Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“Did you? Is there something wrong?”

“Not that I know of.” He spread his hands. “I was just making conversation.”

“Oh. Right.” I shuffled my feet. “Thanks again for seeing her.”

“My job and my pleasure. She’s a neat old lady.”

I warmed at the description. She was.

> “Did you still want to go out to dinner?”

He seemed so out of place wearing a suit and tie in my eighties-style peach and teal kitchen. I’d run out of remodeling money a long time ago. His ring reflected the overhead light, flashing silver even though it was gold. His feet were bare; he’d kicked his sandals off at the door.

I think it was the feet that got me—long, slim, tan. They made me want to take off my shoes, too, along with everything else. I crossed the room and kissed him.

I needed to get to work, but right now I needed this more. From the way he kissed me back, he did, too.

My fingers tangled in his hair, the sweep of the strands, the braid, the feather over my wrists made me shudder in anticipation. What would that feather feel like drifting over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs? I intended to find out.

I backed away; he reached out, then stopped, clenched his fingers, and let his arms fall slowly to his sides. “I’ll go. You’re tired.”

“Do I look tired?”

“No.” He moved closer, his gaze wandering over my face, staring at me as if I were fascinating. “You look ... amazing.”

I smiled.

“That balm really worked.”

My smile faded, but he didn’t notice.

“I wasn’t sure it would.” He began to pat his jacket, his pants pockets. “I have to make a note. Check Quatie in the next few days and see if the results are the same.”

I saw now why he’d warned me about forgetting things. Give him a medical miracle and he was in another world. I couldn’t blame him, but now was not the time.

Taking his hand, I led him toward the stairs.

Chapter 17

He had the good sense to keep quiet as we climbed to the second floor and entered my room. Once there I pulled off my gun belt, unloaded my Glock, and shoved everything into a drawer.

I turned, expecting him to be stripped to the skin. Instead he stood in the doorway staring. I had used most of my remodeling money here.

We’d walked into a forest—or at least that was the impression I’d wanted to convey. The walls, the bedspread, the heavy curtains were green, with detailing that made them seem like long, swaying blades of grass. The carpet held the blue of a mountain lake reflecting a sunlit sky. I’d bought sheets and pillowcases in a muted violet, the same shade as a lily pad. A miniature fountain in the corner spread the peaceful sound of running water.

“You must sleep right through the night in a place like this.”

The way Ian said it made me think he didn’t sleep through the night often. Some people didn’t. My dad had been one. He’d wandered the house at all hours, making it extremely difficult for me or any of my brothers to sneak out. When we were kids we’d thought he did it on purpose, but now I realized he’d been troubled—by my mother’s desertion, the stress of raising five kids on his own, the job, probably all three.

Then, just when he and I were starting to get along, bonding over the job in a way we’d never bonded over anything else, he’d died on me. Massive coronary, just like Claire’s father. My dad had been older than hers by at least twelve years, me being the youngest and Claire being the only. However, Dad had shared with Jeremiah Kennedy not only a close friendship but also a deep love for booze, cigarettes, and red meat. However, I didn’t want to think about my father, or anything else, right now.

“Shut the door,” I said.

When the door closed, this room became an island, filled with the sight and sound and scent of serenity. I pulled candles out of the nightstand, fumbled a bit for a match. A soft glow swirled through the room—the forest beneath a murky moon.

Ian took a deep breath. “Grass, water.” He frowned and breathed in again. “The air right after a thunderstorm. Where did you get those candles?”

“My great-grandmother made them.”