Blood Shadows (40 page)

Her breath caught in her throat.

Dear God, he was stunning!

Not even real.

It was almost painful to look at him, and she struggled to hold his gaze, however sheepishly, which was so not her!

“Sweetie,” he whispered gently, letting out a sigh of understanding. He looked down at the floor and then back up into her eyes. “Oh, baby…we really don’t have time for this.”

Deanna blanched. The idea of it all…what he was thinking…referring to…was just…beyond…

Beyond the grasp of her mind.

She crossed her arms over her chest as if hiding her naked body, and checked the tie on her robe to make sure it was secure.

His eyes registered everything, and he quickly looked away out of respect. Rising to his full height, he walked across the room to the chest of drawers and picked up her portfolio. “This is yours?” he asked, holding it up. “Your drawings?”

Deanna frowned. How could he know that she was an artist? She nodded, and then realizing that his back was partially turned away from her, she relaxed a bit and forced herself to speak. “Yeah…yes it is.”

He smiled faintly as he opened the portfolio and thumbed through several of the sketches.

Deanna cringed, knowing they were all of him: The ones in front depicted the scenes she had seen in her dreams back in New Orleans; but after that, the later sketches portrayed him in his hospital bed or replicated photos she had seen of him and his family—illustrated stories his friends had shared with her about his life. It looked like a stalker’s collection, and she felt positively mortified.

“Thank you,” he said, slowly closing the portfolio and setting it back on the dresser.

Deanna waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she asked, “For what?”

He turned around then and leaned back against the dresser as if they had all the time in the world. “For coming here…after me. For the drawings. For caring.”

Deanna swallowed hard.
Oh hell
, she was really messing things up. She had come here to save a stranger, and now that she’d met him, she was about to kill him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

Nachari crossed the room again, his gait a little more purposeful this time. He squatted in front of her once more and drew in a deep breath. “Sorry for what?”

Her mouth fell open. He knew…for what.

“For being scared to death of demons and snakes and…panthers? For being scared to death of me?” He gently shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay.”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, surprised by the sudden onset of tears welling in her eyes.

Nachari sat down on the floor and glanced once again at the clock.

Deanna started to ask him what time it was but bit back the question in shame.

“Six forty-eight,” he answered, as if reading her mind.

“Twelve minutes,” she whispered, looking away.

“Twelve minutes,” he echoed.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose…” She stopped and tried again. “I don’t suppose that maybe…maybe you could just give me a few minutes…some time to collect myself.”

Nachari smiled a devilish grin. “Seriously? I’m assuming that was a rhetorical question.”

She swallowed a lump of anxiety and worried her bottom lip. “No, not seriously,” she agreed. “It’s just…” Her words trailed off.

“It’s just,” he prompted.

“It’s just—you’re really freaking me out.”

He laughed then, completely unrestrained. “You’re really freaking
me
out.”

Her eyes lit up with mock indignation. “No, I’m not,” she argued. “How can I be? Hell, I’m a grown woman hiding under a desk—how threatening can that be?”

He started to say something humorous and stopped himself. “Look, sweetie—”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that…yet.” She immediately felt like the world’s greatest jerk for saying it. What in the world was wrong with her? She was being positively…juvenile.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Mrs. Silivasi?”

“Dubois,” she retorted.

He blinked in surprise. “Oh.” He looked at her curiously. “We aren’t mated then? You didn’t come through the conversion?”

She huffed, exasperated. “Yes.
Yes
! Of course, I did; it’s just that…” She looked away, feeling foolish.

“You don’t like my name then?” His voice revealed a playful charm.

“I don’t know your name.” She rushed the words, realizing immediately that they were utterly nonsensical.

He drew back in surprise. “You don’t know
my name
?” He blanched. “Damn, my brothers really do suck.”

“I know your name!” she exclaimed. “Oh, God.” She scrubbed her face with her hands, wishing she could just disappear. “I meant I don’t know
you
…yet.”

