Dragon Moon (8 page)

But if she didn’t emerge soon, she knew he was going to come back and ask if she was all right.

Suddenly self-conscious again, she turned to the pile of clothing on the little table. The soft pants would have been too long, but some kind of stretchy band at the bottom held them at her ankles. The long-sleeved shirt was also soft. Both of them carried the scent of Talon Marshall, and she knew they must belong to him.

She didn’t want to wear his clothing, especially against her bare skin, but she saw no alternative since her under-things were still wet.

After dressing, she turned back to the sink. Above it hung a looking glass, which was covered with moisture from the steam. After she’d wiped it with a towel, she stared at herself. The image that stared back was startlingly clear. She inspected her curly brown hair, still damp from the shower. Peering more closely at her eyes, she saw that they looked blue. She’d never been quite sure of the color until this moment. She took in the shape of her lips, then opened her mouth, looking at her teeth, glad that they were straight and even. Next to the sink were two things she recognized from her prep sessions. A toothbrush in a clear package. And a tube of toothpaste. After unwrapping the brush, she carefully squeezed the toothpaste on the bristles, then scrubbed the brush across her front teeth. The minty flavor was a surprise, but after a few moments, she decided she liked it.

When she’d finished scrubbing her teeth, she set the brush next to the package, washed out her mouth with water from the tap, then gave her face one more inspection. In this world, she knew that women might wear makeup. She didn’t have any. Would she be attractive enough to Talon Marshall? Would he . . .

Let her stay here?

That was the end of the thought, but she hardly dared to hope for that much.

Unable to keep looking herself in the eye, she whirled away from the mirror.

“Don’t think about it,” she ordered herself. “You don’t have any choice about what you have to do.”

Almost against her will, she exited the bathroom and started down the hall.

When she’d been wet and cold, Talon had hurried her toward the shower. Now she walked more slowly, glancing into the rooms. Most of them had wide beds and chests with drawers. But all of the beds were neatly made, and no personal possessions were lying around, which made it look like nobody was actually sleeping in the rooms.

On the chests were more of the magazines she had looked at back in her own world. She wanted to page through them, but not now.

Another chamber had a desk, a chair, and equipment that she had never seen before, but she knew from her research that the thing on the desk was a computer.

A voice came from the end of the hall. Someone talking. Not Talon Marshall. Did he have a visitor? Had he called the authorities to come take her away?

The police! She’d seen pictures of them. They were like soldiers or guards back home. But they had guns that could kill you from yards away.

She wanted to run to the back of the house and hide, but that would do her little good. Instead, she tiptoed down the hall and stopped short when she saw a picture sitting on a chest. A picture of a man talking. Only she could see his mouth moving and hear his voice.

Astonished, she stood and watched. Was this the television that she had learned about? She’d thought the adepts were exaggerating to impress her. Now she saw it for herself. The picture switched abruptly to a mass of people running down a street, with flashes of smoke landing among them.

What did that mean?

The people looked angry, and a voice came from the television, telling her that they were protesters in India.

The scene switched again to a peaceful-looking forest with shafts of light breaking through the trees—the same picture she had seen in one of the magazines. Only this scene moved. And a woman walked into the picture, talking about something called deodorant. Something you put in your armpits, she remembered. Only the woman rubbed it on the back of her hand as she spoke.

Kenna watched transfixed, thinking the television thing would be a wonderful source of information about this world.

If Talon Marshall let her stay and watch it.

A noise at the end of the hall told her his probable location. Knowing she had to get the meeting over with, she hurried in that direction and found him in a room that she knew was a kitchen.

His back was to her, but he must have been listening for her, because he turned, an expectant look on his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” she whispered automatically, then took a step into the room, just as a high-pitched shrieking noise filled the air and she couldn’t hold back a scream.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TALON MOVED WITH the lightning speed of his werewolf reflexes. Although it registered that Kenna’s reaction wasn’t normal, he knew the whistling kettle he’d put on to boil water had terrified her. Snatching it off the burner, he slammed it down again onto the surface of the stove before sprinting across the room toward her.

“What?” she gasped, looking wildly around as though she thought the house was under attack.

He kept his voice low and calm as he folded her into his arms. “It’s all right. It was just the kettle. It’s all right,” he repeated, feeling her quiver in his embrace.

“The kettle?” she asked in a shaky voice, her gaze shooting to the thing that had made the noise. It was still making a feeble sound, but nothing like the high-pitched shriek that had frightened her moments before.

“It whistles to tell you when the water’s heated. You’ve never heard that before?”

“No.” Her voice was faint and apologetic, edging on tears again.

He held on to her, because he didn’t know what else to do. For a long moment, she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Finally, she raised her head and looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and helpless.

That look undid him, even when he tried to cling to logic.

He barely knew her. He didn’t trust her. He should ease away from her before it was too late.

Too late for what? The question flickered somewhere in the depths of his brain.

Instead of answering the question, he tightened his embrace.

The last time he had held her, she’d been wet and cold. Now she was dressed in his sweatpants and shirt. The knit fabric clung to every sweet curve of her body—her breasts, the feminine roundness of her hips, the indentation at her waist.

He pictured himself lowering his hand to her bottom, so he could press her more firmly against himself. Somehow he maintained enough control to keep his hands above her waist.

