Kiss The Night Goodbye
Page 8

A miner reeking of sweat and alcohol stumbled towards him. Michael did a quick sidestep, but the fool still managed to hit his shoulder, sending pain washing through his body in sickening waves. For some reason, the bullet wound was slow to heal. Why, he had no idea. He'd been shot often enough in the past, and the wounds had healed within a day or so. But four days after receiving it, this wound still festered.
Not that he could even remember getting shot in the first place. Frowning, he thrust the drunk away, cannoning him into the backs of three other men. The miner recovered quickly and swung around, fists flying. Michael snorted contemptuously, ducking the first blow and catching the second in his fist.
Wrapping his fingers around the other man's grubby hand, he squeezed tightly. Bone cracked. The other man screamed and dropped to his knees. Michael's gaze went to the men gathering behind the screaming drunk. “Do not even try it,” he warned coldly.
They swallowed, backing away, their sudden fear evident in the rapid rise of their heartbeats. The darkness in him rose, needing to taste the sweet life that coursed through the veins of these men. He clenched his free hand, fighting the desire to feed, wondering why the darkness was so strong now when he'd spent years successfully ignoring it.
He tossed the miner away from him and strode from the hotel. Though he needed to feed, he hesitated on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, his gaze going to the old house two buildings back from the whorehouse. He switched to the infrared of his vampire vision and saw that the blonde was alone in the backroom. Relief slithered through him, followed quickly by surprise. He'd never been into blondes, and he certainly wanted nothing to do with any of the women who made this hellhole their home. And yet... This blonde had caught his interest, but it wasn't so much her looks—which were certainly stunning—but something else, something he couldn't really define. He'd felt her coming long before he'd seen her, and the awareness that surged when his gaze met hers had nearly burned his senses. The reaction in his body has been just as intense, almost suggesting familiarity with her curvaceous body. Impossible, of course. He'd been with Christine for ten years, and there'd been no one else in that time. Memories rose like guilty phantoms, and suddenly he was kneeling in the Chicago Street yet again, with Christine in his arms, her life leaving as fast as the blood that pulsed from the bullet wound in her chest. Reliving the moment as she lay there, gasping for breath as she touched his cheek and declared her love—a love he'd never been able to return, despite all his caring. He closed his eyes, forcing the images away yet again, but not denying the anger that surged through his veins. He would find Dunleavy and he would kill him. Maybe then Christine's ghost would finally rest in peace. He turned away, walking toward the nearest stable. He had a killer to hunt down. Dallying with a whore, however winsome he might find her, could play no part in his mission. He slid open the barn door. The scent of hay, horse and dung drifted out to greet him, and in the semidarkness beyond, eyes gleamed as horses shifted nervously. They could sense what he was. Most animals could. He smiled grimly. Humans could certainly learn a thing or two from the beasts they used and abused.
He walked down to the end stall and unlatched the door. The brown mare snorted warily, tossing her head. He spoke soft words of encouragement, hypnotizing her with his voice as much as with his gaze. When she was still, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh under her neck and took his fill from her. He'd barely finished when he heard the footstep. He wrapped the shadows around himself, stepping into the corner of the stall. For several seconds, there was no sound beyond the tremulous beat of a heart and the restless stirring of the other horses.
Yet without even looking, he knew who it was. The blonde. And the amazing awareness that seemed to surge between them was even stronger this close, surging through his veins like life itself.
"Michael?"
Her voice came out of the dusky shadows that hovered the near main entrance, her tone soft, warm, and somehow familiar. Heat chased the awareness through his veins, and suddenly he wanted this woman with a fierceness that had him shaking. Why? What was it about her that had him responding so intensely?
Or was it nothing more than some sort of magic? Dunleavy was a sorcerer. Michael had found that out the hard way—and still bore the healing scars down his back. Maybe his reaction to this woman had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with some sort of trick.
"I know you're here, Michael. We need to talk."
