Books by Maggie Shayne (122 page)

"Matchbox cars," she told him.

"The Corvette was her favorite. But it was my favorite, too. We'd always fight over that one. Little, candy-apple red Stingray with the doors that really opened and closed.

She'd put it on her dresser, and I'd snatch it and put it on mine. We were too old for toys, but hell, we didn't have much to call our own in those days. " She cried a little harder, ashamed of herself, but needing to do it.

"And... and my birthday came, with no party or presents, just like always.

And she--she wrapped that stupid little car up in a page of comics and gave it to me. It was her favorite, and she gave it to me. She swore someday we'd have a real one, and we'd ride around together...."

His arms tightened around her.

"So that's why your car means so much to you, hmm?"

She nodded again.

"It might be okay, you know. They have the fire pretty much contained, according to the radio, and it didn't look to me like the lower floors were too badly damaged."

She lifted her head, gazing wide-eyed at his face.

"You think?"

"It's possible. I'll check on it for you just as soon as we get you settled in."

She felt her brows draw together.

"Settled i" -- ' "I went to a department store a few blocks away while you were being examined, picked you up a few necessities."

"You" -- "You're coming home with me. Shannon. And I don't want to hear any arguments about it." He stood in front of her, searched her face.

She was quiet for a long time, searching his right back. His dark eyes, his raven hair, the face that made her want to trace each strong feature with her fingertips. He'd saved her life . twice now. He certainly wasn't going to hurt her.

"Da mien..." She hesitated, hating to voice her fears, but forcing herself to go on.

"Do you think the fire--"

"They're saying it looks like arson, but they won't be certain for a day or two."

She gnawed her lips.

"It's all connected, isn't it? Someone doesn't want me digging into Tawny's murder."

"There's no proof--"

"It might even have been Bach man. He said he could make me disappear." She eyed Da mien, wishing she knew the truth.

"I just don't know. It might have been an attempt on your life. It might have been a coincidence. Either way, you'll be safer with me. I don't want you alone anymore. Shannon."

She didn't want to be alone anymore, either. She simply nodded.

"Okay."

He scooped her up in his arms again and strode through the emergency room over the protests of the nurse, who kept talking about hospital regulations and wheelchairs. There was a part of Shannon that rebelled against the coddling. That little suspicious voice in her mind that insisted he must have a motive, whispered constant warnings in her ear: You don't need anyone to take care of you. You can take care of yourself-- you always have. Don't get used to this. It's not gonna last, and we both know it, don't we? It'll just make you weak. Yell at him. Tell him to put you down.

But she didn't. Because there was another part, a part that seemed to be growing bigger all the time, that liked the way it felt to be cradled in his strength. The hard arms that held her, the solid chest she leaned against, were feeling less like invaders of her independence and more like her own solid fortress, her refuge. It felt good to be held this way, dammit. And who the hell ever said she didn't have the right to feel good once in a while?

She put her arms around his neck, mentally thumbing her nose at that cynical voice. He stepped outside, into the hospital parking lot, and she thought there had never been an autumn night that tasted as crisp and clean as this one. There was a second, as he carried her toward the black Jag that crouched like the cat it was named for, when she wondered how he'd got the car here so fast. Someone, probably a cop or a fire fighter, must have brought it over. It didn't matter, really.

He settled her on the seat, pulled the safety belt around her, fastened it.

Then he looked at her, just looked at her for a long time. She could see his eyes moving minutely, as if he had to see every part of her face. Their focus shifted, from her forehead to her nose to her jaw. Her lips, her eyes.

She lifted a hand, thinking she might still have soot smeared on her skin.

But he caught it, stopping it, holding it in his. She met his ebony gaze.

His lips moved just a little, the barest whisper of a smile. He stepped back and closed her door, still staring at her face. After a moment she offered a small smile in return. Finally, he dragged his gaze away, went to his side of the car and got in. And then he drove.

When they reached the house, he carried her again.

"You'll want to shower.

Your robe is still in the bedroom you used before. " This he said as they mounted the broad, curving staircase.

The cynic was getting louder.

"Da mien put me down. I'm not too helpless to walk up a flight of stairs."

"I'm not as sure of that as you are." He kept walking.

She didn't argue anymore, sensing it wouldn't do much good anyway.

Besides, they were already heading up the second flight. He'd put her down soon. Now, why wasn't she as relieved by that thought as she'd expected to be? He held her crushingly tight, as if he were afraid he might drop her.

She let her head rest on his shoulder, and then felt the oddest certainty that he'd bent his head to brush his lips over her hair.

Silly. Just her imagination overworking itself again.

