And the heat of desire lingered in his eyes. Jac wiggled a little when she remembered that.
Plus he never lost sight of that crystal. He cradled it in his hands whenever they had to go through security and passed it with care to attendants along with his passport. His reverence for the stone and his solemnity were so great that they invariably showed the same care for the stone as he did. The strange thing was that there was no spark in it whenever they passed through security checks.
Even stranger, Jac caught him whispering to it a few times.
Then he’d smile and wink, his mischievous expression making her heart skip, and tuck it away in his pack again. She liked that playfulness about him, that sense that he didn’t assume that all the rules were correct. She suspected that he was unconcerned with convention, just like she was—except more so.
He could drive a manual transmission, which was intriguing to Jac. She wondered where he was from.
The light in the crystal flickered more quickly, and she glanced over her shoulder at Marco, only to find him watching her in silence. He smiled and his eyes glowed.
Did the stone respond to his mood or his state?
“Did it know you were awake?” she whispered.
“It’s just a stone,” he whispered back, but she could tell by the glimmer in his eyes that he didn’t believe that any more than she did.
She twisted a little to see his face better and felt his arousal against her hip. “Where did you get it?”
“I inherited it.”
“From your parents?”
He shook his head minutely, his gaze darting to the stone and back to her. “From the man who raised me. I thought he was my grandfather, but it turned out he wasn’t.”
“Who was he?”
“His name was Pwyll.”
Jac tried to say the name herself, which made Marco smile. He corrected her until she managed a decent approximation. “What kind of name is that?”
“Welsh.”
“Are you from Wales?”
He nodded, his gaze fixed upon her. Jac braced herself on her elbow to look down at him. “But Marco isn’t a Welsh name. I thought you were Italian.”
“My mother was from Rome.”
“But she didn’t raise you?”
“She died,” he admitted quietly, his regret obvious. “I never knew her.”
“My mom died, too,” Jac found herself confessing in a whisper. “When I was twenty, she died of breast cancer.”
“But you knew her,” he whispered.
“I did,” Jac admitted, feeling sorry for Marco that he’d never had the opportunity to know his own mom. “I loved her.” She smiled sadly. “I miss her.”
Marco reached up, and Jac realized she’d shed a single tear. He lifted it from her cheek with a fingertip, then touched his finger to his own lips, swallowing her tear. She found her fingertips on his cheek, her fingers fanning out to frame his face. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to touch her lips to his again.
And what happened after that felt even more right. Marco’s fingers speared into her hair and he drew her closer, making no effort to disguise his desire. Jac’s fingers were in his hair and her breasts crushed against his chest as his kiss turned possessive and hungry. She responded to him in kind, loving how he made a little growl beneath his breath. His eyes were glittering when his hands swept over her, removing her T-shirt in one smooth gesture. He surveyed her, smiled, then bent to kiss her taut nipple. Jac sighed with pleasure, savoring the weight of his hand as it slid over her waist, across her stomach, and his fingertips eased between her thighs. He conjured a wonderful heat beneath her skin, one that felt both natural and right.
Inescapable.
Jac didn’t notice how the darkfire in the crystal burned with new fire, crackling and snapping with vigor as she and Marco made love with slow fervor in the night.
* * *
It was early evening, after several rounds of lovemaking, and Sam had disappeared into the washroom. Sloane was on the prowl, curious about his partner even though he knew he shouldn’t be. His interest in her wasn’t that easily contained.
Sam’s house was impersonal to the point of carelessness, as if she really didn’t intend to stay. There were boxes stacked against the walls in several rooms, and quite a few rooms were empty. Maybe she couldn’t be bothered to unpack. The cupboards in her kitchen had the bare minimum of dishes and implements. The few pieces of furniture she possessed were comfortable and built to last, but the house was, at the very least, austerely furnished.
Sloane was intrigued. Had she lost all of her treasures in that divorce? Or was she indifferent to material possessions? With Sam, answers only seemed to breed more questions. Sloane wondered whether he’d ever figure her out completely.
Was that why she intrigued him so much?
The house itself was one he’d always admired. It was probably the oldest house in the region, a Mission-style fortress of high ceilings, dark wood and white plaster walls. The floors were tile and he liked the blue and yellow Mexican tiles used on the kitchen counter and backsplash. The house was in need of all the usual updates, plumbing and wiring, and it could use a new roof, as well as some landscaping. He wasn’t sure whether Sam had a renovation vision for it or not. She seemed to just be camped in as little of it as possible.
The exception was the dining room of the house, which she had converted to a study. There were teak bookshelves along one wall, their modern lines a bit incongruous with the house, and they were crowded with books. He recognized that she was a fellow reader by the careful organization of her library. This was one bit of unpacking she’d not only done, but spent time getting right. Two old leather armchairs were in the same room, their oxblood upholstery wrinkled with use and the brass studs that lined the edges a bit tarnished. There was a large end table of glass and wrought iron between them. Even though the furnishings were of different styles, he guessed that she liked all of the pieces.
