'And how did you get here?'
He frowned. He couldn't honestly say. Just as he couldn't say how he got the bullet wound. 'What has this got to do—' 'Everything,' she cut in. 'Dunleavy wants you here for the same reason he wants me here. You and I killed his brother. He wants his revenge, but he also wants to bring his brother back to life, and to do that, he needs a certain sequence of events and the main players in place. You and me.'
Her words were nonsense. Utter nonsense…
Yet, memories stirred. An image of this blonde, a knife held high above her head as lightning arced around her. An image of that knife plunging down, deep down, into Dunleavy's chest. The spew of blood that faded into the images of two men—one long and lanky, and the other bald and thick set, like a boxer. Men he'd seen here, in Hartwell, and somewhere else. Somewhere he should remember, but couldn't. Pain hit him then—searing, blinding pain—and suddenly he was falling to his knees as fire burned into his shoulder and blood pulsed down his arm and spread like a river across the pavement…
Darkness surged, taking his sight, trying to take his mind. He hissed, closing his eyes, fighting the darkness, fighting the pain.
'Michael.' Her voice was soft, insistent. He couldn't see her, but the fire and the darkness weren't stopping her voice. Nor did it take the flame of her touch as her hands pressed into his shoulders, as if she tried to hold him down and hold him still. 'You have to fight the spell. You have to remember.'
'Remember what?' he ground out. 'That Dunleavy killed the woman I loved? I remember that, and I will kill him for it.'
'Did you truly love Christine?'
'Yes.' No . He'd cared, as much as he could care about anyone these days. But Dunleavy had taken her life, and for that, Dunleavy would pay. 'What does it matter to you?'
'Christine has been dead for close to a century, Michael. It is not her death you mourn.'
'No?' He laughed harshly. 'Woman, you don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't I? What does Christine look like?'
'Brown hair, warm amber eyes, slender—' 'Really? And here I was thinking Christine had black hair and green eyes.'
He frowned, trying to shake off the darkness, the pain, the impact of her words. 'No—' 'Yes.'
' No.' He pushed her away violently, heard a thump and slight gasp of pain. Her pain hit him like a club, filling him with remorse, filling him with anger. But with her closeness gone and her words silenced, the blackness receded. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes.
She was in the hall, struggling to rise. Her gaze met his, amber eyes filled with wariness and anger. Yet, oddly enough, he sensed that her anger wasn't aimed at him.
She puffed out her cheeks, expelling air, and wiped a hand across her forehead. It was then he saw the lump, and the bruise already beginning to darken her fair skin.
Cursing his own carelessness, he rose and walked over to her. 'I'm sorry,' he said, offering her a hand.
'I did not mean to lash out at you.'
'Yes,' she said, placing her hand in his, 'you did.'
He grimaced and helped her rise. He didn't release her hand immediately, because he suddenly needed her touch like a drunk needed his next drink, and her hand was safer than anything else. 'Well, yes, but it wasn't so much at you, as at the pain.'
'That's the spell inked onto your back at work. He doesn't want you to remember anything more than what he's given you.'
'Even if I believe everything you say, how would my remembering what happened affect Dunleavy's plans?'
She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily. 'I honestly don't know.'
There were dark shadows under her eyes and redness in them. He touched a hand to her cheek, gently running his finger down to the lips he longed to sample again. 'Perhaps you should sleep. We can talk more in the morning.'
Her gaze searched his for a moment, and a sweet smile touched her mouth. 'I don't want to sleep alone tonight.'
Her breath whispered across his hand, her lips warm and moist against his fingertips. The scent of cinnamon and honey and life teased both his senses and his memories, but those memories remained tantalizingly out of reach.
'I cannot,' he said softly, releasing her hand and stepping back. 'It would not be right.'
With little more than a fingertip against his chest, she stopped his retreat and drew him back just as easily. 'Why wouldn't it be right? It's what I want, and it's what you want.'
'I came here to avenge Christine. Nothing more, nothing less.'
'You avenged Christine long ago. This is about you and me, nothing else.'
The pulse at her neck was little more than a wild flutter, a rhythm that called to the darkness in him. A rhythm that called to the man. Her nipples were pebbles pressing against his chest, her skin so warm that sweat formed where their bodies brushed.
He wanted her, there was no denying that. But he'd spent a lifetime denying desire, and this was no different than the need for blood. He might want her, but it wasn't right to take her.
Still… He wasn't made of stone. He was flesh and blood, and even after all these years, there were some desires that could not be completely repressed.
He leaned forward and kissed her sweet mouth—softly, seductively. 'I cannot,' he whispered, his lips so close to hers he could taste her every breath.
'I am not who you think I am,' she said, her voice a husky whisper that tore at his resolve.
'I do not know who you are,' he replied, stepping back. This time, she didn't try to stop him. 'Right now, I'm not sure of anything more than the fact that Dunleavy is out there, and I have to find him.'
'Dunleavy will find us.'
'Perhaps he will. But for tonight, it's best if I continue my search. You will be safe enough here alone.'
For one brief second, he allowed himself the pleasure of simply looking at her, letting his gaze travel down the long length of her neck, taking in her small but perfectly formed breasts, the sharpness of her breathing, the thunder of her heart.
He had a sudden image of loving her, of losing himself to pleasure deep inside her, feeling the warmth and love and hunger of her response. The fierceness of his own response. He clenched his fists against the need to reach out, to make the image a reality. He quickly turned away, leaving behind both her and the emotions she seemed to raise.
The woman was definitely a witch. There was no other explanation for what was happening between them.
Was there?
He wasn't sure, and that was perhaps the most frightening aspect of this entire night.
Nikki took a deep breath and somehow resisted the urge to scream in frustration. She wanted Michael so badly she ached, yet at the same time, part of her rejoiced at his resolve. He wasn't seeing her, but Seline, and despite the intense attraction, he was resisting. She wanted to think it was just as much an innate desire to remain faithful to her , to the love they shared, as much as the deep down knowledge that he and Seline had never been lovers.
She would have to crack his resolve soon, if she was to have any hope of breaking the pattern of events.
She should've pushed more tonight—and would have, if it hadn't been for the spell and the horrible affect it seemed to have on him.
She'd felt his pain—it had been nothing more than an echo of heat running through the link between them, but still the pain had been bad. But it was the look on his face, and his violent reaction, that told her how bad.
She yawned hugely, leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. He was right about one thing—she needed to sleep. It had been a long, frustrating, and very tiring day, and she had a feeling tomorrow wouldn't be any better.
