Move Me (4 page)

Dubhghall’s temperature rose a few more
degrees.

Possibly, Belle noticed him staring.
Releasing her hair, she hitched her thumb toward the room behind
her. When she spoke, her voice was thready from lack of air. “I’ll
just change into something more practical.”

If he hadn’t been pretending to be irascible
John Feeney, he’d have told her not to bother on his account. But
she was blushing sufficiently without him turning on the charm.
Unnerved by his continued silence, she spun jerkily around, stalked
into the room she’d indicated, and shut the door crisply behind
her.

Dubhghall smiled to himself. No man could
mind flustering a woman that lovely.

Freed from her observation, he stepped into
the largest of the three bedrooms, presuming this to be the dead
uncle’s. Silently and swiftly, he opened and closed bureau drawers,
knowing he might not have long to search until Belle returned. To
his dismay, the drawers were empty. Finally, at the back of the
highest shelf in the closet, he found a lidded box. Inside was a
pale blue baby book belonging to the recently almost-departed
Isaiah Bennington-Luckes.

Dubhghall turned the pages quickly, taking
mental snapshots of the photos and captions as he went. Isaiah
hadn’t had as many nicknames as were ideal - perhaps he hadn’t been
an endearing child? - but he’d had enough to serve. The extra last
name was a windfall, as was his middle name of Lewis. Best of all,
in a special pocket at the end of the padded book, Dubhghall found
a little envelope containing one curled lock of Isaiah’s baby
hair.

In a twinkling, the envelope and the lock
disappeared into Dubhghall’s breast pocket. Baby hair was golden
for doing spells. No faerie mother would dream of leaving it
around. Faerie mothers kept what keepsakes they wished from their
children hidden in containers like magic walnut shells. Humans
guarded nothing, for which Dubhghall was thankful. His future
escape had just gotten easier.

All this he accomplished in under five
minutes. By the time Belle returned, wearing what he’d learned were
“sweats” in Resurrection, he was separating the stuck paint on
Isaiah’s windows with a box cutter. Firmly banging the frame with
the side of his fists resulted in a pair of sashes that slid
smoothly up and down.

Dubhghall enjoyed a flush of satisfaction.
He’d solved Belle’s first challenge without magic. Hercules himself
could not have claimed more.

“Well,” she said. “That was quick. Want to
take a look at the shower?”

A manly grunt seemed the best response.

She preceded him to the bathroom, where a
white plastic shower curtain surrounded a claw foot tub. Belle
spared him some confusion by turning the taps herself, to
demonstrate the shower’s faulty functioning.

“The holes might be blocked by mineral
salts,” she said. “I have something I think will clean it, but I
don’t know how to take the showerhead off.”

“Ayuh,” Dubhghall said, one finger scratching
his bristly cheek. He set his toolbox on the old-fashioned penny
tile. He was feeling strange in the close quarters, too aware of
the human female’s body heat next to him. The increased heaviness
of his groin warned him he was getting an erection. Belle wore the
baggy gray outfit now, but that didn’t seem to matter. She smelled
nice, and her eyes were the murky green of a churning river, her
cheeks and lips rosy from the blood rising into them. His erection
strengthened, and he registered his own scent rising.

Letting that happen wasn’t a good idea.

His kind produced a substance other races
called faerie dust. Similar to a flower and its bee-attracting
pollen, the essence lured useful beings to them. As was the case
for bees, humans could get drunk on it, not coincidentally lowering
their barriers to spell craft. To cap the matter, ephor was a mild
aphrodisiac. The fact that he smelled the spicy-sweetness suggested
it wasn’t inert in the mundane world.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d start
sparkling.

Of course, being careful probably didn’t
include locking eyes with Belle Hobart.

His stare was affecting her. Her cheeks
flushed a deeper red, her full lips parting for quickened breaths.
Her response kicked off a vicious cycle. The more aroused she grew,
the stiffer his prick became, until it pressed his zipper hard
enough to hurt.

“Gosh, you smell good,” she burst out.

He grabbed her face in both hands and kissed
her.

