Immortal Hope (16 page)

An image of his mouth closed around the hardened nub rose behind his eyelids. Aye, she would have beautiful, creamy skin. Soft with a lingering hint of the fragrance he now associated with her. He swirled his thumb around her nipple as he might do were she in his mouth, and Anne murmured a soft sound of pleasure.

Merrick loosed her hair and caught her other breast. Lifting, kneading, he brought them together until the soft flesh puckered at the open neckline on his shirt. He pressed a kiss there, grazed his teeth across her flesh until the lace of her bra thwarted him. Frustrated, he popped one button free with a flick of his wrist, giving himself room to pull back the scrap of lace. The dusky bud beneath stood erect, begging for attention.

Glancing up at her, he took in her partly open mouth, the way her teeth clamped into her lower lip. She shuddered as he stroked her breast, the motion rolling down her spine and rocking her hips into his. A burst of pleasant pain arced through his veins. God’s teeth, he felt as if he might come apart at the seams. Other women had impassioned him, but never such as this. Never had he felt so out of control of his actions, experienced the deep need to seat himself within her and hear her cry out his name. Truth be told, he could not recall a time he wanted to hear a woman cry out, as he much preferred the silence, the sound of dampened flesh slipping and sliding. And yet he wanted to hear Anne’s release.

He shut his eyes and closed his mouth around her nipple. His free hand, he fastened at her hip. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she arched her back, allowing him more freedom with his mouth. He suckled, he laved, he teased. Steady pressure of his hand guided her hips until she moved against his throbbing erection in small, agonizingly faint motions.

His body moved of its own accord, seeking out what it needed. His hips lifted into hers, grinding against her sensitive center, the barrier of their clothes a torment he despised. No doubt, she would be moist and ready, for the heat that burned between them could not solely come from his desire.

She trembled in his arms. “Merrick,” she whispered, “make me yours.”

He let her flesh slide from his mouth to murmur, “’Tis what I—”

Merrick stopped. Like water thrown upon a campfire, everything inside him turned cold. ’Twas exactly what he was doing—making her his when she belonged to one of his brothers. Saints’ blood, had he lost so much of his soul to darkness?

Damnation.

His nerve endings frayed as he eased Anne off his lap. Tugging at his jeans, he stood. He dared not look at her, could not bear to see the disappointment certain to lurk in her expression or the confusion behind her eyes. He ground his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack and pulled in a deep breath. “You are not mine to have.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he strode from the room and pulled the door shut behind him. In the hall, he sagged against the wall. Leaving her caused unexplainable pain. His body shook with the effort of walking away, of doing what his oath demanded. If ’twere his mark she bore, naught could stop him from taking all she offered. He would have her until they were both so spent with exhaustion they could do little more than roll into each other’s arms and sleep.

Yet that was the crux of the matter. She was not his. Would not ever be his. Going down this path was a road to torture unlike any he had borne before. For her, for him, for the man she would eventually swear herself to. He would rather face the beatings, the stretchings, the carvings he had endured during his imprisonment at Chinon.

Nay, he would not let the darkness convince him he could indulge himself with Anne.

Still dizzy, he shoved away from the wall and descended the stairs to the lower levels of the temple. The halls were dark and quiet, the men’s nocturne habits having brought them to the common room, or drawn them to a game of late-night billiards. He marched down the corridor to Mikhail’s chambers and let himself inside.

Bent over a thick, leather-bound tome that Merrick knew to be the archangel’s record of events, Mikhail did not lift his head as he asked, “What troubles you, Merrick?”

“Anne has agreed to cooperate and stay. I have agreed to retrieve a few of her belongings tomorrow.” He withdrew the paper from his pocket and set it on Mikhail’s desk. “She asked me to leave that note for someone at the college.”

Unfolding the thin slip of paper, Mikhail studied Anne’s letter. Gently, he folded it closed and set it back down with a succinct nod. “I shall see ’tis appropriately handled. Thank you. You should rest—you look as if you have not slept in weeks.”

