by Amy Corwin
Kethan threw his keys into a rectangular brass box resting in the center of the table. He gave her a quick, shy glance before walking into the room on their right.
She moved to the side awkwardly, as out of place as she’d feel if locked in a museum after hours. This house was so totally unlike her stark, utilitarian apartment and so unexpected.
She was no stranger to bachelor homes, most ran to the extremes. Modern, barren quarters no better than hers were the most common, often furnished with expensive, artistic non-representational art and over-priced furniture no human could sit on for very long. The rest were the places with old, battered furniture smelling strongly of dogs and unwashed gym socks, where the guy had to collect an armful of dirty clothes and pizza boxes to clear a place to sit.
No matter which extreme, they all had king-sized beds, and they all preferred to wake up in those large beds, satisfied and alone.
This home was different, it truly felt like a home. It called to her and invited her in, showing warmth and touches of Kethan’s personality that lacked the superficial posturing ultra-modern trappings seemed to express or the lazy defeat of the sloppiest bachelor apartments.
She wanted to come inside and stay, waking up in a room with Art Deco crown moldings adorned with lotus blossoms in each corner. Rocked by the sensation and afraid she was making a terrible mistake, she followed him into the living room.
Chapter Eleven
“Make yourself at home.” Kethan motioned toward a dark green loveseat that faced the huge bay window at the front of the house. “What would you like to eat?”
“Anything. I’m not picky.”
“There’s a television in the corner, if you want to watch the news. I’m going upstairs to change before I cook dinner.” He tried to remember what he had in the freezer. Chicken, maybe?
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll disappear while you’re gone?”
With one foot on the lowest step of the staircase, he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned the top button. His shirt felt limp and stuck uncomfortably to his back. “Should I be afraid?”
“I never agreed to stay.” Her eyes burned blue as he walked slowly back toward her.
“You’re not making this easy.” He wished for once she’d relax and stop making everything a test of wills.
She shrugged. “Why should I?”
“Will you please stay?”
“No promises.” She crossed her arms in the classic defensive gesture which was not the reaction he’d hoped to see. “I have things to do, errands to run.”
“How can I convince you? Just stay long enough for me to shave and change.” He rotated his shoulders, his collar dragging at his neck unpleasantly. “And maybe take a shower. What can I do to persuade you to stay?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
She was pushing him, and he didn’t know why. Various ideas skittered through his mind like mice trying to elude a cat. With a sigh, he snagged a straight-backed chair from the dining room and carried it into the living room. Placing the chair down a few yards away from the television in the corner, he whirled her around and rested a hand on the back of her neck.
A tingle ran through his palm as it lay against the vulnerable, soft skin. The clean scent of her hair filled the air, and all he could think about was persuading her to stay here where she’d be safe.
At least, safe from vampires.
He propelled her forward and applied pressure to her shoulder until she sat in the chair. She didn’t resist, but he could feel the tension mounting in her stiffening muscles. Something coiled tighter and tighter inside her.
What was she so afraid of? He couldn’t begin to imagine what was running through her mind.
“Comfortable?” He grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. Perhaps a distraction would relax her. A reality show flickered to life, revealing a policeman searching the battered vehicle of a man who looked like he hadn’t had a bath since the new millennium started.
“Too close,” she objected, settling into the seat.
Score one for the gipper! Maybe bad television was the answer, after all.
Gripping the back of the chair, he hefted it backwards a few feet. She hardly weighed anything. “Better?”
“Great.”
“Look, this isn’t my choice, either—”
“It is your choice!” She leapt to her feet and gestured with a shaking hand at the walls confining her. “All of this has been your choice. Do you think I’d choose this? Any of this? Are you saying this situation is my choice?”
He held up his hands. “No. No one is blaming you—”
“Aren’t you? For killing vampires? For not giving them a chance?” The extremity of her emotion drained the color from her face and turned her eyes into blue furnaces. “Didn’t you imply that I’m little more than a murderer? Killing vampires for no reason?”
Is that it? Is her anger just guilt? Guilt over killing Tyler?
“No one blames you.” He gently took her elbow and guided her toward the kitchen. “You thought you were doing the right thing, saving Kathy—”
“Thought? That means you think I was wrong.”
He shook his head. “Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m not criticizing you.”
What triggered this explosion? He couldn’t see inside her, see what she needed, and that failure bothered him. That was his talent, his edge in negotiations. Somehow, he could always see what drove the other parties, what they required to agree. He didn’t know how he did it, he was just grateful for the gift.
Now, he felt blind, although he had finally recognized one thing, Quicksilver had suffered terrible damage at some point. Her fear and anger were the manifestations of that damage, whatever the original cause. While that emotional state made her unreliable, he couldn’t resist the pull of a deep sense of sympathy. He’d seen so much in his own, long life, so much that left scars.
Everyone was wounded, and human perversity made some men desire the imperfect and broken. The impulse to remake, improve, and perfect was undeniable.
He just wished their emotional connection had come at some other time because that sense of connection wasn’t all he felt. An incandescent attraction flared between them whenever they locked glances, insistent, unsettling. He shrugged off the thought, mostly by staring at the unresponsive surface of his refrigerator instead of Quicksilver’s icy profile.
