The Eye of the Wolf (23 page)

Mikayla’s
laugh was cold and harsh. Ill humor lighted her eyes and she pointed to
herself. “Me? You needed me? For what, to satisfy your own hungers?” When he
reached for her to calm her, she warded him off with one cold movement of her
hand. “You didn’t need me, Will. I know what you needed but it certainly didn’t
have to be with me.” She stepped back again, putting more distance between
them. “Tell me truthfully, Will. Why did you come here? Why did you volunteer
to help me in the first place? It certainly wasn’t because you needed me.” She
shoved her hands into her pockets and looked at her bare feet with her
cheerfully painted toe-nails.

“Go,
get dressed.” She looked up at his face, confused briefly by the pain that was
evident in the lines, but it didn’t deter her, though perhaps her words lacked
the venom she might have wished had been there. “Leave, Will, and please, don’t
come to work anymore. I didn’t ask for your help and I can finish this project
without you.”

Will
narrowed his eyes as her words registered in his brain. Did she really believe
that he didn’t need her? He needed her so much it hurt. He needed to feel her
wrapped around him, her laugh in his ear, low and sexy, full of life. He needed
her mind, organized and full of creativity. He needed everything that existed
between them. How could she believe that he would go anywhere now, now that
they had shared so much. He knew he would have to leave eventually, but there
was no way he was leaving, not tonight.

Will
strode across the room to her and wrapped her hair around his hand. He pulled
her to her toes into a hard, frustrated kiss that rocked both of their souls
and left her lips bruised. Her hands pushed half-heartedly at his chest and
then fisted against the smooth flesh that was cold from the night air that
filled the room. He wrenched her head back, his eyes dark, filled with the
emotions that swirled within him. Anger, resentment, sadness, need all mixed
into a heady storm, startling Mikayla into a gasp.

“Do
you think I am here because I had a scratch I needed to satisfy and now that I
have I’m going to just walk out?” When she didn’t answer, he tugged harder on
her hair causing her to cry out.

“Do you?” He didn’t shout but
the edge in his voice cut straight through to her marrow leaving her
cold.    She couldn’t answer. Words failed her as she stared
into those eyes that were both cold and kind, loving and hateful, beautiful and
dangerous.

“Did it ever occur to you,
Mikayla, that whatever ideas you have in your head aren’t any more truthful
than those fairytales you despise? Did it ever occur to you that I might desire
you more than I can comprehend?” His voice softened and he released her hair
only to stroke his hand down her back feeling her shivers and the silk that
separated them. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not like aching for you
but there is nothing I can to do prevent it. You are inside of me, here,” he
rubbed his heart with his free hand. Then, surprising them both, he took one of
her hands that rested against his chest in a fist, and pried open her fingers,
kissing her palm. “You are inside of me, and I haven’t a clue what to do about
it.”

Mikayla stared up at him, her
defenses crumbling as his voice and words washed over her aching soul like a healing
balm. Was it possible that this handsome stranger who had appeared unbidden in
her life wanted her just as she wanted him? It seemed impossible, yet here he
was, kissing her softly, melting the wall that surrounded her. She pulled her
hand away from his and ran her fingers over the back of his neck as he deepened
the kiss, drawing her out of her shell and into his arms.

He could feel her melt in his
arms and give herself into the moment, but there was still something that was
between them that he knew he had to fix. He had to tell her the truth. He had
to tell her everything and soon. She would hate him. He knew that, but he also
knew he owed it to her. He would tell her everything about the darkness of
Amor, soon, but for that moment, he wanted only her and a world of heat, a
world he could be lost within.

Will pulled back from the kiss
and laid a finger on her lips when she protested. When she quieted, he stepped
back and untied the sash that held the filmy robe in place. It fell open,
revealing her milky skin beneath glowing in the moonlight as he switched off
the table lamp near the door. He turned to her and stared. She was like a
goddess standing there, her hair falling over her shoulders, nerves dancing
across her being. He smiled and took her hand in his own. He pressed a kiss to
her palm always keeping his eyes on her own, watching the darkness come into
them as desire swam to the surface and that fist of tension knotted in her
belly.

“Mikayla,” his voice was soft
like a lullaby, “I don’t want you to ever think you are an undesirable woman. I
have wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He trailed a finger down her
skin between the edges of her robe and watched her shiver, anticipation and
wariness mixed within her.

“I knew the first time I met
you that there was passion buried beneath your professional coolness.” She
smirked slightly telling him she didn’t believe him. He slid a hand beneath her
robe and cupped her breast, his fingers trailing gently along the curve of her
body. He kissed her cheek and slid his other hand beneath her robe, caressing
her skin. “I knew beneath all of the practical exterior, there was a woman of
immense fire. I was right.” He closed his mouth over hers before she could
protest. Her only answer was a moan that rocked him to his very soul, leaving
him breathless as she rose on her toes to meet his kiss with one of her own.
“My interest in you is not professional. It is completely personal. My interest
is totally dishonorable.” He smiled into her surprised eyes as he pulled the
robe from her shoulders and allowed it to slide to the floor, pooling at her
feet. He gazed at her in the moonlight, milky white skin glowing. “Let me prove
it to you.” He took her hands and pulled her to him with a smile that melted
every barrier that had ever been between them.

Will rose in the early morning
light, reluctant to move from the warmth beside him, but knowing he must. He
brushed the hair from her face and watched as she slept, steeped in her own
dreams, which a part of him hoped included him while another part argued that
it was unfair to her for him to want to be unforgettable when destiny
determined they weren’t meant to be. He pressed a kiss to her brow and laid the
delicate yellow blossom from the porch climber on the pillow beside her. He
folded her clothes that had been thrown about the room and laid them carefully
on the end of the bed. He grinned as he folded the lacey under-things that she
had worn beneath her clothes. She was full of wonderful, dazzling surprises.