He flung the bedroom door open, stepped through it and lowered her to the floor. His hand clasped her waist for longer than it had to, just to steady her. He looked so concerned that it made her uncomfortable, and she took a step away from him.

"I think you're right. I want a shower. Get that damned smoky reek out of my hair before I choke on it."

He nodded, but didn't leave. He opened the closet and set the shopping bag he still carried on the top shelf, then turned to her again.

"Can you manage by yourself?"

That made her smile a little. He really must think she was a wimp.

"What are you gonna do, Da mien, bathe me personally, just in case I'm not strong enough to lift a bar of soap?"

The worried expression in his black eyes changed. They darkened or intensified or something. For a long time, she couldn't look away. And when she finally did, she felt shaken, a little weak-kneed, and not from smoke inhalation.

"I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes." His voice wasn't even or calm, as it had been before. He turned and left her there, and she got the impression he was in a hurry.

When the door closed- she stared at it, licked her lips. "Yeah," she whispered.

"And then what?"

She scrubbed. She shampooed her hair again and again, and stood under the shower spray until she wondered if his supply of hot water was endless. As she lingered in the shower, she thought of Da mien. The great magician. The man. What made him want to perform for a living? she wondered. And what had he done before? And. and was he thinking about her as often as she'd been thinking about him lately?

She shook her head and told herself to get a grip. When she thought she'd finally rid herself of that clinging smoky odor, she toweled dry and reached for the clothes he'd just bought for her, the ones she'd worn to leave the hospital. But she smelled the smoke again. Well, no wonder.

She'd been coated in that scent when she'd put them on, and now the clothes were infected. It figured, didn't it?

She wrapped up in a towel and went in search of the robe she'd left here.

She found it in the closet, pulled it on. But as she did, she glanced up at that shopping bag on the top shelf. It still bulged. He had said he'd bought the stuff for her, hadn't he? She wondered if there was anything more substantial in there to put on. She stretched out an arm, but the shelf was too high to reach that way.

Biting her lip and glancing around, she spotted a chair and quickly pulled it over to the closet. She climbed up, and the bedroom door opened, and Da mien stood there, arms crossed, looking at her the way he might look at a little girl hanging upside down from a set of monkey bars.

He'd showered, changed. He wore a pair of black jeans that fit him way too well and a wine-colored button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, so her eyes were instantly drawn to the fine dark mist of hair on his forearms. When she met his gaze again, he was smiling.

She ignored his amused expression and reached for the bag.

"Watch out!"

His yell came just as she felt the chair slide sideways and begin to tilt.

She toppled. The bag flew out of her hands as she plummeted. She groped for a hold. The next thing she knew, she was slamming into his chest so hard his back smacked into the wall. Her arms automatically clung to his neck as he held her upright against him with her feet dangling a few inches above the floor. His arms were right around her waist, crossed at the small of her back. Her face was above his, and only a fraction of an inch away. She caught her breath. He didn't let her go. He was staring.

She didn't know what part of her so fascinated him, because her own gaze was fixed to his mouth.

It wasn't the first time she'd caught herself looking at those full lips of his and wondering what kind of a kisser he was. Would he be gentle, well mannered, neat? Or hard and hot and messy? Probably the latter, she figured, narrowing her eyes as she thought about it. Yes. Definitely the latter.

He closed his eyes and thumped the back of his head to the wall, as though trying to clear it or something. His arms loosened on her waist so she could slide down, but as her body moved over his, she felt the rigid arousal behind his zipper, and she knew her heart skipped a beat.

She turned him on? Good grief, she hadn't realized that. Well, all right, she'd suspected it once or twice, but. Her toes touched the floor. She unlaced her arms from around his neck and lowered her heels until her feet were flat. He opened his eyes. She hadn't noticed before how thick and glossy his lashes were, or how the irises themselves were smooth as black satin. She took a step away from him, but her eyes remained mated to his.

His big hands rested just above her hips now, and she felt his fingers knead her flesh there, but she wasn't sure if it was a voluntary movement or something he did unconsciously. She thought about the magic in those hands, the ease with which he moved them on stage, the way things would appear in them as if from thin air, the way the very elements seemed to respond to their commands, to obey their every wave or even a snap of those long fingers. What kind of magic could hands like that work on a woman? And she thought about the hard length of him, stirred to life just by the touch of her body against his. And for just a second, she wondered what it would be like to let a man like this one make love to her.

Probably beyond anything she could imagine.

He pushed her away, and he turned abruptly, as if he'd pound the front of his head against the wall this time. He didn't, but his magic hands were clenched into trembling fists at his sides and his shoulders were stiff and the muscled cords in his neck stood out.

