Spell of the Highlander
Page 43

She had a feeling the man had a few tricks up his proverbial sleeves. Even stuck inside a mirror. Tricks she probably couldn’t begin to imagine. Again, she had that sense of something more in him.
Oh yes, one way or another, this man would keep her safe.
And how are you going to keep yourself safe from him?
Good question.
Twenty more days. And he could be released from the mirror for at least a portion of each day.
God help her, she had no idea.
Cian MacKeltar attracted her in a manner that defied logic or reason. Then again, she thought wryly, that shouldn’t surprise her too much, because everything about her current situation defied logic or reason. She was chagrined by the sudden sinking suspicion that her intact hymen was probably due less to her impressive moral fiber than to the fact that she’d simply never experienced such intense, brainless chemistry before. If she had, she highly doubted she’d have lasted so long.
“Room service!” The cheery call was accompanied by a sharp rap-tap-tap at the door.
Brightening, Jessi turned away from the mirror. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I’m starving.”
Cian eased back, just behind the silver, where he could still see but couldn’t be seen.
As Jessica walked toward the door, his gaze fixed on her luscious little ass. He’d had that silken-skinned, sweet bottom in his hands only that morning, a cheek of it in each palm. He’d been about to make her his woman, fill her with his cock and pump deep inside her. He’d touched those heavy, round breasts, kissed those full lips, tasted the honeyed sweetness that was Jessica St. James. And soon he would taste the sweetness between her thighs, while he lapped and nibbled and sucked her to shuddering orgasm after orgasm.
A soft growl built in his throat. Christ, he loved to watch her move! Her stride was determined and purposeful, yet graceful and sexy. With a body like that, she couldn’t help but be sexy. Her short dark curls only made her seem more womanly, showcasing the delicate, creamy nape of her neck, the fine bones of her shoulder blades, and the sweet slender bow of her spine.
I do not want to talk about what just happened, she’d snapped.
Fine with me, woman, he’d thought with a silent laugh and a shrug. They didn’t need words.
Their bodies spoke the same language, used identical vocabulary.
Desire. Lust. Need.
He looked at her and something hot and possessive flexed inside his chest.
It wasn’t about wanting to bed her. It was about answering an ancient, undeniable call to mate.
It was about raw, animal passion. It was about—
Food. Bloody hell. His mouth began to water. He smelled meat.
“You can put it here,” Jessica was saying, gesturing to the table by the windows.
A slender, thirtyish woman with shoulder-length brown hair wheeled a tray into the room, pushing it down the narrow aisle between beds and furniture.
Red meat. She’d not ordered fish or fowl, bless the wench! It had been over a century since he’d eaten, and he wanted meat with blood. The last time Lucan had freed him, he’d managed to wolf down a meal of bread, cheese, and ale. To his deprived palate it had been a feast of divinely varied flavors and textures, but it hadn’t been rich, juicy, tender meat. That was a memory that had been tormenting him for more than 427 years.
Though inside the glass his existence was suspended and he suffered no bodily needs—no hunger, no thirst, no need to sleep or piss or bathe—that didn’t mean he suffered no mental ones.
He hungered. Holy hell, did he hunger! He’d whiled away entire weeks at a time, conjuring the memories of the tastes and scents of his favorite foods.
Closing his eyes, he savored the aromas currently wafting past his mirror as the woman began unloading the cart.
He had no idea what tipped him off.
He decided later that mayhap the woman’s intentions were so intense and finely focused that he’d inadvertently deep-listened, catching them even through the glass. Such had happened on occasion with Lucan, usually when his emotions had been strong because he’d been in a fury over one thing or another.
Whatever it was, Cian acted on it instantly, without hesitation.
His hand went to his thigh sheath.
Snapping his eyes open, he whipped his selvar free, hissed the chant to part the veil of silver.
And flung the eight-inch, razor-sharp blade, end over end, through the glass.
11
Jessi backed away from the room service lady, shaking her head from side to side, mouth open on a scream.
One moment she’d been making small talk with the hotel employee, the next something hot and wet and unexpected had sprayed her, splashing her face and hair, her sweater, even splattering her jeans. She’d squeezed her eyes protectively shut against it.