Wings of Fire (15 page)

He was still connected, a large heavy presence in the center of her body. He felt so good. Her legs were still wrapped around his hips possessively, locked at the ankles. She didn’t want to release him. She feared letting him go. Once the connection was broken, where would they be really?

She knew the past haunted him and that Rith’s ability to steal her right off Antony’s property when he was just a dozen yards away had undermined his confidence. Even so, she knew,
she knew,
that wasn’t the whole story.

And her story? Oh, God. She didn’t want to feel like this.

She leaned forward and once more rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes burned. She stroked the
cadroen,
the warrior clasp that bound his hair, then let her fingers drift again to his scarred back. What had happened to mar the perfection of his skin? Had he deserved to be cut and whipped? Of course not. His character was fixed. He was a man of honor. No way he had done anything to earn all those lashes.

But where could any of this go?

She thought Antony should know how uncertain she felt, yet she didn’t want to say it aloud. So instead she unlocked her ankles, drew back, and gave a slight push on his shoulders. He looked at her and frowned slightly. He withdrew his heavy shaft from the core of her, and she barely withheld a gasp. How cold she felt suddenly. And empty. And alone.

But wasn’t that always the way for her?

He smiled, albeit crookedly, and lifted her off the counter. He carried her back into the shower, flipped the lever, and started up all eight heads once more. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She looked up at him. Damn, he was tall. And muscular. And gorgeous. His expression was so tender, so understanding that her eyes burned all over again.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This doesn’t mean we have to get married or anything.”

Great. Just great. He was going to keep being a nice guy. Great.

***

Medichi was so screwed. One hundred percent fucked … up.

As he poured shampoo into his hands and began to lather up his palms, as Parisa turned her back and he settled his hands into her hair, his heart swelled to about the size of Rhode Island. Jesus, why did he feel so much for this woman?

It was the damn
breh-hedden,
working his body like a mad scientist who knew every button that needed to be pushed in order to set his libido on fire. The shampoo usually had an edgy smell but he really couldn’t tell because all his nose, sinuses, and brain registered was the delicious scent of tangerines. She was a bowl of fruit he wanted to devour.

He worked his fingers into her scalp and she moaned, her body going liquid again. He tried to keep his distance because his cock was responding to her scent and he was already hard again. Shit, if she saw him like this after he had just filled her full to overflowing, she’d probably land a fist against his mouth.

“Antony, what are you thinking about? I can’t smell the shampoo anymore, just all this sage you keep shedding like a spice factory.”

He laughed. “Well, you’d better get used to it. Let’s get you rinsed off. Close your eyes.” He guided her into the stream nearest her and worked her hair to get all the bubbles out.

She turned into him, and her gaze fell to his erection. Part of him felt an urge to cover himself for her sake, but the other part was proud of what he was. His hips rolled in her direction. “I would apologize, but…”

She looked up into his face and her lips parted. Her eyes flared. Whatever this was, it worked both ways. He had expected Parisa to be shy with him: Her general demeanor was restrained. Apparently, he’d been mistaken.

She gave a squeak and a cry as she flung herself at him. Before he could protest, or think, or do anything else, he had her up against the shower wall, plunging into her, and she was raking her fingernails over his shoulders and writhing.

He didn’t last long but it didn’t seem to matter since she was screaming at the ceiling as he came.

Afterward, he took her to bed. She slept cuddled against his side, his arm around her. He wasn’t ready for sleep. The master bedroom was huge, with a den on one side; the other overlooked the back lawn. The shutters were open slightly so that he could see beds blooming with purple lantana and a vine covered with lavender flowers. Yellow verbena punctuated the beds. The occasional hibiscus added its stature.