Will carried his shoes down the
steps so not to wake her and avoided the creaks on the stairs. At the bottom of
the stairs he turned and gazed up the stairs. He wanted to climb back into the
bed and wake her with lazy, sleepy kisses. He wanted to make love to her all
day, feeling her come alive beneath him, all pretenses forgotten. But he had
things that had to be accomplished before the funeral procession that
afternoon. He leaned his head against the wooden door and breathed deeply
driving away his own wishes and remembering his duty to country and family, a
duty he had neglected all too often in his life.

His eyes strayed down the
hallway to the cellar door. He grimaced and clenched a fist in frustration.
Boldness was dangerous. That same boldness had almost been his undoing. With
one last glance up the stairs, Will flipped the lock on the door and pulled it
open.

Red jackets glared in the sun
as the horses trotted past with ribbons braided in their manes. The steady
clip-clop of their hooves echoed in the still air. No sound stirred, even the
wind had stilled, as if it dared not disturb the mourning of the king’s
subjects.

Soft weeping whispered in
Mikayla’s ear as the casket, born by four horses came into view around the
bend. Citizens, dressed in black, wiped away silent tears and made the sign of
the cross as the casket stately rolled by draped in the nation’s flag. White
roses decorated the bridles of the horses who bore the leader of the ancient
country to his final resting place in the Secluded City.

Mikayla’s eyes focused on the
people lining the streets: citizens, tourists, famous faces that were known
throughout the world whom had sought just a little of the fairytale within the
boundaries of the island nation. Each person faced the casket as it rolled
silently past, lost in his or her own thoughts. Lost in what could be the end
of the only fairytale still in existence. Old, young. Male, female. Greek,
French. American and British. All joined in a moment of sadness that would make
a brief splash on the evening news world-wide, but would affect the life of
every person who stood along the avenue that afternoon as King James rolled
past, no longer living, but still so much a part of the lives of his people.

She wished for just a moment that
Will were beside her, to hold her hand, to allow her to comfort him at the loss
of his king, but he had left early in the morning, disappearing into the rising
sun. She had woken with a warm glow spreading over her skin following their
love-making. She had thought she would feel lonely and empty when he was gone,
but the flower that had been left on her pillow and the carefully folded
clothes on the foot of the bed had given rise to that warm glow again. There
had been no loneliness, only a wish that he were beside her. She supposed he
was with his family; after all, this was a time when family should come
together, at the loss of a leader, but that didn’t prevent her from wishing
that he were beside her on the street, to sit beside her in the cathedral.

Quick bursts of bright flashes
of light brought Mikayla out of her reverie. Following the death of the king,
as the island prepared for the funeral rites of King James, press from the
world over had descended on the island, ready to exploit the death of a world
leader simply for ratings and the profit margin. Cameras snapped photos of the
casket and the pomp and circumstance as they rolled past, silent in the street.
Flowers rained down on the street. Mikayla didn’t snap any of her own pictures.
She knew there would be many photographers willing to sell their photos long
after the experience of the royal funeral had passed. She would pay for the
pictures to include them in the book, but she wasn’t willing to lower herself
to becoming a member of the hated paparazzi for this event. Of course, she knew
it would only get worse as the week wore on and the island prepared for the
coronation ceremonies for the future king.

As her thoughts turned to the
new king, murmurs rippled through the crowd around her as more flashbulbs
popped, leaving stars in her eyes. The murmurs faded away as the Royal Guard
came into view, following the casket through the streets. Their red uniform
coats were stunning under the brilliant blue, cloudless sky. White plumes
decorated their black hats and swayed in the faint breeze that blew in from the
ocean. They strode through the streets, faint clicking of black paten boots on
the pavement. Backs straight, proud of the heritage they protected.

Mikayla shifted slightly as the
Royal Guard passed and the royal family came into view, walking sedately behind
the casket. The silver-blond hair of the Dauphin shone in the sunlight, a stark
contrast to his navy pin-stripe suit and navy tie. A red sash crossed his
shoulders instead of a crown upon his head, denoting the rank he had been born
into. He was tall and proud; his fine, aristocratic features stoic. His deep,
gray eyes stared straight ahead, oblivious to the people around him, his grief
heavy in his footsteps. His father, the only parent he had known since his
mother had died when he was but a child, was now gone into the world beyond the
castle of the Secluded City. Soon, he would be the King of Amor, and the daily
affairs would come to him, the concerns of the people would be his concerns. 
He towered over the people but the weight of his destiny weighed heavily on his
shoulders, and he blinked back tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks.

Beside the Dauphin walked his
wife, the Princess Royale, tall, regal, and imposing. Her blond hair shone in
the afternoon sun, twisted into a severe bun at the back of her head while the
diamonds of the tiara glittered in the sunlight leading one to wish this were a
happy occasion, instead of sad. It perched on her head, reminding the world
that now that her father-in-law was past, she would soon reign as Queen of
Amor. Her hands were clenched together in front of her denying the power she
would wield and making her seem small, even though she was close to five foot
eleven. Her black suit was tailored to her firm physique, and her legs sculpted
to her perfect two-inch heels that clicked softly in time with the boots of the
Royal Guard. She held her head high, pride mingled with grief. A refusal to
lower the façade of royalty before the people who supported the monarchy of
Amor so faithfully. The people must see her as their future queen; they could
not know how much she mourned for her lost family and for the future of the
island nation. They must believe that life would continue, uninterrupted from
that moment on, under the new monarchy even when the changes came that were
inevitable now. The Princess Royale kept her eyes down-cast, paying no
attention to the people who lined the streets, praying for a small smile from
their Queen. Her own grief swamped her now as it had the day the news had come
that the King had died.