“Ma’am, may I take your bag?”
Mariah lifted the brim of her hat. This was a different flight attendant. Not the one who’d asked her the same question first upon boarding and the second time about ten minutes ago, when she’d delivered her second drink.
“No,” she replied. “Where’s Lisa?”
The flight attendant’s seemingly permanent smile did not falter. “You have to store it at your feet, then, until after takeoff. If there’s anything I can get you, please don’t hesitate to—”
Mariah cut off the rest of the practiced platitude by complying and then lowering her hat. She was rarely rude by accident, having been raised by a woman who considered bad manners to be an abomination only slightly above a lack of education or a misguided fashion sense. On the other hand, her father would have agreed that simply covering her eyes with her hat was a perfectly acceptable way to tell someone that you had no interest in what they had to say. Lord knew the man had done the same thing to her more times than she could count.
With an audible sniff, the flight attendant moved away. Mariah figured she wouldn’t be getting another scotch anytime soon, but that was probably for the best. She wasn’t much of a drinker anymore. First, her tastes traveled to the expensive, and second, she’d come to value a clear head. Maybe if she’d laid off the hooch in her misspent youth, she might never have fallen for Ben Rousseau’s cool gray eyes and silver tongue in the first place.
Just after takeoff, Mariah reclaimed her bag from beneath the seat, surprised by the flare of heat against her lap. She tore off her hat, then dug into the bag to see if the stone was really increasing in temperature. This was the second time the stone had grown hotter—the first time was immediately before she’d nearly fallen to her death. As a pilot herself, she realized that any incendiary device on a plane wasn’t a good thing, though the rock had passed through security at the airport without garnering so much as a sideways glance from the screeners. It was, after all, just a rock.
Once her hand closed around a cool stone, she blew out a relieved breath. Flying commercial, even in first class, wasn’t her preferred mode of travel. She’d practically been born in the pilot’s chair, and she didn’t like handing over the yoke of her avionic destiny to some unknown flyer who might or might not have gotten a decent night’s sleep before embarking on a transatlantic flight. Still, she supposed she should at least find a way to rest while she could.
The scotch finally reached her bloodstream and, after a yawn, she retrieved her hat, settled it over her eyes and pushed back her seat. With her hand still clutched around the stone inside the bag, she fell asleep.
And then, just as quickly, awoke.
The sound of the plane engine had stopped.
She threw off her hat and slid up the window shade. They were still flying. Soft, cottony clouds, shining silver under the rays of a full moon, streamed beneath them. Mariah yawned, determined to alleviate the pressure in her ears that was blocking out all noise, but it did not work.
Silence pressed in on her, and when she turned to look at her seatmate, she jumped back, slamming against the window beside her.
The man beside her was no longer hefty and cocooned. Instead, it was Ben.
“You can’t have it,” she argued. “I found it first.”
Ben smirked, but did not answer. He reached out to touch her face, but she slapped his hand away. He’d lost the privilege of touching her a long time ago.
The moment her palm made contact with his skin, he changed. Morphed. His complexion darkened. His hair deepened to the same blue-black as polished ebony and then lengthened until it covered his shoulders. Only his eyes remained similar—but where they were once light gray, they were now the color of a silvery, moonlit sky.
“Who are you?” she asked, though her voice bounced around in her head as if there were nothing to absorb the sound except her skull.
He did not answer. He simply stared at her with an intensity that made her want to cover herself. She still had clothes on, but felt entirely naked to his gaze. And her arms wouldn’t move. Or her legs. She could not turn her head. The seat belt suddenly tugged tight against her midsection, and her blouse pulled across her chest.
“If you work for Velez, I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it. Soon. I have this—”
His quizzical expression cut off her explanation. He had no idea what she was talking about, and yet he stared at her with a curiosity that, though not threatening, chilled her to the bone. Again, the sensation of being completely exposed washed over her. It was as if he were looking inside her—as if his stare could penetrate not only her clothes, but her very skin.
“Tell me who you are,” she demanded.
