Hidden Embers (11 page)

She was honest enough to strive for her own satisfaction, but at the same time gave so much pleasure that he had nearly drowned in it—drowned in her—throughout the long night.

She hadn’t been afraid of a confrontation, hadn’t been afraid to bully him out of his bad mood, but had also held him more tenderly than anyone ever had.

Jazz was a puzzle, a strange amalgamation of parts and emotions that shouldn’t fit yet somehow did. Adventurous and sweet, brave and sexy, confrontational and so confident that it bordered on arrogance, she was everything and nothing like what he wanted in a woman.

Not that he was looking for a woman right now, he told himself hastily. His plate was more than full without adding the extra complication of trying to turn a one-night stand into a relationship.

And yet he wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to her, either. He wanted to take her out for breakfast and watch as she glutted herself on food that he had provided. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to make love to her one more time before they parted for good. And, more than anything else, he wanted to make her smile once more.

He would take that smile, hold on to it and use it to get him through the bad times that were bearing down on him—and his clan—with the power and destructive force of a twenty-foot tsunami.

As soon as that thought invaded his head, others quickly followed—ones that were nowhere near as pleasant as his fantasies about getting Jasmine naked for one last round.

Once the pain of his losses caught up to him, as well as his worries about the future of the Dragonstars, they crowded in on him, ripping away his satisfaction and replacing it with the ever-present guilt.

How could he have just flown off like that? What were they doing for Michael? Had his funeral already been arranged? As his brother, that job fell to Quinn, but it would be just like Dylan to take it on if he thought Quinn couldn’t handle it.

He closed his eyes again as the reality of his brother’s death hit him like a one-two punch to the gut. Instinctively, he reached across the bed, searching for Jazz, though he knew she had already gotten up. But her side of the bed was still warm and fragrant, so he rolled over onto it and tried to absorb the very essence of it—of her—into himself. He wasn’t sure what that woman had done to him last night, but whatever her powers, she had turned him inside out.

Because even as the worry and the pain converged, even as he started wondering what turmoil his absence had caused back home in the lab, it was as if he were buffered. It was as if there was a barrier between him and the emotional maelstrom he’d found himself locked in these last few days, weeks. The time he’d spent with Jazz had made everything, if not all right, at least more bearable than it had been twenty-four hours before.

The mere idea that a woman—a human woman—could have such an effect on him should have set off every warning bell he had, but it didn’t. Nor did the beast snoozing within him seem alarmed.

Glancing around, he noted that the door to the bathroom was closed, though there was no sign that anyone was in there. No sound, no movement, no heat signature for the dragon to pick up. The room around him was silent, the only noise the hum of the air conditioner and the steady beating of his heart. Outside he could hear the rumble of cars as they pulled out of the parking lot in a fairly steady stream.

Stretching lazily, he climbed out of bed and pulled on his jeans. He wasn’t worried about waking alone. He figured Jazz had gone down to her car for some clean clothes. After all, he hadn’t gotten around to changing her tire yet.

He grinned at the thought, looking forward to doing something small to pay her back for the peace she had given him. He knew under normal circumstances she would have been able to change the tire herself—probably faster than he could—but she was injured, her body healing from something that had nearly ripped her apart.

His smile faded when he realized that he still didn’t know how she’d been hurt. He’d done his best to dispel the pain, to help the injuries heal more quickly, but she was human, not dragon, and he could only do so much—especially when he was still so drained from what he’d done with Michael.

As if he’d conjured it up with his thoughts, that same strange, searing pain he’d felt while making love to Jasmine the night before sizzled along his bicep. Glancing down, annoyed, he froze as he watched a tribal band magically work its way around his arm, winding its way through the other two he already possessed until it was completely joined with them—becoming as much a part of him as the other bands were.

Eyes widening with a huge, alarming heap of what-the-fuck, he prodded it with a finger, then hissed out a curse when his fingertip blistered at the first contact. Bending closer, he examined it without touching it, and what he found was far from reassuring.

