“No,” she said, willing her body to remain as stationary as possible. “Please don’t stop.”
He grazed a succession of dull-edged fingernails over her sensitive nub, then pulled his hand away. “I cannot be responsible for waylaying your healing.”
He was teasing her. The lilting edge in his voice told her he wanted her to beg. She was more than willing—and this surprised her most of all.
“You won’t,” she assured him. “I’ve spent two days dreaming about what you did to me in the shower, what you did to me on the mats.”
“Ah, yes,” he agreed, his hand smoothing over her inner thigh, up and down, up and down, with painful slowness, always stopping just half an inch short of where she wanted his touch the most. “I’ve been preoccupied with the same memories, though I have been entirely conscious, watching you sleep, knowing I could allow myself only the delight of brushing the hair away from your face, or perhaps, touching your cheek. I have ached for you, my lady, in ways you could not possibly know.”
But when his finger finally dipped into her, she understood. Immediately her body wept from the excruciating wonder of his touch, from the jolts of pure delight streaking through her. One finger was followed by a second. Then a third. When he curled his hand so he could flick his thumb against her clit, she nearly leaped out of her skin.
“Shh,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Remember, my lady: You must remain still.”
But even as he chastised her, he coaxed her further into madness. Her body tightened around him. Orgasm was just a few excruciating, delicious moments away.
Her eyes locked with his. She focused not on the brilliant silver rim of his irises or the wide, unfathomable circles of his pupils, but beyond. She saw his jaw clench when she gasped, when the tiny moans of pleasure gathering from deep within her escaped unbidden and unrestrained. In his eyes she witnessed how her pleasure satisfied him to the deepest reaches of his soul.
His rhythm quickened, the pressure intensified and in seconds she exploded. When her cry grew too loud, he kissed her, luring her over the crest and into satiated bliss.
In the end he pressed his forehead against hers, and she realized he was panting nearly as strongly as she.
As her mind cleared, she wondered what to say, what to think. Ross had wanted her, groomed her into the perfect woman, gifted her with the life she’d always dreamed of, then thrown it all away. His love-making, while frequent and inventive over the course of their marriage, had been meant more to teach her how to please him rather than the other way around. Had she realized that before now?
Aiden, on the other hand, gave without taking. Only that wasn’t entirely true. From her pleasure, he seemed to extract something deeply personal. Something he cherished. She could see it in his eyes.
Suddenly her own eyes burned. She blinked, but couldn’t find the moisture to alleviate the sting. When she turned her head, Aiden took the cue and withdrew.
“You bring out the most wicked in me,” he said, his lips curved in a smile even though his eyes remained intense and serious.
“Right back at you,” she quipped, closing her robe. “If you scoot over a little closer, I’ll return the favor.”
But instead of moving closer, Aiden rolled off the bed entirely. “Is that how your new century deals with sexual matters? In barter and trade?”
She supposed he was trying to sound offended, but his chuckle betrayed him instantly. “Isn’t that how it’s always been? From the beginning of time, I mean? My generation certainly didn’t invent sexual politics.”
He crossed his arms, highlighting the powerful build of his chest and making her sigh in sated appreciation. “Nor did mine.”
“But you play the game very well, ‘cause right about now I’d do anything you wanted me to.”
He arched a dark brow. “Anything?”
“Name it,” she challenged.
His deep, measured laughter slipped right between her legs and aroused her with just as much skill as his deft and delicious fingers. “I intend to, when you are stronger.”
She scooted closer to him. “I heal more quickly when I’m distracted. You know, when my mind is otherwise engaged.”
He slipped his hand between the folds of her robe again and unabashedly tweaked her sensitized nipple. “Like this?”
“It’s a start,” she said with a sigh. “A very delicious start.”
Eighteen
“Leave the towels by the door, will you?”
