Circle of Death (26 page)

“Who’s neatly packaged together?” he asked, stopping in the doorway.

Camille rose with a grunt. “Kirby can fill you in. Grab some names and addresses off Russell and keep looking for this Marline or Mariel Thomas. But I want you somewhere safe before sunset, understood?”

He nodded and motioned toward Trina. “What about her?”

“Russell’s best suited to look after her. At least he can keep her controlled and quiet. I want you to keep in regular contact, understand?”

“Understood.”

Camille’s sharp gaze momentarily pinned Kirby. “I’ll go get those herbs. Just make yourself a tea before you go to bed. It should take care of any lingering aftereffects.”

Doyle moved to one side as Camille pushed past. “You feeling any better?” he asked.

Kirby shrugged. “I honestly don’t think that’s going to be possible until this whole mess is finished. Why does Camille want us tucked away before sunset?”

“A dark witch’s powers tend to be greater after sunset.”

She frowned, confused. “But she attacked you yesterday and Trina today. Both times were during the day.”

“Yeah, and it’s a sign of her strength, because she’ll definitely get stronger at night.” He walked around the table and held out a hand. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

She hesitated, not trusting the sudden hint of mischievousness in his expression. He wiggled his fingers impatiently. Knowing he was up to something, but not entirely sure what, she placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet, then pulled her close, amusement and desire darkening his eyes.

“Won’t dare to steal kisses with my friends around, huh?” he murmured, his breath washing across her cheeks and setting her whole body alive. “Never tempt a thief with a statement like that.”

His mouth captured hers. She meant to protest, meant to push him away, but the moment his lips touched hers all resistance seemed to melt away. All she could think about, all she wanted, was him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer still. Her breasts were pressed hard against his chest, and she could feel his strengthening desire. He deepened the kiss and, for one moment, it felt as if he were delving deep into the very heart of her. Her pulse raced and her whole body was on fire, every nerve ending gloriously alive and aching with the need for his touch. For him.

Then he pulled away, his breathing harsh, eyes filled with such heat she felt it clear through to her toes. “It hasn’t faded, Kirby,” he said softly.

“No.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Nor will it, you know.”

“I know.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Shall we go?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Got the fast deflation model, have we?”

He grinned and brushed the hair from her eyes, his fingers trailing heat across her skin. “No. But I
have
got a coat. Wonderful inventions, coats. They hide many secrets.”

“No doubt half of them stolen,” she said dryly.

He grinned and didn’t deny it. “I might even let you investigate one day, if you play your cards right.”

“I wait with breathless anticipation.”

His gaze found hers as he led her from the room. “So do I,” he murmured. “So do I.”

Heat crept through her cheeks. She pulled her gaze from his and knew, with absolute certainty, that if she survived the night without making love to him, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

T
HEY SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY CHECKING OUT THE
addresses of the various Marline and Mariel Thomases, only to come up empty every time. They were all either too young or too old. No one matched the image of the child in her mind.

Not that
that
meant anything, Kirby thought sourly. She closed her eyes, leaning back in the car seat. Trina had looked nothing like her memories, either, so why Kirby was so certain she would recognize the witch was a puzzle.

Doyle climbed into the car and shoved several plastic bags onto the backseat.

“You’ve got enough food in those bags to feed an army,” she said with amusement. “You planning to settle in for the long haul?”

“No, because it wouldn’t be safe. I am, however, starved.”

“Does that mean you’re planning to cook?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

“Sort of.” Helen was the expert in that field. Kirby had only ever dabbled, and most of the time with disastrous effects. Which was why she’d been relegated to cooking only two nights out of seven.

“ ‘Sort of’ will ruin my soufflé.”

“You’re kidding … aren’t you?”

He grinned and started the engine. “I certainly am. I can’t stand soufflé.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what
are
we having?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“You can be very irritating, you know that?”

He flashed her another grin that sent her heart into cartwheels. “Thank you. It’s a skill I work hard at.”

He pulled out into the traffic. She studied his profile, her artist instincts stirred by the sheer perfection of it. She’d paint him one day, though no doubt from memory. Pain twinged through her. She bit her lip and wondered again why he seemed so attracted to her. Was it just the danger pulling them close, or was there something more? He had the looks, and no doubt the money, to pick and choose as he pleased. Surely an unwanted brown mouse from Nowhereville, Australia, didn’t have a hope of holding his interest for long.

And that was what was holding her back, she realized. As much as she wanted to make love to him, she was afraid that once she did, she’d want more. Want the whole nine yards. And she just couldn’t believe he’d ever be content to stay with someone like her. Damaged goods, Helen had once called them both. Thieves didn’t take damaged goods—they only went after the very best.

“I
am
going after the very best,” he murmured.

She briefly closed her eyes.
If only I could believe you.

But that was the trouble. She couldn’t believe him. Couldn’t trust that he meant anything he said. She’d
learned the hard way that the world was filled with thieves—some, like Doyle, stole artifacts, jewelry and no doubt the occasional heart. Others, like the caretaker, stole innocence.

“Don’t you dare put me in the same category as
that
animal,” he said, voice cold and flat. “We’re nothing alike.”

“I know, and that’s not what I meant.” She hesitated, not really certain just where those thoughts had been headed, other than the fact that if Doyle stole her heart and then walked away, she’d never recover. Not without Helen around to pick up the pieces.

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and risked a quick glance at him. His face was as stony as his thoughts. She’d annoyed him.

Hurt him.

