Books by Maggie Shayne (70 page)

And hearing an answer. Yes. From very far away she'd heard an answer; a calm, deep voice, full of comfort and strength, had promised to come to her. He'd told her to rest. She'd felt uncertain, until the music came. Soft strains she thought to be Mozart—something from Elvira Madigan—soothed her taut nerves.

She allowed a small smile. Maybe she was getting past this thing, whatever it was. The smile died when she wondered if that was true, or whether she was only exchanging one problem for another. The man from the ice rink filled her mind again. Marquand—the one Daniel insisted was a vampire. He'd kissed her and, much as she hated to admit it, she'd responded to that kiss with every cell in her body.

She rose slowly from her bed and tightened the single sash that held the red satin robe around her. She leaned over her dressing table and examined the bruised skin of her neck in the mirror. Her fingers touched the spot. She recalled the odd, swooning sensation she'd experienced when he'd sucked the skin between his teeth, and wondered at it.

Lack of sleep, and too much stress.

But he knew my name. . . .

Simple enough to answer that one. He'd done a little research on the man who'd been harassing him. Daniel was her legal guardian. It was a matter of public record.

Then why did he seem so surprised when I told him that?

Good acting. He must have known. He just assumed I'd be the easiest, most effective way to get his point across
.

She frowned at her reflection, not liking the look of disappointment she saw there. She tried to erase it. "He only wanted to scare Daniel into laying off, so he followed me to the rink for that little performance. Imagine him going so far as to actually..."

She pressed her palm to the mark on her throat, and turned from the mirror. She'd failed to convince herself that was all there had been to it. So many things about the man defied explanation. Why did he seem so familiar to her? How had he made her feel as if he were reading her thoughts? What about the way she'd seemed to hear what he said, when he hadn't even spoken? And what about this. . . this longing.

Blood flooded her cheeks and a fist poked into her stomach. Desire. She recognized the feeling for what it was. Foolish though it was, Tamara was lusting after a man she didn't know—a man she felt as if she'd known forever. She had to admit, at least to herself, that the man they called Marquand stirred reactions in her as no other man ever had.

As she stood she slowly became aware of a peculiar light-headedness stealing over her. Not dizziness, but rather a floating sensation, though her bare feet still connected her to the floor. A warm whirlwind stirred around her ankles, twisting up her legs, swishing the hem of the robe so the satin brushed over her calves.

She blinked slowly, pressing her palm to her forehead, waiting for the feeling to pass. The French doors blew open all at once, as if from a great gust, and the wind that surged through felt warm, heady. It smelled faintly of bay rum.

Impossible. It's twenty degrees out there
.

Yet it lingered; the warmth and the scent. She felt a pull—a mental magnet she was powerless to resist. She faced the heated blast, even as it picked up force. The scarlet satin sailed behind her. It twisted around her legs like a twining serpent.

Like the mist in my dream.

Her hair billowed around her face. The robe's sash snapped against her thighs. She moved toward the doors even as she told herself not to. She resisted, but the pull was stronger than her own will. Her feet scuffed over the soft carpet, then scraped over the cold, wet wood floor of the balcony. The whirlwind surrounded her, propelled her to the rail. She heard the doors slam behind her, and didn't even turn. Her eyes probed the darkness below. Would this unseen hand pull her right over? She didn't think she'd be able to stop it if it wanted to.

God, what is happening to me?

She resisted and the wind stiffened. The sash whipped loose and the robe blew back. No part of her went untouched by this tempest. Like invisible hands it swirled around her thighs, between them. Her breasts quivered. Her nipples stood erect and pulsing. She throbbed with heightened awareness, her flesh hypersensitive to the touch of the wind as it mercilessly stroked her body. Her heart raced, and before she could stop herself she'd let her head fall back, closed her eyes and moaned softly at the intensity of the sensations.

All at once it simply stopped. The warmth and the essence of bay rum lingered, but that intimate whirlwind died slowly, giving her control of her body once more. She didn't know what it had been. A near breakdown? A mental lapse of some sort? Whatever, it was over.

Shaken, she pushed her hands through her hair, uncaring that her robe still hung gaping, having been driven down, baring one shoulder. She turned to go back inside.

