He was a sweetie. Such a sweetie. Mr. Burstrom had given her the thumbs-up as they left the ballroom, and Mrs. Burstrom had looked positively mushy.
Karen stopped and lightly kissed his lips.
He kissed her forehead and leaned his cheek against the top of her head.
She snuggled close. They walked in tandem along the path.
Taking her key, he unlocked the door.
The whole situation was so normal, like an everyday date with everyday people who might or might not go to bed together, and she would not think of Warlord or slave bracelets or men who were condemned by an ancient deal with the devil. . . .
She opened the door. The lamp she’d left on gleamed in a stream of light. A whisper of a breeze filled the air with the fragrance of mesquite, a gift from the window she’d left slightly open. She gestured him inside. ‘‘Would you like a drink?’’
‘‘No. What I would like . . . is you.’’
Since the day she’d walked out on Warlord without a backward glance, she hadn’t wanted a man. But she wanted this man. She didn’t understand what combination of body and spirit, sinew and soul made him attractive to her, but she wasn’t afraid. There was nothing about this man that spoke of possessiveness, of the mad need to hold her captive. He seemed like the kind of guy who would dance a dance, take his pleasure, and be on his way.
And that was just what she wanted.
She pushed the door closed behind him.
This was not a man of earth and air, fire and magic, but a completely normal guy who danced with women in the hopes of getting in their pants. And while she’d never been much for quick and easy couplings in college—the little experimentation in which she’d indulged had convinced her that casual sex was just, well, casual, and her time was better spent reading or working out or even studying— right now, casual sex was just what the doctor ordered.
Rick leaned against the wall and pulled her close. He had a lovely erection beneath those trousers, and she lifted her mouth to his, thinking he would get right down to business.
Instead he kissed her eyelids and shut her eyes, then slipped his tongue around her ear until she shivered with delight. He repeated the caress to her cheek and jaw, and followed his finger with the warm touch of his lips.
With each touch her body stirred until she wanted to shout with triumph.
Warlord hadn’t marked her as his own. She could feel pleasure without thinking of him. This was what she needed to wipe him from her mind—the passionate embrace of a normal man.
And then Rick kissed her, deeply, warmly, while the world swirled around her and the earth moved beneath her feet.
When he lifted his lips she stared into his green-and-gold, deceitful eyes, raised her hand, and slapped him as hard as she could across the face. ‘‘Warlord. You complete and utter bastard.’’
Chapter Nineteen
It was him. It was Warlord. She knew him as soon as she tasted him. "How dare you? How dare you play this game with me?"
Warlord watched her, his deceptively pale eyes never leaving her face.
‘‘Get out.’’ She yanked herself out of his arms. ‘‘Just get out, and never come back.’’ She reached down to page her chief of security.
His reflexes had not slowed. He plucked the pager from her hands and tossed it at the chair, placing it right in the cushion, where it bounced and came to rest.
Blind with rage and disappointment, she wound up to hit him again—and he picked her up and swung her around. He pressed her back to the wall and slid his hands beneath her legs, wrapping them around him as confidently as he’d moved her across the dance floor. As confidently as he’d lulled her suspicions and made her think he was a trustworthy, unassuming piece of fluff of a man, when in fact he was the most intense, savage creature who ever donned a business suit.
She shoved at him. ‘‘Put me down. This isn’t the Himalayas, and I’m not some wimp of a woman who’s too afraid to get up and go.’’
‘‘You do yourself too little justice.’’ He no longer bothered to disguise his tone. The way he spoke, the purr in his voice, that was all Warlord. ‘‘You were never a wimp, Karen. You were a creature of fire and passion, and you showed me the light when I was far gone into the dark.’’
‘‘What a pile of crap.’’ She was so angry her heart pounded in her throat. Her cheeks burned. She squeezed the cords of his shoulders between her fingertips. ‘‘You came here to make a fool of me.’’
‘‘I came here to save you.’’
‘‘From what? Myself? From my foolish desire to be a normal woman who lives in the US, wears dresses and heels, and has a girl job?’’
With acid in his tone, he said, ‘‘You seem to have mistaken me for your father. But you called him your stepfather, didn’t you?’’
‘‘What do you know about my stepfather?’’ Her voice shook with fury.
‘‘Only what I could glean from hours of Internet research.’’ He sounded both sarcastic and knowledgeable. ‘‘Add to the discovery that after you got back from Nepal, you went home for an hour, left, and never returned, and that was enough.’’
She hated that he’d invaded her private life, nosed around, assembled enough information to make good guesses on her relationship with Jackson Sonnet. ‘‘Now I realize I should have done research on your family, seen if I could figure out what makes you tick.’’
‘‘My family keeps a low profile.’’ He slid his fingers along the edge of her neckline to the dip in her cleavage.
She took advantage of his distraction and slammed her forehead toward his nose.
He dodged to the side. ‘‘Why are you fighting me? This is what you want.’’
‘‘How the hell do you figure that?’’
‘‘Did you think you could wear my bracelets and not face the repercussions?’’
‘‘Your bracelets!’’ She lifted her wrists so they were before his eyes. ‘‘Have you looked at these babies? Have you seen what I did to them?’’