Focus. You’re supposed to keep her safe, not make her sorry she ever met you.
A shower would have to wait. He maneuvered her into the kitchen and in a sudden flash of inspiration, turned on the toaster oven. A foil package of cinnamon rolls waited in the refrigerator, and who didn’t like cinnamon rolls? She watched him from the kitchen door, her body taut and her hands clenched at her sides. He ignored the hostility flooding the room and placed the foil-wrapped rolls into the oven.
She’d either kill him or relax. Right now, he wasn’t sure which course she’d pursue. Part of him wished she’d try to kill him and get it over with.
While she decided, he pulled more ingredients out of his cupboard. Confectioner’s sugar, vanilla, and milk—well, it turned out he didn’t have any milk except half a cup of a cheese-like substance that might have been milk two weeks ago—so he got a carton of half-and-half out of the refrigerator instead.
Drawn by the quiet activity, she walked slowly toward him, reminding him of the orange cat lurking at her apartment door. As the rolls started to heat, she sniffed. Curious, she stepped closer to the toaster oven. She took a deep breath.
Her skin grew paler, if possible.
“What is it?” he asked, concerned. “Are you allergic to cinnamon? I’m sorry, I should’ve asked.” He twirled the dials on the oven to turn it off, only to have one fall off in his hand. He shoved it back into place.
When he turned, her huge eyes stared at him. “Cinnamon? Rolls?”
“Look, I was just baking them to tide us over until dinner. But if you don’t like—” He broke off,
horrified at her reaction.
A terrible, wrenching sob tore from her throat. She pressed the back of her hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to block the sound. Tears washed over her sharp cheekbones as her body trembled while she struggled to control the deluge. She clenched her fists and covered her face, her shoulders hunched and shaking.
Unable to bear the sight, he touched her lightly on the wrist, afraid she’d misread his action if he tried to hug her. She didn’t seem aware of his presence. She fought with her emotions, sucking in air in short bursts and holding it until it tore free of her throat, as if not breathing would stop the cries.
His jaw clenched in helpless rage at his clumsy handling of the situation. Saying anything would only make it worse.
He assumed he could he could resolve all the world’s problems with mere words.
Idiot!
Turning back to the counter to give him a chance to figure out what, if anything, he should say and gave her the time and illusion of privacy. She’d hate the thought that he witnessed her loss of control, the extremity of her pain. He could only pray she’d forgive him. After a moment, he turned the toaster oven back on. The rolls only needed to be reheated and cooking gave him something to do with his clumsy hands.
“My grandmother used to make cinnamon buns. Every Sunday,” she said in a cracked voice. She gulped back another burst of tears.
Used to? Her grandmother is dead? Or worse.
While he weighed various responses, she swallowed and continued, “I asked her once, why she made them. They seemed like so much work.” Her face crumpled, her lips shaking as she struggled to contain her emotions. As her throat worked, she clenched and unclenched her hands, pressing them against her thighs. Emotions were tearing her apart, and he felt helpless to do anything except listen. “She said, ‘I make them because I love you.’ Because she loved me. Me!” She hit her thigh with her right fist. “I lived with her, when I was young. After I started school.”
She stared at him as if she expected him to understand the importance of that fact.
“Your parents—”
Her brows snapped down, and she leaned forward. “They traveled for their jobs. After I started school, they couldn’t drag me round with them. Anyway, she died about a month after I graduated from high school.” Straightening, her anger disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, but she drew a deep breath, her eyes filled again with tears and she bit her lower lip.
“I’m sorry. Was it a vampire?” He hoped it wasn’t, but feared her answer because it might be the source of her hatred for the undead. It explained so much.
“A what? Vampire?” A jagged, bitter laugh broke the question off like a sharp icicle breaking off the eaves of a house to shatter on the slate stones of the sidewalk below. “No. Heart attack. I wasn’t home.” She rubbed the center of her forehead. “I should have been there—”
“You can’t blame yourself—and don’t just blow that advice off. Give yourself a break.” He pulled out a bowl and spoon.
Gradually, the kitchen filled with the warm smell of yeast and cinnamon. She sniffed again and then smiled with eyes swimming in tears. “It smells like home—her house. My grandmother’s house.” Despite her obvious attempt to pretend she had her reaction under control, she couldn’t seem to breathe properly.
He shook powdery, white confectioner’s sugar into a bowl, added a spoonful of vanilla, and a few drops of the cream, just enough to turn the sugar into a smooth frosting. As he stirred, her breathing softened.
“The bathroom is behind you.” He opened the door to the oven and pretended nothing was wrong. The illusion that they were having a pleasant conversation and that she hadn’t revealed too much about her or her past suddenly seemed of primary importance.
After a quick nod, she disappeared into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her.
The warm, soft rolls were done. He stripped away the foil and placed them on a plate before slathering a thin glaze of frosting over the warm, brown tops and watching the icing melt and pool around the rolls in thick, vanilla-scented puddles.
