Dreamveil (24 page)

He was standing over his desk, flipping through a file. He didn’t even bother to glance at her. “I told you, not tonight, honey. I’ve got a headache.”

“You’ve got something.” She leaned back against the door and folded her arms. “I’m going to say this, so you might as well listen.”

He stopped flipping, and under his shirt his back muscles went rigid. “What?”

“You were decent to me last night, and I’m grateful. But I can’t have you wandering in and out of my place whenever you like.” As he looked at her, she held out her hand. “Give me the key.”

“It’s sitting on top of the frame over your door,” he told her. “Go get it yourself.”

She dropped her hand. “How did you know it was there?”

“I’m psychic,” he snarled. “You done?”

“With you?” She showed him some teeth. “Absolutely.”

He crossed the floor with a few strides. “Then why are you still here, Cupcake?”

She frowned at the third button on his shirt. “I don’t know.”

He took hold of the front of her shirt with his fist, tugging her up. “I do.”

Somehow she went from standing to dangling, until he plastered her against him, pulled her head back by her hair, and took her mouth with his. His arm pulled her ass in so tight she could feel the hard edges of his belt buckle against her mons, and the way it rubbed against her as he carried her to the desk sent heat slamming through her.

She made the mistake of straining and wriggling, and then he was sweeping his arm across his desk to clear it and laying her out on her back. Before she could sit up he was on her, spinning her around as he buried his mouth against her throat, his teeth dragging over her skin and sending her right out of her skull.

“Fuck.” He lifted off her, dropping into his big chair, and sliding her off onto his lap. “Come here.”

Rowan got a grip on his shoulders as he situated her legs and then ran his broad hand over her left breast. The rough caress knocked the wind out of her, along with his name. “Sean.”

“Shut up.” He wound his fingers through her curls and held her, looking all over her face as he put his other hand to her breast again, his palm hard and rhythmic, a beast’s paw kneading. “So fucking hot.”

Yes, she was. He had her right where he wanted her, straddling his crotch, only her panties and his jeans keeping them apart, and from the length and stiffness of his erection she could think of nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes closing a little as he rocked his hips into hers. “Like that. Right there.” He used a handful of her shirt like a shop rag, dragging it up the damp line of her torso to expose her bra. Then he went at it with his teeth, jerking one edge out of the way so he could get at her, his mouth open and wet and sucking, teeth grazing, making stars burst inside her skull and sending a gush of wetness between her legs.

“Wait.” The word barely made it through the vise of her throat, so she tried again. “Sean, wait.”

He let her go, the release of the erotic suction making a soft pop. “No. Give me that mouth.”

She put her hands against his hot face. “I kiss you, you turn me loose.”

“No fucking way.” He shoved her hips down on him. “You feel that?”

“Kind of hard to miss.” She rested her forehead against his. “I know. Jesus. This is nuts.” She sucked in a breath of terrified delight as the ridge of his cock bumped into the folds over her clit. “A kiss for now.”

His eyes narrowed, and he shifted under her. “Where you gonna kiss me?”

Rowan’s head spun as she saw herself sliding from his lap, opening his pants, and taking him out. Her mouth watered as she imagined gripping the hard shaft and putting her tongue to the bulb of his cockhead. She could feel his hands in her hair, holding her, guiding her as he pushed between her lips, gliding over her tongue as she sucked . . .

He knew what she was thinking. “You like that, don’t you?” He dragged her hand down, pressed it over him.

“Oh, honey.” She rubbed him, blind with her own lust. “I’d love it.”

He pulled her close, whispered in her ear. “You gonna let me kiss you, too?” He licked the rim of her ear. “Because I want it. I want to kiss you and lick you. I’ll eat you all night, Cupcake.”

She was going to come, right like this, spread-eagled on his lap and shaking with need. And he knew it, because he started moving her back and forth, dragging her across him as his tongue did evil things to her ear, his breath harsh against it as he kept talking.

“I can feel it, all warm and wet for me, aren’t you?” He pushed against her, stroking her harder. “Yeah, I’m gonna spread those long legs and hold you down and kiss that sweet little pussy. Can you feel my tongue inside you? Fucking you nice and slow, in and out, until you beg for my cock?”

“Stop,” she groaned, but he only laughed and bit her earlobe, then pushed the tip of his tongue in her ear.