‘‘You made them into a decoration for your wrists, a decoration that ensured you could never forget the man who gave them to you.’’
His presumption made her jaw drop. She remembered how she had beaten on the gold, slamming it with the hammer over and over until her arm ached and the malleable metal was damaged, changed from the look of the hated slave bracelets to mere decorations. ‘‘You’re insane.’’
‘‘No. I just know you better than you know yourself. I know you because you took me inside yourself, and I touched the deepest part of you. No matter how much you hate the idea, you’ve spent the last two years waiting for me to come back to you.’’
‘‘I’ve been waiting in fear.’’
‘‘No, honey.’’ He put his forehead to hers. ‘‘You’ve been waiting in anticipation.’’
She stared into his eyes, his light green eyes shot with gold. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she could barely breathe. From fury. Absolutely not from anticipation. ‘‘If I had recognized you . . . How did you do it? Change your eye color? Before, did you wear black contacts?’’
He gave a crack of laughter. ‘‘You don’t believe that.’’
She didn’t.
‘‘My eyes were black because I had fallen so deeply into the heart of evil that my soul was black.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ she mocked him. ‘‘And the eyes are the windows to the soul.’’ But a chill of goose bumps crawled up her spine. The sacrificed child . . . the icon . . . the tale he’d once told about the family bound by the devil’s pact . . . and he held her in his arms.
‘‘Yes. They are. Look at your eyes. Pure and deep, like a glacial pool.’’
‘‘Cut . . . it . . . out. I’m not buying a word.’’
‘‘Good, because I don’t want to talk about that now.’’
‘‘That’s all I want to talk about with you.’’
‘‘That leaves us only one thing we both want to do.’’
She felt his body tighte
n, and she knew. ‘‘No, we don’t!’’
But she was too late.
He kissed her. She wanted to bite him, but first . . . she wanted to taste him. The flavor was piercingly sweet and poignant beyond belief. Whether she wished it or not, he tasted of memories, of passion . . . of pleasure.
That pleasure sent her hurtling into space, into him. . . .
The wind from the open window beside the bed lifted a strand of her hair and wrapped it around his chin like an embrace.
She heard the bump of his shoes as he kicked them away.
He opened his fly, dropped his pants, rubbed himself between her legs. His bare cock rubbed against her panties, the silk making him slip and slide.
The friction was like kindling to start a campfire—and she burned in immediate response.
She wrenched her head back, banging it on the wall. Banging some sense into her pea-brained head.
How could she have not known? How could she not have recognized his scent—leather, cold water, fresh air, and that peculiar aroma that was his alone—the smell of wildness? Yankee Candle could use Warlord as a scent, and women would flock to light that wick.
‘‘Damn you.’’ She struggled in his arms like a butterfly pinned against the wall. ‘‘I have friends here, and they won’t let you get away with this.’’
‘‘Your friends watched you lead me to your cottage. Do you think they’re out there waiting to hear you cry out in ecstasy?’’
She took a long breath, ready to scream.
And he kissed her. Really kissed her this time, taking advantage of her vulnerability, absorbing her taste, reacquainting himself with her essence . . . coming alive with passion.
This was the man she remembered, intense, fiery, so alive desire leaped from his body to hers. In all the history of the world, no man had ever wanted a woman the way he wanted her.
He held her as if she were precious. One hand supported her; the other caressed her waist, her breasts, her throat, like a collector who adored each facet.
And she absorbed his adoration, responded to the pure excitement of being close to him again. Her toes curled. One black satin pump clattered on the tile floor. Dimly, as her muscles clenched and her breath quickened, she knew she was revealing too much of her long, lonesome craving. Yet sensation swamped her, rising like a tide to fill the desolate, lonely parts of her, the hidden corners of her soul that had withered from loneliness. From wanting him. With him between her legs, against her body, she bloomed again.
When he tore his mouth away from hers, she gasped, eyes closed, trying to regain some composure before meeting his gaze. Because he knew, had always known, that she couldn’t resist him. He would be mocking her. Of course.
The change, when it came, came quickly.
As if he were no longer aware of her, he doused the fire between them and stood stiff, still, cold. He let go of her legs, put both hands on her waist.
She opened her eyes and saw his head slowly, so slowly, turn to look toward the bed.
Warlord was motionless, on edge, a wary, ready predator. His nostrils flared as he smelled the air. His eyes moved back and forth, trying to see what was hidden, and in their depths she saw a red flame glow.
Something was wrong. Something was here.
Her gaze flew to the window.
She’d left it open an inch, with a lock stop holding it in place. Now it was open wide.
She heard a slithering sound.
In a flash Warlord let her go.
Her feet hit the floor hard. She staggered sideways on one high heel.
As he twisted, his eyes changed. He changed.
In his place stood a panther, black, snarling, hunched, and facing the bed.
Chapter Twenty
She screamed and backed against the wall.
Warlord... Warlord was a panther? Or the panther was Warlord?
Huge, black, sleek, threatening . . . but not threatening her.
