Be Still My Heart (3 page)

She’d been sliding a hand along his vest, wrinkling the brocade with each stroke while unfastening each little button. And she hadn’t even noticed.

“You really do talk too much,” she informed him.

“Re-educate me.”

“Are you British?”

“What? You’re calling me a Brit now? Those are fighting words, lady.”

“You have an accent.”

“What you hear is full Irish. Fourth generation. I’m surprised you couldn’t already tell by the red hair, freckles and light blue eyes.”

Sasha looked him over. Red hair? Not anymore. It was a dark chestnut color, a little long, thick, and felt like silk in her fingers. There wasn’t a freckle anywhere on his face, either. He was mistaken over the eyes, as well. They didn’t look light blue. Emotion must change them to thunder-storm dark, especially as he’d narrowed them in what appeared to be real anger. Something deep within her responded, with a thump resembling a heartbeat, and that got followed by more of them, pumping color into her cheeks and warmth everywhere. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever felt. She sat atop him, holding to his vest, all the while reverberating with a rhythm that seemed to come from both of them.

Amazing. Supreme
. She wanted more. Lots more.

Sasha opened her senses to devour as much of him as possible, hauling him up from the seat and wrapping her arms about him to absorb every bit of his essence. Exactly as he was doing to her. With the same intensity. Flame-like flickers of light lit along her limbs, firing in cadence with their conjoined breathing, getting more strident and more urgent. Deeper. Fuller. His mouth met hers, his lips parted, and when his tongue flicked against hers, she almost liquefied into shivering, quivering, wanton female, as every bit of her fought to reach as much of him as possible.

He wasn’t frightened. And he wasn’t idle. She’d recognized hard muscle and deeply defined abs beneath those clothes, and when ripping accompanied the unfastening of his shirt, she got fingers full of hard belly, chest, shoulders, and upper arms. This mate of hers wasn’t thin and awkward and gangly at all. Oh no. He was long and lean and meshed so well against her, it was absolute perfection. Sasha couldn’t get enough. Breath touched her cheeks, lips mashed against hers; sliding with the infusion of fluids they shared. His blood tasted of ambrosia so sweet, the heartbeat within her stuttered before going to a strident boom. A moan echoed through the enclosure, and it wasn’t from his throat.

And then a thumb grazed the shirt atop her nipple bringing the memory of everything those guards had done. They’d torn her clothing, they’d beat her, and then they’d raped her. They’d widened their brutal net to include her entire family. Sasha pulled away from Stuart with a snarl of pain and shoved him back into the seat. She slapped a hand toward his throat. He caught it. She sent the other one jabbing toward his chest, claws out. He caught that one, too. He glared at her with a mixture of crazed lust and surprise, and when she lunged against him, he caught that move as well. They stayed that way, her left arm held above her head, her right one spiked with claws - ready to slam through his chest cavity to reach his heart and make certain he watched as she squeezed it. Precisely as she’d done to every single one of the men who’d raped her and her sisters and left them for dead.

“
Chyort voz’mi!”

The curse burst from her. Nothing changed. Sasha willed her hand to cooperate and punish this man for daring to touch her. Nothing. Stuart was watching with unreadable blue eyes. Unmoving. Wary. For the longest time he just watched her, his breath held for a duration of time only a swimmer could manage, while just a hint of blood smear glimmered on thoroughly kissed lips. Still nothing worked. She couldn’t kill him and she knew it. He really was her mate.

The claws slowly retracted, the hands clamped about her wrists loosened, and when she pulled away from him to the opposite seat, he didn’t stop her. But he did send the largest huff of breath into the space between them.

“Well. That was… Well.”

He was speaking to the tops of his shoes, easily visible with his pants hitched up like they were. That looked to be all of the clothing he still wore. She didn’t know where his jacket and vest had gone, and what had once been an expensive shirt looked like rags attached to his wrists by the still-buttoned cuffs. She didn’t dare look down to see what her attire looked like. The torn skirt and bare foot where an elegant pump should be were enough evidence.

“You want to tell me what just happened? No. Forget that. It’s obviously a manifestation of alternate reality I’ve decided to dream about.”

“You still think you’re dreaming?” she asked.

“I sure as hell hope so. This is a bit far-fetched, otherwise.”

“Is it?”

He pulled the remnants of his shirt over his shoulders, giving her a fathomless look the entire time. Then he started putting buttons through their holes before he spoke again. Sasha didn’t interrupt. It was too visual. And there wasn’t much left of his shirt to cover him.

“You ask that when I just man-handled you?”

She smiled and watched as it looked like his entire body pulsed. It made her voice come out sultry and warm, without one hint of forcing it. “Looks more like you got woman-handled, Doctor Findlay.”

He pouted slightly, drawing her eye to the bulge of budding fangs. She wondered if he noticed.

“Fair enough. We’ll call it a draw. But even on my best days, I didn’t have the strength of three men, the speed of a ninja, and the attractiveness of a world-class stud.”

“You do now.”

“You see? Far-fetched.” He had his shirt placket fastened and was patting the seat beside him. “Have you seen my glasses?”

“You didn’t bring them.”

“You mean
you
didn’t bring them. It completely slipped your mind that I’d need them when you tossed me over your shoulder like a side of beef. That’s what you mean.”

Sasha shrugged.

“Fine. No toothbrush. No razor. No glasses. Total spontaneity. That’s what this dream is about, isn’t it? A complete collapse of my anal retentive tendencies.”

“Anal what?”

His chin lowered. “My control issues. I have it on good authority that I worry excessively. Make redundant lists. Pre-plan every move. Refuse to delegate. Match every suit down to the socks before hanging it. Speaking of…where is my tie? Now, just hold it right there.”

