Harlequin Nocturne September 2014 Bundle: Beyond the Moon\Immortal Obsession (4 page)

“Impressive. Now I feel special. The big man on top saved me?”

Her flirty lash flutter captivated him. Her blue eyes were tinged with deep violet, almost as purple as her hair. As if some kind of rare jewel, they briefly stole attention from her soft, plump lips. But not for long.

Tea was set before her, and she stirred the tea bag about with a spoon. A nip at the macaron summoned a purring approval from her kissable lips.

“I love macarons. If you want to know the way to my heart?” She held the pale ochre pastry up. “This is it. I can tell you which patisseries in Paris sell the best macarons, which offer the crispest, softest and most unique in flavors. And which ones to avoid.”

“Duly noted. It's always helpful to know the way into a woman's heart.”

She lowered her gaze.

Rook sipped his espresso and took in the graceful lines of her hand wrapped about the teacup and the flick of her tongue as it dashed out to lick off a flake of pastry from a fingertip. Every move she made was sensual; he fought to not lean in and kiss her.

But what he desired more than a kiss? He wanted to lay his palm over her chest and read her, as he could read any person. He'd gotten such a strange read from their brief contact last night. All night he'd wondered about that flash of knowing that had washed over him as if heat had flooded his nervous system.

Oz had also been distracted through the night. In fact, the demon had been the one to prod him to visit Verity's home and invite her to this meeting.

“I have to ask you something,” he started.

“It's about what you said to me last night, isn't it?”

Her eyes brightened and, compelled, Rook leaned across the table. To be nearer. In her aura of lush flowery scent and sweet sugary macarons. He wondered if her perfume was rose. He wanted to remember her scent when he returned home alone.

She added, “About your soul?”

He sat upright. So she had heard him utter that last night. Even shivering with fear, she'd been coherent and so brave. “Yes. I…felt something when I laid my hand on you.”

“You mean when you grabbed my boob?”

“I didn't grab it.”

Not purposely. He'd been in a rush to ensure she was all right while the vampires had closed in on him from behind. But her flirtation amused him. She wasn't afraid of him. In fact, the woman exuded an engaging confidence. Maybe she was interested in more than a chat over tea. He certainly wouldn't rule it out.

“You felt me up,” she said, drawing her tongue along the jagged edge of the second macaron. He didn't know her well enough to guess if that tone had been a tease or if she was actually offended.

“It was an accident,” he offered. “I wanted to touch you, to make contact, and let you know you were not alone at such a harrowing moment.”

“Sure.” She tapped the spoon against the plate and sipped her tea. “Admit it. You got a free feel.”

“Well, sure. And what an appropriate time, when four vampires were on my ass.”

“Touché.”

Her lips pursed as she sipped, and Rook sat up straighter, easing his leg to the right to allow some room in his rapidly tightening pants. Damn, she was gorgeous. And a witch. He held great respect for witches. Even when considering his not-so-illustrious history with the breed.

You are not here to flirt but to find your soul. Ask her!

Oz had the worst timing, but like it or not, the demon had always been more forthright than Rook's conscience.

“Do you…” he started, not sure how to ask such a thing. “I mean, the touch. It felt familiar.”

She set the teacup down and tilted her head. Her assessment of him delved a bit too deep to remain a simple flirtation. She looked into him, beyond the suit and tie and the well-groomed jaw stubble. Beyond his vain need to slick back his hair in an attempt to coax the tufts of gray behind his ears. Her look felt as much like a touch as if she'd actually laid her palm over his chest.

“I need to tell you a story,” she finally said. “About something that happened to me, oh…a hundred and ten years ago. It was around 1908, I believe. A few decades after my mother died.”

Rook sat back, wondering where this was leading but content to listen to anything this sultry vixen wanted to tell him, even a story. “1908? It was a good year, if I recall correctly. The tale end of bohemia.”

She nodded, their shared history refreshing. Rare did he meet someone who could remember the history he did—that is, someone he didn't want to stake.