The room’s eclectic look appealed to him. It looked comfortable, like a refuge. It had character.
There were two books on the table, a Minette Walters mystery and a guide to reading tarot cards. The second book made Sloane smile.
There was a lonely cactus on the sill in need of water, so Sloane gave it a drink, then perused the bookshelves. Sam liked mysteries, when she read fiction, it was clear, because there was a good selection of them on the shelves. She had a lot of non-fiction as well, mostly books about cell biology, viruses, diseases, and virus hunters, mixed with a few volumes on reading cards and telling fortunes. He was running a finger along the science books, comparing her collection to his own, when he found a book that seemed to be made of silver metal.
It wasn’t a book. It was a framed picture that had been slid between the books.
So it wouldn’t be seen.
It was as if Sam couldn’t bear to not have the picture, but didn’t want to be confronted with it all the time. There was a box beside it, a gold gift box, but Sloane ignored that. Sam wanted to know where the picture was, he guessed, and to consider it when she chose.
That was enough to prompt Sloane to pull it out.
A young boy smiled out of the frame. It was clearly a school picture from an early grade and the boy was missing one of his front teeth. He was a handsome kid, all the same, and his smile was brilliant. Sloane traced the frame with a fingertip, hoping this wasn’t one of the small creatures Sam had said she didn’t manage well.
On the back was a notation in neat letters: Nathaniel. Grade One.
That this was the only personal photograph he’d noticed in Sam’s home—never mind that she’d hidden it from view—told Sloane how important it was. Was it a nephew? A brother? Her son? Had she lost custody of a child in the divorce? Or had something terrible happened to this boy?
Nathaniel.
Sloane looked more closely. Nathaniel Sullivan had been the first victim claimed by the Seattle virus, the young boy whose face had bee
n shown all over the world, both when Jorge had infected that crowd and when Nathaniel had subsequently died. It was impossible to forget the kid’s brave smile. It had been only about six months since he’d succumbed.
Although this boy was photographed at a younger age, Sloane could see similarities.
Or was he imagining them?
He remembered that there had been a bitter irony in the story, because Nathaniel’s parents had been biological researchers. Virus hunters. Sloane recalled now that mother and son hadn’t had the same surname, but he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time.
Sloane guessed that when he did Google Sam, he’d discover that she was Nathaniel Sullivan’s mother.
And The Magician. He guessed she had burned out in that last desperate hunt for an antidote. She’d lost her son, her marriage and her desire to work. She felt she was a failure, and quite reasonably, she despised dragons.
The collection of books along with this picture told him Sam’s secret and the source of the emotional wound he’d sensed in her. He wondered what he would do if he ever had a firestorm and a son, one who developed an ailment he couldn’t cure, and felt a surge of sympathy for Sam.
His desire to help her to heal redoubled.
Sam came into the room then, wearing jeans and a loose shirt, as she rubbed a towel over her hair. At the sound of her footsteps, Sloane returned the picture to its hiding place. He thought he managed it just in time.
“I thought you might join me in the shower,” she said, then caught her breath when she saw where he was standing.
The way she froze and stared told Sloane that he was absolutely right about her secret.
“Do you always go through people’s books?” she demanded. It wasn’t about her books, though.
Sloane smiled at her, as if he hadn’t noticed anything important at all. “I can never resist a good library.”
“I’m not sure you’ll find it that good,” Sam said, her smile tight. “They’re mostly reference books at that end, and intense reads for the lay person.”
“And a tarot card reader wouldn’t be a lay person when it comes to microbiology and germ warfare?” Sloane prodded gently.
Sam bristled, but recovered well. “You’ve already guessed I’m not a mystic.”
“And what do you think you know about me and my reading tastes?”
She softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be insulting, but a lot of them are written at a very specific and detailed level. They’re not accessible reads.”
Sloane turned his back on her, needled even though he knew he shouldn’t be. He reminded himself that was learning things about Sam that she wanted to hide and that made her prickly.
On the other hand, he wasn’t without feelings himself.
“I don’t know that I agree. I thought this one was pretty readable.” He laid a hand on one volume and lifted his gaze to meet hers in challenge.
A frown of confusion touched Sam’s brow. “You read that book just now?”
“I have it in my own library,” Sloane said, noting her obvious surprise. He ran a finger along the book spines. “I have most of these, actually.”
Sam’s surprise was clear. “And you’ve read them?”
“Cover to cover.” He gave her a cool smile. “We maybe should start a neighborhood loan program. These books are pretty expensive and if we shared the ones we both want to read, we could save some money.”
Sam blinked. “It looks like there’s a lot I don’t know about you,” she said.
“That’s probably a hazard of sex with no questions,” Sloane replied. Before Sam could answer, he went to the kitchen and opened the bottle of wine.
