She stepped back inside minus his clothes. “A few more minutes and they’ll be ready. I can make coffee if you think that will help.”
“Coffee always helps.” He thought looking at her helped. “My head is pounding. Hurts like a son of a bitch.”
Instantly she looked sympathetic. “I can feel it,” she admitted as she filled a coffeepot. “There’s aspirin here in the first aid kit the rangers keep.” After putting the coffeepot on the stove, she rummaged through a bag that was just to the right of the bed, in a small, doorless closet. She brought him the aspirin and a glass of water.
While he washed down the medicine, her fingers slipped into his hair. His heart accelerated in a way he was beginning to associate with her. She had strong fingers, but she was gentle, stroking little caresses along his scalp, making him understand why cats purred. He had enough cat in him that he wanted to purr under her ministrations.
“No one’s ever done this for me before.” He was dying, so what the hell did he have to be embarrassed about? He could tell her anything.
“Done what?”
Her fingers never stopped moving, finding a rhythm and massaging deeper so that the jackhammer piercing his skull grew quiet.
“Taken care of me like this. I grew up on my own, finding my own way. I remember scrounging for food after my foster mother died. One of my teammates, Wyatt Fontenot, has a grandmother. We all call her Nonny. She was the first person who ever cooked a meal for me after that. She cooked for all of us, but she noticed if you liked a particular thing. She’d make that meal, and you knew she did it for you. She was the first after I lost my foster mother.” He kept his head down.
Her fingers kept moving. “So, you’re saying my meal wasn’t your first and you’ve already compared my cooking to hers.”
He was grateful she was turning to humor when he was revealing a very personal part of his past. He didn’t allow his memories to be painful. They were just facts to him and he treated them that way, but she had that compassion in her and wouldn’t view them the same way.
“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s what I’m saying. But you’re the first to ever have your fingers in my hair.”
“Really?” The note of surprise in her voice was genuine.
He glared up at her. “Woman, are you secretly calling me a liar?”
“I was thinking, if you hadn’t so abruptly ripped our connection to shreds, you would have known that this is another thing you should be charging for. Along with that list we’re making …”
“What list?” Her fingers were truly driving him crazy. They felt better than anything he could ever remember, yet they also wreaked havoc with his body—and his brain. He couldn’t think straight, which was why he had broken their connection.
“The list I was making of things you could charge for, so you would always know you had plenty of money. Things like just sitting there and allowing women to stare at you. You could charge more for actual touching, like this, the privilege of giving you a scalp massage.”
Laughter welled up. Real laughter. She was good for him. He hadn’t known he could want to laugh, let alone do it. The sound of it startled him. Deep. Raw. He laughed with conviction because this woman was treasure—pure gold. She thought he should be the one charging.
“You think it’s a privilege to give me a scalp massage?”
“Yes. Because you didn’t ask for it. You were reluctant to let me close to you. In any case, what is wrong with the women you were with, that they didn’t have their hands in your hair?”
“I wouldn’t let them. Modeling and all that. It went with the image, but I didn’t want their hands all over me.” Putting their hands in his hair had felt like the women were taking something from him. He couldn’t explain it to her, only that his sexual partners had felt grasping, trying to take the only thing he had left to him to earn a living—his looks. Later, when he had joined the GhostWalkers, habit had fed that weird revulsion. The feel of Shylah’s hands on him was completely singular and produced an entirely different emotion.
She didn’t reply but gave him a faint smile as she left him to get the coffee. He wanted to catch her wrist and pull her back to him, but he didn’t. He just watched her because he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“Stop staring at me.”
“I’m trying to decide if I’m having hallucinations and you’re really an angel—or witch. Either one, I can’t tell yet.”
“Given my personality, come down on the side of witch. There’s very little angelic about me. You were in my mind, you know.”
He wanted to be in her mind again. He liked being there. He liked her in his mind. He hadn’t really known he was lonely until she’d filled him with her presence. Then, when she wasn’t there, he’d felt bereft.
“Shylah, I intend to find a way to save your life. I don’t want you getting too close to me, especially when the symptoms start manifesting themselves. Wear a mask when you’re close.”
“We already talked about this and I made myself clear,” she said, her voice quiet. “There’s no sugar, so you’re going to have to drink it black.”
“Black is perfect, and you’re not listening to me. I’m telling you I’m going to save your life. You just have to cooperate a little bit.”
She turned to face him, her eyes going a dark chocolate and drifting slowly over his face. Very slowly and deliberately, she put his cup down on the counter. One foot in front of the other, she crossed the room to him.
“Shylah.” He said her name cautiously. She was so close now he could see those freckles scattered like kisses across her face.
She put a knee to the bed and leaned in, one hand curling around the nape of his neck, the other curving over his shoulder. Her mouth found his. His stomach knotted with tension. Blood rushed in a hot path straight to his groin. His mind screamed a warning. Shouted at him, warring with his body. His hands came up to grasp her, whether to push her away or pull her closer, he wasn’t certain.
Her lips were soft. Sinful. Temptation itself. Her tongue licked along the seam of his mouth, then she poured into his mind and it was the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced.
I’m with you. Every step of the way. Open your mouth.
He obeyed, but he didn’t know why. It was wrong, and she was taking away her last protection. Then her tongue stroked along his, a delicate dance, a promise that he would never be alone again. He wouldn’t die alone. She would be right there with him. Everything about it was wrong and he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. Every bit of iron will, every bit of discipline went right out the window.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her like she was his and had been for years. Like he was a man dying and she was his greatest love. He felt like she was. Shylah Cosmos. His only little peony. His delicate flower. Dependable. Long-lived. She’d tied her fate to his. Now, if he wanted to save her, he was going to have to figure out how to save himself.
5
Draden and Shylah approached the little hut that Agus Orucov and the Williams brothers had used while they were in the forest. The position of the small hut was perfect: It was set in a little clearing surrounded by trees, but the trees were far enough from the structure to allow for uninterrupted satellite access.
He wasn’t too worried that the MSS would find them—he was certain the terrorists would stay close to the river—but he wasn’t going to take chances. He’d already allowed Shylah to tie her fate irrevocably to his. He was crouched low in the brush, studying the hut, perfectly still, every muscle locked in place. He could have approached using the slow-motion movements of the leopard, but instead, he lifted his hand and touched his lips with his fingers.
He glanced to his side where his little peony was right there with him. She lay stretched out in the dirt, her gaze fixed intently on the hut. She had perfect lips. They were naturally pink and full, and she had a habit of making a little moue with them, which he loved. Now he’d tasted her. The best thing he’d ever
tasted in his life was homemade strawberry lemonade from the bayou. She had the faint taste of sass and sweet. Lethal and homey. The combination was deadly to a man like him.
Will you stop? There was a faint hint of laughter, but mostly exasperated embarrassment.
You kissed me, gave me that obsession. Now you’re just going to have to live with the consequences. That’s the way it works. You always have to pay the piper. You’ve got yourself a bona fide stalker.
She gave the mental equivalent of a sniff. I was the one doing the kissing. I think I turned the tables on you.
She had. It had been the last thing he’d expected from her. She was a little quirky, but very focused when she was onto something. She was also way out of his league. Classy. Beautiful. Smart. Funny. Every trait he could ever want, yet stubborn as hell. She wasn’t going to accept leadership or …