He stood so close she nearly bumped into his massive chest. Her head came up fast and her breath caught in her throat. His black eyes seemed molten as they raked her. The mystery wind stirred gently. She could see silver glints behind those onyx eyes, and she felt their heat touch her as the wind had when his gaze moved slowly upward from her bare feet. She felt it scorching her as it lifted, over her legs. The hot gaze paused at the mound of black curls at the apex of her thighs and she thought she'd go up in flames. Finally it moved again, with deliberate slowness over her stomach. She commanded her arms to come to life—to pull her robe together. They did not respond. His eyes seemed to devour her breasts, and she knew her nipples stiffened under that heated stare. The man licked his lips and she very nearly groaned aloud. She closed her eyes, but they refused to stay that way. They opened again, against her will. They focused on his, though she didn't want to see the lust in his eyes. Finally he looked at her throat. The bruise he'd put on her there seemed to come alive with his gaze. It tingled, and she felt the muscle beneath the skin twitch spasmodically. She saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again they locked with hers, refusing to allow her to look away.

Her arms regained feeling and she jerked the robe together in a move that showed her anger. "You," she whispered. She felt fear and confusion. More than that, she felt sheer joy to see him again. She refused to let him see it. "What are you doing here?"

Waiting for you," he said slowly, watching her.

Her mind rebelled against what that implied. "That's ridiculous. How could you have known I'd come out here?"

The intensity of his gaze boring into her eyes was staggering. "I summoned you here, Tamara ... just as you've summoned me nightly with your cries."

Her brows drew together so far it hurt. She shook her head in denial as she searched his face. "You said that before. I still. don't know what you mean."

"Tamara..." He lifted one hand in slow motion. He turned it gracefully at the wrist, and trailed the backs of his long fingers downward, over her face. She closed her eyes involuntarily at the pure rapture his touch evoked, but quickly forced them open again and took a step back. "Listen to your heart. It wants to tell you—"

"Then I do know you!" She felt as if there were a bird trapped in her stomach, napping its wings desperately. Her eyes tugged at his as she tried to pull the answer from their endless depths. "I thought so before. Tell me when we met, Marquand. You seem so. . . familiar to me." Familiar wasn't the word that had been on her lips. He seemed precious to her—like some one she'd cherished once, someone she'd lost.

She saw the indecision in his eyes, and a glimmer that might have been pain, before he closed them and shook his head. "You will remember in time. I cannot force it on you—your mind is not yet ready. For now, though, I would ask that you simply trust me. I will not harm you, Tamara."

His eyes opened again, and danced over her face. The way he looked at her made her feel as if he couldn't do so enough to appease him, as if he were trying to absorb her through his eyes. She stilled her responses to the feeling, and reminded herself of the game he'd played with her last night. Her shoulders squared. Her chin lifted.

"Your message was delivered, Marquand. Daniel knows about our meeting and your little... performance. I made sure he understood." As she spoke her fingers touched the still-tender skin at her throat. "It probably won't change anything, though. He doesn't listen to me where you're concerned, so you can see how ineffective this conversation will be. Leave me alone. If you have something to say to Daniel, say it to him in person."

He listened. . . so well it seemed he heard her thoughts as well as her words. When she finished he tilted his head very slightly to one side. "You believe I kissed you only to make a point with St. Claire," he stated, his words slow, carefully enunciated and laced with the barest hint of an accent that she had yet to place. "And the thought causes you pain."

She released a clipped sigh and shook her head. "Why would it cause me pain? I don't know you. I don't care "

"You felt drugged when I kissed you, sweet Tamara. You felt the ground tilt beneath you, and the sky above begin to spin. Your heart raced, your pulse roared in your temples. Your skin came to life with sensation. In those moments, as I held you, nothing else existed. No," he said when she shook her head fast, and parted her lips to blurt angry denials. " No, don't. I know what you felt, because I felt it, too. The touch of your hands, the taste of your mouth, the feel of your body pressed to mine sent me to the very edge of my control."

She felt the blood rush into her face. Her cheeks burned hotter with his every word, and yet the familiar knot of longing formed in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to tell him he was crazy to believe that, but she couldn't seem to form the words.

Again his hand rose to her face, and she didn't pull away this time. She couldn't say why, but she felt like crying. "Tamara, I swear to you, I did not know you were even acquainted with St Claire until you said the words. I came to you because you begged me to do so. In your dreams you begged me to come."

Her eyes had begun to drift closed as his hand stroked her cheek, but they flew wide now. She searched her brain frantically. How could he know about the dreams? She shook her head quickly. "No, that isn't true."

