he understood her fear and frustration perfectly.
Her shoulders drooped. Her resistance deflated.
“It is late,” she admitted. “I guess I was having so much fun I didn’t notice.”
“It’s not fun,” he told her harshly. “It’s—”
Magic.
But the sidhe collar burned around his neck, cutting off his air, choking his explanation in his throat.
“Maybe not for you,” Janet said. He could feel her shrinking under h
is arm, withdrawing into herself, and he wanted to howl with frustration.
“But I had a very nice time,” she continued, painfully honest and oh-so-polite. “The dancing and the . . . The dancing and everything.”
He had to swallow before he could get the words out. “I had a nice time, too.”
She didn’t answer him. She continued to walk beside him, matching her steps to his, her head bowed. She wouldn’t even look at him.
“I did,” he insisted.
She shook her head. Her hair smelled like wood smoke and shampoo. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.” His voice almost cracked with desperation, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. She was stiff. Dejected. Disbelieving.
He tried again. “Being with you . . . I want to be with you, Janet. I love being with you.”
I love you.
She sniffed. “Sure you do. That’s why you’re rushing me to my car.”
Anger burned inside him at her lack of belief in him. In herself.
“Stop,” he ordered.
She stopped obediently, but there was stubbornness in the set of her shoulders, challenge in the lift of her chin.
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to go down on his knees in gratitude for her hurt and humor and humanity that almost made him feel human again.
Instead, he kissed her, a deep, warm kiss with a lot of tongue and feeling behind it, and she—oh, man, she kissed him back like she’d been starving for the taste of him, like she couldn’t get enough. Her mouth was open and eager, her body melting against his. She licked him. Fed him. Consumed him.
A wave almost of despair washed over him. It shouldn’t be this easy. She shouldn’t be this easy.
So he kissed her harder, thrusting his tongue deep in her mouth, rubbing himself roughly between her legs, against her heat, making it brutally clear what he wanted from her.
Only instead of pushing him away and yelling at him to stop, Janet murmured encouragement and locked her arms around his neck. Her body wriggled as she sought to fit her soft curves to his greater height.
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