He laughed softly, a pure hypnotic sound. “I’m sorry,” he whispered sincerely. “I shouldn’t tease you like that; I knew what you meant.” Drawing her in with his smile, he continued: “So what are we to do then, Ms. Dubois? Because I have to be honest—right now, I find you positive
adorable
; and if we had more time, I think I could do this all night.” He glanced at the clock. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

Her eyes followed his, and she almost felt as if she might panic. She did not want to lose this man. “You hate me,” she whispered, wholly surprised by her own statement.

His smile was positively radiant and more than just a little mischievous. “Um, that would be a
no.
I can most definitely assure you of one thing: I do not hate you. Quite the contrary.”

She eyed him warily. “You don’t even know me.”

His face took on a serious expression, and he leaned toward her. “Angel, I’m a wizard; I know a lot of things I probably shouldn’t know.” He gestured toward the chest of drawers and the portfolio full of drawings he had just thumbed through. “And by the look of those sketches, I think you could say the same—about me.” He held her gaze, unwilling to look away. “My heart knows you, Deanna. My soul knows yours intimately.”

When she averted her eyes, he reached out and placed the warmest hand she had ever felt on her forearm and caressed her wrist just above her pulse with his thumb. “Look,
Deanna
, the way I see it is this: You are one of the bravest, most courageous women I’ve never met.” He chuckled at the play on words, but his eyes remained deathly serious. “And not unlike me, you’ve also been to hell and back. And right now, we have to do something”—she shifted nervously, and he reached under the desk with his other hand to gently grasp her chin and guide her gaze back to his—“we have to
create
something…
together…
that neither one of us is comfortable with.” He released her chin but continued to caress her wrist. “This is harder for you because you’re a woman. And you have to take down a barrier—allow me to cross a boundary—that should never be crossed without first being earned. And I…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have to conduct myself as the world’s worst lover, which, I can assure you, I’m not. But either way, it’s a horrible predicament.”

Deanna gasped at the frankness of his words, and the sound elicited another chuckle from Nachari. “Ahh…she smiles at last,” he teased.

Deanna grabbed the collar of her robe and clutched it in two tight fists. “I’m dying here,” she said, not sure what had provoked the confession. As tears of anxiety filled her eyes, she wiped them away and shook out her hands, trying to shake off the emotion. “God, I swear; I’m not usually a fruitcake.”

“No worries,” he said, “I’m not usually a panther…or a demon killer, but when in Rome…or when in hell, as it were…” His voice trailed off, and she couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“You’re kind of crazy, aren’t you?” she said.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied. And then in a serious tone of voice, he added, “I’m scared, too, Deanna. Terrified, actually.”

Deanna looked up at him with surprise. He was way too handsome—way too powerful—to be afraid of anything. “Of what?” And then it dawned on her. “Of dying?”

He scoffed in earnest. “I’ve spent the last three months of my life in hell. Death doesn’t have quite the influence it used to have over me. No, I’m afraid of somehow harming the most important person in the world to me.” He released her wrist and took her hand in his, careful not to grip it too hard. “I’m afraid of dishonoring your bravery with selfishness; of taking something I have no right to claim. But most of all, I’m afraid that these few moments we share together might be the last we ever have—and that one day, the regret will haunt you when I’m no longer around to comfort you.”

Deanna could hardly believe her ears.

Of course his
passing
would haunt her.

Devastate her.

For the first time, she truly understood that this male was not sitting on the floor trying to seduce her—this wasn’t an effort to convince her to have sex with him—he was just
being there
the only way he knew how; and he would die before he would force her or use magic to coerce her. She felt her body tremble and wished she could make it stop. Among other things, the entire situation was humiliating. Glancing at the clock, she took a deep breath:
nine minutes
left…

“Okay,” she whispered, nearly forcing the words from her mouth. “Okay…just do it.”

Nachari pulled back in surprise. “By myself?”

Deanna smiled and shook her head. “Oh God, you’re…impossible.”