"What isn't true? That you dream each night before dusk? That the dreams are testing your sanity, Tamara? That you cry out to someone in your sleep and cannot recall the name when you wake? Do not forget, you confided all of these things to me last night."

Relief nearly made her limp. "That's right, I did." She had told him about her nightmares. That explained why he knew.

"The dream was different tonight, though," he said softly.

Again her eyes widened. It had been different. He couldn't know that. She hadn't told him that. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "The name I call, I can't remember what it is, but I know it isn't Marquand. Why do you want to play with my mind?"

"I want only to ease your mind. It is true, you have never cried my surname. It is my first name you call in your sleep." His hand had fallen from her face, to gently stroke her hair.

Breathlessly she whispered, "I don't even know your first name. So it can't be—"

"Yes, you do, Tamara." His gaze took on a new dimension as he stared into her eyes. "You know my name. Say it."

And she did. Just like that, she knew the name she'd cried over and over again in her recurring dream. She knew it as well as she knew her own. The shroud had been lifted from her memory, and she knew. But it couldn't be him. She shook her head. "You aren't—"

"I am." Both his hands rested on her shoulders now, and he squeezed gently. She winced inwardly because he'd put pressure on the spots where Curt had held her last night, and the skin there had bruised. He immediately readjusted his grip on her, as if he'd sensed her discomfort at the instant she'd felt it. "Say it, Tamara."

Choking on unshed tears, she croaked, "Eric?"

He nodded, his face relaxing in an approving half smile. "Yes. Eric. If you require confirmation, I'm certain your St. Claire can provide it."

She looked at the floor, her relief so great the muscles of her neck relaxed. She didn't need confirmation. She knew he told the truth. Why this intense relief, though? And why had she dreamed of him in the first place?

"You've begged me to come to you, Tamara, and I am here." He caught her chin in gentle fingers, and lifted her face to him. "I'm here."

She wanted to fling herself into his arms. She wanted to hold him desperately and beg him not to leave her ever again. But that was crazy. It was insane. She was insane. As tears spilled over and rolled slowly down her face, she shook her head. "This isn't happening. It isn't real. I'm hallucinating, or it's just another dream. That's all. It isn't real."

He pulled her against him suddenly, his arms going around her, his hands stroking her back and shoulders, lifting her hair, caressing her nape. "It is real, Tamara. I am real, and what you feel for me is real. . . more real, I think, than anything else in your life." His head turned and she felt his lips pressed to her hair just above her temple. . . lower, to her cheekbone. . . lower, to the hollow of her cheek. His voice uneven, he spoke near her ear. "How did St. Claire manage to get custody of you? What happened to your family?"

She found herself relaxing against him, allowing his embrace to warm and comfort her. " I was six when I fell through a plate glass window," she told him, her voice barely audible to her own ears. " I severed the arteries in both wrists and nearly bled to death. They called it a miracle when I pulled through, because they hadn't been able to locate any donors with my blood type. Everyone expected me to die." She drew a shuddering breath. In truth, she remembered very little about the accident, or her life to that point. Daniel had always insisted it was probably best for her not to try to remember. What was blocked out was blocked out for a reason, he'd said. If her mind didn't think she could handle it, she probably couldn't. After all, near-death experiences were traumatic, especially for a six year-old child.

She released the air she'd taken in, drew a steadier breath and continued. "I was still hospitalized when my parents were taken with an extremely rare virulent infection. By the time the virus was isolated and identified, they. . . they'd both succumbed."

"I am more sorry for that than I can tell you," he said softly, his breath caressing her skin as he spoke. "I wish I had been there for you."

"So do I," she blurted before she had a chance to consider the words. She cleared her throat. "But Daniel was there. He worked part-time in the research lab at the hospital then. As soon as he heard about the miracle girl upstairs, he came to see me. After that he was there every day. He brought presents with every visit, and constantly went on about how he'd always wanted a little girl like me. By the time my parents got sick, Daniel and I were best friends. When they died he petitioned the courts for custody, and got it. I had no other close relatives. If it hadn't been for Daniel, I would've been alone."

She felt his swift inhalation, and the slight stiffening of his body. "I'm sorry." The words were almost a moan, so much pain came through in them. His arms tightened around her and he rocked her slowly.

God, why did his touch feel like heaven? Why did the wide, hard chest beneath her head and the steel arms around her feel like the safest cocoon in all the world?