Rowan exploded, coming and coming again in waves that wouldn’t stop, until she thought she would lose her mind, her body twisting and fighting his hard grip and then shuddering over and over, convulsing from the force of it, and on some level she felt his arms tighten and heard the wrenching sound of his groan as he jerked under her, his hips slamming up once, twice, three times.

“God damn it.” He gathered her in and held her, his hands rough but reassuring as he stroked her arms and back. His chest heaved under her as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. “What the fuck was that?”

“I haven’t a clue,” she panted, still fighting for oxygen herself. “I think I’m bleeding from the ears.”

“You’re not. I already checked.” He tucked her head against his neck and sat back, holding her that way as they both cooled down. After a long time, he said, “I haven’t come in my pants since I was a kid.”

“Me, I usually take mine off.” She was too drained to lift her head. “I don’t know what that was.”

“You need a term?”

She offered up a weak chuckle. “No, I’m good.” Slowly she began the process of untangling her limbs from his, until he stopped her. She lifted her head, surprised to see the regret on his face. “Sean, that was the best orgasm I’ve had in years. Maybe ever. So if you give me shit about it, I’m punching you in the face.”

“Right.” He lifted her off him and set her on her feet before he surveyed the dark stain covering the crotch of his work pants. “What do I get if I say I didn’t mean to be so rough with you?”

“Kicked somewhere it hurts bad.” She pulled down her shirt. “I’d better go before I really have to whup your ass.”

She’d almost made it to the door when he caught her and turned her.

“I didn’t get my kiss.” He bent down, touched his mouth to hers, rubbing her lips with his in a sweet, soothing motion. “That was beautiful, watching you come for me.”

“That was primitive, animalistic, and fucking scary as hell.” She kissed him back with the same soft tenderness. “And beautiful, feeling you come under me.”

He rubbed a hand over her curls. “You tired?”

She’d never felt more awake or alive. “Why?”

“I want that kiss.” He stepped back and held out his hand. “Stay with me, Rowan.”

Few junior chefs had the nerve to suggest anything to Giusti, but the invocation of his daughter’s name pulled a small, sour smile from the old master’s face. “Ah, now I know. Giradet cooked for you when you were in Féchy. No one prepares
saumon sauvage juste tiéde
like the Pope of Crissier.”

“No one,” Nathan echoed dutifully. His was better, and they both knew it, but to say so would be the same as spitting on the retired chef, widely considered to be the grand master of traditional French cuisine.

Giusti frowned. “I am not sure. There is only so much wild salmon in the case.” He glared at Nathan. “You cannot make it with anything else,
Anglais
. It would be a crime against Nature.”

“Papa. Nathan.” Gisele stepped between her American husband and her French father and planted her hands on her hips. “Will you argue about fish and sauce until the bistro opens?”

“They are men,” her mother said from the chopping table, where she was packing split leeks with bouquet garni. “Of course they will.”

“What would you have me serve, Marie? Cassoulet and black peasant bread? Hmph.” Giusti’s black eyes softened as he rumpled her light brown hair with a big, callused hand. “Your husband must learn these things,
ma douce
, if he is to be a true French chef someday.”

“Someday?” Her dimples appeared. “Surely it will not take so long to teach him everything you know, Papa.”

Giusti grunted. “Once I thought it would be eternity. Now . . .” He shrugged before regarding his son- in-law. “Nathan, you will go to the market to buy more fennel tops for the salmon emulsion.” He hesitated. “Also I am thinking Gisele will need more unsalted butter for
les tartes
.”

“As you say, Chef.”

An hour later Nathan made his way through the crowded outdoor markets along the Cours Saleya. He didn’t bother to hurry; the locals and tourists crowding around the striped tents, cafés, and boutiques wouldn’t allow it. Coming to the market was an almost daily chore, one Giusti probably enjoyed sticking him with, but Nathan didn’t mind. If not for the handwritten signs and the voices chattering in French, he might have stepped through time to one of the turn-of-the-century open-air markets in old New York City.

Nathan had been careful since leaving Italy. He’d moved around for almost two years, assuming and discarding identities as he slowly erased all clues to his past. He’d known when he’d left the Order that his mentors would come after him; he’d been brought to Rome to finish his education and engage in their holy war against the
maledicti
, and he could not be allowed to roam freely with the knowledge he had. They had never anticipated his defection, of course; the Order had raised him from birth to serve them.

