To Tame a Highland Warrior (46 page)

Its face, full-on, was a work of impossible masculine beauty—exquisite symmetry brushed by a touch of savagery—but it was the eyes that got her all tangled up. They were ancient eyes, immortal eyes, eyes that had seen more than she could ever dream of seeing in a thousand lifetimes. Eyes full of intelligence, mockery, mischief, and—her breath caught in her throat as its gaze dropped down her body, then raked slowly back up—unchained sexuality. Black as midnight beneath slashing brows, its eyes flashed with gold sparks.

Her mouth dropped open and she gasped.

But, but, but
, a part of her sputtered in protest,
it doesn’t have fairy eyes! It can’t be a fairy! They have iridescent eyes. Always. And if it’s not a fairy, what
is
it?

Again its gaze slid down her body, this time much more slowly, lingering on her breasts, fixing unabashedly at the juncture of her thighs. Without a shred of self-consciousness, it shifted its hips to gain play in its jeans, reached down, and blatantly adjusted itself.

Helplessly, as if mesmerized, her gaze followed, snagging on that big dark hand tugging at the faded denim. At the huge swollen bulge cupped by the soft worn fabric. For a moment it closed its hand over itself and rubbed the thick ridge, and she was horrified to feel her own hand clenching. She flushed, mouth dry, cheeks flaming.

Suddenly it went motionless and its preternatural gaze locked with hers, eyes narrowing.

“Christ,” it hissed, surging up from the bench in one graceful ripple of animal strength, “you see me. You’re
seeing
me!”

“No I’m not,” Gabby snapped instantly. Defensively. Stupidly.
Oh, that was good, O’Callaghan, you dolt!

Snapping her mouth shut so hard her teeth clacked, she unlocked the car door and scrambled in faster than she’d ever thought possible.

Twisting the key in the ignition, she threw the car into reverse.

And then she did another stupid thing: She glanced at it again. She couldn’t help it. It simply commanded attention.

It was stalking toward her, its expression one of pure astonishment.

For a brief moment she gaped blankly back. Was a fairy
capable
of being astonished? According to O’Callaghan sources, they experienced no emotion. And how could they? They had no hearts, no souls. Only a fool would think some kind of higher conscience lurked behind those quixotic eyes. Gabby was no fool.

It was almost to the curb. Heading straight for her.

With a startled jerk she came to her senses, slammed the car into drive, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.

Adam was so caught off guard that it didn’t occur to him to do a series of short jumps and follow the woman, until it was too late.

By the time he’d tensed to sift, the dilapidated vehicle had sped off, and he had no idea where it had gone. He popped about in various directions for a time but was unable to pick it up again.

Shaking his head, he returned to the bench and sat down, cursing himself in half a dozen languages.

Finally, someone had
seen
him.

And what had he done? Let her get away. Undermined by his disgusting human anatomy.

It had just been made excruciatingly clear to him that the human male brain and the human male cock couldn’t both sustain sufficient amounts of blood to function at the same
time. It was one or the other, and the human male apparently didn’t get to choose which one.

As a Tuatha Dé, he would have been in complete control of his lust. Desirous yet cool-headed, perhaps even a touch bored (it wasn’t as if he could do something he hadn’t done before; given a few thousand years, a Tuatha Dé got around to trying everything).

But as a human male, lust was far more intense, and his body was apparently slave to it. A simple hard-on could turn him into a bloody Neanderthal.

How
had
mankind survived this long? For that matter, how had they ever managed to crawl out of their primordial swamps to begin with?

Blowing out an exasperated breath, he rose from the bench and began pacing a stunted space of cobbled courtyard.

There he’d been, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, wondering where in the hell Circenn might have hied himself off to for so long, when suddenly he’d suffered a prickly sensation, as if he were the focus of an intense gaze.

He’d glanced over, half-expecting to see a few of his brethren laughing at him. In fact, he’d hoped to see his brethren. Laughing or not. In the past ninety-seven days he’d searched high and low for one of his race, but hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a Tuatha Dé. He’d finally concluded that the queen must have forbidden them to spy upon him, for he could find no other explanation for their absence. He knew full well there were those of his race that would savor the sight of his suffering.

He’d seen—not his brethren—but a woman. A human woman, illumed by that which his kind didn’t possess, lit from within by the soft golden glow of her immortal soul.

A young, lushly sensual woman at that, with the look of the Irish about her. Long silvery-blond hair twisted up in a clip, loose shorter strands spiking about a delicate heart-shaped
face. Huge eyes uptilted at the outer corners, a pointed chin, a full lush mouth. A flash of fire in her catlike green-gold gaze, proof of that passionate Gaelic temper that always turned him on. Full round breasts, shapely legs, luscious ass.

He’d gone instantly, painfully, hard as a rock.

And for a few critical moments, his brain hadn’t functioned at all. All the rest of him had. Stupendously well, in fact. Just not his brain.