Two years ago in Nepal, she had witnessed the supernatural when she touched the long-dead child, the villagers’ sacrifice to the devil . . . and the little girl had opened her eyes. Those unforgettable aquamarine eyes that had so completely matched Karen’s.
Karen had hoped never again to see anything so eerie, hoped never again to be so close to that other world where fantasy took life and evil held reign for a thousand years.
But Warlord had returned, and now . . . from beneath Karen’s bed, a king cobra lifted itself from its hiding place. Its skin was shiny and glorious with color: black and red and gold. The evil thing was ten feet long, as round as her thigh, its hood spread wide-open, its segments glinting like jewels of death, its intelligent black eyes tracking the movements of the panther. Of Warlord.
Yet she knew with terrifying certainty that the snake was aware of her, and anticipated murdering her with keen relish.
How did this thing get in here?
Why was it so big?
How could it have such an intelligent and malevolent intent?
Only one answer was possible: This snake was like Warlord, a man who became a creature from hell to stalk, hide, take life with intelligent efficiency.
Warlord said he had fallen into the heart of evil.
She flattened herself against the wall. Her nails scraped along the wallboard.
Now he’d pulled her in with him.
With a flash of intuition, she realized—the deal with the devil. Warlord had told her the legend on the day he’d touched the icon and burned hemself.
The deal with the devil . . . This was the result.
Incongruously, the panther wore Warlord’s shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up.
The serpent swayed hypnotically.
Not a muscle moved on the great cat’s sleek body.
Without warning the cobra spit. Silvery drops of venom struck the panther’s face.
The panther screamed, a shriek of agony, as his flesh sizzled.
Poison dropped to the floor, thick as mercury and just as deadly.
The panther staggered backward, then leaped straight up and twisted in midair. Its back claws slashed the cobra’s wide-open hood.
Then the panther landed on the bed and jumped out the window.
In a night of horrors, that was the most horrible thing of all.
The snake reared up, dodging wildly back and forth, seeking the cat. Its blood spattered the walls and the floor. Its coils knocked over her speakers, trashed the stand full of her DVDs, smacked her clock across the room.
Karen inched along the wall, eyes fixed on the deadly, writhing reptile, desperate not to attract its attention, even more desperate not to get in its way.
Gradually the serpent’s agitation calmed. It fixed its gaze on Karen and seemed almost to smile, its tongue flicking in mocking anticipation.
It seemed to believe that Warlord had abandoned them both.
So. The snake was not as smart as she had previously feared.
Yet where was Warlord? Had the venom splashed in his eyes? Was he blinded?
Did she have to save herself by herself? She would try. Of course she would try, but as this thing lifted and balanced itself with serpentine dexterity, she realized its giant head reached as high as her throat.
She dashed toward the door, but the snake blocked her.
The fangs gleamed.
She backed away.
The eyes glowed red with flame. The body slithered toward her in great waves.
She wanted to scream but had no breath, wanted to run but had nowhere to go. She put one foot behind the other, groped behind her, desperate to avoid obstructions, to stay on her feet. Her mind raced. If she could jump onto the mattress and throw herself through the window, she might be hurt, but she would be free. She would run and scream, and security would arrive, and—
She stumbled backward over something hefty, inflexible, something that rolled under her foot. She tried to catch herself. Her foot slipped on the tile. She sat down hard. Warlord’s leather dre
ss shoe was on the floor. Warlord’s shoe had brought her down. She looked up, saw the cobra rising above her, its eyes black and elated, its two fangs bared, glaring white and ready.
She grabbed the heavy shoe and flung it, aiming for the long lift of the creature’s body above the floor.
The snake collapsed, off balance. Instantly it rose again, furious at her assault. She was going to die—
The panther leaped back inside, onto the bed, then bounded off the mattress and onto the serpent, smashing its head toward the floor. With its teeth the great cat flipped the cobra up in the air, then snapped its spine with an audible crack.
Blood spurted. The ghastly thing writhed on the floor in its death agonies.
The great panther stood panting, its mouth crimson with blood—and marks seared by the venom into his right cheek and both eyelids.
Rick. The cat was Rick, and Rick was Warlord, and her most bizarre nightmares had taken form in real life. She backed toward the window, knowing that flight was futile, knowing she had to try to escape from this nightmare where giant cobras spit lethal venom, and the man she knew so well . . . wasn’t really a man.
The snake’s flopping became more frantic, an unnerving rhythm of serpentine death.
At the same time the panther groaned and changed. She couldn’t tear her fascinated, horrified gaze away as the dark fur slid back into skin, shoulders and chest filled the shirt, leg bones stretched out straight, the paws grew fingers and toes, the face developed a strong chin, a prominent nose, and . . . one pale green eye sparked with life, while the other was swollen shut, with the skin peeled back and oozing. Rick—or Warlord, or whatever it called itself—was almost human once more. Almost.
She shook her head and muttered, ‘‘No, no, no,’’ as if the chant would somehow return her to reality.
Behind him, the snake’s upper body rose, fangs bared, its black, lidless eyes fixed on Warlord.
Horror froze her in place. She yelled, ‘‘No!’’
But it was too late.
The snake buried its fangs deep into Warlord’s thigh.