The day was warm; too warm for the long-sleeved shirt Nathan wore. He never went out bare armed in public, however. Someday soon he would have to have removed the twin dragon tattoos on his forearms. Whatever ability the double taijitu marked, it had never manifested. Now they were little more than slave brands his former masters could use to identify him.

Even now Nathan wasn’t sure why he’d turned his back on the men who had created and raised him to fight for their cause. Trained from birth to think of the Order as his only family, Nathan had felt the fire of conviction. Surrendering himself to his masters’ will had not caused him a moment of doubt. He had been convinced he was one of the Brethren up until his final test, when he had been pitted against one of the captive demons so that he would know the reality of their cause.

The Darkyn male had been deliberately weakened, both by starvation and torture, and had offered little resistance. Toward the end he had seemed almost happy to be delivered to his death. But when the time came to make the killing blow, all of the fire and hatred had drained out of Nathan. He found himself standing over the pathetic remains of his opponent, his blade hanging at his side, his eyes locked on the ruin of the once-beautiful face.

The evil one had smiled up at him. “I forgive you, boy. I forgive you.”

Nathan had backed out of the cell, suddenly awake as if after a lifetime of sleepwalking, completely horrified. He had been whipped for his cowardice, and sent back to training, where he had been beaten and tormented for his failure. Something changed inside him as he endured the pain and deprivation. He had done everything they asked of him, waiting, watching, and when the chance came, he had slipped silently out of the catacombs and through the city, not knowing where he would go, only that he would die before he returned.

He did not deserve his life, or Gisele, but now they were his. He would never spend another night praying on his knees to a God who permitted things like the Order and the
maledicti
to exist among the innocent. If that damned him to hell, he would gladly burn for it for all eternity.

“Nathan.” A heavy hand pounded his shoulder from behind, making Nathan jump, and he turned to see a short, bald man holding a brace of
rascasse
in his hand. “You are early today, good. Jacques just came with a fresh shipment from Lympia. You see?” He shook the scorpion fish in emphasis. “Beautiful, no?”

“Beautiful, yes, Henri.” Already he could taste the bouillabaisse he would make with them. “How much?”

The fishmonger beamed. “For you, I make the best of deals. Come, see the monkfish I just put out. They are—” He made a kissing sound.

Before Nathan could reply, someone called out, “Excuse me. Are you American? Excuse me.” Nathan looked around until he spotted another man dressed like a tourist waving and walking toward him. The stranger wore a straw hat and carried a hot pink plastic tote filled with even tackier souvenirs.

“Henri, go back to your stall,” Nathan said softly as he reached into his back pocket.

The fishmonger scowled. “But
mon ami
—”

“Now, please.” He took out the butterfly blade he always carried but kept it concealed in his palm. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Henri grumbled as he trudged off, leaving Nathan to face Straw Hat alone.

“It’s awfully good of you to wait,” the man gushed as he wove around a couple of Spaniards before stopping a few feet away. The jacket covering his free hand effectively disguised the gun he had pointed at Nathan’s chest, but he made sure Nathan got a good look at it. “I don’t meet too many Americans around these parts. Could I ask you to step over here and have a private conversation with me? I could use some advice.” He shuffled closer. “And we wouldn’t want anyone else to become . . . involved . . . in this conversation.”

Four years of his life crumbled before Nathan’s eyes, but he didn’t bother to put on an act of ignorance. The one thing about himself he had not altered was his face, and the man pretending to be a tourist had been one of his trainers in the catacombs. He was also one of the best of their human hunters. “How did you find me?”

“Your pretty wife’s doctor. After her last checkup, he was quite concerned. He sent a consult to Paris.” The man moved the jacket to the left. “If you want to know more, you’ll walk quietly to the parking lot. We don’t want to cause a scene, Mr.
Nathan Frame
.” He chuckled. “Such pedestrian names you have been using, Dancer. What do they call you? Nathan?”

“I’m not Dancer anymore, and I’m not going back with you.”

“Of course you are, my son.” The man smiled broadly. “You forget, you are in France, not America. We control the authorities here.” His mouth flattened. “And you belong to us, Dancer.”

