The Empath. Bonnie Vanak

met.”

      Nicolas bent his head toward her. With one hand, he caught her curls, swept them back from her ear. Warm breath feathered over her cheek. Maggie caught his very male, woodsy scent, reminding her of pine forests and wildness. “Is that why you kissed me? Why you began removing your blouse? Two glasses of pinot noir?”

      His mouth nuzzled her neck. Maggie moaned as he nipped it, then delivered a soothing lick. Her hands anchored on his shoulders. Thoughts of magic, strange creatures and danger evaporated like raindrops on a hot Florida blacktop.

      Nicolas set her back. His gaze burned into hers. “Not wine, Maggie. We both know it.”

      “Yes,” she breathed.

      Nicolas cupped her face, bent his head as if to kiss her. Then he uttered almost a growl, and jerked away.

      “No. Not now,” he muttered.

      His dark brows pulled together in a frown. Her body left aching and yearning, Maggie shouldered her pride and buttoned the blouse.

      “I think you should go. I’m tired.” Maggie managed to force the words out.

      “I think I should stay,” he said quietly, his gaze searching hers. “You shouldn’t be alone now. It’s too dangerous here.”

      “From whatever was outside? How do you expect me to believe in something I can’t see?” She collapsed onto the couch.

      “Do you think I was lying, Maggie? Do you think something wasn’t trying to get inside?”

      The little hairs on the back of her neck rose. “I believe you believe that there are such creatures, Nicolas. But asking me to swallow a story about a magical creature that shape-shifts …? You might as well ask me to believe in something as silly as werewolves. Maybe it’s them I need to fear. It’s nearly a full moon.” She threw back her head, gave a short, fake howl.

      One dark brow lifted again. “Not bad,” he drawled. “But in time, you’ll do better.”

      He paced over to the door, checked the locks. Next he checked the windows, shut the curtains. Maggie rubbed her arms, her confused, muzzy emotions raging. “Nicolas, what are you doing?”

      He shot her a hooded look from beneath long, dark lashes. “I need to secure your house.”

      “Against what?”

      “Against anything needing to get inside. I’m staying the night, Maggie.”

      “You don’t act … interested.”

      In answer he cupped her face, drew her toward him. Nicolas kissed her, a warm authoritative kiss. His tongue swept over her lips, danced inside as she opened to him. He groaned and tore himself away. Breathing ragged, eyes dark and wild, he visibly fought to control himself.

      Elated, yet confused, she licked her lips and touched his arm. “Then why not?”

      “Now isn’t a good time, Maggie.” Nicolas drew in a deep breath. “I want … time. I want to make love to you more than I want my next breath. All night long. When I know it’s safe.”

      “I feel perfectly safe.”

      He shot her a level look. “You’re also intoxicated.”

      Disappointment mingled with newfound respect. Another man would simply take advantage of her being drunk, and happily walk off without caring he might have left behind a package awaiting delivery in nine months.

      “Go to sleep, Maggie. I’ll protect you.”

      From what? Whatever mythical creature that attacked him? Or against himself?

      Maggie curled up with a yawn. Something warm and soft fell over her a minute later. A blanket.

      “Good night, Mags,” he murmured. He shot her a faintly exasperated look. “I told you not to remove the bracelet. But you didn’t listen. Perhaps you will now.”

      Confusion at his words faded with the tender kiss he pressed against her cheek. Maggie yawned and snuggled into the couch, pulling the blanket over her. Just a minute’s rest, then she’d escort him out. She closed her eyes to the image of Nicolas, silently standing guard by the sliding glass doors, as if keeping watch.

      Sunlight speared the white tile floor the next morning as she slowly awakened. Maggie stared at the small clock radio on the bedside table in bleary confusion. How could she have slept until ten o’clock? Jackhammers slammed into her skull. Damn. No wonder she had no inclination to drink. Hangovers were a bitch. She sat up slowly, gritting her teeth against the nausea, then headed for the bathroom.

      When she emerged, memories of last night surfaced. A low groan rippled from her lips. What a fool she’d been.

      No sign of Nicolas. He must have carried her upstairs and then left. The blinds, closed last night, now were open, the windows uncovered.

      Just as well. Never before had she been so edgy, wanting, ready to leap into bed with a stranger. One she’d met at a bar! Maggie rubbed her face, wincing at her aching head. No more alcohol. Not even a thimble of sherry.

      Still, she couldn’t erase his strong, impassioned face from her thoughts. He remained embedded there like fingerprints.

      She went into the kitchen, checked on Misha. The dog greeted her with a wagging tail and ambled outside as Maggie opened the sliding glass doors. No trouble walking, more energy than she’d exhibited. When Misha returned, she lay down on the cool tile.

      Troubled, Maggie measured out coffee and poured it into her automatic coffeemaker. Misha hadn’t eaten yesterday and acted livelier.

      Nicolas had warned feeding Misha would spread the disease.

      Ridiculous. A disease that fed off the energy produced by food? Maggie headed for the bathroom for a shower to clear her muzzy brain.

      To her amazement, Misha followed her up the stairs. The dog wagged her tail, lay down by the bathroom door. Maggie’s spirits lifted.

      Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp and curly. She coaxed Misha into her lab and drew another sample of blood. Misha watched with large brown eyes as Maggie studied the sample underneath the microscope.

      There were fewer black cells in the blood sample than the previous day. Maggie glanced down at her dog. “Nicolas can’t be right. This is just a coincidence.”

      Misha yawned and laid her head down.

      “Okay, sweetie, stay there. I think you deserve a nap after climbing those stairs.”

      Downstairs, Maggie poured coffee into a china mug, added sugar and pulled open the sliders. She stepped out onto the patio. The mirrored surface of the gulf rippled sea-blue this morning, reflecting the cloudless sky. On the mile-wide beach, green and royal blue umbrellas blossomed to greet the day. People walked along the surf, some jogging, others ambling or shell hunting.

      The air smelled briny. No breeze rustled the spindly palm trees. Musing over last night’s strange events, and the odd findings in Misha’s blood this morning, Maggie stared out at the beach. Something caught her eye.