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Had to find her for his friend, to satisfy his obligation. To ensure that she was safe.
He told himself that was where his motivation ended.
That, however, was a lie. Hewanted. Not Serge. Not really. But the dark that was rising within him.
By the gods, how it wanted.
He could feel her, the scent of her enveloping him, caressing him. Soothing him.
He stood beside her bed, not moving, not even breathing. And then, slowly and deliberately, he reached for one of Tasha’s porcelain-faced dolls and hurled it against the wall.
* * *
Sara woke with a start, jerked awake by a sharp pounding at her door. Not that she minded too much—she’d been teetering on the verge of another nightmare—but at two in the morning, it was quite possible the visitor could be worse than the tormenting dreams.
“Coming,” she shouted, sliding into a robe. She hurried to the door, checked the peephole, and found herself looking at Luke’s sexy, scowling face. She keyed in the alarm code, opened the door, and soon discovered the reason for his scowl—her across-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Fitzhugh, was standing in the doorway in curlers, her expression both shocked and disapproving.
And why not? With his long, dark coat, his warrior’s eyes, and the scar that cut across his brow, Luke looked decidedly formidable. “It’s okay, Mrs. Fitzhugh. He’s a friend.” Which wasn’t the least bit accurate. Friends didn’t make her melt from a single look. And it was only around Luke that she felt like her body was a fire that only he could extinguish.
And, she noticed as she ushered him inside, he’d brought her a flower.
He handed it to her, and she stroked her finger over the soft petals of the bird-of-paradise. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” She frowned, looking more closely at the flower, and then at his slightly sheepish expression. “Where did you get it?”
“The garden in front of your building,” he admitted. “There aren’t many options at 2 A.M.”
She bit back a laugh. “No, I guess not.” She headed toward the kitchen to find water for the flower.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet I came anyway.”
“Why? There’s no news about Tasha,” she added. “You would have told me already.”
“I wanted to see you,” he said, his voice somehow both strong and vulnerable. “I followed Stemmons’s trail tonight. Tracking away from each of his original crime scenes as best I could. I found nothing. No hint of Caris or Tasha.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Afterward, I came here. You’re in my head, Sara. I hear your voice. I smell your scent. I feel your touch.” His shoulders lifted. “I had to come.”
Her heart tripped in her chest. “Oh.” She swallowed, knowing she shouldn’t say more, but unable to stay silent. “I’m glad you did.”
“Are you?”
“We’re probably breaking a lot of rules.”
He moved toward her. “Oddly enough, I’ve never been good at following rules.”
“Why do I believe that?”
“But the rules are important to you,” he said. He caressed her cheek, making her want to break down and purr. “Do you want me to leave?”
She hesitated, knowing that for the sake of her sanity—and possibly her job—she should lie. Instead, she spoke the truth. “No.” She looked at his face, the perfect, classic lines marred by the warrior’s scar. A face that had seen death and a man who had surely wrought it a thousand times over. Yet right then he was looking at her with such tenderness it made her breath catch in her throat. “No,” she repeated, her voice little more than a whisper. “I want you to stay.”
“Good,” he said, the simple word conveying a wealth of emotion. “Let me hold you.”
She hesitated only a moment, then moved in and pressed her cheek against him.
Luke sighed, his chest rising and falling beneath her, steady and calm.
