Текст книги "Heat of the Night"

Автор книги: Sylvia Day

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Chapter 6

The coast on a balmy night was always beautiful. This evening was no exception, but Aidan was too focused on his mission to enjoy the soft silver lighting of the full moon or the music of the ocean tide. With silent steps, he rounded the corner of the motel, heading toward Room 108. There were people everywhere-groups of twenty-somethings who were dressed for the clubs and carrying booze in their hands, and older couples strolling toward the beach.

He wasn't worried about the number of possible witnesses. Pretty much "anything goes" seemed to be the rule around here. Shit, he was fairly certain he could ask someone to help him break into the room. A simple story about losing his key while in a compromising situation would work. But the ruse wasn't necessary. Aidan had simply jimmied the lock to the housekeeping office door, which was conveniently hidden from guest view, and snagged the master key.

Armed with the required accessory, he simply walked casually, whistling, his hands in his pockets and his thoughts with Lyssa, who waited in the car with a fully loaded Glock in her lap. In his mind's eye, he could see her-her lush mouth set in grim lines, her dark eyes hard and wary. He loved that she was compassionate and gentle by nature, but tough, smart, and willing to do whatever was necessary to keep them both alive.

He'd shared enough romance novel-based fantasies with Dreamers to know that not all women would manage their situation with as much practicality. Some would wail and cry and wait to be rescued.

Aidan paused before the correct door, noting the lack of light emanating from behind the curtains covering the large window. No one home. He was both pleased and not. At least if the Guardian had been inside, he would know her location. As it was, she could be anywhere. Or she could be somewhere-such as near Lyssa.

Withdrawing the key from his pocket, Aidan slipped it into the lock and turned. The mechanism tumbled open. He thrust the door wide and flicked the switch on the wall. The light on the table between the two beds came on, revealing one mattress covered in the spilled contents of a duffle bag and another pristinely made up. A little further past the sleeping area was a sink, mirror, and door to the bathroom.

The room was empty.

Stepping inside, Aidan shut the door behind him and kicked his foot at the bed skirt. The toe of his boot connected with hollow-sounding plywood, a cheaper alternative to traditional metal bed frames. No one could hide under the beds. He then moved toward the bathroom, checking there for possible ambush, before finally moving to the items of interest on the mattress-a comm unit, an assortment of maps and knives, and a data chip, which unfortunately lacked a reader. Aidan took it all anyway, tossing everything back into the duffle. As he thrust his hand into the bag, he touched something hard and cold. His pulse rate leaped. He wrapped his fingers around the stem and withdrew it.

The taza. And inside that, something wrapped carefully in thick cloth. He pulled out the small bundle and opened it, finding a metallic object encrusted with dried dirt. Rubbing with his fingertips, Aidan revealed delicate filigree scrollwork. He had no idea what it was and wouldn't know until it was thoroughly cleaned, but its importance was obvious to his trained eye. He rewrapped it and slipped it into his pocket, then returned his attention to the taza.

It looked just as it did in the renderings in the Elders' journal. A silver-like metal scarred by centuries, dented and bearing empty settings where jewels once decorated the lip. What purpose it served, he hadn't yet figured out, but it was his. In his possession. His mouth curved in a genuine smile that reflected the tiny sense of accomplishment he felt. He was another step closer to the truth. A truth that would hopefully set Lyssa free.

A quick search of the drawers and closet came up with little else. Some clothes and more spiked jewelry, like he'd seen the Guardian wearing earlier. Still no reader for the data chip. Sorry-assed luck, but something was better than nothing.

He looped the long handle of the bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door just as a key was heard pushing into the lock. Aidan froze for a heartbeat, his mind swiftly noting that the lights were on and clearly visible from the outside. Dropping the bag, he crouched, preparing.

The door flew open in an explosion of movement and sound. His adversary lunged straight for him, her movements visible only as a blur of red hair and flowing black skirts. A scream of frightening volume and pitch rent the air, startling him and galvanizing him into action. Aidan sprung upward just as her body would have hit his. The opposing velocity of his attack jarred them both, the brutal impact forcing a grunt from him and a cry of something akin to rage from her.

They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. She was swinging punches and he was right there with her, fighting back, refusing to allow his brain to acknowledge her gender. It was her or him. He couldn't look at the altercation any other way.