But control was slipping fast as every one of his senses responded to her. He heard her breath turn ragged, inhaled the fresh scent of the shampoo in her hair and the soap on her skin.

She didn’t have to stay in his arms. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t move, didn’t stir. When she raised her face to his, her skin was flushed a delicate pink.

Their gazes locked. Her mouth was mere inches from his, and he caught the warmth of her breath and the scent of mint toothpaste. That tempting flavor drew his head down, so that his mouth touched hers. She’d been frightened, and he’d leaped to comfort her. Perhaps he was trying to fool himself into thinking that comfort was still his motive. But at the moment of their first mouth-to-mouth contact, something wild and unexpected flared between them, a mutual kindling of emotion.

As his lips moved against hers, she did the same, tasting him, sipping from him, consuming him.

His hands roved restlessly over her back, her shoulders, frantic to take in as much of her as he could. He felt no bra under the knit fabric. When his hands drifted downward, he couldn’t detect a panty line. Lord, she was naked under the sweatpants and shirt.
His
sweatpants and shirt!

The thought drove him mad. All he would have to do was pull the shirt over her head and shuck down the pants—and she would be nude.

But somewhere in his fogged brain he knew that would be too fast. He didn’t know her well enough for this.

With an effort he tried to hang on to that lie.

They clung together as though they’d both been caught in another storm, rocking a little, while the kiss turned more frantic and blood pooled in the lower part of his body.

This was his own damn fault. He had stayed away from women for months, telling himself that he had work to do. But deep down he knew that fear had been one of his motives. He was close to thirty, close to the age when the men of the Marshall family bonded with their life mates. But he liked his life the way it was. He liked going out into the wild whenever he wanted. Liked living alone. Liked making decisions without answering to anyone else.

Being tied down to a wife and kids had no appeal, so he had made that scenario impossible.

Then the thunderstorm had broken, and Kenna had cried out to him from the depths of the tempest. Through a chain of events outside his control, she was in his arms, stirring feelings he had worked hard to suppress.

As he kissed her, he silently acknowledged that he needed more, a lot more.

More than she was willing to give?

No. She was warm and willing in his arms, as caught up in the emotions of the moment as he was himself.

Through two layers of fabric, he could feel the points of her nipples stabbing into his chest, and he wanted to ease far enough away so that he could slide one hand between them.

His fingers ached with the need to stroke back and forth against those tight points. Or better yet, pulling up the sweatshirt and lowering his head so that he could suck her into his mouth and circle one of the tempting nubs with his tongue.

Somehow he kept from going that far, but he couldn’t stop himself from bringing his hands inward to press against the side of her breast through the fabric of the sweatshirt.

The world had contracted to a small space with room for only himself and the woman in his arms. When she made a strangled sound, he reached a whole new level of arousal.

The disparity in their heights meant his cock was pressed against her middle. Wanting it in the cleft between her legs, he moved back, bracing his hips against the kitchen counter. Taking her with him, he splayed his legs to equalize their heights. She leaned in closer, moving her center against him. That had been his goal, but the intimate contact was close to driving him mad.

More images flashed into his mind. The two of them in his bed, arms and legs tangled together. Bodies fused.

No. The bed was too far away. Maybe they could make it to the rug in the living room.

“Kenna,” he growled into her mouth as he knit his fingers with hers.

“Talon Marshall,” she answered.

And the strangeness of that response brought him up short.
Talon Marshall?
That was a curious way to address a man when you were getting ready to make love to him.

He raised his head, staring down at her.

She must have seen the question on his face.

“What?” she whispered.

“I think you know me well enough to call me Talon.”

“Talon,” she repeated.

He wasn’t sure why he asked his next question. “Where do you come from?”

The sudden fear that flashed in her eyes was like a punch in the gut. She broke away from him, exited the kitchen, and hurried down the hall. Unwilling to let her simply escape, he caught up and grabbed her arm.

Her gasp was another sucker punch. What was he doing? Forcing her into intimacy?
No!
He was trying to get to the bottom of a mystery.

“Don’t run away.”

She stood with her face averted.

“What are you afraid of?”

Her body jerked as though she’d been struck. “Everything.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said, wondering if it was true.

She stretched out her arm, then let it fall back against her side. “You . . . we . . . were just . . .”

“Yeah. I got kind of carried away. I apologize.”

She swallowed. “It was as much my fault. I shouldn’t have let you . . .”

He wasn’t sure if that was true. He had overstepped the bounds, certainly broken one of his own rules about bringing a strange woman back to the lodge to have . . . He cut off the thought. He hadn’t brought her here to have sex. He had freed her from a fallen tree and rescued her from a storm.

“I’m . . . not myself,” she murmured.

He could say the same thing. Maybe the unlikely circumstances had overtaken them both. Instead of continuing the personal discussion, he changed the subject abruptly. “I was going to make you some hot chocolate. That’s why the kettle was on.”

“What is it?”

“Hot chocolate?”

She gave him that frightened look again, and he wondered why something so innocuous could set her off.

“A warm drink,” he answered. “Haven’t you had it before?”

“I . . . don’t think so.”

He tipped his head to the side and asked the question that had been circling in his mind, “What are you doing here?”