Maybe he was wrong in thinking that her words revealed a great deal about her. Her soft movements, muffled by the door, caught his attention. Was she all right? He shook his head. Don’t assume too much. Perhaps she’d just reacted to the sight of a man in the kitchen. Maybe she was tired. Or the mere thought of sitting in a chair and watching even five minutes of reality television was just too much to bear.
He felt that way a lot.
“I’m sorry,” she said, walking out of the bathroom. Her voice shook slightly. The hair around her face clung to her skin in damp curls and the rims of her eyes were red, but she held her shoulders back.
“No problem. But seriously, if you’d rather not eat the cinnamon rolls, I can make something else.”
Her lips shook. “I just—no. I’m fine. I don’t know what came over me.” She tried to laugh. The sound broke, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth. A knot moved down her slender throat as she gulped. “Maybe it was just the shock of seeing a man’s house that didn’t have rank-smelling gym socks and tee shirts piled up on the sofa.”
“Yeah, well, priests are trained not to leave their clothes lying around.” He pushed the plate toward her.
Whatever was going through her mind, he couldn’t help but notice a softening of her expression as she stared at the plate. She wasn’t precisely happy, far from it, but her mood had changed.
She seemed more approachable, more human. “Priest? I thought you said—”
“Was. I was a priest. Long enough to pick up a lot of bad habits, like keeping the house clean.”
She smiled at his pathetic joke. However, her fingers still trembled when she picked up a roll. As she took a bite, she blinked rapidly as she chewed and swallowed. Tears sparkled on her lashes. “These are good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Did you make them?”
He nodded. “From scratch. Just like your gr—”
“Don’t!” She held up her hand and swallowed convulsively. “Please. Just let me enjoy this.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you in peace if you promise to stay here while I go upstairs. I won’t be more than fifteen minutes.” He started to walk past her when she grabbed his wrist.
“These are great.” She leaned in, tilting her face upward, her expression fiercely earnest. “I mean it.”
“Thanks.” He studied her, feeling honored. While he enjoyed cooking, the rolls weren’t that good. They didn’t deserve this fierce overreaction, but perhaps it was her obviously cherished memories of her grandmother that made her overlook any flaws in his pastry skills.
He couldn’t complain. A good portion of her antagonism had disappeared and she hadn’t tried to cut his head off in at least a half-hour.
When she moved closer, he glanced at her, the buzz of attraction rising in pitch. He didn’t plan to, but he moved slightly, just close enough. Her lips, aiming for his cheek, brushed his mouth. She tasted of cinnamon, creamy vanilla icing, and the salty bitterness of tears. Wanting her—more of her—he pressed harder.
Her mouth opened as she grabbed the hair on the back of his head and pulled him against her. Heat enveloped him as her soft breasts brushed against his chest. Her entire body felt flushed and damp. He maintained control, but just barely when he felt the answering desire rising within her.
Dimly, he heard a groan of madness—or desire—did it come from his mouth or hers? He leaned into her, her mouth hot and insistent upon his. Breathing deeply, she nipped sharply at his lip before rubbing her hips languidly against his chest.
He struggled to keep his hands from grasping her shoulders. He needed to feel the pounding of her heart echoing his—had to feel her beneath him. He couldn’t control the primal surge of desire rising in a relentless tide. His hand eased down to cup her breast. Her soft, pliable body burned through the thin material of her blouse.
But just as his hands
rose and hovered a bare inch from her shoulders, she pulled back.
He stopped, deafened by the thunder of his blood. She gazed at him, her eyes dark, her face flushed.
Even after he cleared his throat, his voice sounded harsh. “Stay? Until I get back?”
“Not if I don’t like what’s on television.”
“What do you want to watch?” His mind whirred uselessly as he grabbed the remote control, praying the cold plastic would pull him out of the emotional quicksand. As he stared down at it, he realized he had no idea what buttons to push.
“I don’t care.” She turned away and crossed her arms, rubbing her biceps. For once, she looked young and uncertain. “‘Police Files?’ Whatever.”
The title of a cooking show hovered over a kitchen on the television. “How about ‘Cooking with Ray and Bob’?”
“No! No, I don’t want to watch that.”
Despite her frown, he pocketed the remote control absently. “It’ll get your appetite back.”
“My appetite’s just fine. Maybe you’re the one who should be watching that damn ‘Cooking with Ray and Bob’ show. You can’t live on cinnamon rolls.”
Unable to resist, he stepped closer and rubbed his thumb over her plump, lower lip. Her gaze was brooding and heavy despite the light flicker of amusement in the depths of her blue eyes. Another surge of desire awakened, tightening his body. “That’s only a small sample of my culinary skills.”
“Cut it out.” She stepped away and rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. The gesture didn’t hide her breathlessness despite the bravado in her words. “You’re a freakin’ priest.”
“Try to remember, I’m not a priest anymore.”
Then, before he lost control, broke down, and did something stupid like dropping to his knees and begging, he thrust his hands into his pockets. He strolled into the hallway, whistling an old Irish tune and headed for the stairs.
Behind him, Quicksilver let out a string of profanity that grew more desperate as Bob and Ray jauntily announced that tonight was grill night and they were going to show just how versatile a skewer could be.