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So when he covered my body with his, slipping gently inside, I merely sighed and welcomed him in.
The lamp splashed golden light across his sleek skin; his pupils expanded, blending into the black of his irises. He appeared almost otherworldly. I might have been frightened except this was Malachi, a man who'd been nothing but honest and gentle with me. He'd brought me out of the cold, scary place that had been my life, and despite the strange things going on all around us, I felt stronger, saner, happier, because of him.
His thrusts slowed, as if he wanted to make this last forever. I indulged my need to touch him, running my fingers through his hair, along his face, then spreading my palms across his chest, shoulders, and down the long expanse of his back. I showed him a better rhythm, a little faster, a little deeper, and soon we were both gasping on the edge of the world.
"Claire. " He nuzzled my breasts, then seemed to notice for the first time that my bra was still in place.
Shifting his weight, he used one hand to crunch the clasp at the center. The plastic scratched my skin, the sensation sharp, even as the bra slid open, and his hand smoothed over me, cupping me almost reverently, watching himself touch me, the bronze shade of his hand stark against my moon-pale skin.
His fingertip scraped my birthmark, and he tilted his head so the lamplight caught in his eyes and caused a flare at the center like a flashbulb.
Then he lowered his mouth, touched his lips to the mark, and whispered, "It's you. "
Though muffled against my skin, his voice sounded anguished, but before I could ask what was wrong, he thrust again, and I forgot everything as the orgasm carried us away.
But it wasn't over quickly; instead he continued to thrust, face now buried against my neck, his hair cascading over my face, the water and earth scent of him filling my senses even as he filled my body again and again with himself.
He pushed me toward the edge, then reached between us and forced me there again with a combination of his fingers and his lips and his tongue. The second time I came crying his name, and when the tremors died away, I barely registered him turning off the lamp and tucking me against him beneath the quilt before I fell asleep.
When I awoke well before the sun did, he was gone, and I wondered for just an instant if he'd been there at all. But I could smell him in the room, on the sheets, on me.
I stretched, my body a little sore, but a sore I wouldn't mind experiencing again and again.
Though I would have liked to remain in bed dreaming a while longer, worry plucked at the edges of my mind.
Grace hadn't called, so as soon as I was dressed I called her, despite the lack of sun on the horizon.
No answer. I tried her cell and her office with the same result. What would I do if something had happened to her?
I grabbed shoes I could use to tramp around the woods should any tramping be needed, but when I headed for the stairs, my computer chimed softly to signal an incoming message.
I hesitated, then decided it could be Grace e-mail-ing me a progress report rather than waking me. As soon as I jiggled my mouse and my computer sprang to life, so did the disappointment.
Not Grace. Instead, the anthropologist had replied to my e-mail:
Ms. Kennedy,
Thank you for your interest in my book. Copies will be available through my Web site for $29. 99. To answer your question, a strigoi de lup is a Romanian sorcerer. Usually a pretty young woman in a white dress, she is said to lead the wolves. In some legends she does this by becoming one beneath the light of the moon. She protects her identity by killing anyone who sees her in that form and talks about it.
An interesting legend, but we hadn't had a Romanian sorcerer in these parts in. . . forever.
I made a copy of the e-mail, tucked it into my pocket, and headed out the door.
Chapter 32
Dawn spread across Lake Bluff as I drove to Grace's house. Considering the state of my windshield, I'd backed my dad's Ford Focus out of the garage. It smelled like him - cigarettes, mint Life Savers, and Old Spice.
"Hey, Dad," I whispered, and patted the dash.
The longer I stayed here, the more our past disagreements seemed just that - the past. I could see now why he'd loved his job, this place, the people, so much, and I was sorry I hadn't stuck around and at least given the job a try. I wasn't all that bad at it. In fact, I was better at being the mayor than I'd ever been at anything else.
"I'm here now," I said, and for just a minute I felt as if he'd heard me.
Mist still shrouded the tips of the mountains, pink and gold and orange swirling through the wash of green and blue.
Grace's windows were dark; I wasn't surprised. She was the kind of person who got up at the last minute, drank a single cup of coffee in the shower, and ran out the door with wet hair.
I had an odd sense of deja vu as I climbed the porch steps, rang the bell, then waited vainly for her to answer. I glanced through the glass on each side, saw nothing, and headed around back. However, this time when I knocked, the door swung open.