Paschal listened with half an ear while the maid shuffled across the plush carpet of the Crown Chandler penthouse suite, where Ben and Cat had left him to recover. Ignoring the luxury of having someone around to pick up after him, he typed another name into the search engine on his laptop computer and wondered why he’d waited so long to learn about the Internet. The information flowing through this remarkable wireless connection had been invaluable, even though Farrow Pryce had succeeded in keeping most of his activities on the q.t. Pryce had a certain amount of clout in the financial world, and his activities with the K’vr had, to the best of Paschal’s knowledge, remained carefully hidden. Paschal had always known the man’s name, always associated him with the K’vr—a group of Rogan worshipers who’d been nothing less than a pain in his patoot for over half a century—but he’d never known exactly how rich the man was. Now he could only wonder precisely how the K’vr had contributed to this fortune.
Pryce’s extensive portfolio wasn’t good news. Money equaled power, and apparently Pryce had plenty of both. Paschal now considered himself very fortunate to have escaped Pryce once, and though he doubted the man had any reason to pursue him again, he certainly had both means and motive to thwart Paschal in his quest to find Aiden—the brother he was now certain, thanks to his vision, was alive, though likely still trapped in his phantom state.
Paschal scanned a notation about Pryce in a stock trading magazine. Wasn’t much here. Just a vague reference about his net worth.
Suddenly he became aware of someone standing directly behind him, reading over his shoulder.
“That’s old news,” a sultry voice informed him. “Pryce is worth twice that by now.”
Paschal shifted his attention from the screen, but remained facing forward. The husky voice, the exotic perfume, the bold confidence told him that Gemma Von Roan had come for him, just as he’d suspected she would.
“So he finally kicked you out, and you’ve been reduced to cleaning hotel rooms for a living?”
She snorted. “That’s a nice little fantasy you’ve got going on. Farrow did not kick me out. Yet. And until he does, I enjoy using his hard-earned cash to bribe my way into your hotel room.”
“If Pryce is so wealthy,” he asked coolly, “why does he need an old sword of comparatively low financial value?”
Gemma grabbed the back of his chair and swiveled him around. She was just as striking as ever, slim and sleek, from her short, cropped hair to her stiletto-heeled boots. Her icy blue eyes sparkled from beneath lashes heavily lined in black. “Because the sword holds a piece of my ancestor’s magic. He knows you want it, and he’s going to get it first. He’s too close already. You need to act quickly unless you want to lose your advantage.”
“And what advantage is that?”
“Me.”
Paschal hardly had time to react when she moved to straddle him, but he managed a quick scoot backward and held up his hand.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he admitted, torn between desiring to have her mount him and knowing the physical contact with her at this precise moment was not a good idea. He had been feeling his age lately, and though Gemma had fueled quite a few potent fantasies, he had to be realistic. Besides, he had suspicions about her latent abilities—magical talent he wasn’t even sure she realized she had.
She frowned prettily. “It’s only been nine months since I saw you last. Lost your taste for me already?”
“They say the taste buds are the first thing to go.”
He braced his hands on the armrests of the swivel chair and wondered if he should risk standing and revealing the full breadth of his current weakness. He didn’t have to decide when she laughed, ran her hands through her cropped black-and-blond hair and backed away.
“Nice suite,” she commented, looking around.
He shrugged. “It’s a room with a roof.”
“A room with a roof conveniently owned by Alexa Chandler. Where is the heiress? I’ve always wanted to meet her.”
“Don’t you know? Farrow’s having her followed.”
Her pout lasted all of a split second, but Paschal noticed it all the same.
“He’s left you out of the loop, hasn’t he?”
“Let’s just say that the unwavering trust we had before you came into our lives has… wavered. He’s found it impossible to believe that a man over ninety could overpower a guard, take his gun, shoot his security guard and force me to drive him off the property.”
Well, her story certainly had been inventive. “So why are you still with him?”
“He needs me. I’m a direct descendant of Rogan’s brother, Lukyan. Blood means a lot to the fellowship of the K’vr.”
“But not as much as gender.”
“It’s an old organization, mostly underground, but the wealth the followers have amassed over the years is substantial. They’re set in their ways. They’ve never had to consider a woman for leadership before.”
“You sound as if you think you might change their minds.”
