What is it about a man with tools in his hands that is so inherently sexy? Layla wondered later as she sat in a chair in the foyer and watched Nicolas working on the door. He'd already taken apart her old brand new deadbolt and was now installing the new brand-new one he'd gone to the store and gotten for her while they were waiting for dinner. It matched the one on the kitchen door, which he'd already finished, and on the side door that he still had to do, and the same key would open all three. Unless Kent broke a window, which he wouldn't do because that would be grounds for arrest, he wasn't getting into this house.
Layla took another sip of her red wine. Since Nicolas' attention was completely taken up with his task, she allowed her gaze to drift over the lines of his body as he knelt beside the door. He was wearing a dark blue button-up shirt, open at the throat, and he'd rolled up the sleeves so he could work. The muscles across his shoulders rippled, tightening and wrinkling the material, making her wish he'd just take the damn thing off... maybe if she turned the furnace on...? She rolled her eyes at herself and stifled a chuckle which would draw his attention.
She rolled the glass between her hands, watching the play of the muscles in his forearms, shivering a little when he leaned forward and his thick hair fell down, concealing his face from her for a moment. She closed her eyes when unbidden erotic images sprang into her head, of silken, ebony hair brushing across sensitive skin. She shivered. What the hell was wrong with her? She was getting out of a bad relationship that'd probably hang on for weeks, if not months, and she was ready to bounce right into the next bed? Not to mention that she'd only just met this man the day before.
She opened her eyes and looked at him again. Why did she feel like he wasn't a stranger? She didn't know anything about him, yet it was like she'd known him for years. He felt familiar, comfortable yet exciting at the same time. And she knew, without even having to think about it, that if she let this thing that seemed to be happening between them continue, it would be lasting.
"What do you for a living, Nicolas?" she asked, the abruptness of the question surprising even her.
He glanced at her but then quickly returned his attention to the task at hand. "Why do you ask?"
"It just dawned on me that I have no idea who you are, yet here we are, alone in my home, and you're changing my locks. I figured maybe I should find out who I'm trusting so completely."
Trust so completely? He latched onto those words, surprised at how they made him feel, like he could do anything in the world, overcome any obstacle. Her trust in him made him feel strong. He looked at her, sitting on the chair, watching him work. She was wearing an old, faded pair of blue jeans with a tear in the right knee and a threadbare t-shirt that was too big for her, but she was beautiful, and he had to wait a beat or two to get his breath back so he could answer her.
"Fair enough," he agreed. "I don't really do much. I dabble in the stock market, and I do own a couple of corporations, but I have managers for them."
"A 'couple' of corporations?" she echoed. "You must be filthy rich!"
"A little dusty maybe," he said, chuckling.
"And I've got you changing my locks?"
"I offered," he reminded her. "I don't mind."
She took another drink of her wine to hide the fact that she didn't know what to say next. Not just gorgeous, he has to be rich too. Sounded like some trashy romance novel.
"So what do you do?" he asked, filling the silence.
"I do a little writing," she hedged.
He returned to the lock. "Reporter?" he asked, picking up the screwdriver.
"Fiction."
"Published?"
Layla hesitated long enough for him to look over at her again, the screw halfway into the door. He looked at her expectantly and she sighed. Why not tell him? she wondered. Who was he going to tell?
"I've had a few books published," she admitted.
"Any I may have read?" he asked, finishing up with the lock. He pushed the door closed and picked the keys up off the floor. Layla waited while he tested locking and unlocking it a couple of times, then closed and locked the door, making sure it wouldn't budge. "One more," he murmured under his breath to himself. He gathered up his tools and the last lock and headed into the living room where the side door was awaiting his attention.
Layla followed, hoping he'd forget their little conversation, but halfway through disassembling the existing lock, he glanced sideways at her. "You never answered me," he pointed out. He noticed her take a deep breath and avert her eyes. "Why don't you want to tell me?"
"It's kind of embarrassing," she told him. "I write fantasy romance."
He stopped then and looked at her. "'Fantasy'?"
She blushed again. "I've had a series published, and a few stand-alone novels, mostly about aliens and vampires."
"No," he said, "I probably haven't read any of them." He smiled at her. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You provide a product that the consumers want, and they buy it. It puts food on your table and a roof over your head."
"You make it sound so sterile and passionless," she groused. "I happen to enjoy what I do."
"Then why didn't you want to tell me about it?"
"I had some problems with an, um, 'overzealous' fan, a few years ago," she told him.
"A stalker?"
