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"There is nothing on my back but scars I received from the last time I met Dunleavy."
"Want to bet those scars aren't scars?"
"You are crazy, aren't you?"
She merely smiled. “Go close that blind for me."
She pointed toward the window to his left, and after a moment, he obeyed. Her reflection filled the grubby pane of glass, and he watched, mesmerized as she began undoing buttons. A moment before her creamy flesh was revealed, he yanked down the blind and took a deep breath. It did little to cool the fever of his imagination. The itch to caress her warm skin once again...
"Okay,” she said.
He turned around. She had her back to him, and he let his gaze drink in the slender curves for a long moment before he noted the weapons strapped to her wrists.
"The witch is well protected,” he said softly, fiercely glad of that fact.
"I told you I could defend myself.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes sparkling with amber fire in the bright light. Odd how the green had completely disappeared. “And I certainly did not strip to show you that."
"No.” He dragged his gaze to her spine. “There's nothing there." "Come closer. It can only be seen at certain angles." He obeyed, touching her creamy shoulders, turning her towards the light. Something glowed briefly along her spine—Celtic symbols, combined with images that resembled goddesses of old. He held her still and ran his fingers across the drawings. Her skin was warm under his touch, the needle fine lines even warmer. Power tingled across his fingertips, a heat that was somehow pleasant, almost welcoming.
"There is nothing like this on my back,” he said, allowing his fingers to trail down to the base of her spine. A quiver ran through her, and he snatched his hand away from the temptation to explore further.
"Take off your shirt and let's take a look.” She pulled her shirt back on, but didn't fasten the buttons, so that when she turned around, the folds of heavy fabric stirred, revealing tempting glimpses of paradise. He pulled off his shirt and turned around. Her touch played across his shoulder for a moment, pressing lightly against the rough bandages he'd placed there earlier. He winced. “I did not strip so you can investigate a wound that will heal well enough by itself."
"It may heal, but you'll have a scar if you don't let me treat it."
"I don't care about scars."
"I do.” Her touch trailed to his spine, her fingers so warm, and somehow so familiar, against his skin.
"No symbols,” he said, voice rough, “as I said."
Her hands were tracing patterns along his back, sending longing surging through his veins. He'd never reacted to a woman this strongly before. This was more than desire, more than mere lust. This was need. It was almost as if her touch was as vital to his life as the blood he drank every other day. He didn't know her. It had to be a spell of some sort. Had to be. He stepped away from her caress and spun around. “Now that you've seen the truth, how about telling me the truth?"
She crossed her arms. The action caused the top of her shirt to puff out, and his gaze was drawn to the revealing swell of her breasts. God help him, he wanted to caress those creamy mounds, wanted to caress her , kiss her, taste her—but it was wrong. So wrong. He had no idea why. He only knew he couldn't give in to this craziness.
"I've seen the truth,” she said, her voice soft and so sexy it seemed to tease his blood into a fever. “But obviously, you can't. Come with me."
She foraged in her bag and pulled out a small mirror. Then, without another glance, walked toward the door at the back of the table and disappeared down a hall.
He glanced at the front door. He'd never considered himself a coward, and he had never run from any challenge. But right now, he was beginning to think that's exactly what he should do. This woman called to him in so many ways, and on so many levels, that it was almost frightening. He'd lived a long time, had served his time in purgatory more than once, and had long ago resigned himself to companionship rather than love. A few hours in this woman's company had him thinking that his heart might not be as far out of reach as he'd thought. And yet, instinct insisted he couldn't touch her, no matter how powerful the attraction..
He'd survived many a dark and dangerous time by listening to his instincts. He wasn't about to abandon them now.
"Michael?” She appeared in the doorway again, eyebrow raised in question. “Do you want the truth or not?"
He wanted the truth, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be getting it. Or at least, he'd only get part of it. But he followed her down the hall and into a small bathroom that held a bathtub, basin and a mirror.
"Turn around so that your back is facing the mirror." He did so, and she handed him the small mirror she'd pulled from her bag. “Now use this to look at your back."
"All I see are scars."
She nodded. “But watch what happens when I touch them."
She placed a finger against his skin and began to trace the outline of one of the scars. Her finger was warm against his skin, her touch sending waves of energy tingling across his nerve endings. After a moment, the black and blistering skin began to disappear under her caress, becoming lines and symbols similar to what had been on her back. Her hand moved on, revealing the symbols entwined around his spine. As her touch moved, the symbols faded, becoming ugly scars once more.
"What game is this you play?"
"No game—or at least, it's not my game, but Dunleavy's."