She rolled him to his back, levering her torso up with one hand so that she could free her other for a downward punch. It was then that Aidan caught a quick glimpse of her face. A brief flash, but that was enough to shock him into stillness. Stunned, he didn't deflect her swing, taking the full force of her fist in his jaw.

The bite of pain snapped him out of his horror. Feet flat to the floor, he bucked his hips upward, tossing her over his head. He rolled to his stomach and crawled atop her kicking feet, absorbing her barrage of blows with gritted teeth. His arm drew back and punched hard to her temple. It was an assault that would have knocked a large man out cold. The redhead only bared her fangs and hissed like a wild animal.

"What the hell?" Aidan growled, struggling to restrain the feral Guardian.

Together, they crashed into the nearby dresser hard enough to bang the furniture into the wall. Her nails tore at the exposed flesh of his forearms and snared his shirt. The experience was unlike anything Aidan had ever experienced in centuries of living. The woman was possessed, unrelenting and somehow tapping into some power that allowed her to continue when anyone else would be unconscious.

In the end, he had only one choice.

Grimly determined, Aidan fought to maneuver into position and encircled her head with his arms. Then, twisting like he would a twist-top beer, he attempted to snap her neck. A task that should have taken less than a minute except she was unbelievably strong and snarling like a mad beast. White hot pain seared deep into his leg, giving him the final adrenaline surge he needed to Wrench her neck far enough. The splintering of her spinal cord reverberated through the room. The resulting dearth of noise-broken only by his gasping, labored breathing-was chilling.

Aidan stared down at the lifeless body in his arms still mentally grappling with her eyes, which were solid black with no pupils or irises for relief, and her teeth, which were jagged and wickedly sharp within the gaping hole of her mouth.

Whatever the hell she was, she wasn't a Guardian. That was for damn sure.

Aidan pushed to his feet and then stumbled back down onto one knee with a curse. Looking at his leg, he saw the dagger embedded there, explaining the vicious spear of pain he'd felt earlier.

"Damn it!"

Yanking the blade free of his thigh, Aidan ripped off a strip of the redhead's flowing black cotton skirt and tied it around as a makeshift bandage. He would be fully healed by morning, but he had the interim to get through.

"Shit." He glared at the dead thingon the floor. "How the fuck am I going to carry you out of here with my leg like this?"

But he couldn't leave her behind. She wasn't human, and he couldn't be indicted for murder.

Aidan pushed to standing again, leaning heavily against the television while the room spun. He was heaving in oxygen as if he'd run a damn marathon and now that the adrenal rush was abating slightly, he was becoming aware of the multitude of scratches and minor scrapes that wounded him. His leg hurt like hell, too.

Reaching down, he grabbed the duffle again. Then he slung the dead weight of his unwanted burden over his shoulder and exited the room.

He was several doors down when a group of dressed-to-impress young men rounded the corner in front of him and asked, "What's going on, man?"

"I told her to quit after the fifth shot," he explained, slowing his pace. "She wouldn't listen. It all went to shit after that. I'm just hoping I make it to our room before she pukes down my back."

"Sucks to be you, dude," commiserated one of the guys. "The clubs are just starting to rock and your night is done. No pussy for you either, unless you ditch her."

"I wish I could," he said, meaning every word.

The rest of the group laughed and suggested he "leave the bitch at home next time."

"Good idea," he muttered, continuing on.

It was a long hike from the room back to the rented dark green Honda Civic, a damn sight longer than the trip from the car to the room.

Lyssa hopped out upon seeing his approach, engaging the safety on the Glock before quickly tucking it into the waistband at the back of her jean shorts. Her shoulder-blade-length blonde hair was restrained in a ponytail and her taut abdomen was displayed by the cropped white T-shirt she wore. Her face was scrubbed clean and free of cosmetics, and Aidan was positive he'd never seen anything or anyone as beautiful in his life. He didn't regret anything he had to do to keep her safe.

"Oh my god." She blinked rapidly. "You're kidnappingher?"

"Something like that." He grunted as he stumbled over the uneven dirt road.

"What's wrong? Oh shit! Your leg's bleeding."

"Open the back door, Hot Stuff."

"Don't 'hot stuff me," she muttered, even as she hurried to obey him. "You're not supposed to get hurt!"

"Yeah, well, it's better than being dead like our friend here."