He’d cut his own throat before he voluntarily went back to the Order or used that name again.

“All right. I don’t want any trouble,” Nathan lied. He headed for the parking lot. As the man followed him, he looked ahead for some private spot where he could deal with the hunter.

The crowd thinned and then disappeared as Nathan made his way down a short side street between two boutiques. There he saw a mound of empty shipping boxes stacked neatly by the wall, high enough to provide cover. He stopped beside them, gathering himself for the strike.

“If you are thinking you will disarm me, drag me over there, and break my neck,” Straw Hat said just behind him, “there is something you should first know.”

Nathan turned, kicking away the hunter’s weapon before he hauled him behind the boxes and slammed him into the building’s brick wall. He flipped the blade open and held it under the man’s sagging chin. “What?”

“Gisele will be joining us, too.” The hunter smiled. “My men have just arrived at your father-in-law’s restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “By now they should have her in custody.”

Nathan’s blood turned to frost. “She has nothing to do with this or me. She is an innocent.”

“Didn’t Gisele tell you the reason she saw the doctor? No? Ah, perhaps she meant it to be a surprise, for your wedding anniversary next week.” The hunter chuckled. “Your wife is pregnant, Dancer. Good job.”

“You’re lying.” He had taken every precaution with Gisele to be sure he didn’t impregnate her.

“We retested her blood in our Paris facility, just to be sure.” The hunter grinned. “She’s already developing a lovely and quite unique set of antibodies to share with your son. If she retains them, we may even breed her again. Not with you, of course. You will have to—”

Nathan slammed his head into the brick until the man lost consciousness. Then he ran. He ran as he had never run, with all his strength, through the markets and the crowds, knocking over bags of grain and people and bins of fruit, leaving a wide wake of shouting, furious merchants and frightened shoppers. He ran beyond thought, beyond breath, and as he reached Giusti’s he hurled himself at the locked front door, breaking it down.

“Gisele.”

He found the old man first, sitting on the floor beside the freezer chest, a bloody butcher knife still clutched in his fist. The hunter’s men had shot him in the chest six times.

Nathan whipped his head around to see a work-worn hand, still holding a tied leek, on the floor.

“Marie. Oh, God.”

He hurried over to discover his mother-in-law, shot once through the forehead, staring up at him with wide, lifeless eyes. Nathan felt bile rise in his throat before he stumbled away through the kitchen door and blundered over the body of a man dressed entirely in black. From the look of his wounds, Renaud must have stabbed him with the butcher’s knife several times before he’d died.

“Nathan,” his wife screamed.

He saw her at the end of the road, being dragged by one man toward a waiting van. He bent to take the gun from the dead man and went after them.

His wife fought desperately, scratching her attacker’s face and kicking him as she shrieked Nathan’s name. He reached the van just as the man had shoved her inside. A tray of glass vials fell out of the van’s side door, shattering and spilling the blood and tissue in them all over the ground. Nathan felt something burn across the side of his head.

“Get in the van with her,” the man behind the wheel snarled, cocking the hammer on the pistol as he adjusted his aim. “Or this time I will blow your br—”

The rest of what he said was lost in a gush of blood. The gun fell from his hand as he tried to pull Nathan’s knife from his neck, and then slumped over the wheel. The van began rolling forward as Nathan lunged at the second man.

“You bastard.” Nathan knocked him to the ground, driving his knee into his solar plexus before the other man shoved the heel of his hand into his nose. Bone and cartilage crunched, but Nathan stayed on top of him, battering him with his fists over and over, shattering his jaw, his teeth, his eye sockets. Only when the man went limp did he stagger to his feet and turn to get his wife.

The van was halfway down the sloping street, gathering speed as it hurtled out of control, striking the back wall of the restaurant before careening in the opposite direction, directly toward a busy intersection.

“God, no.” Nathan ran toward the back of the van, where he could see his wife’s pale, blood-streaked face staring out at him. “Gisele, jump out,” he shouted.
“Jump!”

The driver of the tractor-trailer passed by the traffic light and then hit his brakes just as the van entered the intersection from the opposite direction. The squeal of grinding metal shattered the air as the massive vehicle swerved, but the trailer jackknifed, slamming into the van, which crumpled like a cheap tin toy.