His voice only slightly more normal, he said, "It was Daniel who arranged for your employment at DPI, then." She only nodded, moving her head minimally against his chest. "And what do you do there, Tamara? Do you work with St. Claire?"

"No," she mumbled into the fabric of his coat. "My security clearance isn't—" She broke off, stiffening, and jerked away from him. My God, he'd played her well! "DPI is a government agency, a subdivision of the CIA, for God's sake. And you are the subject of one of their most long-running investigations. I certainly don't intend to discuss what I do there with you." She broke eye contact, and shook her head in self-deprecation. "God, you're good. I was actually buying all of this. You just wanted to milk information from me."

"You know better." His deep voice held anger now, and for the first time Tamara felt afraid of him. She backed up another step and felt the iron rail press into the small of her back. Eric Marquand stood between her and the doors. "I only want to discern whether I can trust you. St. Claire is out to destroy me. I cannot dismiss the possibility that you are a part of that plan."

"Daniel wouldn't hurt a fly!" She bristled at the suggestion that her beloved Daniel was anything less than the sweet, loving man she knew him to be.

"I know that to be false. I do not need proof of his intent. I already have it. It is you I need to be sure of, Tamara. Tell me what your duties entail."

He took a step nearer and there was nowhere for her to go. I won't," she told him. "I can't betray the division ... or Daniel."

"You would rather betray me?"

She shook her head fast, confusion muddling her brain. "I couldn't betray you. I know nothing about you."

"You could easily be the instrument of my destruction."

"But I wouldn't—"

"Then tell me. Answer whatever I ask, it is vital—" She shook her head again. He sighed and pushed one hand back through his hair, loosening several black silk strands from the queue in the back. When he looked into her eyes again the intensity had returned. "I can force you, you know."

Fear tiptoed over her spine. "If you touch me, I'll scream."

"I don't need to touch you. I can make you obey my will just as I made you come out here tonight... with my mind."

"I think you need help, Marquand. You're more screwed up than I am, and that's saying something."

One raven brow rose inquiringly. "You doubt what I know to be true?" He stared at her, and she saw an iridescent shimmer, as if the jet irises were suddenly translucent and the swirling light behind them came through. She felt her mind turn to water, and the hot whirlwind began to stir around her ankles, gaining force as it rose until it surrounded her like a twister. Her hair whipped her face. The satin robe flagellated her legs from calf to thigh. The wind moved, forcing her forward until only millimeters separated her from him.

He put his hands on her throat, his thumbs caressing the hollows above her clavicle. His fingers slipped beneath the material of the robe at her shoulders. The wind whipped the sash free, seemingly at his command. Slowly he pushed the scarlet satin from her shoulders, and it fell, to her horror, in a shimmering cascade at her feet. Yet she was incapable of lifting her arms to prevent it. She tried to tell her body to move. He wasn't holding her to him by force. Her arms hadn't been pinioned to her sides by his iron grip. They only hung limply there, abnormally heavy, unable to move. Her feet seemed to have the same mysterious malady. She could not make them take her a single step away from him.

Her eyes had followed the soft red cloth as it fell, but he caught her chin now and lifted it. He stared down into her eyes, but his gaze shifted every few seconds to her throat.

Part of her mind screamed in protest. Another, primal part screamed for his touch. He lowered his head and caught her earlobe between his lips. He nibbled it so lightly his touch was almost imperceptible, yet desire shot through her in fiery jolts. His lips trailed a path around her face and stopped only when they reached hers. They lingered there, barely touching. His hands touched the backs of her thighs and rose slowly, cupping her buttocks, squeezing, parting. One slipped around her hips, to cup her most intimate place, while the other remained behind her, to hold her immobile. She felt his fingers touch lightly, part her, probe her, and she heard a stifled whimper that must have been hers. Fire coursed through her veins, heating her blood until it boiled. She wanted this. . . damn him, he was making her want it!

Both hands flattened against her stomach and inched slowly upward. She trembled violently, knowing what was next. Awaiting it with a burning need that came against her will. Still his lips worked hers, sucking at them, first upper, then lower. Biting them softly, licking them with quick tiny flicks of his tongue, followed by slow, languorous laps that traced their shape. His fingers finally reached her breasts. He positioned a thumb and forefinger at each nipple, barely touching. She moaned low and hoarsely in supplication, and he closed them, pinching, rolling the erect nubs between his fingers until they pulsed like the rest of her.