He could feel the wave of horror and confusion that moved through Lyssa.

"Jesus… she's dead? And you're putting her in the car?" She stood frozen, watching him arrange their passenger lengthwise across the seat. "What the hell am I saying?" she said finally, the high pitch of her voice the only sign of how deeply disturbed she was. "We have to take her with us. We can't leave her here, can we?"

"No, we can't." Aidan backed out of the cramped backseat and straightened to face her. She was pale, her eyes too big, her lips colorless. For the first time, she was confronted with irrefutable proof of what he was-a warrior who killed as necessary. "Are you okay?"

Lyssa inhaled sharply, her gaze darting to the body in the car. Then she nodded. "Yeah."

"Are weokay?" he asked grimly.

She frowned, staring at him. Then her face cleared. "Yes. We're okay. I know you did this for me. For us. It was either you or her, right?"

"Right." He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek, and to pull her close enough to breathe in the scent of her skin. But he felt dirty, and he didn't want to put his hands on her until he was clean.

"Well, she's not the one I'm in love with, so you made the right choice."

He heaved out a relieved little laugh, the tension draining from his body. "She had the taza, too, which is really fucking convenient since we're not going to make it down to Ensenada."

As she regained her composure, her chin lifted and her shoulders went back. "Should I get out the supplies?"

They'd been cautious and brought along a medical bag of emergency items. Their life together was a dangerous one and neither of them ever forgot that.

"Not here," he said. His injury recovery time was rapid compared to humans, but he'd discovered that a stitch here and there could cut several hours of healing down to one or two. "Let's head back toward the border. We'll stop somewhere private."

There was an Army-issue shovel in the trunk, part of a kit he'd picked up at the local military surplus store. He knew Lyssa was thinking of it, too.

"What about the statue for McDougal?"

"I'll tell him I was mugged and got injured, which cut our trip short."

Lyssa raised a brow. "You, big guy?"

Aidan shrugged. "He can't prove me wrong."

"Alright." She stepped back and opened the front passenger door for him. "Let's hurry."

Losing the battle to keep his distance, he pressed a kiss to her cheek before he gingerly attempted to get in the car.

"I love you," she said.

"Thank you." His gaze met hers. "I needed to hear that."

She blew him a kiss. "I know."

Within minutes, they were on the road heading north.

Stacey watched Connor spoon more Kung Pao chicken onto his plate. There were several mostly empty boxes of Chinese food scattered all across the coffee table. She set her chopsticks down and picked up a cream cheese wonton. "I have never seen anyone eat so much food in one sitting in my life," she said wryly.

He grinned that broad boyish smile that made her stomach flutter. "You're a pretty good eater, too," he said. "I dig it."

"My hips don't."

"Your hips don't know what's good for them."

"Ha."

Connor sent her a mock glare and expertly wielded chopsticks to convey a piece of chicken to his mouth. Her gaze dropped to his bared stomach and she admired the sheer masculine beauty of his six-pack abdomen. Even after eating enough food to feed her and Justin for a week, he still looked taut, lean, and hard.

Gorgeous.

She was still having trouble processing the fact that they'd had sex, although her body still tingled from the aftereffects. They were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor watching The Mummy, one of her favorite movies. She was a sucker for a blow 'em up action flick with a hot hero and a touch of romance. Connor said he liked it, too, but he spent more time watching her than he did the television. She'd have thought his interest would wane after the sex, at least a little. Instead he seemed more interested than before. She had to admit, she was intrigued by him, too.

"So why are you here?" she asked, setting her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm.

"I have some information for Aidan."

"You couldn't call?"

He shook his head with a smile. "I tried that. He doesn't remember a damn thing I tell him."

"How like a man," she teased.

"Watch it, sweetheart."

Stacey liked it when he called her that. There was something in the rich brogue that lent sincerity to the common endearment. "Are you ex-Special Forces like Aidan?"

"Yeah." There was a melancholy tinge to his response.

"You sound as if you miss it."

"I do." He reached over and snatched the half-eaten wonton from her plate and popped it into his mouth.

"Hey!" she protested, frowning. "There are fresh ones in the box."

"They don't taste as good."

Her eyes narrowed and he stuck a playful tongue out at her. On the screen, Rick O'Connell was battling against a mob of people with the plague. She watched the scene for a moment, then asked Connor, "So what do you do now that you're out of the army or wherever?"