He’d been using his index finger on the fingers of his other hand, as if counting each point made. She’d never seen anything as appealing. And he’d known of it. His warning stopped her before she even made the move.

“Why?”

“Because there’s something decidedly unnerving about this little dream I’m having. If you’re not careful I’m going to need an acetaminophen. And we both know how you feel about that.”

“It’s really quite simple, Doctor.”

“Define simple.”

He was shuffling through the remnants of his vest and coat, before deciding they weren’t salvageable. Sasha considered him for long moments, feeling her newly-awakened heartbeat match to his, while a smile toyed at her lips again. And then she just told him.

“I’m a vampire.”

He stopped fussing over the two halves that now comprised his vest and looked over at her.

“Oh. Of course you are. And here I just thought you were a sadist.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Of course I don’t. I should, but there you go. I’m beginning to think this is a psychotic breakdown rather than a dream, too…and that’s a severe shame because I was really enjoying it.”

“Stuart.”

The name came out in a low, throaty purr of sound she’d perfected back in the 40’s with a three-pack a day smoking habit that hadn’t changed a thing about immortality. Sasha winced slightly. All it really did was make her wardrobe, rooms, and person smell. She’d quit and didn’t miss it. She watched him flush and swallowed hard on the instant need to taste again.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

“Don’t…what?” Her voice trembled, matching her frame. She quashed it.

“No more jumping on Doctor Findlay until we get some rules established. That’ll be Rule Number One.”

“Rules?”

“Ground rules. And we’re starting with clothing. Rule Two. I bought this suit at Mack’s. In New York. It was expressly fit to me. You’re replacing it.”

“With pleasure.” She watched a nerve tighten in his cheek. That just stretched the skin around the little fangs he’d sprouted.

“No. Not with pleasure. With real dollars.”

“I’m attending the fittings.” She drew out each word and watched him flinch. It started the oddest tingle through her spine. She stifled that, too.

“Oh no. That is not allowed. Rule Three.”

“Just try and stop me.”

“See? There’s another rule I need. Why is there a figment of my imagination in this psychotic breakdown that argues with me? I have students for that.”

“You teach?”

“All right. You win. If I actually showed some ambition and used any of my degrees, I’d teach. Then I’d have students that argue with me. Must you bring up all my failings? Within an hour of meeting?”

“Two hours,” she replied.

He sighed, the speaker buzzed beside his head, and he jumped. And that brought another flush of color to his cheekbones. Sasha moved her attention to Vaughn’s words, rather than the immediate urge to pounce.

“Six thirty-four. Right on time. Hangar three-oh-five. We’ve been cleared to take off as soon as you’re both aboard.”

“Very good. Has Doctor Findlay’s wardrobe arrived?”

“Exactly as specified.”

“Thank you, Vaughn.”

The intercom clicked off. Stuart had lowered his chin and was giving her what was probably a dark look. He looked masculine, virile, and absolutely wonderful. Sasha licked her lips and watched his gaze flick away, and that’s all the leeway she needed. She just had to be sneaky and quick. And hope the leather seats didn’t give away her arrival right beside him, where she could focus with absolute hunger on the pulse beating in his neck, where a tie would’ve interfered.

“You could’ve told me earlier about the wardrobe. I wouldn’t have made such a fuss over a toothbrush.”

“Stuart.”

Her whisper touched his throat a moment before her fangs did. And if the car hadn’t stopped then, she’d have finished turning him.

“Whoa. Now, that’s more like it.”

Stuart whistled as he stopped in the door, taking in thick carpeting, drape covered walls, soft recessed lighting, swiveling theatre chairs, assorted small tables, and one enormous projection screen that kept him from seeing anything farther.

“What?”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Truly?”

Her voice had a choked note in it. He walked right past where she was sitting.

“Oh yeah. Totally. Just look at that screen. Do we get satellite reception? Why am I asking? Of course we do. Now, this is much more like it.”

“You’re talking of the…television?”

Her voice sounded flat and that should’ve warned him. If he was any kind of a ladies’ man, it would have. Which was patently ridiculous. He couldn’t have dreamed a woman into being if she harbored the usual feminine sensitivities. He’d been accused by his last girlfriend of failing to notice that females had sensitivities at all. Technically, he couldn’t even consider Lacy a girlfriend. She was more a blind date that had actually agreed to meet with him twice. To give him another chance. Or so she’d said.

Stuart selected one of the chairs and fell into it, feeling leather wrap about him, as subtly and gently as his bed did. And then he was swiveling in place and checking cabinets.

“If I’m having a psychotic break-down, the least I could do is dream a theater room like this. I suppose we have surround sound, too. The only thing missing is the cold beer. Or Scotch. Bugger that. Where’s the remote?”

“Why?”

Sounded like that word came from between set teeth. Stuart glanced at her before resuming his search.

“Because this is the most perfect dreamscape I could’ve imagined. Except for the fact I get airsick, of course. And the secondary fact I can’t find a remote. And fact three, it’s darn chilly without my coat. Oh. But that’s right. You’ve got my wardrobe secreted in here somewhere, don’t you?”

Stuart was on his feet and around the screen in the next second, noting absently how quickly he moved and how graceful it felt. He let the observation go. For now. The hall behind the screen was drape-lined, lit by the same recessed lighting, and had two doors on either side, and ended in a double set of doors with very large handles.

“The left.”

His head heard it, but he wasn’t certain his ears did. Stuart shrugged and opened the door on the left and struck masculine gold. The chamber was enormous…for a plane. Then again, he hadn’t seen the size of this jet. He’d been rushed up the stairs, too embarrassed at his shredded clothing to look anything over. Besides, she’d been right in front of him with that pencil-skirt covered ass right at his chin level.