“So, there I was, in bohemia—actually, it was more the Victorian era coming toward an end. I remember the stuffy long black skirt I was wearing. Wool. Ugh. So gothic. Anyway, I was wandering the edge of the Bois de Boulogne.”

The park that hugged the modern peripherique road that surrounded the city had once been a forest—and still was—though by the nineteenth century it had already been commandeered by less upstanding citizens for midnight liaisons and occult rituals. Not that Rook would admit to knowing anything about such rituals firsthand. Some things a man liked to keep close to his vest.

“Have you lived in Paris all your life?” she asked.

“I've traveled France and Europe and stayed in some countries a year or two at a time, but Paris has always been my home.”

“Then you'll know that the forest had some wild parts. And I'm not talking about the illicit parties.”

Perhaps she also kept a few dangerous liaisons close to the vest. The thought that he may have passed by Verity Von Velde while wandering in a sex-blissed haze at a midnight orgy dialed Rook's lust up another degree.

“It was near a field,” she continued, “and I saw a fallen rowan tree. Actually, I was compelled to the tree. My soul does that to me sometimes. Makes me go places and do things I would never intend to do. It always works out swell, though.

“The trunk had split away from the stump and had fallen with old age, but the wood revealed in the split smelled fresh and alive. I was lured closer to inspect, and I ran my hands along the jagged wood and down inside where the deepest parts had been reduced to soft decay from insects.

“At the core it was solid and hard, and I felt something there.” She looked at him, her bright gemstone eyes waiting for him to respond.

“A soul?” Rook's heartbeats thundered as he began to grasp the hope he was aware Oz had tread for ages.

She dipped her head and gazed up at him. “Is that what you believe?”

“Don't you know?”

“I do. I also knew the soul belonged to a man. A sad man. And that it needed to be kept safe. I can recognize things like that. A person's heritage and, well, I can generally tell if that person has fathered children or been reincarnated. I have a reincarnated soul. And you…” She twisted her lips as she studied him from tufts of grey to the perfectly knotted tie at his throat. “Yes, you've fathered a child.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I have not.”

“Hmm…I'm usually never wrong. My intuitions are like my magic. Spot on.”

“There's a first time for everything, eh?” Her blatant confidence appealed to him. “But let's get back to your tale about this soul in a tree.”

Rook's memory flashed to the end of the sixteenth century, that fateful night he'd stood in the open field near the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, where he had made his home with Marianne. That cruel, dark night that the devil Himself had stood before him and presented an offer Rook had not refused.

“My soul was taken from me and buried in the ground,” he blurted out. “Very near the forest.”

“Hmm, that makes sense. If it was buried, a tree could have grown up through and around it, encompassing it in the core of its structure.”

A thick violet curl fell over Verity's shoulder, and she cupped her hands around the teacup, lifting it just below her chin to inhale the spicy aroma.

“I couldn't walk away from it,” she said, “so I dug out the core of the tree. Took me all day because I had but a small athame with me.
Maman
always berated me for carrying it around. One must revere instruments of magic,” she said in a haughty tone, obviously imitating her mother.

Rook chuckled, but he wanted her to continue, so he didn't speak.

She set down the teacup. “The chunk I took away was about the size of a baby's head.” She formed the shape with her hands. “I took it home and carved at it for months until I felt I'd carved to the essence of it. I made it into a heart shape about this size.”

She pinched her fingers together to represent something the size of a half golf ball.

“I polished it and strung it on a leather cord and have worn it around my neck ever since.”

Rook found words impossible. That she had done such a thing. Actually found his soul? It had to be his. The devil Himself had placed his soul in the ground, a wicked remuneration for the bargain they'd agreed to. A foul bargain that no sane man should have made.

What man could ask for such a thing?

He had. And he lived with regret even now. Never would he have forgiveness. Yet it was all he desired.

“So you have it?” he asked, tapping hope with his tone.