"Same thing as Cross."

She'd tried to get Aidan to name an actual branch of the military and country affiliation, but he was tight-lipped. Lyssa said it was super-secret covert stuff.

So, what? Stacey had said. If he tells me, he'll have to kill me?

Lyssa laughed. Of course not. 'Cuz seriously, Stacey muttered, the curiosityis killing me, Doc. He might as well tell me. That would be a kinder way to go.

Of course, Aidan elected not to put her out of her misery. She knew Connor would be the same. He had a similar air of wariness about him, as if he was dreading the questions he knew were coming.

"You know," she said, "in romance novels the Special Forces heroes usually become high-tech security experts when they retire. Not… researchers… or personal shoppers."

Connor wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned back, supporting his weight on his arms behind him. He wore only loose-fitting striped pajama bottoms, leaving his torso bared to her perusal. His body was a finely honed machine, able to hold up her weight as if it were nothing. The impressive breadth of his shoulders rippled with muscle and his biceps…

Her mouth watered. Dear god, he was savagely beautiful. There was nothing tempered about him. Nothing refined. Even at rest, as he was now, she sensed an alertness to him, an inner coiling of power that left him always ready to pounce.

"You're staring," he purred, his blue eyes watching her with predatory intensity. She knew if she gave him even the tiniest bit of encouragement, he would have her on her back in a minute or less.

The image made her shiver.

"I know," she said, mimicking his earlier statement.

The corner of his shamelessly luscious mouth lifted in a half smile. "So… are you telling me that I'm not romance hero material because I don't install security systems?"

He was romance hero material, all right. At least on the outside. And in bed.

"I didn't say that." Stacey shrugged lamely and dragged her gaze back to the television. It was torture to look away from all that golden skin, but it was self-preservation, too. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't expect guys such as you and Aidan to be interested in hunting down old stuff for old guys with too much money. I'd think you would be bored after all the… excitement of what you used to do."

"The Black Market isn't without danger," he said softly.

"Anytime different people want the same thing, it can get ugly. If they want it bad enough, it can get deadly."

She glanced at him. "Doesn't sound like a dream job."

Connor's lips pursed a moment, then he said, "In my family, we all join the military. It's a given."

"Really?"

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug, which did wonderful things to his pectorals. "Really."

"So you never had something else you wanted to do?"

"I never considered anything else."

"That's sad, Connor."

The sound of his name spoken in her voice shocked them both. Stacey could tell it affected him, because he blinked rapidly and looked a little confused. For her part, she knew that the way she was thinking about him was far from friendly. It was obscene. She wanted to lick and nibble on all his yummy looking skin. His dark honey-hued hair was a little too long, curling over his nape and around the tops of his ears. She wanted to touch it. Run her fingers through it.

"What's your dream?" he asked, his intimate tone drawing her deeper under his spell. He gestured with his chin toward the dining table where her ridiculously expensive textbooks sat ignored. "Are you working toward it now?"

She almost said "yes" as part of her positive thinking overhaul she was working on. Instead, she revealed something she'd never even told Lyssa. "I wanted to be a writer," she confessed.

Twin brows raised in visible surprise. "A writer? What kind of writer?"

Stacey felt her face heat. "A romance writer."

" Really?" Now it was his turn to sound shocked. He did it really well, too.

"Yep."

"What happened?"

"Life happened."

"Huh…" He straightened, then startled her by stilling her fingers, which were restlessly spinning a fortune cookie around. The feel of his touch was warm and comforting. His hand was so large; it dwarfed hers. The man was at least twice her size, and yet he could be so gentle. "That's the last thing I would have guessed you would say."

"I know."

"You're so practical."

"I wish."

"Did you give up your dream?"

She stared at their physical connection, his skin so much darker than hers, the knuckles dusted with barely discernable golden strands of hair. "Sure. It was silly anyway."

Connor couldn't think of what to say to Stacey's dismissal of something that was obviously important to her. He wasn't a Nurturer or a Healer, and he wasn't a man who spent time talking to women. At least not words that weren't for the purposes of seduction. When women came to him, it wasn't conversation they wanted. The best he could manage in the way of comfort was to stroke the center of Stacey's soft palm with his callused thumb.