Pleasure exploded in his mouth and palms. How
long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? Not since he’d started
running from Mor a year ago, he thought. With no reason to keep up
his guard here, he shoved Belle into the wall beside the doorway.
His customary coordination must have been shot. Her shoulder
inadvertently knocked the light switch off.

That was fine. Darkness heightened the
senses. He felt her writhing under him all the better, heard the
broken moans that caught in her throat. The arms she wrapped around
him were tight and strong, her body deliciously springy under his.
Dubhghall pushed her long legs wider with one thigh, driving his
tongue into her warm mouth. The eagerness with which she sucked him
back made his scalp tingle. He rolled his hips more firmly to her,
groaning at the pressure of her softness against his aching
cock.

Sudden, her baggy sweatpants seemed like a
blessing.

She moaned as he kissed a trail down her long
smooth neck. He nuzzled the pulse that raced at its base,
momentarily envious of vampires. Unable to take her in that way, he
slid his hands to her bottom, where she had more flesh than at her
bosom. Dubhghall squeezed her butt with relish, growling in
approval at the way her curves gave.

Belle must have liked that too. The scent of
female arousal spiked higher than faerie dust.

“God,” she gasped, her hips rocking hard to
his.

Dubhghall sucked in his breath at the jolt of
sensation that spread outward from his crotch. He shifted his hands
to slide under the soft sweatpants.

Belle stiffened like a board.

“No,” she said, shoving at his chest. “You
shouldn’t - We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Dubhghall’s lust-addled mind took a moment to
get the message, but he let go of her. His knees weren’t as steady
as they should have been; it
had
only been a kiss. He took
comfort in the fact that Belle was breathing unevenly when she
flipped the light switch back on.

“Look,” she said. “I know your wife running
off on you was crappy, but you can’t just jump into this with
me.”

“I’m not married,” he said firmly, which was
the honest truth.

“So you’re recently divorced and rebounding.
I broke up with someone not long ago. I know a person’s judgment
isn’t the greatest right after that.”

Despite the inconvenience to his pounding
hard-on, he liked the way she said this: as if she cared for both
their well being. The objection was one neither he nor any fae he
knew would have made. If faeries wanted, they took. If someone was
hurt in the process, it usually wore off. Deep hurts were
unpleasant, but at least they were rare.

Belle didn’t like the idea of hurt. Her
beautifully shaped brows were puckered with worry above her nose.
Oddly touched, he stroked a strand of silken hair behind her ear.
“What man would be stupid enough to leave you?”

She tossed her head haughtily. “Maybe I ended
it with him.”

“If he didn’t please you, that was wise. A
female like you deserves only the best lovers.”

He supposed this wasn’t something John Feeney
would have said, or maybe she was unaccustomed to compliments. She
squinted suspiciously as she stepped away, smoothing her hair over
the same path he’d touched.

“I’ll leave you to your business,” she said,
her green eyes narrowed.

Dubhghall fought an urge to smile. “Maybe you
could bring me coffee. So I’ll stay alert.”

Her snort told him this seemed more in
character to her. “I’ll bring you coffee, but only because I’d like
some too. Unlike some people, I didn’t learn my manners at the
zoo.”

He did smile when she stumped down the
stairs. Her departure was useful for more than entertaining him.
First, he could figure out how to remove the showerhead without
fumbling in front of her. Second, he wanted to add a little
something to the repair - nothing coercive, just a small spell to
tempt her farther into his net. What he needed from her, he
couldn’t steal. By fae law, it had to be won freely. He was glad
seducing her would be no hardship. Earning humans’ affections
wasn’t half as pleasant when you felt no pull to them.

His survey of the old pipes taken, Dubhghall
opened John Feeney’s toolbox to fish for what he needed. The ease
with which the showerhead succumbed to his assault pleased him, as
did the sound of Belle banging in the kitchen. She had spirit - not
to mention the sort of passion he most enjoyed for love play.

He was whistling before he remembered he had
no business liking her.

~

Belle was so shaken by John’s kiss that she
ground her precious New York City coffee beans into a nearly atomic
powder.

“Sheesh,” she muttered, snapping out of her
distraction to shut off the grinder.