Verity took another sip of tea and looked aside, rubbing a hand along her sweater sleeve. She shook her head.

“You don't have it? But you said you've worn it since. Protecting it?”

“I was wearing it last night. It must have fallen off during the struggle with the vampire. I went looking for it this afternoon, but…maybe I need to look once again.”

“Yes, you must. I'll go with you.”

Rook stilled as she placed her hand over the back of his. Not clasping but simply calming his desperate need to rush into action. “How can you be sure it was yours?” she asked.

“How many times does a man have his soul stolen at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne and then watch it be buried? It can't be anyone else's soul. And like I said, I felt it when I touched you last night. It was a brief knowing.”

“Yes, I had a moment of knowing when you touched me, too. I think we're connected, Rook.”

“Maybe.” He certainly felt some compulsion toward this beautiful woman. But it could simply be that she was gorgeous and appealed to his desires. “I'm sorry, but…could I touch you? Just to see if I can feel it again.”

“My boob?”

He chuckled. “I'd like to put my palm above your breast because that's where I can feel your heartbeat. I, uh…can read people. Not like you claim to know things about people—I can actually see their truths.”

With a sigh, she turned on the chair to face him and propped her elbows on the wrought-iron chair back. “Fine. But don't perv out on me.”

Much as he'd love to do that, he was a gentleman. Until he was not.

“Trust me, when I cop a feel, you'll know it.”

Verity tugged the sweater open wider, and the soft T-shirt beneath revealed nipples so hard Rook could already feel them against his tongue.

Gentleman, remember?

He placed a palm above her breast, spread out his fingers over the shirt and closed his eyes. The heat of her was delicious; it spread up his fingers, up his arm and through his system like waves of rose blossoms shushed by a breeze.

At the sound of her sigh, he opened his eyes to see she had closed hers. Her lips were slightly parted. Long dark lashes dusted her cheeks. If they weren't sitting out in the open with tourists and Parisians passing by, he'd kiss her.

“What do you feel?” she whispered in a breathy tone, eyes still closed.

Nothing.

Nothing?

Hell, he felt absolutely nothing. He couldn't read her truths as he could do to any person or creature in this realm. It was an odd gift he'd had since the incorporeal demon had landed inside of him. Oz was a truth demon, after all.

Really? he asked inwardly.

A mystery,
Oz answered.
One you must explore further
.
I need you to get your soul back, my friend. My wife waits for me!

Yes, Oz's faery wife, who was soon to give birth to their first child. He owed Oz his freedom. And there was only one way to do that—find and restore his soul.

Retracting his hand, Rook stared at his palm a few seconds before wiping it along his pants leg. Nothing. What was that about?

“That bad, huh?” she said, remarking on his actions.

“I didn't get the same feeling as I did last night. But if you lost the necklace, then what I felt last night could have been true. And now with it missing, it makes sense I would not feel it.”

“I'm so sorry. I will find it. I've had it so long it's become a part of me. And if it was your soul, well…”

“It's not your problem anymore. I'll track back to the site of the attack and have a look around. Your neck.” He gestured to the bite mark. “It's healing? I did feel latent traces of vampire when I touched you.”

“Like the shimmer?”

The shimmer was the subtle vibration of connection vampires felt when they touched one another. It was the only way they had to know one another, unless, of course, fangs were down.

“A bit like the shimmer, but I'm not vampire. I just know that feeling.”

“You have been bitten?”

“Many times.” He wouldn't tell her it had been voluntary. And that it always delivered erotic pleasure. That was another of those secrets he'd take to the grave. “Part of the profession. Like I said—”

“You can read people.”

“Except, apparently, you.”

Tilting her head down, she looked up through her lashes. “I've a bit of intuition about people.”

“Still never fathered a child.”

“Maybe. But I do sense something about you. Your touch is cool. I thought the knights in the Order were mortals?”

Oops. “They are.”

“You're not mortal, Rook. Especially because you seem to recall the bohemian period at the beginning of last century. What are you? There's…something inside you.”