He shifted nearer, and the unmistakable scent of the forest assailed her. Not just any forest, but the one she’d escaped at Valoren. The sweet aroma of pine, the deep, loamy fragrance of soil, and the musky essence of man struck her hard. He said nothing, but stared at her intently, starting at the top of her head and then sweeping downward. Each trailing of his gaze over her body ignited a sexual awareness she did not want to feel. She’d never seen this man before. He had no right to examine her so…intimately.
But she could do nothing to fight him off.
“Please,” she begged, thrown into unknown territory by her utter helplessness. He rewarded her weakness with a smile and then lowered his mouth over hers in a kiss that defied everything she’d ever known about kisses.
He was gentle, but not shy. Exploratory, but not inexperienced. His mouth tasted of dry red wine and some exotic fruit—like plum or currant. His lips were warm and his breath intoxicating. She couldn’t fight the instinctual pull to wrap her arms around his shoulders and feel the sinews of his muscles through his shirt, but the moment she could move again, she woke with a start.
“What the fuck?”
This time when Mariah ripped off her hat, it sailed all the way to the galley. The flight attendant coming around the corner with a tray full of mimosas screamed, then doused herself and the passengers in the front rows with orange juice and champagne. The man beside Mariah, no longer the dark stranger or Ben but again the hefty, world-weary traveler, stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head.
“Such language,” he muttered, and then returned to buttering his bagel.
Mariah muttered an apology, then sank back into her seat. She’d been dreaming. Only dreaming. But it had felt so real. If she didn’t know she was persona non grata with the airplane crew at this moment, she would have ordered enough scotch to keep her occupied until landing. Instead, she gripped the bag tighter, squelching a yelp at the heat of the stone within.
She didn’t know what the hell she’d found in Germany, but she now knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt—at the first opportunity, she was getting rid of it. And the sooner the better.
***
Had he possessed corporeal form, Rafe would have grabbed onto something solid to hold himself steady. The pull, particularly when he had wondered what it might feel like to kiss Mariah, had increased to nearly inescapable levels. He’d dreamed of tasting her, imagined the yielding of her lips against his. But as quickly as he’d felt freedom, the stone encasing his soul constricted. Fortunately. While he remained safe within the stone, he defied Rogan’s magic and stood firm against the elemental call that could come to nothing good. Rafe had had his chance at love and desire—and thanks to Rogan, it was gone.
Once the sensation of floating on the air ended with a jolt and jostle, Rafe understood that Mariah had returned to the ground. He did not understand, of course, how she could fly without his magical assistance, but he knew that she had. Her emotions, so guarded and controlled with everyone she spoke with, flooded from her heart every time she touched the stone. He knew things about her he did not want to know. How much her resentment toward her former lover had faded. How her disappointment in her failure for a man named Velez gnawed at her. How her heart ached for someone she could share her fears with—someone who would not turn her weakness into a weapon to wield at will.
She was strong, this woman. Strong, but damaged. And with Rafe’s own personal history, he was the last man who could offer her solace.
If he was still a man.
At this moment, he knew not what he was. Trapped within the stone, he could think and suffer as a man, but he could not feel the mist of the night on his skin or the ground beneath his feet. Or a woman’s mouth pressed intimately to his. And until Mariah, he had not craved the sensations. Not once.
But now it was all he could think about. The kiss had not been real, but the dream had made his blood rush in his ears. As if he had tasted her, the flavors of her lips lingered on his tongue. Strong, smooth whiskey and sweet feminine warmth had intoxicated him for hours.
He could see nothing from inside the bag where she’d stored the stone, but he experienced a change in atmosphere. The stone suddenly grew moist and hot, and he guessed the temperature had changed to match the air outside. He’d never visited a climate such as this, but he did not have to be free of the curse to know that he’d somehow been transported to a foreign land.
Hours had gone by. Only a few days ago, the passage of time would have been inconsequential, but ever since Mariah dug his prison out of the Valoren dirt, he’d suffered every excruciating minute with an awareness he did not want.
He attempted to block out the murmurs and mumblings of conversation outside the bag, but without trying, he understood that she was attempting to find lodging under a name that was not her own. Once the bartering was complete and a swooping upward ride ended, he heard a door open, then close. Locks snapped into place, and the soft bounce of a cushion jolted him. Had she tossed the bag onto a bed?