She hadn't moved. Though he could taste her tension, hear the rapid beat of her heart, he couldn't feel fear. Which was strange, because if she knew his name, she probably knew what he was. He flicked the curtain of darkness away from himself and exited the stall. Her eyes widened slightly, and as her gaze raked him, then came to a halt on his shoulder, he'd swear he saw the brief sheen of tears in her glorious green eyes.
As if she knew he had a wound under his shirt.
After relocking the stall door, he took several steps towards her, then stopped. This close, her eyes weren't really green but a strange green-brown, as if the green was backlit by a light that was warm amber. Right now, those strange-colored eyes were filled with such promises that the ache in his groin became even more painful.
He crossed his arms, resisting the pull he felt towards her as he watched the warmth flush across her exotic cheeks. Her full lips pursed, then opened slightly, as if she couldn't drag in enough air. Perhaps the intense attraction went both ways.
He let his gaze slide down. Her breasts were voluptuous, their peaks hardening through the tightly-buttoned checked shirt even as he watched. Her skirt was brown, and though it swirled lightly around her feet, it was slit up the sides to her knees and would undoubtedly reveal tantalizing flashes of leg when she moved. He ached to explore what was still hidden, to slide his hand up the silky flesh of her thighs and discover paradise...
"What do you want?” His voice came out harsh, roughened as much by need as anger at his own reaction. Good lord, he wasn't so starved for sex that he'd take his ease on a whore. He hadn't been that desperate for a long, long time.
She studied him for a moment, and then licked her lips. Like a lamb caught in the stare of a wolf, he watched, as if hypnotized.
And that only succeeded in making him angrier. There had to be magic involved. What else could account for such a strong and instant attraction?
"We need to talk,” she repeated eventually.
"So you said. About what?"
His voice was still harsh, but if she sensed his anger, she wasn't showing any fear. Either she was as stupid as a mule, or she was more capable of looking after herself than she appeared. Or, as he'd originally thought, she was protected by some form of magic. He could probably discover the truth if he stepped closer, but instinct suggested he shouldn't. He didn't know why, but for the moment, he was following instinct.
"I know why you're here in Hartwell,” she said softly.
"Do you now?"
She shifted, affording him a glimpse of lightly tanned leg and thick boots. Not the shoe of choice for a whore, normally. “You're here to hunt down and kill a man by the name of Dunleavy." He continued to glare at her. She shifted again, yet still there was no sign of fear in her mannerisms—no tremor in her voice, no avoidance of his eyes, no fluttering, nervous movements. Maybe the little fool didn't even realize he could snap her neck in the blink of an eye.
"What makes you think that?” he asked.
"Because I'm hunting him, too."
He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. “You? Hunting a man like Dunleavy? Sweetheart, he'd eat you up in half a second."
Her eyes darkened imperceptibly at the endearment. “No, he won't. Nor will you."
"You think?"
"I know."
Maybe it was time to show the little idiot she was playing with fire. At the very least, if he managed to scare the wits out of her, she'd run so far and so fast he actually might be able to concentrate on what he had to do. With dusk fast approaching, he could ill afford to be standing here exchanging verbal blows with a lady of ill repute.
"What if I tell you that I could be by your side in the blink of an eye, drinking your blood while you moaned in ecstasy? What would you say to that?"
"I'd say that if you tried, I'd knock you on your ass so fast your head would ring." He smiled slightly. The witch had spirit, that was for sure. “Then perhaps I should try." She didn't say anything, just flexed her fingers and continued to watch him. He couldn't help admiring her courage.
He stepped to the right, deep into the gathering shadows, and wrapped the cloak of darkness around himself. Then he ran toward her so fast the wind of his approach flung her smoky-blonde hair backwards, as if offering the long column of her neck in supplication. Though he had no intention of tasting any human, the darkness still rose. If there was a spell on this woman, then maybe it was not one of seduction, but one designed to court the darkness within him. Maybe Dunleavy sought to shatter the bonds Michael had secured around his demon, hoping it would send him back to the hell from which he'd emerged long ago.