If he pulled out the cork a little more emphatically than was necessary, he didn’t care whether Sam noticed.
* * *
Sam once again had the sense that Sloane wasn’t who—or what—she thought he was. He’d read books about microbiology? And understood them? He should have a couple of graduate degrees for that, and if he was an enthusiast who read such works in addition to running his business, he should have been a lot older than he was.
There was no doubting that he was offended by her assumptions, though.
And he had called himself the Apothecary. What did that mean, exactly?
She followed him to the kitchen, knowing she’d made a mistake and not knowing how to set it right. It wasn’t as if Sloane was in a hurry to answer her questions about him. The thing was that if both of them kept their walls in place, this relationship would end, probably in the next hour or so. Sam wasn’t ready for that.
Maybe she should take the first step.
He’d already found her wine glasses and had opened the bottle of wine he’d brought. He checked the cork, set it aside, then swirled the wine in the glass with the ease of doing a familiar task.
He was ignoring her so pointedly that she knew she’d hurt his feelings.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because that was always the best start. “I’m not used to meeting people who read the same kinds of books as me.”
He shot her a look. “Clearly.”
At least he’d answered her. “Don’t be angry when I’m trying to understand. It’s unlikely to meet anyone interested in this stuff outside of the lab, a danger zone or a specialist conference.”
Sloane gave her a hard look. “The herb farm was my dad’s choice. I always wanted to go to medical school.”
“That explains everything!” Sam was intrigued by this confession and the possibility of them having more in common. “It sounds like you didn’t go. Why not?”
Sloane shrugged and she sensed that he was ducking the question. “It just didn’t come together.” He sipped, giving his attention to a tasting sample of the wine, then nodded approval and poured. “My dad wasn’t enthused about the idea.”
“What did he do?” Sam assumed that he was someone who didn’t think much of the medical profession and that Sloane’s ambitions had been obstructed early.
“He was the Apothecary.”
Sam thought again about the quote that gave her the chills. “That’s what you said you were, although I didn’t understand it at the time.”
Sloane gave her an intent look. “It’s a hereditary role.”
“So, he preferred traditional cures?”
“You could say that.”
Sam felt that there was something she was missing. “The Apothecary,” she repeated. “But he can’t have been the only one. Not unless you grew up in a small place.”
In another century.
“I did.” Sloane said and she noticed how he dropped his gaze. “A little town in Ireland. It was a long way to medical school, even if I’d had the opportunity to go.”
“There’s a school in Dublin.”
Sloane shook his head. “I would have gone to London.”
Sam watched him, trying to make sense of his confessions. “Are you really from Ireland? You don’t have an accent.”
“Not any more. It fades over time.”
Sam wasn’t so sure about that. She’d had colleagues whose families had emigrated from Europe while they were children and most of them still had accents.
“How old are you?”
His gaze locked with hers so abruptly that she jumped. “Now who’s asking the questions?” His tone was low and Sam had the definite feeling that he was warning her.
“Me. I made the rule and I’m discarding it because so far it only seems to apply to you.” She smiled at him. “Here’s one question that’s been puzzling me. Can people even buy real estate in California before they’re twenty-one?”
Sloane looked startled, then she knew he realized what she’d done. “The title?” She nodded and his lips tightened. His eyes were bright. “Fair’s fair?”
“Something like that.”
“I guess I’m older than I look, then.”
It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was apparently the only one she was going to get.
Before she could ask for clarification, Sloane pointed back to her books. “I see you have that autobiography by the virus hunter, the one who did all the talk shows a few years ago.”
Derek’s book. Sam nodded, ignoring the lump in her throat.
Sloane shook his head. “I passed it along to the charity shop. I knew I’d never read it again. His experience was interesting, but he was a bit too convinced of his own brilliance for me.”
“He pretty much is,” Sam said before she could think better of it.
“You know him?”
Sam blushed. “I just had the same impression, that’s all.”
Sloane’s gaze locked with hers. “Oh. I thought maybe he was your ex.”
Sam stared at him, stunned that he could have guessed the truth so easily. Was Sloane psychic? Or just very observant? She tried to cover even as her cheeks heated. “Why would you think that?”
Sloane shrugged. “It would explain your having such a book collection. You might have taken them all, just because they were his.”
Sam had to admit that might have been tempting.
Although by the time she’d moved out, she hadn’t cared enough to be angry with Derek any more. She’d been too devastated by Nathaniel’s illness, and her own inability to cure him.
Sloane raised his gaze to meet hers. “What is it that you do?” He arched a brow. “Or used to do, as The Magician?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“I’m curious, too.” Sam leaned across the counter. “Do you really read these books for fun?”
Sloane grinned. “Living vicariously, I guess, more than fun. It’s a glimpse into another world, or maybe the path not taken.” He sobered and trailed a finger down the stem of a wine glass. Sam watched the gesture, remembering how it felt for him to drag that finger down her spine.