The man had kissed her was all. Yes, there’d
been tongue and, yes, his strong hands had felt great on her, but
Belle was no lamb to be reduced to quivers by someone palming her
butt.

Don’t forget his boner
, she
reminded.

When he’d rolled it against her, it had been
as long and thick as she’d imagined.

The basket to Uncle Lucky’s old percolator
fell from her butter fingers and clattered on the floor. Thorough
irritated, Belle picked it up and forced herself to concentrate on
the task at hand.

When the coffee was ready, she sugared and
creamed her own, debated within herself, then did the same to
John’s with a lighter hand. If he preferred it black, he could make
it himself. He
looked
like someone who’d take it black, but
she’d stubbornly doctored it anyway.

It occurred to her, as she carried both mugs
upstairs, that John Feeney’s presence had an upside. Annoying
though he was, she hadn’t thought about her uncle’s eerily glowing
workshed since the handyman arrived.

She found him standing in the claw foot tub,
already fitting the showerhead back where it belonged. He was tall
enough to do this without a ladder, though the extension of his
arms and torso did make a fine picture. He’d rolled up the cuffs of
his flannel shirt, baring corded male forearms.

Belle didn’t think she’d ever seen a pair
that sexy.

“I unclogged it,” he said, twisting his head
to her.

Belle told herself his quick completion of
the job wasn’t disappointing her.

“Here,” she said, thrusting his mug toward
him.

He climbed out of the tub and took it, moving
into the hall with her. Totally at ease, he leaned one solid
shoulder on the wall, lifted the mug, and drank. His eyebrows rose
in surprise.

“This is great.” He took another swallow.
“Creating a brew this tasty requires talent.”

He said
talent
like it had a capital
T
. Belle couldn’t decide if she was vexed or pleased that
she’d made it the way he liked.

“I’m glad you approve,” she said tartly.
“Coffee is about the only thing I cook besides grilled cheese
sandwiches and scrambled eggs.”

“Is that so?” He eyed her over the rim, a
slight smile playing around his lips. Did he think she was implying
she’d cook for him - as in, invite him to stay over through
breakfast?

With some effort, Belle bit back a sharp
retort. The possibility existed that she was oversensitive.

John took a stab at easing the tension,
gesturing his mug at their surroundings. “I suppose your uncle was
attached to this place.”

“Very,” she acknowledged, her shoulders
relaxing marginally. “You’re a local, so I guess you know he was a
shut-in.”

“Eccentric,” John suggested, the teensiest
bit of sympathy in his eyes.

“Who isn’t?” Belle agreed wryly. “Uncle Lucky
believed in some funny things.” She shivered at the memory of the
raspy voice she’d heard in the attic. Could the whisper have
belonged to her relative? Assuming she’d really heard anything, of
course.

“I gather he was a reader.”

“A big one. Not that reading makes people
weird, but his library includes some quirky books.”

“He must have kept records. Of his thought
processes and like that.”

Belle stopped sipping her coffee to shoot her
companion a sharp look. Why was a handyman curious about this?

“That sort of thing fascinates me,” he said.
“The mental tracks people follow when they’re isolated. They stop
thinking the way everyone else does.”

Okay, so he was a handyman with an interest
in psychology. Or maybe he knew this from personal experience. His
wife and kids taking off might have made him feel isolated. Small
towns could create a sense of fish-bowl self-consciousness.
Everywhere you went, everybody knew your story.

He didn’t seem self-conscious as he looked at
her. His eyes were calm, his posture confident in the way of men
who knew they were hot. Under that steady gaze, Belle’s body warmed
from more than the coffee. As if he sensed this, John’s eyes
darkened. Her fingers tightened on her mug handle.

“Are you free to come back tomorrow?” she
asked, the need to send him packing before she did something stupid
only part of what lay behind her question.

“I am,” he said, the words oddly formal.
“Your yard needs clearing, and the shingles on your roof are
cupped.”

Belle assumed this was bad. “Does my roof
need replacing?”

“I’ll have to look at it,” he said
gravely.

She should have minded that idea. Belle
wasn’t poor, but a repair like that had to cost. She had a mental
flash of John, shirtless and sweaty, tacking shingles onto her
slanted roof.