He stopped close to her, and her scent spun around him—honey, sunshine and cinnamon. A warm, somehow familiar, scent that stirred him in ways that went beyond the physical. She sidestepped him and placed a hand on his chest, even though he was still wrapped in shadows. That surprised him. Few humans could do what she'd just done.
He threw off the cloak of night and reached out, wrapping his fingers lightly around her neck, caressing the warm pulse that fluttered so rapidly with a thumb.
"I could break your neck so easily."
Her eyes widened a little, and the flutter under his fingers grew quicker. “Do that, and you destroy your future."
He raised an eyebrow. “How so? You are nothing but a whore." Something flashed in her eyes—an amber fire that did strange things to his breathing. “Are you so sure of that that you're willing to kill me?"
"Perhaps.” After all, what future did he really have to look forward to? The years that stretched before him where as endless and as dark as the ones behind.
He stepped closer. Her breath caught, yet the look in her eyes was more anticipatory than fearful. “Who are you working for?"
"No one."
He closed the remaining distance between them. Her rapid breaths caressed his cheek with warmth, and her breasts pressed against his chest. Awareness surged across his skin—an elemental force that was all passion, all heat.
"I don't believe you."
"I'm here to stop Dunleavy, nothing more, nothing less.” Her strange-colored eyes searched his, and heat bloomed fiercer in her cheeks. She licked her lips, and it was all he could do not to taste their moistness for himself. Lord, he didn't know what it was about this woman, but she'd hooked him in her web faster than a spider's caught a fly.
"But,” she continued softly, breathlessly, “I'll need your help, if I'm to succeed."
"You could be right,” he murmured and gave in to temptation, briefly kissing her sweet lips. It felt like he was dipping a toe into heaven. Felt like he was coming home. “But I have no intention of helping you."
"I could make it worth your while."
"Oh, I'm sure you could.” He slid his hand down her back. Even through the thick woolen shirt he could feel the heat of her skin. Like him, she seemed to burn. “Only I do not need a partner. Dunleavy is mine to kill."
"Dunleavy is more than you think he is. And he intends to sacrifice two men in a ritual tonight. We have to stop him."
He caressed the firm cheeks of her rear. A quiver ran through her, and her pupils widened slightly, evidence of the desire he could almost smell. Holding her gaze, daring her to stop him, he slid his hand back up to the band of her skirt and began to tug free her shirt.
"There is no ‘we’ in any of this, and I do not care if Dunleavy sacrifices a hundred men—not if the bloody trail leads me to him."
"That is a very selfish and unproductive attitude."
Smiling coldly, he undid the bottom button of her shirt and moved up to the next one. “I am a very selfish man, and I'm prone to taking what I want, when I want."
"And right now you think you can just take me?"
Another button gone, two more to go. His anticipation rose. “Yes."
"You'd be wrong, you know."
He raised an eyebrow, but his attention was more on what was about to be revealed than what she was saying. “You're the one who said you could make it worth my while."
"Only if we work together. I don't believe in free samples before the agreement." The last button came undone, and he pushed her shirt open. Her breasts were far smaller than what they'd appeared, but as glorious as he'd imagined. Yet it was the scar at the base of her neck that held his gaze.
"What is this?” he said, wondering at the anger that surged through him.
"A cut."
"I can see that. How did you get it?"
"By being stupid.” She shrugged, her gaze on his, as if searching for something. He frowned and forced himself to concentrate on trying to get rid of her, rather than trying to understand the puzzle she presented. He skimmed his fingers across her flat stomach, his gaze holding hers as he gradually worked his fingers inwards, reaching, but not quite touching the hard, pebbled center.
"I can feel your desire, little one. Do not try and deny it."
"I'm not.” She moved with a suddenness that surprised him, pushing him backwards as she hooked her foot around his leg. He ended up on his ass at her feet, just as she'd warned he would. He couldn't help laughing. “The whore has spirit."