Cursed by the
féth fiada
, he’d been celibate for three long, hellish months now. And his own hand didn’t count.

Lying there, imagining all the things he would do to her if only he could, he’d completely failed to process that she was not only standing there looking in his general direction, but his first instinct had been right: He
was
the focus of an intense gaze. She was looking directly at him.

Seeing
him.

By the time he’d managed to find his feet, to even remember that he had feet, she’d been in her car.

She’d escaped him.

But not for long, he thought, eyes narrowing. He would find her.

She’d seen him. He had no idea how or why she’d been able to, but frankly he didn’t much care. She had, and now she was going to be his ticket back to Paradise.

And, he thought, lips curving in a wicked erotic grin, he was willing to bet she’d be able to
feel
him too. Logic dictated that if she was immune to one aspect of the
féth fiada
, she would be immune to them all.

For the first time since the queen had made him human, he threw back his head and laughed. The rich dark sound rolled—despite the human mouth shaping it—not entirely human, echoing in the empty street.

He turned and eyed the building behind him speculatively. He knew a great deal about humans from having
walked among them for so many millennia, and he’d learned even more about them in the past few months. They were creatures of habit; like plodding little Highland sheep, they dutifully trod the same hoof-beaten paths, returning to the same pastures day after day.

Undoubtedly, there was a reason she’d come to this building this evening.

And undoubtedly, there was something in that building that would lead him to her.

The luscious little Irish was going to be his savior.

She would help him find Circenn and communicate his plight. Circenn would sift dimensions and return him to the Fae Isle of Morar, where the queen held her court. And Adam would persuade her that enough was enough already.

He knew Aoibheal wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and deny him. He merely had to get to her, see her, touch her, remind her how much she favored him and why.

Ah, yes, now that he’d found someone who could see him, he’d be his glorious immortal self again in no time at all.

In the meantime, pending Circenn’s return, he now had much with which to entertain himself. He was no longer in quite the same rush to be made immortal again. Not just yet. Not now that he suddenly had the opportunity to experience sex in human form. Fae glamour wasn’t nearly as sensitive as the body he currently inhabited, and—sensual to the core—he’d been doubly pissed off at Aoibheal for making him unable to explore its erotic capabilities. She could be such a bitch sometimes.

If a simple hard-on in human form could reduce him to a primitive state, what would burying himself inside a woman do? What would it feel like to come inside her?

There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon find out.

Never had the mortal woman lived and breathed who could say no to a bit of fairy tail.

Adrienne sighed, shook her head, and ordered her muscles to relax. She had nearly succeeded, when overhead a floorboard creaked. Tension reclaimed her instantly. She dropped Moonie on a stuffed chair and eyed the ceiling intently as the creaking sound repeated.

Perhaps it was just the house settling.

She really had to get over this skittishness.

How much time had to pass until she stopped being afraid that she would turn around and see Eberhard standing there with his faintly mocking smile and gleaming gun?

Eberhard was dead. She was safe, she knew she was.

So why did she feel so horridly vulnerable? For the past few days she’d had the suffocating sensation that someone was spying on her. No matter how hard she tried to reassure
herself that anyone who might wish her harm was either dead—or didn’t know she was alive—she was still consumed by a morbid unease. Every instinct she possessed warned her that something was wrong—or about to go terribly wrong. Having grown up in the City of Spooks—the sultry, superstitious, magical New Orleans—Adrienne had learned to listen to her instincts. They were almost always right on target.

Her instincts had even been right about Eberhard. She’d had a bad feeling about him from the beginning, but she’d convinced herself it was her own insecurity. Eberhard was the catch of New Orleans; naturally, a woman might feel a little unsettled by such a man.

Only much later did she understand that she’d been lonely for so long, and had wanted the fairy tale so badly, she’d tried to force reality to reflect her desires, instead of the other way around. She’d told herself so many white lies before finally facing the truth that Eberhard wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. She’d been such a fool.

Adrienne breathed deeply of the spring air that breezed gently in the window behind her, then flinched and spun abruptly. She eyed the fluttering drapes warily. Hadn’t she closed that window? She was sure of it. She’d closed all of them just before closing the French doors. Adrienne edged cautiously to the window, shut it quickly, and locked it.

It was nerves, nothing more. No face peered in the window at her, no dogs barked, no alarms sounded. What was the use of taking so many precautions if she couldn’t relax? There couldn’t
possibly
be anyone out there.

She forced herself to turn away from the window. As she padded across the room, her foot encountered a small object and sent it skidding across the faded Oushak rug, where it clunked to a rest against the wall.

Adrienne glanced at it and flinched. It was a piece from
Eberhard’s chess set, the one she’d swiped from his house in New Orleans the night she’d fled. She’d forgotten all about it after she’d moved in. She’d tossed it in a box—one of those piled in the corner that she’d never gotten around to unpacking. Perhaps Moonie had dragged the pieces out, she mused; there were several of them scattered across the rug.