Circle of Fire (Damask Circle 1)

He pushed upright. She dropped the clothes next to him and walked into the bathroom. The soft rustle of clothing told her he was at least attempting to change. She hunted around in the cupboards, but couldn’t find any bandages. She’d have to go back out to the truck and get the first aid kit. Maddie glanced at her watch and gave Jon a fe

w more minutes before she walked back in.

The clothing was a whole lot tighter on him than it was on her. The T-shirt strained across the width of his shoulders, and the pants … well, they were tighter than his own jeans—if that was possible. She shook her head slightly. Where the hell was her mind? Jon was a stranger, a complete unknown. Yet she’d given him her bed and her clothes, and placed her trust in the fact that he meant her no harm. Had she learned nothing from the past?

His head came up suddenly, his eyes meeting hers. There was no deceit in that slightly unfocused gaze, no lies. And none of the contempt that had been all too evident in her husband’s gaze.

Jon reached out and gently caught her hand. His fingers were a warm, suntanned brown, and his palms were slightly callused. Totally the opposite of Brian’s … and why did she keep thinking of him? What was it about Jon that dredged up a past she’d much rather forget?

“Trust me, Madeline. I mean you no harm.”

Trust me, trust me. How often had she heard that? How frequently had it been the warning of trouble heading her way?

“I’ll have to go out to the car to get some bandages,” she said, jerking her hand out of his.

His gaze narrowed slightly. “Be careful.”

She gave him a tight smile. “I always am.” Very careful, very cautious. Because when she wasn’t, people died. “You rest. I won’t be long.”

She turned and walked quickly from the room.

FEAR SURROUNDED HIM—AN ACID CLOUD THAT STUNG HIS mind and forced him awake. Jon jerked upright and, for an instant, wondered where he was.

The morning sun peeped around the outer edges of the curtains, gilding the framed painting opposite the bed. He half smiled. He had to be at the inn—there couldn’t be many paintings around that used such appalling colors to depict a farmyard setting. Or many places that would hang them on their walls.

So why was Madeline in his room? And why was she so afraid?

He shoved the blankets aside and swung his feet out of the bed, then stopped, staring down at his legs. Speaking of appalling colors, why in hell was he wearing these sweatpants? They were Madeline’s—he could smell the lingering scent of roses. But what had happened to his clothes?

He couldn’t recall much about the latter half of last night, and what he did remember was a blurred nightmare he never wanted to repeat.

The fear swirled around him again. He rose too quickly and had to grab at the bedpost to remain upright. Although fast healing was a gift of his shapeshifting heritage, it would be a day or two yet before he would recover fully from this particular wound and the resulting blood loss. He took a deep breath, then padded quietly across the room.

“The room’s a shambles. Can’t you come back to fix the window later, Mr. Stewart?” Madeline’s voice stopped him near the bedroom door. There was nothing in her soft tones to indicate the fear he could almost taste.

“Hank,” the stranger replied. “And I’m afraid not. If I don’t do it now, it won’t get done for several days. Last night’s storm caused a bit of damage, I’m afraid.”

There was an underlying threat in the man’s tone, one that told him the stranger wouldn’t take no for an answer. But why was the man so determined to get into his room? And why didn’t he seem surprised to find Madeline here? Madeline’s fear jumped a notch. Maybe she could sense the unspoken menace in the stranger’s voice. She cleared her throat softly, then said, “Okay. But just give me a minute to straighten up.”

Until he knew who was responsible for shooting him, he couldn’t risk being seen. He’d put her in enough danger by simply asking her to rescue him. He walked across to the wardrobe and edged the door closed, leaving only a minute gap to see through. Madeline walked in a second later. Her gaze went to the bed, then swept quickly to the wardrobe. She smiled tightly and continued on to the window. Her hair was a tangled mess of ringlets that bounced with every movement. He’d been wrong about the color being chestnut. It was more a rich red-gold that hung down her back like a river of flame. The fluffy white sweater that hung to her thighs did nothing for the slender figure that had brushed against him last night and haunted his dreams. But at least her legs were clad in dark green leggings, not baggy old sweatpants—probably because he was wearing them.

She was, he thought with a slight smile, all color and energy and warmth, despite the fear that hung like a pall around her. The only outward sign of her tension was her hands, which were clenched by her side. Jon hoped she kept her gaze away from the stranger’s. Her eyes were too expressive. One look into their amber flame and the stranger would know she was hiding something—or someone.

The man who followed her into the room was big. Not tall, just built like a man who’d spent half his life lifting weights.

And he wasn’t the same Hank Stewart that Jon had seen pictures of several days before, although they looked enough alike to be brothers. Madeline opened the blinds, and sunlight streamed in. The stranger winced and stepped back into the living room. A second man brushed past him, carrying a toolbox and a small pane of glass.

Jon studied the man now passing himself off as the night manager. Was he merely light sensitive, or did he have a more sinister reason for hiding from the sun? Was he dealing with something as simple as a vampire?

The big man shifted, moving back to the doorway. The sunlight touched him and, for an instant, revealed a gaunt, weathered face and muddy-brown eyes that were as dead as stone. Jon blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by the open, friendly face of Hank Stewart.

The man wasn’t a vampire. Only the very ancient vampires could stand the touch of the sun, and the stranger certainly didn’t have the presence of something that old and powerful.

Yet a faint wisp of dark magic told him that the stranger wasn’t entirely human, either. He frowned. Scattered images ran through his mind—erratic memories of last night’s events. This man had been in his room then, too, and with him had been a shapeshifter. Could it have been the same shifter he’d seen in the forest? Surely a town as small as Taurin Bay couldn’t have more than one in the area?

The minutes ticked by slowly. Eventually, the repairman came out of the bathroom and gave Madeline a smile. “All fixed, ma’am.”

She nodded and crossed her arms, staring at the night manager. The man posing as Hank Stewart was frowning at the wardrobe. There was no real indication that he suspected Jon was hiding there, nothing more than a deepening of his frown before he turned away. Madeline followed the two men out of the room.