Heat of the Night

by Sylvia Day

  Her eyes narrowed and he stuck a playful tongue out at her. On the screen, Rick O’Connell was battling against a mob of people with the plague. She watched the scene for a moment, then asked Connor, “So what do you do now that you’re out of the army or wherever?”

  “Same thing as Cross.”

  She’d tried to get Aidan to name an actual branch of the military and country affiliation, but he was tight-lipped. Lyssa said it was super-secret covert stuff.

  So, what? Stacey had said. If he tells me, he’ll have to kill me?

  Lyssa laughed. Of course not.

  ’Cuz seriously, Stacey muttered, the curiosity is killing me, Doc. He might as well tell me. That would be a kinder way to go.

  Of course, Aidan elected not to put her out of her misery. She knew Connor would be the same. He had a similar air of wariness about him, as if he was dreading the questions he knew were coming.

  “You know,” she said, “in romance novels the Special Forces heroes usually become high-tech security experts when they retire. Not…researchers…or personal shoppers.”

  Connor wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned back, supporting his weight on his arms behind him. He wore only loose-fitting striped pajama bottoms, leaving his torso bared to her perusal. His body was a finely honed machine, able to hold up her weight as if it were nothing. The impressive breadth of his shoulders rippled with muscle and his biceps…

  Her mouth watered. Dear god, he was savagely beautiful. There was nothing tempered about him. Nothing refined. Even at rest, as he was now, she sensed an alertness to him, an inner coiling of power that left him always ready to pounce.

  “You’re staring,” he purred, his blue eyes watching her with predatory intensity. She knew if she gave him even the tiniest bit of encouragement, he would have her on her back in a minute or less.

  The image made her shiver.

  “I know,” she said, mimicking his earlier statement.

  The corner of his shamelessly luscious mouth lifted in a half smile. “So…are you telling me that I’m not romance hero material because I don’t install security systems?”

  He was romance hero material, all right. At least on the outside. And in bed.

  “I didn’t say that.” Stacey shrugged lamely and dragged her gaze back to the television. It was torture to look away from all that golden skin, but it was self-preservation, too. “I’m just saying that I wouldn’t expect guys such as you and Aidan to be interested in hunting down old stuff for old guys with too much money. I’d think you would be bored after all the…excitement of what you used to do.”

  “The Black Market isn’t without danger,” he said softly. “Anytime different people want the same thing, it can get ugly. If they want it bad enough, it can get deadly.”

  She glanced at him. “Doesn’t sound like a dream job.”

  Connor’s lips pursed a moment, then he said, “In my family, we all join the military. It’s a given.”

  “Really?”

  His shoulders lifted in a small shrug, which did wonderful things to his pectorals. “Really.”

  “So you never had something else you wanted to do?”

  “I never considered anything else.”

  “That’s sad, Connor.”

  The sound of his name spoken in her voice shocked them both. Stacey could tell it affected him, because he blinked rapidly and looked a little confused. For her part, she knew that the way she was thinking about him was far from friendly. It was obscene. She wanted to lick and nibble on all his yummy looking skin. His dark honey-hued hair was a little too long, curling over his nape and around the tops of his ears. She wanted to touch it. Run her fingers through it.

  “What’s your dream?” he asked, his intimate tone drawing her deeper under his spell. He gestured with his chin toward the dining table where her ridiculously expensive textbooks sat ignored. “Are you working toward it now?”

  She almost said “yes” as part of her positive thinking overhaul she was working on. Instead, she revealed something she’d never even told Lyssa. “I wanted to be a writer,” she confessed.

  Twin brows raised in visible surprise. “A writer? What kind of writer?”

  Stacey felt her face heat. “A romance writer.”

  “Really?” Now it was his turn to sound shocked. He did it really well, too.

  “Yep.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life happened.”

  “Huh…” He straightened, then startled her by stilling her fingers, which were restlessly spinning a fortune cookie around. The feel of his touch was warm and comforting. His hand was so large; it dwarfed hers. The man was at least twice her size, and yet he could be so gentle. “That’s the last thing I would have guessed you would say.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re so practical.”

  “I wish.”

  “Did you give up your dream?”

  She stared at their physical connection, his skin so much darker than hers, the knuckles dusted with barely discernable golden strands of hair. “Sure. It was silly anyway.”

  Connor couldn’t think of what to say to Stacey’s dismissal of something that was obviously important to her. He wasn’t a Nurturer or a Healer, and he wasn’t a man who spent time talking to women. At least not words that weren’t for the purposes of seduction. When women came to him, it wasn’t conversation they wanted. The best he could manage in the way of comfort was to stroke the center of Stacey’s soft palm with his callused thumb.

  The chaste contact aroused him. When he brushed lower, across the pulse point in her wrist, the rapid beat of her heart betrayed how it aroused her, too. Neither of them acted upon the attraction, despite their quickening breaths. He was content to simply enjoy the soft thrumming of desire in his blood.

  Then the phone rang and broke the moment.

  She blinked, as if waking, then pushed to her feet. “Aidan called earlier when you were sleeping. It’s probably him again.”

