In the dark, Glen seemed even more familiar to Fia. The gait of his walk. The rhythm of his breathing. When they passed a red maple tree growing against the side of the walk, his hand brushed the sleeve of her jacket.
She tried to breathe slowly, deeply, as she walked beside him. She’d only had the one pint, but now that she was on her feet, outside, she felt a little off-kilter. Overly warm. Slightly disoriented. It made no sense to desire him, but she knew the sensation entirely too well and it was dangerous. Dangerous for her. More dangerous for him.
He smelled like her Ian….
His hand brushed her arm again and this time she knew he had done it on purpose. He was feeling it, too.
Against her will, that familiar tease curled low in her groin. Tendrils of desire. Her blood quickened.
Blood…
Chapter 4
They followed the sidewalk up to the 1950s-style motel and Fia muttered something nearly incoherent about getting an early start in the morning. She fumbled for her key in her pocket as she halted at room 104. She knew she needed to get inside quickly. Didn’t trust herself with Ian.
Glen.
She jabbed at the doorknob with the key, missed, tried again.
She felt his warm hand close over hers. “I’ll get it.” His tone was light, mocking.
Ian mocking her from the grave. Not Ian.
Despite the three pints of ale he’d consumed, Special Agent Glen Duncan, unlike Fia, had no trouble sliding the key into the lock and turning the doorknob.
Her pulse throbbed, her breath tight in her chest. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel like this.
She reached for the key, moving toward the open door, inadvertently toward him.
The same height as Fia, all he had to do was turn his head slightly, and then his lips were on hers. She couldn’t tell if he had done it of his own will, or had been lured by the age-old spell of the vampire.
His mouth tasted of stout, of the excitement of the unfamiliar, and at the same time, of the smoky past. She felt surrounded, overwhelmed by the scent of his skin and the warmth of his lips.
It took every fiber of self-control for Fia not to grab him by the shoulders, push him into the room and onto the bed.
“Agent Duncan,” she heard herself say against his mouth.
It seemed to snap him out of his fugue.
“Agent Kahill.” He seemed as surprised by his behavior as she was. He cleared his throat, stepped back and made a beeline for the next door down.
She heard the rattle of his key as she closed her door and set the dead bolt. She leaned against the doorframe. Her blood rushed in her ears as she breathed heavily, her thoughts darting in opposite directions, one after another.
All she would have to do was knock on his door. She knew he would let her in.
She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. Too much at stake.
She tried to think fast.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she made a call she hadn’t made in some time. He answered on the second ring. A moment later, she was out of her room, walking down the dark street again. She put one foot in front of the other, putting more distance between herself and the FBI agent with every stride.
Perspiring heavily, she removed her jacket, carrying it over her arm.
She couldn’t believe she’d let him kiss her. Almost kiss her…their mouths had barely touched.
Was she out of her mind?
The path of the yellow moon led her four blocks through town, directly to Arlan’s door. He was waiting for her on his back porch, a four-foot-long creature with a curling tail and slanted gold eyes one moment, a lanky six-foot-tall man the next.
“Heard you were in town,” he said lazily, leaning on the bowed porch rail. It needed paint.
“I didn’t come to talk.” She hurried up the steps.
His arm shot out, grabbed her.
She gave a little grunt of surprise. Her jacket fell as he spun her around, pushing her up against the corner post. The back of her head hit the post, smarting. She took his mouth hungrily. “Just tonight,” she warned between kisses.
He bit down gently on her lower lip, then harder. “Just tonight.”
“Don’t want to talk.” She ran her hands over his bare, muscular chest. He was barefoot, just in jeans. He must have jumped in the shower right before she called. He smelled fresh. Comfortable. Safe.
“No talking,” he repeated, forcing his knee between her legs.
She moaned, grabbing a handful of his shaggy, dark hair. Nipped at his ear lobe, then his neck…just lightly. No blood.
He slid his hand up over her breast and squeezed. She moaned again. He pulled at the high neckline of her blouse. When the silk fabric wouldn’t give way, he jerked downward and it tore down the middle, exposing her breasts in a lacy bra.
“Ass,” she muttered. “It was a Ralph Lauren.”
He grasped one of her legs, above her knee, and lifted it to wrap around his waist. She pressed her groin to his, grinding against the hard bulge in his jeans. All Kahill males were well-endowed.
He grasped the lacy edge of her bra and pulled back the cup to expose her breast to the humid night air. Her pale nipple hardened at once and she guided his head downward, encouraging him to take it in his mouth.
Arlan had been her lover on and off for hundreds of years. He knew her as well as she knew herself, and knew her body better, perhaps. He’d always had a thing for her, even before Ian; she had never been
