"If Dunleavy had been near me, I'd have killed him. Or he would have killed me."
"Really? So how long have you been in Hartwell?"
"Four days?"
"And how did you get here?"
He frowned. He couldn't honestly say. Just as he couldn't say how he got the bullet wound. “What has this got to do—"
"Everything,” she cut in. “Dunleavy wants you here for the same reason he wants me here. You and I killed his brother. He wants his revenge, but he also wants to bring his brother back to life, and to do that, he needs a certain sequence of events and the main players in place. You and me." Her words were nonsense. Utter nonsense...
Yet, memories stirred. An image of this blonde, a knife held high above her head as lightning arced around her. An image of that knife plunging down, deep down, into Dunleavy's chest. The spew of blood that faded into the images of two men—one long and lanky, and the other bald and thick set, like a boxer. Men he'd seen here, in Hartwell, and somewhere else. Somewhere he should remember, but couldn't. Pain hit him then—searing, blinding pain—and suddenly he was falling to his knees as fire burned into his shoulder and blood pulsed down his arm and spread like a river across the pavement... Darkness surged, taking his sight, trying to take his mind. He hissed, closing his eyes, fighting the darkness, fighting the pain.
"Michael.” Her voice was soft, insistent. He couldn't see her, but the fire and the darkness weren't stopping her voice. Nor did it take the flame of her touch as her hands pressed into his shoulders, as if she tried to hold him down and hold him still. “You have to fight the spell. You have to remember."
"Remember what?” he ground out. “That Dunleavy killed the woman I loved? I remember that, and I will kill him for it."
"Did you truly love Christine?"
"Yes.” No . He'd cared, as much as he could care about anyone these days. But Dunleavy had taken her life, and for that, Dunleavy would pay. “What does it matter to you?"
"Christine has been dead for close to a century, Michael. It is not her death you mourn."
"No?” He laughed harshly. “Woman, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? What does Christine look like?"
"Brown hair, warm amber eyes, slender—"
"Really? And here I was thinking Christine had black hair and green eyes." He frowned, trying to shake off the darkness, the pain, the impact of her words. “No—"
"Yes."
" No.” He pushed her away violently, heard a thump and slight gasp of pain. Her pain hit him like a club, filling him with remorse, filling him with anger. But with her closeness gone and her words silenced, the blackness receded. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. She was in the hall, struggling to rise. Her gaze met his, amber eyes filled with wariness and anger. Yet, oddly enough, he sensed that her anger wasn't aimed at him.
She puffed out her cheeks, expelling air, and wiped a hand across her forehead. It was then he saw the lump, and the bruise already beginning to darken her fair skin. Cursing his own carelessness, he rose and walked over to her. “I'm sorry,” he said, offering her a hand.
“I did not mean to lash out at you."
"Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his, “you did." He grimaced and helped her rise. He didn't release her hand immediately, because he suddenly needed her touch like a drunk needed his next drink, and her hand was safer than anything else. “Well, yes, but it wasn't so much at you, as at the pain."
"That's the spell inked onto your back at work. He doesn't want you to remember anything more than what he's given you."
"Even if I believe everything you say, how would my remembering what happened affect Dunleavy's plans?"
She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily. “I honestly don't know." There were dark shadows under her eyes and redness in them. He touched a hand to her cheek, gently running his finger down to the lips he longed to sample again. “Perhaps you should sleep. We can talk more in the morning."
Her gaze searched his for a moment, and a sweet smile touched her mouth. “I don't want to sleep alone tonight."
Her breath whispered across his hand, her lips warm and moist against his fingertips. The scent of cinnamon and honey and life teased both his senses and his memories, but those memories remained tantalizingly out of reach.
"I cannot,” he said softly, releasing her hand and stepping back. “It would not be right." With little more than a fingertip against his chest, she stopped his retreat and drew him back just as easily. “Why wouldn't it be right? It's what I want, and it's what you want."
"I came here to avenge Christine. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You avenged Christine long ago. This is about you and me, nothing else." The pulse at her neck was little more than a wild flutter, a rhythm that called to the darkness in him. A rhythm that called to the man. Her nipples were pebbles pressing against his chest, her skin so warm that sweat formed where their bodies brushed.
He wanted her, there was no denying that. But he'd spent a lifetime denying desire, and this was no different than the need for blood. He might want her, but it wasn't right to take her. Still ... He wasn't made of stone. He was flesh and blood, and even after all these years, there were some desires that could not be completely repressed.