This band was different from the ones he’d had since puberty. To begin with, it was much more ornate—much more feminine—than the other two, one of which joined him with Dylan, and one with the other sentries. Even more important, it wasn’t black like the other two. It was a deep, dark violet almost the exact color of Jasmine’s eyes.

Shock ricocheted through him as he stared at the band, telling himself that it couldn’t exist. It couldn’t have happened that quickly, that easily. It just wasn’t possible. And it sure as hell couldn’t have happened with Jasmine. She was human, for God’s sake.

And yet, there it was, no mistake about it. He’d seen enough of these through the years to recognize exactly what it was. His own father had had one in gold, and now, after years of searching for a mate, Dylan finally had one in the same bright blue-violet as Phoebe’s eyes.

It was a mating band—magical, pure and completely irreversible. Even death didn’t make it fade. He and Jazz were now joined for eternity.

Inside him, his dragon screamed in triumph, its claws raking at him in a way that told him it had recognized her all along. That’s why it had tried so hard to get out and get to her in the bar the night before, why it had been there right under the surface while the two of them had been making love. The dragon had wanted to make sure that Jazz was claimed—not just as Quinn’s mate, but as its own as well.

Why the hell hadn’t he recognized it? Why hadn’t he figured things out before they’d ended up tied together like this?

His legs went a little gummy underneath him, and Quinn sat down on the bed, hard. What was he going to do? How was he going to explain this to Jazz without coming across like some crazy, fucked-up stalker?

He thought of the pepper spray attached to Jazz’s keychain and the hard-ass look in her eyes when she’d talked about the assholes who had hassled her the night before. Yeah, he could totally see this thing going over really well, especially when he mentioned how uncomfortable it was for mates to be separated for longer than a few days.

Oh yeah, she was going to love this—probably about as much as he did. The question was, how would he tell her? He couldn’t exactly blurt out the truth. She’d be gone so fast, her tires would probably smoke as she shouted over her shoulder that he needed to check himself into the nearest mental institution. And he wouldn’t even blame her. It was exactly what he would do if someone came to him with the fantastical story he was about to tell her—at least, if he didn’t already know the truth about the things that went bump in the night.

His heart started to beat double time, even as he told himself not to panic. He could take this slowly, not spring it on her. He could buy her breakfast, get her cell phone number, maybe date for a while before hitting her with the whole “by the way, we’re bound for eternity” thing. “Sorry, I might have been able to stop it when it first started, but I didn’t even see it coming. My bad.”

That was going to go over really well. But he had to think of something—and quickly—because he didn’t relish being the guy who lost his mate before he ever really had her. Not to mention the fact that eventually it would destroy them both if she walked away. While he was almost self-destructive enough to relish that, he couldn’t stand the idea of Jasmine suffering because of him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her being his mate, but he did know he would do anything to keep her from being hurt.

It was his self-absorption that had gotten them into this mess. He was just going to have to figure out a way to get them through it.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that it didn’t occur to him for another five minutes that Jasmine still wasn’t back. Worried that something had happened to her, he crossed the room in a flash, throwing the door open. He stepped onto the landing in front of the room, stared at the empty expanse of the Lone Star’s parking lot and instantly knew the truth.

Jazz had found someone else to fix her flat tire and, in doing so, had completely screwed them both.

Jasmine glanced in her rearview mirror just in time to see Fort Stockton disappear into the West Texas desert behind her. Her conscience dinged her, reminding her that she should have at least had the courtesy to say good-bye to Quinn. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything to warrant her sneaking away as soon as dawn broke over the horizon.

But when she’d woken up that morning tucked against his chest—her arms and legs tangled with his—she’d had a moment of intense, blinding panic. Okay, a lot of moments of panic, all strung together, until it was all she could do not to bang her head against the fake wooden headboard until everything that had happened between them in the middle of the night was nothing more than a distant memory.

