The Last Hot Time (29 page)

"No."

"And you still, even now, cannot face the reason that I never asked anyone to do the thing."

"I don't know what that is."

"Yes, you do." Mr. Patrise stood up, leaned across the desk. "You can lie to Ginevra for as long as you like, Hallow, but you cannot lie to me. Not in my own house. Not about the fear of losing what you love with one, wrong, loving word."

Doc took a step backward, then another.

Patrise stood, walked toward his inner rooms. "Good night, Hallow. May it be pleasant."

"Good night, sir."

He waited for the elevator. When it arrived, Doc was startled by its occupant: a figure in a long dark cloak, hood raised.

"Good night, Doc," said a voice from within the hood, and the cloaked figure moved into the hall.

"Good night, Carmen," Doc said softly, as the doors closed.

The lights were on in his apartment. He started to throw his coat on a chair, then carefully removed the feather and carried it with him.

Ginny was sitting up on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her. She must have had the habit for years, but he had never seen her do it in front of anyone else. It was as if it were a pose just for him.

She was wearing one of his shirts, a few buttons done, and a

tight, very short skirt of silk black as her hair—no, it was a scarf, black and shining with stars, silk that nothing mortal could damage. He knew it well enough. It could only have passed as a gift. From one lonely woman to another.

She turned, just slightly. Leather cuffs cinched her wrists to her upper arms, high and tight against the sweet curve of her back. She leaned back, falling against the pillows; turned to look at him, her hair spilling out in a dark halo. Her eyes were luminous and endlessly deep.

She was strong, he knew that, but from that position there was no leverage; she was all but helpless. Unless he did something about it.

Doc felt himself stiffen, his own breathing grow thick.

Quietly but firmly, she said, "Call the turn, dealer."

Then he knew. If he ever demanded more power over her than she held from him in return, she would be gone. And as Lucius said, he would fade to dust.

The Wild Hunt was gathering, and he could not stop it. As if he wanted to.

So here was the chance to do something right. Not that he knew what it was. He only knew what he was going to do, to hold her as she would be held, tonight with leather and silk and heat and pressure: she was trusting him, as she had been all along, and he had to stop rejecting that trust. Whatever happened in the morning, he was the master of the house tonight. And the monster. And maybe even the hero.

He leaned over her, spoke into her ear. "I will never harm you," he said, "and you will not ever allow me to harm you. Understand?"

She nodded once, slowly.

"Then give me your safeword."

She shut her eyes tight and whispered it.

He stroked the feather across her lips. She pulled in a convulsive breath.

He bent to kiss her bound wrists. She sighed from deep down. Her cheek was hot to the touch.

Enough, perhaps, for the two of them to keep out the cold.