"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.
He leaned forward and kissed her sweet mouth—softly, seductively. “I cannot,” he whispered, his lips so close to hers he could taste her every breath.
"I am not who you think I am,” she said, her voice a husky whisper that tore at his resolve.
"I do not know who you are,” he replied, stepping back. This time, she didn't try to stop him. “Right now, I'm not sure of anything more than the fact that Dunleavy is out there, and I have to find him."
"Dunleavy will find us."
"Perhaps he will. But for tonight, it's best if I continue my search. You will be safe enough here alone." For one brief second, he allowed himself the pleasure of simply looking at her, letting his gaze travel down the long length of her neck, taking in her small but perfectly formed breasts, the sharpness of her breathing, the thunder of her heart.
He had a sudden image of loving her, of losing himself to pleasure deep inside her, feeling the warmth and love and hunger of her response. The fierceness of his own response. He clenched his fists against the need to reach out, to make the image a reality. He quickly turned away, leaving behind both her and the emotions she seemed to raise.
The woman was definitely a witch. There was no other explanation for what was happening between them.
Was there?
He wasn't sure, and that was perhaps the most frightening aspect of this entire night.
* * * *
Nikki took a deep breath and somehow resisted the urge to scream in frustration. She wanted Michael so badly she ached, yet at the same time, part of her rejoiced at his resolve. He wasn't seeing her, but Seline, and despite the intense attraction, he was resisting. She wanted to think it was just as much an innate desire to remain faithful to her , to the love they shared, as much as the deep down knowledge that he and Seline had never been lovers.
She would have to crack his resolve soon, if she was to have any hope of breaking the pattern of events. She should've pushed more tonight—and would have, if it hadn't been for the spell and the horrible affect it seemed to have on him.
She'd felt his pain—it had been nothing more than an echo of heat running through the link between them, but still the pain had been bad. But it was the look on his face, and his violent reaction, that told her how bad.
She yawned hugely, leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. He was right about one thing—she needed to sleep. It had been a long, frustrating, and very tiring day, and she had a feeling tomorrow wouldn't be any better.
But she couldn't go to sleep just yet. Not until she'd investigated the house belonging to the ranger known as Jimmy. If he was dead in his house, it had to mean he'd invited Dunleavy into his home. While she wasn't absolutely certain Dunleavy had a telepathic link with everyone who wore his spells, she couldn't risk the fact that he didn't, either. She had to presume he'd know, sooner or later, that the big man had told her about Jimmy. Had to presume that if there was evidence there to find, he'd make sure it was quickly destroyed.
She pushed away from the wall and did up her shirt as she made her way out to the main room. After digging out a jacket from her pack, she pulled it on and headed out the door. She didn't bother locking it. The only two people likely to come here right now were the only two people not likely to be stopped by locks. She just had to hope the threshold would stop Dunleavy, if not Kinnard. The night air was colder than it had seemed half an hour ago. Or maybe it was simply a matter of her still being overheated. She shivered and shoved her hands into her pockets as she made her way down the steps and up the dusty road to the house on the corner.
The light still burned brightly, shining out the windows like a beacon. She glanced at the door, then moved to a side window and peered inside.
The room was small and neat, the cream-colored walls bare of decoration. There were a couple of wooden chairs sitting around an old table, and to one side of that, a leather sofa. She shifted a little and saw the TV. Buffy the Vampire Slayer , she thought, and smiled at the odd appropriateness of it. The sound was turned down, however, and she couldn't see anyone watching the show. She pulled away, letting her gaze roam across the darkness. The sensation that the night had eyes rippled across her skin, yet she couldn't actually sense anyone out there. Not that she would if the barrier was preventing the psychic talents she'd long depended upon from working. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it wasn't.
She pushed up the sleeves of her coat, ensuring she had easy access to the knives strapped to her wrists. Then she walked around to the front door and tested the handle. It wasn't locked.
"Hello?” she said, as she pushed the door open.
No one answered—not that she expected anyone to, even if there was anyone alive in the house. She listened to the silence for a moment, then stepped inside.
The smell hit her immediately. It was the smell of death. The smell of decay. She closed her eyes, fighting the instinct to just turn around and leave. She'd seen death plenty of times before, and nothing she'd see here was likely to be as bad as what she'd seen in the whorehouse earlier tonight. Dunleavy had been out to shock her, for whatever sick reason. But here it would be a calculated death, a death designed either as a booster for his own strength or that of his dark Gods. She walked over to the TV. The back of the unit was hot, indicating it had been running for some time. She switched it off and walked across to the sofa. The newspaper sitting on the sofa was Wednesday's news, and the coffee cup sitting on the floor was half filled with congealed milk. Her gaze drifted to the doorway to her right. Death waited for her down that small hall, and there was no use putting off the discovery. Not if she wanted to get some sleep tonight. She'd barely taken three steps into the hall when the sense of wrongness hit her. She froze, listening to the silence, to the creaks of the old house, to the sound of her own breathing. And knew she was no longer alone.