And that was something she had never meant to do. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It’s just … I just need time.”
Time to know you. Time to know me.
In two brief days, her life had irrevocably changed, and even the memories of her past had proven to be false. How could she possibly believe her feelings in such a situation? How could he? “You can’t just walk into my life and expect me to be swept away on a tide of emotion. It’s not that easy.”

“It is that easy—if you trust me.”

But that’s the whole problem. I can’t trust.
She’d picked up most of the pieces and had continued on with her life, but her ability to trust people—and especially men—had never fully recovered. Somewhere deep inside her there was still a scared little girl hiding under the covers and listening to the sounds of trust being shattered.

She rubbed her forehead. Her headache was beginning to come back. “I really don’t want to discuss all this right now.”

He glanced at her, frustration evident in the blue of his eyes. “We have to discuss it sometime.”

“Yes. But not now.” Not until she knew whether she actually had a future to discuss.

They drove on in silence. The night shadows were creeping across the sky by the time they returned to the farmhouse.

Doyle ushered her through the back door. “Go have a nice, long bath. I’ll prepare dinner.”

“You don’t want me to help?”

He raised a dark eyebrow and dumped the bags on the bench. “Did Helen?”

She grinned. “No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help
you.
”

“I think I’ll take it as a sign.” He tossed her one of the plastic bags. “Don’t turn on the light. Use the candle I bought instead.”

She looked inside the bag. There wasn’t only a candle and lighter, but bath oil, herbal shampoo, conditioner and soap. “Why did you buy me these? I did bring my own toiletries, you know.”

“You have a ceremony to perform at midnight, remember? There are rituals to follow if you don’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention. One of them is cleansing.”

Unease slithered through her. She’d all but forgotten about the ceremony. “So using these will help keep the bad things away?”

He nodded. “Partly. There are other things we have
to do, but we’ll worry about them later. Go have your bath. Let me worry about that side of things.”

When it came to magic, she had no choice but to trust him. She’d never really taken much notice of the ways of witchcraft, even though Helen had often warned her that she might regret it. Still, she hesitated. “What about the bandages I’m wearing?”

“Take them off. Camille’s herbs should have worked their magic on the wounds by now anyway.”

She nodded and walked into the bathroom. Turning on the taps, she poured in the oil, then sat on the edge of the tub as she waited for it to fill. Scents filled the air—an odd combination of basil, geranium and pine, mixed in with something else she couldn’t define. It was relaxing and yet somehow invigorating.

She turned off the water, then stripped and climbed in. For a long time she lay there, enjoying the heat and the moment of peace. When the water finally began to cool, she reluctantly sat up and washed. Climbing out, she dragged some clothes out of her bag and dressed. Then she blew out the candle and walked barefoot to the kitchen.

Only to stop in surprise at the doorway. Doyle hadn’t just cooked, he’d created magic. A pristine white cloth covered the table. Candles flickered in the center, flushing warmth across the length of the table but barely touching the darkness beyond that. Wineglasses and cutlery glimmered in the golden light, and the mismatched patterns on the side plates somehow added to the appeal.

He appeared out of the shadows and walked toward her, eyes as warm as the atmosphere he’d created. “Table
for two? I think we can manage to squeeze you in. This way, my lady.”

He offered her his arm. Smiling, she hooked her arm through his and let herself be led to the table.

“For your dining pleasure tonight,” he continued, seating her, “we have a warm chicken salad, followed by a simple but appetizing dessert of strawberries soaked in Cointreau accompanied with freshly whipped cream.”

He picked up a paper napkin, fluffed it out and placed it on her lap. His fingers brushed her legs, and warmth shivered through her. She wondered again how she was going to survive the night without giving in to desire.

Wondered if she even really wanted to survive.

He opened the wine and poured them both a glass. Then he disappeared into the shadows, coming back moments later with the two entrées. He placed them, then sat opposite her and picked up his wine.

“To the bravest woman I have ever met,” he said softly.

Heat flushed through her cheeks. She wasn’t brave. If she were, she wouldn’t be sitting here dithering about her feelings for this man. She’d take what fate offered and let the future worry about itself.

She picked up her glass and met his gaze. No matter what her personal fears might be, right now he deserved some sort of honesty from her. “To the only man I have ever been tempted to trust. To the sexiest thief I have ever met.”

His smile shimmered right through her, settling warmly in her heart. He touched his glass lightly to
hers, then motioned to her salad. “Eat, before the chicken gets cold.”

She ate. The meal was perfect, soothing her hunger without sitting like a weight in her stomach. She sighed with contentment when she finished and picked up her wine.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was delicious.”

He smiled and leaned back in the chair, his face half in the shadows, blue eyes gleaming cobalt in the flickering light. “Thank my mother. She was the one who insisted her sons know how to cook.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sons?”

He nodded. “I have three brothers, all younger, and two sisters, both older.”

She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy. It must have been wonderful growing up with so many siblings. Noisy, but wonderful. Especially at Christmas. Or birthdays. She blinked. Today was
her
birthday. And would have been Helen’s, too.

She took a sip of wine, then said, “Do you see much of them?”

“No. They all live in Oregon, in a small town up near the Crater Lake National Park. My work—past and present—has always conspired to keep me away. But I’m in the process of buying a house up there and hope to correct that.”

His words sliced through her. She lowered her gaze, concentrating instead on her wine. So, the truth was there for them both to see. No matter what happened between them, he wouldn’t stay here in Australia.