The landscape maintenance company would be on his property all day tomorrow with several crews. Rith had made his way onto the property months ago with the cleaning crew, which had allowed him to abduct Parisa right from under his nose. Maybe he should take Parisa somewhere else until the gardeners were gone. Yet his property was vast, including an olive grove, several acres of vineyard, and a formal Italian garden with many hidden alcoves. How could he be sure the crew all left? He needed better security, someone to monitor the comings and goings of the service workers and winery personnel. He’d been so busy trying to get Parisa back that he hadn’t thought all that much about what would be required to keep her safe once she got here.

Shit.

He couldn’t trust anyone or anything, and Rith would sure as hell make an attempt to get Parisa back.

When she moved against him and an unhappy sound left her lips, he glanced at her. Her eyes were still closed, and he wondered if she was reacting in her sleep to his sudden tension. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. His gaze rested on her and his heart in turn swelled then constricted. What kind of miracle had happened that had made her extraction possible? How had she suddenly been able to communicate with him, at such a distance, telepathically? How had she even stayed alive?

He released a heavy sigh, weighted with three months of tortured searching. She was here. She was safe. She was home. Tears touched his eyes.

He resisted the impulse to draw her closer, to hold her tighter still, to see if he could press her into his skin so that he would never part from her again. She felt so right against him … but how did she feel about being here?

Earlier she had pushed him away and he had felt her distance, her profound withdrawal from him. She hadn’t said a word and he hadn’t asked, but he’d understood her without needing to ask the question: It was too soon to be this close, this intimate.

He was in trouble in more ways than one, and he suspected she was as well.

His warrior phone buzzed. He slid the card off the marble surface of the nightstand where it always rested, rubbed the front, and murmured, “Medichi.”

“Thorne wants to patch in.”

“Thanks, Carla.” He spoke as low as he could, but Parisa stirred beside him. She lifted up on an elbow, and he ran a hand over her damp hair. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Thorne.”

She nodded.

“You there, Medichi?” Thorne barked.

“Give.”

“We went back. Thought you should know, the whole place was cleared out. But shit, all that equipment was still lit up like they’d just drained someone.”

“That’s what Parisa said.”

“The rumors were right. That place was a death and resurrection facility. We found bags of blood, tubing, defibrillators, a modern-day torture chamber.”

Medichi closed his eyes. Something inside his chest gave way. “Was there any kind of data? A computer? Anything?” His voice sounded almost as gravelly as Thorne’s.

“Not a damn thing. There wasn’t even a trace. There were vehicles parked out back. A van or two. We suspect Rith drove off with his slaves, then probably folded the whole lot to another secure location. Tell me you’re not surprised the place was empty.”

“No. Rith is one clever motherfucker.”

“Sorry, Medichi.”

“Thanks for going back.”

He heard a faint rumbling that might have been a
you’re welcome,
but he couldn’t be sure. The line went dead. Thorne wasn’t exactly a talkative man.

He pressed the card-like phone to his chest.

“What happened?” Parisa asked.

He looked down at her and hugged her. “The warriors went back to Mandalay but everyone was gone. I’m sorry.”

He felt her sigh, but for a long moment she didn’t say anything. Finally, he asked, “You okay?”

“I want to see Endelle.”

“Sure,” he said, but he felt uneasy. “Tomorrow. Maybe give you some time to settle in?” Of all the things Parisa might want right now, so soon after leaving Burma, he hadn’t expected a request to see the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth.

“No,” she said, her fingers playing with his chest hairs in the center of his sternum. “No, I really think I want to see her today, right away. There are some things I need to get settled.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

He nodded several times, but he could feel that he was frowning. He wanted to argue with her but how could he?

He released a sigh. “I’ll set it up.”

He called Central and had Carla patch him through to Her Supremeness. She agreed to see Parisa in an hour but barked, “Make sure she has some clothes on this time.” Her laughter rang in his head as he swiped the phone. Endelle shared Parisa’s preternatural voyeuristic talent; either she’d witnessed Parisa’s rescue or Thorne had shared the details with her when he reported in. Either way, Endelle had the worst sense of humor, not to mention timing.

Parisa rose. “All set?”