It wasn’t the one-night stand that had freaked her out, although she’d never actually indulged in one before. Nor was it Quinn himself who had her stomach churning with acid. He’d been wonderful—caring and considerate and so sexy she’d nearly spontaneously combusted at numerous times throughout the night.

And those moments, when he had simply held her, when they had held each other, would probably always be special to her. It had been a long time—maybe forever—since she’d been held like that, or had the opportunity to hold someone like that.

No, the problem wasn’t with Quinn. He’d been great. The problem was with her.

It had felt entirely too good—too natural—to be wrapped in Quinn’s arms, and that had completely freaked her out. She’d had lovers through the years—not a ton, but more than a couple. And while she’d respected and liked all of them, she’d never felt the sense of rightness that she’d felt with Quinn after just one night.

How could that not scare the hell out of her?

She was a doctor, a scientist, definitely not one of those people who believed in things like connections or soul mates or any of those other weird, indefinable things people liked to ramble on about. And she wasn’t going to start now, just because she’d had the best sex of her life with a truly incredible man.

He probably wasn’t all that incredible, after all, she tried to convince herself. He just seemed that way because he’d given her a string of amazing orgasms. In the light of day, he probably was completely normal.

Not that she would know. She’d snuck out not long after sunrise.

Her side ached a lot, and she ran a cautious hand over it. The pain was an unpleasant surprise when, for most of the night, she’d felt so good that she’d all but forgotten the injuries were even there. But she’d aggravated her side when she’d been changing her tire, exactly what she’d hoped to avoid by calling the tow truck the night before.

She’d almost called and scheduled another one, but by the time she’d gotten dressed and snuck out of the motel room, she’d been so frantic she probably would have chewed off her own arm if it had meant freedom. A flat tire was nothing in comparison. Except that her body ached a little more with each mile she put between Quinn and herself.

Thoughts of Quinn had her glancing at her watch. It was seven thirty. Had he woken up yet? Had he figured out that she’d bailed on him? And if he had, was he upset? She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but she—

Jasmine stopped herself cold. She wasn’t doing this. Not now, and not in the future. She wasn’t one of those women who sat around and worried about how her guy was feeling. It was ridiculous. Besides, Quinn was a big boy—and a far cry from meaning anything to her. He could take care of himself.

Still, she was afraid her absence would hurt him, or at least give him the idea that he’d done something wrong. And she hated that. This was one of those times when “It’s not you, it’s me” was the truth.

But sitting here worrying about him wasn’t going to change anything. No, she’d made her choice when she’d snuck out of that motel room at five thirty in the morning.

Forcing him from her mind, she focused on what lay ahead for her outside of Las Cruces. She kept driving, despite the little voice in the back of her head that told her it wasn’t too late to turn around. If she was lucky, he’d still be asleep. She could crawl back into bed and—

Jasmine refused to give herself the satisfaction of finishing that thought. God only knew what might happen if she did.

Three and a half hours later, she pulled into a Starbucks in Las Cruces. Stepping out of the car, she stretched her aching muscles and ignored all the little jolts and pains that came with the movement and wondered when her body was going to get back to normal, or if it ever would.

Probably when she stopped pushing it so damn hard and actually gave it time to rest, to mend, like her doctors had ordered.

Too bad she wasn’t any good at following orders, even those she knew were obviously important to her well-being. Besides, the sexual marathon she and Quinn had engaged in had been totally worth the ensuing pain this morning.

After heading inside and buying a huge coffee and a cup of fruit, she strolled back into the early morning heat and surveyed the city outskirts where she was going to be living for the next few weeks—or months.

It was a far cry from Atlanta. The buildings here were new, and the Southwestern architecture couldn’t be more different from the antebellum and urban South. Most of the houses had flat roofs and light-colored stucco, meant—she was sure—to reflect the powerful rays of the desert sun.