  Connor rose as well and followed her into the kitchen. Stacey picked up the handset, revealing the caller ID. Best Western Big Bear. The tension that gripped Stacey’s small frame was palpable.

  She hit the “talk” button and lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hi, baby.”

  He placed his hands on her slight shoulders and began to knead gently, fighting the tightening that threatened to knot the muscles.

  “But you have school,” she began, which resulted in a long barrage of argument from the other end of the line. “Yes, I know it’s been a long time…” Her chest expanded and collapsed on a silent sigh. “Fine. You can come home Monday night.”

  The excitement elicited by Stacey’s capitulation was audible through the receiver.

  “Okay.” She tried valiantly to sound cheerful. “I’m glad you’re having a great time…I love you, too. Keep warm. Wear that scarf Lyssa bought you for Christmas.” She managed a weak laugh. “Yeah, who knew you’d actually use the damn thing? Of course…Don’t worry about me; I’m watching The Mummy… At least a hundred times, yes. So what? It’s a good flick! Okay…Goodnight…Love you.”

  She hung up and the arm holding the handset fell to her side in a defeatist gesture.

  “Hey,” Connor murmured, caressing the length of her arm until he reached the phone. He tugged it from nerveless fingers and set it on the breakfast bar. “It’s okay. He’ll be back soon.”

  “That’s just it,” she said, turning to face him only because he caught her shoulders and forced her to. “I don’t know if he will come back, or if he’ll stay with me when he does.”

  He stared down at her unhappy face with its pink-tipped nose and turned down mouth. Cupping her cheek, he brushed his thumb across her cheekbone.

  “He’s fourteen years old,” she said mournfully. “He wants a dad, a man he can emulate and learn from. Tommy lives in Hollywood, where it’s glamorous and there’s something going on every minute. Justin hates it here in the Valley. He says it’s boring, and for kids
his age, I know it is. I moved to Murrieta because it was cheap at the time—I could buy a house and save on my taxes—and because it’s quiet. There isn’t much around here that can lure a teenage boy into trouble.”

  “See?” he said. “A practical woman, just as I said.”

  A brave woman. A strong woman. A woman he admired.

  She faked a smile and it hit him like a punch to the gut. He hated the façade for his benefit. He wanted her all, the real deal. Connor Bruce, best known as “the guy with whom you don’t get emotional,” wanted Stacey’s emotions.

  “If Tommy decides he wants to try being a father full-time,” she continued tearfully, “Justin will go. Tommy is as much a kid as Justin; they’d have a blast together.” Her head fell forward, hiding her features in a mass of dark curls. “Tommy would probably sue me for child support, too, which would make his life easier. And even if he didn’t, I would still send them money. God only knows how they would eat otherwise. One meal a day on the set? If Tommy’s lucky enough to be working for once!”

  A soft sob rent the air and Connor did the only thing he could do; he caught her chin in his fingers and lifted her mouth to fit his kiss. It was a gentle offer of comfort, just lips, no tongue. He took nothing from her and offered consolation the only way he knew how. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, sweetheart,” he murmured, nuzzling her nose with his.

  “I’m sorry.” Stacey kissed him back, tiny kisses. Sweet kisses. “I’m a basket case today. Hormones or something. I swear I am not normally like this.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Surprisingly, it was.

  Stepping back slightly, Connor bent and caught her up behind the knees and lifted her into his arms. He carried her out of the dining room and back into the living room, where he sank into the down-filled couch with her in his lap. She fit perfectly there, her lush body settling warmly against his bare skin. He tucked her head under his chin and rocked her.

  Taking and giving. The connection he’d sought and needed so desperately earlier, reestablished without sex and yet strengthened by their earlier frantic mating. Having gotten the animal lust out of the way, they’d exposed the other feelings, laying them out in the open between them. Understood and shared.

  “Thank you,” she whispered wearily, curling tighter against him.

  Soon, her shallow, rhythmic breathing told him she was connected to the Twilight. She was at his home, where he longed to be. Dreaming.

  He hoped it was of him.

  Chapter 7

  Connor traversed the length of the rock-lined hallway to the main cavern with an impatient stride. As he drew closer to the grotto, the air grew more humid due to the large body of water that waited just beyond the craggy edge. There was a mildewy, mossy smell that permeated the air and made him long for his life of just weeks ago. A life above ground with women, beer, and a damn good fight when he needed one.

  And a door for an entrance and exit. That would be nice.

  He wasn’t looking forward to the necessary dip in the icy water of the lake. It was near torture to make the ascent to the surface when one’s lungs were seized by the frigid temperature. Unlike everything else in the Twilight, the water in the lake could not be altered by mere thought. No amount of wishing, ordering, or hoping made the liquid any more bearable.

  So he simply saluted his men, checked to make certain that his glaive was secured in the scabbard crossing his back, and dove in.

  Long moments later, Connor emerged freezing and gasping, crawling up the sandy bank while wracked by violent shivers. He was struck by a feeling of déjà vu so disconcerting that he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he was tackled and knocked backward.