“Yes. One hour.” She reached a half-sitting position on her knees, which unfortunately put her quite magnificent breasts at eye level. His body responded with one giant leap.

Her eyes widened. “All that sage,” she murmured.

He licked his lips. He reached for her but she rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. She jerked the black top sheet to her, wrapped herself up good and tight, then waggled a finger at him. “I want to. I do. But we don’t have time. I need to get dressed.”

He nodded in rapid-fire motion. “Of course.” But the sheet she’d taken had left him completely uncovered and he now stood at full-mast. So he folded his hands behind his head and smiled “Sorry. Can’t really help this.”

She covered her eyes and started walking mummy-fashion in the direction of the doors. “Are my clothes still in the other bedroom? All my toiletries?” The last week she’d been in his house, Havily had taken her shopping. There was practically a full wardrobe in the guest room waiting for her.

He wished he’d had the foresight to move everything to his room, but all his thoughts had been focused on bringing her home. “Yes, everything’s as you left it.” He sat up and drew the comforter over his lap. “I’m decent now,” he said, but he was smiling. Was
decent
the right word when all he could think about was what the hell he was supposed to do with a raging hard-on?

She lowered her hand and looked back at him. She gasped.

“What is it?”

“You … you look so beautiful like that, with your hair over your shoulders. Antony, you’re so beautiful.” Her gaze drifted down his chest, and he flexed his pecs for her. This time she moaned softly.

When he growled low in his throat and started to throw the cover back, she gave a little yip then scurried out of his bedroom. He flopped back onto the bed. So this was how it was going to be. All she had to do was compliment him, give him a look or two, and he was ready to grab her and throw her on her back.

Jesus H. Christ.

The greatest reward

Comes to the heart capable of love.

—
Collected Proverbs,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 8

Jean-Pierre returned from Burma to the Cave in Metro Phoenix Two with the rest of the brothers. He said good-bye to one warrior after another. When only Kerrick remained, he yawned and said he was headed to his home in Sedona for the remainder of the day to sleep. That was a lie.

He did fold the distance to the front yard of his home and stood for a moment beneath the fragrant Arizona sycamores, but not for long. He wasn’t sure exactly what had gotten into him, but he felt a pressing need to return to Rith’s home, if only for a few minutes more.

He folded back to the tamarind tree in Burma, drawing his sword into his hand from his Sedona weapons locker. The double dome of mist still covered the property. He turned in a slow circle, making sure that he was alone.

He stretched his preternatural hearing but except for the sound of frogs, nothing came back to him. He made his way into the house, again listening carefully and watching every shadow in case a death vampire, or Rith himself, might choose to return to what they all now knew to be a death and resurrection facility.

As he crossed the living room, the mahogany floor creaked beneath his feet.

He checked every room, one by one, hunting for the smell that had stuck to him when he’d come back with the rest of the Warriors of the Blood. It was the scent like a bakery or a French patisserie, like fresh-baked buttery bread or perhaps croissants.

But all he smelled here was garlic and turmeric.

He sighed as he made his way down the hall. He reached a second shorter hall that led to the basement stairs. He opened the door to the stairwell and once more listened for the sounds of the enemy.

He heard nothing.

Crouching, he descended, one quiet foot after another. He sniffed the air and,
oui,
as before, he could smell the bakery aroma.

At the bottom of the stairs, he looked right, then left, then right again. No one was there.

He lifted his nose into the air, closed his eyes, and just breathed. He took several long slow inhales through his nose, scenting the air like an animal. He felt
un peu
dizzy.

The largest room was opposite the stairs and still held several pieces of medical equipment: a cart with wheels, two stands for hanging bags of blood or fluids, even the hated defibrillator.

Mon dieu,
the horror of what these women endured. Medichi had told the warriors that one of them, Fiona, had been taken from Boston in the late nineteenth century. He put a fist to his chest. How had she survived such trauma to her heart all these terrible decades? He did not understand the spirit of such a woman, how she had lived only to be killed and brought back to life over and over.