Marked by Moonlight (30 page)

What had she been thinking last night, going to bed with Gideon? She might have fallen in love with him, but he hadn't fallen in love with her. Not the true her.

Depressed, Claire took solace in food—even as she knew her days of unlimited eating were over.

She took a risk ordering delivery from Angelo's since they never got the order right, but she hadn't felt like leaving her apartment. Just to be safe, Claire had made the old lady repeat her order over the phone. Maybe this once it would be right.

As she studied the green paper receipt in her hand and read the scrawling handwriting, her hope died a swift death. Once again, she didn't get what she had ordered. As in life.

She wasn't going to dig into her favorite baked ziti and Caesar salad. Nope. Instead, it was to be veal Parmesan and house salad.

Claire fumbled inside her wallet, her movements jerky. The telephone started to ring, but she ignored it.

Suddenly, she paused, fingers tightening on the bills as she looked up at the bored-looking deliveryman holding out the brown paper bag of food to her.

“You know,” she began slowly, “I ordered baked ziti and a Caesar salad.” She held out the green paper receipt to verify her claim.

He took it from her and squinted. “Says here you ordered the veal.”

“Yes, I know what it says,” she drew out her words, “but I know what I ordered. Baked ziti and Caesar salad.”

He looked from the receipt to her again, asking in his thick accent, “You're saying you don't want it?” He held up the bag of food.

“I want ziti,” she clearly enunciated each word, hoping to get her point across.

He frowned and grumbled, “What am I going do with the veal?”

“I don't know,” she snapped. “Use it to wax your car for all I care. All I know is that I ordered baked ziti. I'll
pay
for baked ziti. I'll
eat
baked ziti.” She pointed to the bag. “Not that.”

Maybe it was silly to take a stand over such a trivial thing, but she'd suffered enough disappointments lately. A woman nursing a broken heart had a right to the comfort food of her own choice. And if Claire couldn't take a stand over something so minor, then she really was the same old mousy Claire.

“I'm not coming back here again tonight,” he warned, waving the bag of food between them. “Take the veal, lady, or—”

“I'm not,” Claire said between her teeth, “taking the veal.” That said, she firmly closed the door in his face.

She stood there a moment, leaning against the door's solid length, breathing unusually fast, knowing that she had just done a hell of a lot more than take a stand over an incorrect order of food. Staring down at her shaking hands, she felt a smile tug her lips. Suddenly, she was seized with confidence.

I'm fine
. Strong. Not the mouse. But not the beast either.

For the first time in her life, she was exactly what she should be.

Herself. The person she was meant to be before she allowed fear to rule her. Maybe turning into a lycan, even for a short time, had been a blessing. She'd been given the gift of herself. She'd been given Gideon.

That had been the real Claire who shot Cyril, the real Claire conquering the beast that urged her to feed. The lycan had tried to claim her, but she won.

And she was the woman Gideon wanted. Even loved. At least before she snuck off in the middle of the night like a coward.

Pushing off the door, she headed for the shower.

She had just concluded she wasn't a coward.

Time to prove it.

 

“Claire!” Gideon pounded on her apartment door until his knuckles stung.

The neighbor across the way cracked open his door to glare at him.

“What?” Gideon snapped with enough heat to send the neighbor ducking back inside his apartment.

“You can't avoid me forever,” he called through the door, hands braced on either side of the frame. “Open the damn door.”

With a growl, he went around the back and entered her apartment through the sliding glass door—again. The sight of Claire walking out of her bedroom, rubbing her wet hair with a towel, greeted him.

She spied him just as he slid the door shut. “Gideon!” She hopped in surprise. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. Can't you knock like a normal person?”

“I did knock.”

She blinked those wide amber eyes of hers at him. “You could have waited for me to answer then.”

He marched toward her, immediately catching a whiff of clean shampoo and raspberry soap. “I've been out there for five minutes. I waited long enough.”

He scanned the terry robe—the same one she wore that first night. God, was that only a month ago? He'd lived a lifetime since then. He'd let go of the past, of his need for solitude, and fallen in love. With Claire. With beautiful, feisty Claire. He couldn't let her go. He should have known it would come down to this that first night. His inability to pull the trigger had been the first clue.

She tugged the towel from her head. “What are you doing here?”

He focused on her face, resisting the urge to tear the robe off her and do what his body longed. They needed to talk first. Then they could move on to more pleasurable activities and get on with their lives. Together.

“You didn't really think we were finished, did you?” At her blank look, he continued. “No good-bye, no note, no phone call. Nothing. I woke up and you were gone.” He hated the hurt and accusation in his voice, hated to reveal his vulnerability.

She turned away and sank down on the couch, holding her robe carefully together at her shapely knees. With a searching look, she asked, “Why are you here, Gideon? Because I didn't tell you good-bye?”

“Claire, I—” He swallowed and tried again. “I—”

She waved a hand to silence him. “Don't. You don't have to say anything. I shouldn't have taken off like that. It was wrong. Cowardly.” She took a deep breath. “In truth, I was coming to see you.”

“You were?”

She stood up and paced the small living room, twisting her fingers. “To apologize,” she explained. Her amber gaze reached inside him and twisted his guts even tighter, bleeding his heart dry. “You've done so much for me, you deserved better than me taking off like that.”

Shit
. More gratitude. Gideon thought he might be sick. He didn't want her damned gratitude. She made it sound like he had provided some kind of service for her. Everything he had done was because he wanted to, because he had to…because he loved her.

“No,” Gideon pronounced, voice hard and firm. In two long strides he crossed the short distance separating them, grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her a little shake, “Stop being so goddamned grateful.” He dropped his forehead to hers and inhaled deeply. “I know you, Claire Morgan.”

Her wide eyes blinked at him, but she didn't say a word. He gave her another small shake, willing her to speak. “And you're not getting rid of me.”

He claimed her lips in a fierce kiss, as if he could kiss her into complying, into loving him. He came up once to repeat, “I know you.” He inhaled again before continuing. “And I can't live without you. I'll love you until the day I die.”

He waited for her to say something, anything, but she simply stared at him with those warm amber eyes. So different from the cold silver of before.

The eyes were different, but she wasn't.

“Well.” She paused to moisten her lips, saying softly, “If you know me so well, then you know my response.”

He felt himself frown. Uncertainty gnawed at him, but he spoke anyway, daring her to contradict him. “You love me.” If his words came out like a command, he didn't care. He wasn't letting her run off on him again. His voice grew more determined, insistent. “You're crazy about me. You can't live without me. You want to marry me.”

He held his breath as she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I do love you.” Lowering her head, she smiled, her cheeks turning pink as she added, “I'm so crazy about you I even do stupid things like run off in the middle of the night.”

Grinning, he reprimanded, “You better lose that habit quick.”

“And you,” she countered, tapping him on the chest, “better be serious about that proposal, 'cause I'm not letting you take it back.”

He pulled her flush against him. “Oh, I'm serious.”

Dipping his head, he bit the soft skin of her neck before kissing it gently. Cupping her backside, he pulled her tighter against him. She responded by growling low in her throat.

“Hey,” he muttered, teasing, “I thought you weren't a werewolf anymore.”

“Lycan,” she corrected.

He smiled against her mouth. “Semantics.”