  As a smaller, wirier body wrapped around his, his roar of outrage reflected off the surface of the water and released his mounting tension. Connor twisted and grappled with his assailant until the moment they both fell back into the lake in an explosion of water and slapping skin. He grabbed his assailant by the scruff of his robes and dragged him onto the shore.

  “Wait!” Sheron cried.

  Connor reached over his shoulder and pulled his glaive free of its scabbard. “We’ve been through this before, old man,” he growled.

  “We did not conclude our discussion.”

  “So start talking before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

  The Elder pushed back his soaked cowl. “Remember what I told you about the slipstreams we established in the Temple?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how the only location in the Twilight that is secure from Nightmares is the cavern you have commandeered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nightmares infiltrated the Temple streams, Bruce, melding with the Guardian in transit to form one being.”

  “Fuck me.” Connor’s grip on his glaive tightened and sweat dotted his brow. “Can they travel by themselves? Are the humans in trouble now? Have we finally screwed them all the way by infecting their world as well as their dreams?”

  “Not so far as we know. Unlike the slipstreams in the cavern, these are opened only briefly, just long enough to make the jump. Then they are closed again.”

  “How did you figure out what was happening?”

  “We began by sending a guard through in a rapid cycle—in and out.”

  Connor began to pace.

  “It became apparent over time that some of the guards were not well,” Sheron continued. “At first we assumed it was due to the location.”

  “Being outside the cavern.”

  “Yes. Then they began to change. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Eliciting fear and sadness in those around them seemed to be very important to them. They grew more violent and cruel. Their eyes began to change color. They stopped eating.”

  “Oh man…”

  “We realized then what had happened. The Nightmares inside them were taking over, urging the Guardian into acts of terror so they could feed off those negative emotions.”

  Since the Nightmares had discovered the human subconscious through the fissure created by the Elders, they’d been using the power of the human mind as sustenance. Fear, fury, misery—these were easily aroused through dreams and fed Nightmares so well.

  Lowering his sword, Connor freed one hand to scrub at his jaw. “How many of those things are there?”

  “There were a dozen in the original trial, but only one affected Guardian remained alive and you killed him today.”

  “Be thankful for small favors, eh?” Connor snorted.

  Sheron removed the scabbard belt from his too-lean waist and emptied the water that had collected inside it. Then he sheathed his glaive and moved to a nearby rock, leaving a trail of droplets in his wake.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Connor followed with glaive in hand. He didn’t trust Sheron as far as he could throw him. Not any more. Sad, considering he had once trusted the man with his life.

  “What I came here to tell you.” The Elder settled onto a large rock and spread out his sodden robes as much as possible. “The trial was deemed a success before the symptoms of Nightmare possession began to present themselves. We were testing for successful round-trips, not side-effects. An additional contingent of guards and Elders were sent through before we understood the extent of the problem.”

  Connor’s gut tightened into a hard knot. “Well, yank them all back, damn it!”

  “We cannot. By the time we comprehended the error, the Guardians had altered so much they were incapable of returning upon their threads. They were no longer the same individuals who departed. We were able to retrieve only the unaffected ones.”

  “What the hell have you done? How many of those things are out there?”

  “Ten of the lot were unable to return. We have sent twenty more through since then. A gamble. Those who are unaffected will hunt those who are and put them down. Cross will expect the Guardians to search for him, but there is no way for him to know about the hybrids.”

  Before the rebellion, Aida
n had been Captain and Connor had been his lieutenant. Together, they had run the Elite with faultless precision. Life had seemed so simple then. Now, everything was complicated.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Connor asked suspiciously.

  “Cross’s death is not something I want.”

  “But you want the Key dead,” Connor argued. “And you’ll have to kill Cross to get to the Key, I promise you that.”

  “We will manage that when the time comes.”

  “Like hell you will!” Connor launched himself like a missile, flying through the air and slamming into the Elder’s chest with his shoulder.

  The Elder would make a great hostage.

  They tumbled, rolling across the sand—

  Gasping, Connor jolted awake, which also woke the warm curvy woman lying in his arms.

  “Hey.” Stacey’s voice was husky from sleep. In the faint glow from the muted television, he saw her head turn toward him. They lay on the sofa; him against the back, her against him. “Are you alright? Did you have a nightmare?”

  He pushed up and climbed over her carefully. “Yeah.”

  “Want me to make you some hot tea or something?”

  “No.” Bending, he kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep. I just remembered something important and I better write it down before I forget it again.”

  Connor moved over to the breakfast bar, turned on the recessed spotlights above it, and grabbed the notepad he’d seen there earlier. Then he pulled a chair back from the dining table, borrowed the mechanical pencil lying atop Stacey’s textbooks, and turned his attention to finding a clean sheet of paper.

  As he flipped through pages of lovingly drawn renderings of Aidan, Connor’s heartbeat slowed. His breathing deepened and became more regular. The pictures of Aidan before him were not of the same Aidan he’d been fighting alongside for centuries. The Aidan captured by Lyssa in detailed pencil lines appeared younger and happier. His eyes were bright and the lines of strain less apparent.

  Connor studied the images for long moments, then he heard movement on the couch. He pivoted to find Stacey curled on her side, her eyelids fluttering as she drifted back to sleep.