’Twas how he felt as well, but he knew his harrowed expression had little to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with an auburn-haired demon whose kiss carried an even greater poison than Azazel’s evil. “Aye,” he murmured.

Letting himself out, Merrick made his way to his chambers and stripped out of his clothes.

Anne haunted him as he lay down in his bed. Her perfume clung to his pillow and stirred the heat in his loins. Softer, sweeter lips he had not known. Were it not for the whores who pretended interest, he had never heard a maid ask for a bedding. ’Twas his experience women would rather play coy than admit they felt such things as pleasure. Aye, their bodies did not lie, but their tongues omitted much.

Yet Anne left no room for questions. Like a man, she made her wishes known. A trait Merrick found refreshing. Would she speak so freely in his arms? He envisioned her bold, unafraid, her hands guiding his over her body, drawing his fingertips between her legs.

Make me yours.

He groaned aloud as his muscles tensed and his cock stirred against his thigh. He flopped onto his back with a frustrated hiss. Yet she waited for him there as well. He felt the heaviness of her body, the perfect way her hips held him. With an anguished oath, he rolled onto his side. Nay, though he might try, he would not sleep tonight.

*   *   *

Anne dragged herself off the couch after what seemed like hours. In reality, she suspected only twenty or thirty minutes had passed while she sat in stunned stupor, but without a clock or radio, she couldn’t be certain.

What the hell had just happened? She hadn’t particularly intended for her stolen kiss to lead to making out on her new couch, but when it had, she sure hadn’t expected Merrick to withdraw like he flipped a light switch.

Her left breast still tingled, and she absently rubbed at it as she wandered into the bedroom. Full dawning settled over her. She’d asked Merrick to sleep with her. Something had misfired in her brain. While she was more than free to take a lover, getting wrapped up in Merrick complicated things. They lived, literally, in two different worlds. He wouldn’t fit into hers, and she had no intentions of getting stuck here. Still, when it came to him, she found herself powerless. He eradicated good sense, made her incapable of thinking of anything beyond the incredible nature of his kiss. The way he made her feel alive.

The way he made her feel, period.

She wanted him. But it was more than physical. It was what he was, what he stood for. The history he possessed. He fascinated her mind as much as he stirred her fantasy. And behind all those grumpy scowls, he hid compassion. A touch of playfulness she’d bet he’d deny in a heartbeat.

She turned down the heavy quilt and stripped off her jeans. With just her black trouser socks and Merrick’s shirt still on, she slid into the bed. Wriggling her toes, she bemoaned the necessity to keep her ankle covered. She hated sleeping with socks on, and while she didn’t really believe Merrick would walk in on her while she was asleep, she didn’t dare risk he might.

His intended.

Trying to deny everything was useless—no amount of logic could explain all she’d witnessed or experienced. She had some purpose here that directly related to Merrick. And she had a week to not only discover, but fulfill that purpose, before her career suffered. One week to gain his trust enough to tell her what she needed to know.

But how to gain his confidence without revealing her tattoo or taking an oath that he claimed was the only way she could learn the secrets of the inner sanctum? How could she crack through a knight’s armor when he knew how to shield his weaknesses? She suspected whatever it was he hadn’t told her tonight held a key to solving that dilemma. He’d avoided something important.

She carries the light that will balance one knight’s tainted soul.

Maybe Mikhail’s statement wasn’t literal, but rather spiritual. It wasn’t as if she had any secret powers—well, maybe her second sight.

Groaning, she dropped her head against the headboard, feeling very much like an idiot. Her gift had to be her purpose. She’d see a vision, and by telling Merrick what she saw, she’d save one of his men.

Now if she could just get her second sight to cooperate with Merrick, she’d be set. In the meantime, she needed to convince him to confide in her and show her the inner sanctum, where surely she’d find the proof that the Order had been sabotaged.

Her eyes widened and she sat up straighter. Good Lord, she should have thought of it right away—Sophie would know what to do. She’d always been able to get men to eat out of her hand. Tomorrow she’d borrow a phone, give her sister a call, and discover exactly how to seduce Merrick into telling her what she needed to know.