Oh, come on. He couldn't possibly want her that much. Maybe, if she were some swimsuit model or cover girl, but not her. So what was this?

"I, uh, didn't hurt you, did I?"

His head fell until she figured his chin was touching his chest. He made a sound that was half snort, half laugh. His voice was very soft and kind of raspy when he said, "No, Shannon. You didn't hurt me."

She shrugged.

"I didn't think so." She turned away from him, just in case he should look at her. She didn't want him to see how much he confused her. Sheesh, if he was that hot for her, why didn't he just say so? He couldn't possibly be afraid she'd turn him down. It wasn't as if a guy like this one probably got turned down often. Maybe not ever. He wanted her. So why didn't he do something about it?

She bit her lips hard, and waited.

"You ought to eat something," he said, and she wanted to scream in frustration.

"Come downstairs."

In the circular room that was his favorite, a roaring fire awaited them.

He wanted to be sure Shannon was really all right before he rested at dawn.

She'd nearly died. He still couldn't quite believe she hadn't.

But she was alive, more alive than anyone he'd ever known. He watched her spoon down the chicken soup he'd warmed for her. He hadn't dared to try anything more complicated. It had been a long time since he'd worried about food, though there was always plenty in the kitchen. Netty had to eat while she was here, and bare cupboards might have made her wonder.

Shannon had finished her soup. Now she meandered around the room, examining things with the fierce curiosity of a child. She picked up the shiny black box that made things disappear on stage. She opened it, examined the mirrors inside, closed it again, turned it over. He watched her, seeing the life, the rampant vitality of her, her spirit. She'd nearly died. He couldn't get rid of that thought.

The robe was too short, and he really should have insisted she find something more to wear. There were other things in the shopping bag, but they both seemed to forget about that after she'd fallen into his arms.

He'd forgotten everything for a few minutes. How to breathe. How to think.

She'd wanted him to kiss her. He knew it with a certainty that made his head spin.

Yes, he really ought to go back upstairs for that shopping bag right now.

Her legs were too shapely, too smooth-skinned and firm. It was too easy to envision them wrapped around him.

Why in hell had he brought her here? Was he completely insane? Did he really think he could keep her here with him, spend every waking moment this close to her, alone with her, and not lose control, not reveal himself?

Maybe he was insane. How many centuries could sanity last, anyway? Was it immortal, as well? Hell, maybe he'd never been sane in the first place.

She approached the huge marble fireplace, whiskey-colored eyes catching its glow. Her gaze moved over the framed charcoal drawings of the ancient world.

One depicted the Euphrates, cutting a path through the desert. She glanced at the artifacts in their clear glass cubes. Frowning, she bent closer to the marble figurine under the glass.

"What is it?"

"An ancient goddess of love and fertility. The Sumerians called her In anna, the Babylonians, Ishtar. Queen of Heaven."

"She's beautiful. It looks old."

"Almost five thousand years old."

Her amber eyes widened, and she lifted the glass cube that covered the piece, then glanced at him.

"May I?"

He nodded, watching as she held the small sculpture, ran her fingers delicately over it.

"I can't believe I'm touching something that people thousands of years ago might have touched, something this old."

He wanted her to touch him that way. He was that old. Older.

She shook her head in wonder and replaced the glass. Then pointed to the piece beside it.

"And this one? What is it, a goat?"

"Yes. It's newer, made around 2600 b.c. The blue in the horns and beard is lapis lazuli. The rest is gold."

"You collect this stuff?"

He nodded, watching her gaze move over his face as if its shape fascinated her. Then she turned to the last piece on the mantel.

"This one's kind of ugly."

"It's not art."

"What is it?"

"A piece of a story." He moved forward to stand beside her. She squinted at the carvings that covered every inch of the stone's face.

"This is writing?"

"Man's earliest form of writing. Cuneiform script. This piece was done around 4000 b.c." in Sumer. "

She studied it more closely, as if trying to absorb its meaning.

"Does anyone know what it says?"

Da mien nodded.

"It's part of the story of Gilgamesh."

She looked up quickly, and he saw regret in her eyes.

"Gilgamesh. Oh, God, Da mien, your book... the fire" -- "It's all right."

"But I" -- "Shannon, it's just a book. The latest translation. I have dozens of others with the same story in them. You've seen them yourself" -- "But it's precious to you."

It was. They all were. But how could she know that?

"I can get another one."

"I'll get you another one. And a copy for myself while I'm at it." She sighed, her hand resting feather-light on the glass. "It was a wonderful, terrible story. I'm glad I read it before the book burned."