The chaste contact aroused him. When he brushed lower, across the pulse point in her wrist, the rapid beat of her heart betrayed how it aroused her, too. Neither of them acted upon the attraction, despite their quickening breaths. He was content to simply enjoy the soft thrumming of desire in his blood. Then the phone rang and broke the moment.

She blinked, as if waking, then pushed to her feet. "Aidan called earlier when you were sleeping. It's probably him again."

Connor rose as well and followed her into the kitchen. Stacey picked up the handset, revealing the caller ID. Best Western Big Bear. The tension that gripped Stacey's small frame was palpable.

She hit the "talk" button and lifted the receiver to her ear. "Hi, baby."

He placed his hands on her slight shoulders and began to knead gently, fighting the tightening that threatened to knot the muscles.

"But you have school," she began, which resulted in a long barrage of argument from the other end of the line. "Yes, I know it's been a long time…" Her chest expanded and collapsed on a silent sigh. "Fine. You can come home Monday night."

The excitement elicited by Stacey's capitulation was audible through the receiver.

"Okay." She tried valiantly to sound cheerful. "I'm glad you're having a great time… I love you, too. Keep warm. Wear that scarf Lyssa bought you for Christmas." She managed a weak laugh. "Yeah, who knew you'd actually use the damn thing? Of course… Don't worry about me; I'm watching The Mummy… At least a hundred times, yes. So what? It's a good flick! Okay… Goodnight… Love you."

She hung up and the arm holding the handset fell to her side in a defeatist gesture.

"Hey," Connor murmured, caressing the length of her arm until he reached the phone. He tugged it from nerveless fingers and set it on the breakfast bar. "It's okay. He'll be back soon."

"That's just it," she said, turning to face him only because he caught her shoulders and forced her to. "I don't know if he will come back, or if he'll stay with me when he does."

He stared down at her unhappy face with its pink-tipped nose and turned down mouth. Cupping her cheek, he brushed his thumb across her cheekbone.

"He's fourteen years old," she said mournfully. "He wants a dad, a man he can emulate and learn from. Tommy lives in Hollywood, where it's glamorous and there's something going on every minute. Justin hates it here in the Valley. He says it's boring, and for kids his age, I know it is. I moved to Murrieta because it was cheap at the time-I could buy a house and save on my taxes-and because it's quiet. There isn't much around here that can lure a teenage boy into trouble."

"See?" he said. "A practical woman, just as I said."

A brave woman. A strong woman. A woman he admired.

She faked a smile and it hit him like a punch to the gut. He hated the façade for his benefit. He wanted her all, the real deal. Connor Bruce, best known as "the guy with whom you don't get emotional," wanted Stacey's emotions.

"If Tommy decides he wants to try being a father full-time," she continued tearfully, "Justin will go. Tommy is as much a kid as Justin; they'd have a blast together."

Her head fell forward, hiding her features in a mass of dark curls. "Tommy would probably sue me for child support, too, which would make his life easier. And even if he didn't, I would still send them money. God only knows how they would eat otherwise. One meal a day on the set? if Tommy's lucky enough to be working for once!"

A soft sob rent the air and Connor did the only thing he could do; he caught her chin in his fingers and lifted her mouth to fit his kiss. It was a gentle offer of comfort, just lips, no tongue. He took nothing from her and offered consolation the only way he knew how. "You're getting ahead of yourself, sweetheart," he murmured, nuzzling her nose with his.

"I'm sorry." Stacey kissed him back, tiny kisses. Sweet kisses. "I'm a basket case today. Hormones or something. I swear I am not normally like this."

"It's okay."

Surprisingly, it was.

Stepping back slightly, Connor bent and caught her up behind the knees and lifted her into his arms. He carried her out of the dining room and back into the living room, where he sank into the down-filled couch with her in his lap. She fit perfectly there, her lush body settling warmly against his bare skin. He tucked her head under his chin and rocked her.

Taking and giving. The connection he'd sought and needed so desperately earlier, reestablished without sex and yet strengthened by their earlier frantic mating. Having gotten the animal lust out of the way, they'd exposed the other feelings, laying them out in the open between them. Understood and shared.

"Thank you," she whispered wearily, curling tighter against him.

Soon, her shallow, rhythmic breathing told him she was connected to the Twilight. She was at his home, where he longed to be. Dreaming.

He hoped it was of him.