“You never know until you try,” she replied.
“And since Farrow’s no longer keeping you under his wing, you’re going to betray him and take the leadership for yourself?”
“That’s always been my plan. And I suspect Farrow knows it, That’s why he’s in Los Angeles right now, negotiating with the last known owner of the sword. A man named Ross Marchand.”
Paschal shook his head. The name did not sound familiar. “Our information tells us that the last buyer of the sword was a South American weapons collector involved in the drug trade. Alexa and Damon were headed that way as soon as—”
“Tell them not to waste their time,” she interrupted. “You were led to believe that by a shady German antiques dealer whom Farrow paid a hefty price to throw any other collectors off the trail.”
Paschal considered her expression and her words. He’d worked with enough less than reputable antiques dealers in his lifetime to find her story entirely believable.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, her eyes flashing. “I’m attracted to you.”
“Try again.”
She smiled slyly. “I’m trying to gain your trust. Apparently I’m not very good at it. Let me try again.” From inside a slim leather bag she’d slung over her shoulder, she took out a series of photographs. Taking her time and making sure she slid as close to him as possible, she laid out each picture on the desk behind him.
Paschal was almost afraid to look.
Almost.
There were ten pictures in all, each a high-quality image of an item, one as old as the next. Most meant absolutely nothing to him except that they appeared Gypsy-made. The seventh picture, however, grabbed his attention. It was a chalice—an adorned cup. He fought the instinct to immediately pick it up when his brain registered the symbol carved into the fine, wrought silver of a hawk holding a fiery red opal in its talons. He perused all the photographs a second time, forcing his expression to remain impassive, before he met her eyes.
“Are you opening an auction house?”
She cursed. “There’s no time to play games, old man. I know you’re looking for items associated with Valoren. Each one of these items was handcrafted by Gypsies in the early to mid-eighteenth century. Most were found in and around the region of Germany where Valoren reportedly existed. This one”—she slammed her red-tipped fingernail into the center of the chalice—”bears the symbol of Rogan himself.”
She turned and, in a move that nearly caused Paschal to rocket his chair across the room, tugged down her slim slacks. On the area just above her smooth pelvic bone was a tattoo—the hawk with the opal clutched tight in its claws.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen this symbol before,” she insisted.
He arched a brow. “Not presented like that, I haven’t. That secret passage where we were trapped all those months ago was quite dark.”
A red flush crept from her chin to her cheeks, surprising him. With a violent tug she pulled up her pants. “Tell me you’re not interested.”
“In which? You or the chalice?”
She smiled. “Either. Both. But I’m willing to show you more than photographs if you come with me. I have those items in a secure location. But you have to come now. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. This is a take-it-or-leave-it offer.”
“Why the rush?”
“I can’t beat Farrow to the sword,” she explained. “That battle is lost. But these items are mine. Or, at least, they will be. If you show me how to unlock their secrets, we’ll both get what we want.”
“How do you know I can unlock anything?”
She frowned deeply, as if he’d just insulted her intelligence. “Because you have before. You found a way into the castle where we could not. You unlocked that secret pretty handily. And you traced the sword before we did. Farrow only beat you to it because he paid that antiques dealer in Dresden an obscene amount of money to reveal who the buyer was and to throw whoever you’ve got sniffing after it off the scent.”
Paschal arched a brow. He’d always suspected Gemma Von Roan possessed more than average intelligence. Now he was sure.
“What do get in return for assisting you?”
“Name your price,” she countered cockily, as if nothing were beyond her grasp.
“I so prefer showing to telling.”
She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go, then.”
“I’ll have to call my son.”
“No way,” she insisted. “That girlfriend of his has a bitch of a roundhouse kick. I’d rather this just be you and me.”
“They’ll come looking for me. And they’ll find me. You know they will.”
“You can leave a note.”
Paschal shook his head. “Neither my son nor Catalina Reyes is a fool. They’ll never believe I ran off with you willingly and only left a note.”
The act of considering his demand seemed painful. She wasn’t accustomed to compromise. Well, she’d learn.