Only, what to tell Sophie posed a larger problem.

I’ve been relocated by immortal Templar knights, and I’m trying to seduce one who’s nine hundred years old or so. Oh, by the way, the archangel Mikhail lives in a temple beneath the Odd Fellows Home in Liberty, and you know that present Gabe sent you? Yeah, well, we’re both descendants of the Nephilim. That’s right, angels.

Right.

Sophie would have her committed.

Anne sank back down into the downy mattress and wriggled around until the feathers cocooned her. The outside air made her nose feel like she stood in front of an open freezer, but beneath the weighty comforter, she was snug and warm.

As long as she could explain without sounding like a nutcase, Sophie would help with effectively seducing him. She didn’t need to know about angels and demons anyway. Gabe would eventually take care of that.

*   *   *

Mikhail closed his book and picked up the piece of paper Merrick left him. Leaning back in his chair, he opened it again and scanned the neat handwriting.

Dr. K.,

Working on research. I’ve discovered a fascinating lead on the Templar theory. I’ll be gone a week or so, but will return and share my research with you. You’ll be amazed.

Anne.

Slowly, he crumpled the note in his hand. Opening his palm, he narrowed his gaze and concentrated his powers on the ball of trash. With a soft
pfft,
it burst into blue flames, then winked out of sight, leaving not even a speck of ash behind. It would not have mattered what she had penned—no message would reach her colleagues beyond the one Gabriel issued. The Almighty’s messenger received his instructions from the only one who mattered, and Mikhail would not intervene with the master’s plan.

Anne would come to accept her place in time, as all seraphs must. He only hoped it would be soon enough. That she would swear her oath, give her light to her intended knight, and the serpents would form the holy barrier to eternally block Azazel’s vile taint from entering the Templar’s soul. If she did not hurry in her acceptance, the risk ran high she would be too late.

He did not allow the thought that as a mortal, a being given divine freedom of choice, she could refuse to linger in his mind.

CHAPTER
11

Sophie shimmied into her new scarlet chemise and shivered at the feel of the fine silk smoothing over her bare skin. She glanced in the mirror and readjusted the spaghetti straps so it fit trimly over her breasts before stepping back to review.

It offset her long dark hair and her coloring perfectly. Short, flattering, tastefully sexy—just the right thing to drive Chandler out of his mind.

She fingered the armband Gabe sent and smiled. After polishing the thing up, it gleamed in the dim light. It was actually almost pretty now. Combined with her nightgown, it reminded her of something Cleopatra might wear. Since she couldn’t get the damn thing off, she decided to use it to her advantage.

Gabe and his oddities. Why Anne put up with them, Sophie didn’t know. Sure, the man was nice enough, and he was certainly easy on the eyes. She guessed him near fifty, but his smart taste in clothes, and the way he took care of his body, made him look ten years younger. Only his gray hair revealed his age. And that, he kept fashionable too—in long, thick, strangely distinguished dreadlocks that draped to the middle of his back. He smelled good also. His vanilla-spice cologne permeated the paper inside the package.

But he was weird, and everything he gave Anne had some sort of weirdness about it. The bellows for Anne’s fireplace came with a two-hundred-year-old ghost. The mirror for Anne’s bedroom reflected a heck of a lot more than the mortal world. The chair for her sitting room—Sophie had to do some serious negotiating with a very unhappy, very dead, Revolutionary War general to get him to let her sit there the last time she’d visited.

This trinket, however, took the cake. Standard-issue ghosts didn’t attach to it, yet she could feel energy shifting inside the metal. Energy that evidently made the brass swell after time, for the thing was firmly lodged on her arm. Although it didn’t hurt, oddly enough.

She didn’t dare ask Anne if the matching piece Gabe referenced in his note had the same problems. Sophie kept her ability to see ghosts locked away. When dealing with politicians, producers, and the crème de la crème of Southern California, coming off as slightly crazy could be advantageous. But an affinity for seeing ghosts tipped the scales away from her favor.

Still, it would be nice to know if Gabe stuck them both with armbands she suspected would somehow lead to trouble.