was threatened.
Her mouth turned down. What she would have given to have that fierce protection pointed in her direction. Well, obviously his regard for her hadn’t cut as deep as hers had for him. She straightened her shoulders. If wishes were horses, there would be no shadow breeds, damn it.
She returned to her car, slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
She frowned, turned the key back to its original position and then tried again. Still nothing. She checked the fuel gauge. She still had a half tank of gas. Her eyes narrowed as she popped the hood and climbed out of the car. She lifted the hood, propping it open with the car rod, then rested her hands on the rim of the engine bay as she surveyed inside. It didn’t take her long to notice the distributor cap was missing.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
She heaved back off the car, her hands fisting as she took a few steps in one direction, then turned and stalked a few steps in another direction.
That weaselly, sneaky, clever bloodsucker. How had he known? She knocked the rod down and slammed the hood back into place. Well played, Lucien. Well played. She took a deep breath. Now what?
She whipped her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and sent a text to her research assistant, Ned Henderson, asking to borrow his truck tomorrow. When the sun came up, Lucien would be forced to find cover, and she’d be able to flee. She nodded. That was the safest course of action. Sure, she hated delaying her escape, but it was better to be thorough and alive than impulsive and dead. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Great. Now she just needed to make it through the night. She grabbed her bag and keys, hesitated, then removed her suitcase from the trunk. She may as well be comfortable tonight. She hurried to her back door and had just opened it when she heard footfalls on the porch steps behind her. She whirled, surprised.
Lucien leaned against the porch railing, his eyes looking so startlingly blue with his dark hair. His black shirt was open at the collar and he was wearing a black coat that fell halfway to his knees. She frowned. She’d always thought he was handsome. Dreamy, even. Now, though, all these years later, she was aware of him in a way that was new and...unwelcome. She let go of her suitcase and subtly adjusted her grip on her tote, her hand sliding inside. She kept her gaze on him as she grasped the handle of her blade.
Despite the brisk breeze, his coat was open, revealing the dark shirt beneath. He folded his arms, the fabric pulling taut against his shoulders as he smiled. A slow, seductive curve of his lips. His gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her sneakers, lingering on her curves. She swallowed. She wasn’t used to him looking at her like that. Not for forty years. Not ever. It wasn’t friendly, or exasperated, or even angry. No, it was provocative. She swallowed again and the corners of his mouth kicked up in a knowing smile.
She dropped her suitcase and bag and then whirled, stepping toward her doorway, to safety. She needed to get inside. He moved in a blur, slipping between her and escape. She gasped and jerked back, raising her hand. He caught her wrist and he slid his other hand up the doorjamb, skillfully using his body to crowd her back against the external wall of her home.
He eyed the silver blade in her hand with mild interest and squeezed just enough for her to wince at the pins and needles. Her grip relaxed. The dagger fell, its blade burying itself in the wooden slat of the decking. He let go of her wrist and brought his hand up to brace it against the clapboard at the side of her head.
He met her gaze intently as he leaned forward, effectively cornering her against her home. He tilted his head to glance at the suitcase at her feet and arched an eyebrow.
“Going somewhere?”
Lucien inhaled. God, she smelled so sweet. So different to the way he remembered. She’d smelled of innocence and illness, a little sunshine mixed with poison. Sweet, but with a playful, daring sense of mischief. She’d definitely changed, though. He’d first met her when she was nine years old and had last seen her on her nineteenth birthday. Six years later, she was dead. Or supposed to be.
He shifted even closer. He could feel her warmth, her heat, could smell her, something floral with a spicy edge. Today she wore a denim jacket, a shirt revealing that enticing glint of silver at her neck and jeans that looked real damn good on her. He stared into her brown eyes, saw the startled fear morph into something darker, warmer. She definitely wasn’t dead. Her gaze flickered briefly to his lips then back to his eyes.
He raised a hand to smooth her hair back behind her ear. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?” Annoyance edged with disappointment washed over him, confusing him amid a rising tide of attraction. Her intentions were obvious. He’d watched her briefly from the lengthening shadows. She’d crammed pretty much everything barring the kitchen sink into her car. Thank God, he’d thought to disable the car. If she’d left...
Well, she had. She’d been ready to turn her back on him and walk away without a backward glance, and that probably hurt more than last night’s realization. He narrowed his eyes. Time for a different approach.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. Her voice came out all soft and husky, and he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck, could hear the soft whisper of her breath and could almost feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. If he leaned forward just a little more... He couldn’t help the flare of curiosity—what would she feel like, her body pressed against his? Her eyes darkened, just a little, but he couldn’t smell fear on her. No, there was something else, something innately familiar that his body recognized before his mind could.
Desire. It was like a shock, but a warm shock, as his body reacted before his brain could engage. This wasn’t the little girl he’d once befriended.
He trailed his hand from her shoulder down her arm to slide in and rest on the indent of her waist. Soft curves. Warm heat. Blood pooled in his groin, his breathing quickened.
“Then let’s not talk,” he murmured and dipped his head. She gasped at the move and his lips took hers.
There was no slow familiarization, no tentative movements. Instant arousal, hard and sharp, gripped his body as his tongue slid against hers. Her hands rose to his chest and, for a moment, her palms flattened against his shirt and he thought she was going to push him away. He leaned his hips against hers, knew she could feel the effect she had on him. Her hands clutched at the fabric, pulling him closer, and she opened her mouth to him.
He crowded her back against the wall, sighing as his body pressed fully against hers, feeling the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, her pants as his hand slid from her waist to her butt, pulling her closer, tighter. And all the time, their lips and tongues played.
God, it was so hot, so fierce, this need to have her. She felt so damn good in his arms. His attraction to her last night paled in comparison to the rushing heat and desire swamping him now. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, feeling her breath mingle with his as she panted against him.
He wanted her. Now.
He shifted slightly, pulling her toward the door, and again encountered that impenetrable wall of resistance from the house.
He growled, bending low and clasping her around the thighs, lifting her up against his rock-hard arousal. God, she felt so warm there. His cock swelled and all he could think about was her, surrounding him. Her arms slid around his shoulders and she thrust her breasts against him as he wrapped her legs around his waist, his coat enveloping them both.
“Let me in,” he whispered and rocked her against his hips.
She shuddered in his arms. Her nipples were tight little nubs against his chest. “Yes,” she moaned before dipping her head to catch his lips.
He felt the invisible wall in her doorway disappear and he stumbled inside her home.
With