He smiled in return, and truly, the entire room lit up. “Listen,” he said softly—his voice was positively magical, “there will come a time, when you are ready, that I will make love to you, and you will know all the way down to your soul that you are cherished beyond imagining. But the gods haven’t given us enough time to make that happen today. However, what I can do, I will, if you will let me: I can use my powers to make this easier—to take you someplace easy…disconnected…less overwhelming. I just need you to—”

“Trust you?” she said.

Nachari shook his head emphatically. “No. I’m not asking that—you don’t know me.” He leaned in closer and squeezed her hand. “To trust yourself, Deanna. The same way you trusted your drawings and your dreams. The same way you trusted your instincts when it came time to undergo the conversion. To listen to that wise, authentic voice inside of you that has always guided you—the part of you that has always faced adversity with courage and has always come out ahead. I don’t have to know you all that well to sense your strength or to feel your courage, to know that whatever is inside of you, whatever that spark is that makes you unique, you aren’t about to give it up now…or lose it to the likes of me. You’re too determined. Too aware. I’m asking you to listen to that voice, Deanna, and to trust it…for me. Because this”—he gestured at the desk and the obvious fact that she was hiding beneath it—“isn’t you.”

Deanna looked up at the oak desk above her and barely avoided knocking her head on the wood. Ducking, she smiled self-consciously. “You’re right.” Slowly…hesitantly…she allowed him to pull her out from underneath the desk. Standing to her full height, she stretched her back and blushed when he regarded her with obvious appreciation.

“You’re tall,” he said, appraising her height approvingly.

“So are you,” she said, glancing away.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “
Very
beautiful.”

She bit her bottom lip like a teenager on a first date. “Yeah, well, from everything I’ve heard, you don’t need to be told that.”

He laughed then, the sound both unrestrained and welcoming. “Come here,” he whispered, placing a light hand on her waist and tugging her forward.

Deanna squealed and jumped away, and then she struggled to regroup: “Oh…shit…sorry.” She shook her hands out to quell her nerves and glanced once again at the clock:
eight
minutes
. “Okay, okay…” She regained her composure as best as she could.

Nachari tried another approach then. He came up behind her and bent toward her ear, and she immediately shuffled her feet like a nervous horse prancing in place.

“Would you be still?” he said.

She responded with a crisp, short nod. “Yep, I can do that. Okay.
Okay
. I’m still…still as a cucumber.”

Once again, he bent slowly to her neck, and she squirmed like a worm, clutching her arms to her chest instinctively. Again, she mumbled, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

“I haven’t even touched you.”

She wrung her hands together. “I know…I know…okay. Try again.”

He dropped his head forward and laughed. “Try again?”

She nodded, then shifted in place. “Mmm hmm.”

“Do you drink a lot of coffee?” he asked.

“Ha, ha—very funny,” she retorted. “Do you drink a lot of blood?”

“Not lately,” he drawled. Then bending to kiss her neck, he added, “But I could be persuaded—”

She leapt at least six inches in the air, inadvertently slamming the back of her head into his jaw and causing him to smash his teeth together.

He took an involuntary step back.

“Oh, God,” she said, truly mortified this time, “I can’t believe I just did that—did I hurt you?”

“Only my feelings,” he said, testing his bite playfully.

Too anxious to go along, she glanced at the clock again and practically came unglued:
seven minutes
.

He shook off the collision, reached around her waist, and anchored her arms at her sides, all the while trying not to laugh as she hopped from one foot to the next in place. “Deanna!” He put some authority in his voice this time. “
Stop.
Be still—or I
will
have to bite you.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her voice rising in pitch.

He tightened his grip on her arms and pulled her back against him, waiting while she slowly relaxed into him; and then he nuzzled his strong, angular jaw between the space beneath her ear and her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, realizing that for all intents and purposes she had inexplicably regressed to the maturity level of a two-year-old, and she was making a complete and utter fool of herself.

“I
am
preparing to bite you,” he murmured in her ear.