Again, he heard a succession of opening and closing doors. The slide of curtains. Clicking noises he could not identify. Suddenly he heard a loud, trilling sound, this time from within the bag. Her hand brushed against the stone as she dug inside, and again, he was overwhelmed with emotions he did not wish to feel. Desire. Longing. Lust.
She cursed, then pulled him out. The need to touch her, taste her, possess her, increased to dizzying proportions.
The room was dark. She’d pulled down the shades, and only the golden glow from strangely steady lanterns illuminated the room. Her brown hair caught the light, reflecting a fiery red he longed to slide his hands through. Her eyes, warm as topaz, widened at the sight of him.
The chirping noise stopped. For the first time, she inspected the stone that contained him. Every stop on the route to this place had been quick, and her mistrust had been overwhelming. But here she felt safe.
With the precision of a craftsman perusing the workmanship of a rival, she thrust the stone beneath the light and examined every crevice and curve. When she nicked the center of the stone with her thumbnail, a dizzying shiver ran the length of his spine. She raised the stone to her lips, expelled a mint-infused breath over him, then rubbed the stone vigorously against her breasts, throwing him into a conflagration of need versus resistance. He had to use the entire force of his will to remain inside the stone.
“Just what are you?” she asked.
Your darkest nightmare
, he thought.
With a gasp, she dropped the stone and screamed.
Four
Had she heard him?
Rafe watched her intently as the trilling noise again broke through the shocked silence. Mariah had already backed away, from where he’d landed on a cushioned floor. She tripped near the bed, fumbling as she scooped a slim metal case from her sack on the bed. Her gaze darted nervously between the stone on the ground and the odd case in her hand, which continued to emit noises not unlike the skylarks that had once perched in the willow outside his window.
She flipped open the metal ease and then stomped about as if the innards had revealed distressing news. After a long glance in his direction, she pressed the device with her thumb, then held it to her ear. Her eyes, however, darted back to him, entrapped in the stone, every few seconds.
“Hunter here,” she said to the device. Her voice held none of the anxiety Rafe felt washing off her body in waves. She was putting on a show, but for whom? There was no one in the room other than him…of this he was certain.
After observing her for a full minute, he guessed that the device she spoke into allowed her to communicate with someone who was not there. Someone she knew. Rafe’s mind whirled. Did Mariah have magic of her own? How else could she perform such a marvel? And yet, if she possessed powers, why could she not save herself at the cliff in Valoren?
Though Rafe had not ventured from the stone, he understood that she’d traveled a great distance in a short amount of time. Snippets of conversation led him to believe they were in a different country, one far removed from his homeland. To his left, a black box blinked green numbers. Did they represent the time? And though the windows were closed, a cool breeze riffled through the room.
Apparently, the device she spoke into was part of her everyday world, a world that contained many mysteries Rafe had no desire to solve. And yet, he could not help but watch her as she paced about, exchanging conversation as if she communicated with distant compatriots regularly, and without concentration or incantation.
Rafe’s learned eldest brother, Damon, had often spoken of many conceived inventions that would have allowed for magic in the everyday world. What would Rafe’s ancestors have thought about such marvels as pistols and telescopes? They’d likely be as confused as he was, but at least he knew that he’d been thrust forward in time, into a world wholly unlike his own. Logically, that world must have changed. And with it, so had methods of communication.
He would simply have to listen and learn and observe.
“No, Senor Velez, I haven’t found the coins yet,” Mariah explained. “I was just in Chiapas last week and I—”
She stopped speaking, and her gaze shifted back to the stone. Rafe could tell from her expression that she was only half listening to the voice speaking directly into her ear through the strange metal box. She approached Rafe’s prison with caution, kicking the edge with the toe of her boot, then hopping away as if she expected someone to jump out at her. Well, it would not be him. No matter how the temptation to emerge pulled at him, he resisted. If his speaking had terrified her, he could only imagine the crazed consequences of his appearing from nowhere.