sunlight. A woman with pixie features and rich amber eyes. A woman he somehow knew, and yet he didn't know her.
Rage swept through him, a rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He spun, sweeping more photos off the wall, bringing them to the light. Kinnard had obviously been watching her for some time.
There were photos of her laughing. Photos of her eating with an older man. Photos of her in a large, bubble-filled tub with a dark haired man whose face he couldn't see. Photos taken through her window as she changed clothes.
His rage grew, until every muscle shook with the need to find Kinnard and kill him. To rip his body limb from limb, as Dunleavy had ripped that woman's.
Instead, he turned, tearing the photos from the wall and piling them on the filthy bed linen. When the last of the photos had been taken down, he grabbed the matches and set the pile afire.
The rat would know he'd been there, but Michael didn't particularly care. He waited until the bedclothes had caught, then he climbed up the stairs and slammed the hatch shut on the smoke.
And stood there, scanning the night, shaking with anger and wondering why.
There was still no sign of Kinnard or Dunleavy, but rats usually had more than one hole. And as much as he needed to find them, he suspected he needed answers more. There was only one person in this town who seemed to know what was going on. And, oddly enough, that woman had eyes the same color as the woman in the photo. He suspected it was more than coincidence. Suspected that there was a hell of a lot more happening here than what he'd originally thought.
His simple need to kill Dunleavy suddenly didn't seem so simple any more.
He ran swiftly to her house and went inside, only to stop just inside the door. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her pretty face serene in sleep.
He couldn't wake her. She needed sleep more than he needed answers.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm the turmoil and anger still surging inside. He closed the door and walked across to her, tucking his arms under her body and carefully lifting her.
She stirred, murmuring something he couldn't quite catch, and snuggled closer to his chest. God, it felt so right holding her like this.
Pushing the thought away, he found her bedroom and placed her gently into bed. She didn't stir as he tucked the rest of the blankets around her. In the darkness, her blonde hair looked almost brown, but her face was nothing like the woman in those pictures. So why did he have the certainty that, somehow, the two were related?
It was so damn frustrating, this not knowing. He turned and pulled down the blind, determined that Kinnard would not be spying on this woman. Then he stripped and lay down beside her, under the top blanket but not the rest. A possibly dangerous move, given her earlier attempts to seduce him, but the need to simply lie here and hold her close was one that would not be denied right now.
Nikki woke to the realization that she was no longer on the sofa. And no longer alone.
Michael lay with her, his arm wrapped around her waist and his body pressed against her back, warming her spine, despite the layer of blankets between them.
She smiled. Sometimes love could not be ignored, no matter how strong the magic or the will.
She shifted slightly and realized then she was still in her T-shirt and sweat pants. Damn . Seducing him when she was naked would be a hell of a lot easier. And she had a feeling if she took time to undress in the middle of the action, he might take off again. He was determined to be honorable, which was absolutely wonderful in one respect, but not what she wanted right now.
She slipped free of his arm and carefully got out of bed. He stirred and she froze, watching as he turned onto his other side. He flung out a hand, as if searching for her, but quickly settled back to slumber. She stripped, then carefully pulled back the first blanket and climbed in beside him.
Knowing she couldn't allow him time to think, only react, she pressed herself against the length of him.
The heat of him flowed around her, through her, burning her skin, stirring the desire long held at bay.
She'd always found it a little weird that he was so warm given he was a vampire, but as he'd often said, he was undead, not dead dead.
She slid her hand down his firm, flat stomach and touched him intimately. His response was immediate.
Instinctive.
As his body leapt to life, he made a sound that was almost a growl and turned around, pulling her into his arms. Then he was kissing her as if his very life depended on it, and whatever slivers of control she'd had were totally and irreparably smashed by the force of it. By the passion behind it. God, she loved this man. And right now she needed him more than she needed to breathe.
His hands seemed to be everywhere, urgent yet gentle, leaving her shuddering with pleasure and yet aching for more. He kissed her, caressed her, until need, deep and primal, rushed through her, and all she could think about was getting him inside, feeling him fill her, complete her.
She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, claiming him in the most basic way possible. He groaned, his hands sliding to her hips, pressing her down harder.
Then they began to move, and thought became impossible. All she could do was savor the sensations flowing through her. There was nothing slow, nothing gentle, about this lovemaking. It was all passion and heat and desperation, and she'd never felt anything so damn good in her life.
The fever burning between them became a furnace that made breathing difficult, and deep inside the pleasure built, until her whole body burned with the need for release. She clung to him, clung to that edge, staring deep into his beautiful black eyes, willing him to remember this, remember her. For a moment, she thought she saw a response—a spark of joy, a spark of love.
Then pleasure spiraled beyond her control, and her climax hit, the convulsions stealing her breath and tearing a strangled sound from her throat. He came a heartbeat later, his body slamming into hers, the force of it echoing through every fiber of her being.
Once the shudders had subsided, she leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her in place as he lengthened the kiss.
'You do not play fair, woman,' he said eventually, eyes sparkling as amusement touched his lips.
'I never said I intended to.'
'This does not mean I will work with you.'
She grinned. 'You won't have any other choice, because you won't be able to keep your hands off me.'
He chuckled softly, then rolled them over so that he was lying on top. 'Nothing like being comfortable with your own sexuality.'
She kissed him again, soft and lingering. 'It's more a case of being comfortable about us.'
'There is no us—not beyond this, anyway.'
She didn't bother disputing his claim. Until more of his memory returned, or until she was able to soap away some of the spell on his back, there wasn't much point. 'Why do you stink of smoke?'
The amusement and tenderness died in his eyes, the black depths becoming hard. Furious. 'Because I made a bonfire of some pictures I discovered in Kinnard's rat hole.'
She frowned. 'What sort of pictures?'
'Photos of a woman with brown hair and amber eyes. Her features were that of the dead woman we saw earlier.' He ran a finger down her cheek, sending warm tingles of desire shooting through the rest of her. Desire hadn't finished with her yet—but then, that wasn't exactly unusual when they made love. 'But her eyes were rather like yours.'
While the thought that Kinnard had been not only watching her, but taking photos of her, left her cold.
The fury so evident in Michael's dark eyes, and the fact that he'd burned every one of those photos, made her heart sing. Deep down, he knew her, spell or no spell.
And if he could now see her eyes were amber, did that mean the spell concealing her identity was fading, or that he was beginning to see beyond it?
'Kinnard will know you did it.'
'I don't care.'