"For a while. It was after my very first book was published, when I used my own name. After that, I started using a pen name, which I guard obsessively. Kent and I were together for almost a year before I finally told him about it."
Nicolas set the old new lock on the floor and picked up the new new lock and turned back to the door. "I can understand that. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."
"Thanks."
When Nicolas finished the final lock, he handed her the keys the set had come with and started to return his tools to his tool box. "That should keep him out," he said.
"I hope so," Layla said softly, eyeing Nicolas' handiwork. The lock gleamed almost merrily in the harsh overhead light. How had this happened? she wondered. Why was she, once again, a prisoner in her own home? The stalker had forced her to live behind sturdy locks, even going so far as to install bars on all her windows, fencing him out, but fencing herself in, too. For almost a year it had gone on, until he turned his attention to some other poor woman. Now here she was, in her little cottage, hiding behind shiny metal again.
"I'll be right next door," Nicolas reminded her. "All you have to do is cry out and I'll hear you."
She frowned at him. "Don't you have a life of your own?" she wondered. "I mean, you're not home twenty-four-seven. And there's no guarantee you'll always be able to hear me."
Nicolas looked over at her and his heart broke at the blatant fear in her eyes. What was wrong with some men that they could do this to a woman who only wanted to be loved? She was so beautiful there, curled onto the chair like a child, and he suddenly needed to touch her, to feel her slender body in his arms, to feel her breath on his skin. Without conscious thought, he crossed the floor to her and took her hand, drawing her out of the chair, pulling her towards him.
Layla stared up at Nicolas, captivated by the intensity in his eyes, the boldness of his touch. His arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her to him and she realized it was a good thing he was holding her because her knees turned to water at the feel of his muscles, hard as stone, against her body. He fitted her to him like she was made for him and she shivered despite the heat she could feel radiating from him. A wild part of her wished he would just kiss her already. What was he waiting for?
Nicolas brushed his fingertips across her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips were as red as ripe strawberries and he wondered if they were as sweet. He resisted the impulse to find out and lifted his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes, dark as night, were lit with a passion he knew was reflected in his own, and he also knew that if he didn't get away from her right then, neither of them would be able to resist for much longer.
Layla couldn't stifle the soft groan of disappointment when he forced himself to step away from her, but she didn't reach for him despite the overwhelming urge to do so.
"I'll always hear when you call," he told her, his voice husky with pent-up emotion. "I should go."
Layla took a step back, putting more distance between them, and she nodded. Her mouth had gone dry and she found it difficult to speak, but somehow she found the ability. "Maybe you should," she agreed.
"Lock the door behind me," he told her.
She nodded mutely and watched him slip out the door and disappear into the darkness.
†♥†♥†♥†
The walls closed in around him oppressively as he paced in his bedroom. She was but a few yards away, soft and inviting, but there may as well have been a continent between them. He could not have her. He must not have her. He stopped and stared out the window, his gaze going unerringly to the window behind which she slept.
He had to have her.
No! He forced himself away from the window and back through his bedroom, down the stairs and into the den. He'd find a good book, he decided. Pour himself a brandy. Sit down and while away the night. He'd paced the bookshelves three times, not seeing the titles on the spines of his collection of books, before he realized it was useless. A good book and a brandy were not going to cool the fire in his blood. Only her touch could do that. Only her kiss. Only her complete and utter submission.
Nicolas growled in frustration. He had to get out of this house. He had to get away before he did something he'd regret. Again. Annalissa. He summoned her image into his mind's eye and concentrated on her, seeing her final moments, hearing her cries of pain, her fearful declarations of love. He latched onto it, using it to give him strength. He did not want that to happen to Layla. He could not watch another woman die like that. He could not be responsible for extinguishing another of the world's brightest lights.
Unbidden, he thought of the blood. How sweet it had been. How abundant. And the beast within him lifted its ugly head and snarled. He groaned in pain, beating the hunger down, fighting back the compulsion, the demand for that again. It was so close... just a few yards away.
He rushed out of the den and through the kitchen, exploding through the door into the backyard. The hunger clawed at him and he turned his head, eyes lit with the fires of hell, and focused on Layla's house, the window to her bedroom, imagining that he could see her there, lying on her bed, her breast rising and falling rhythmically, sleeping. Trusting. Vulnerable. His for the taking. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight as he imagined the taste of her. Her blood would be hot. It would be sweet.
His presence silenced the night creatures. Even the insects stopped chirping. Everything waited, listening to the predator among them, ready to flee on a moment's notice. The world waited for him to rein in the beast, to regain control of himself, but in the absolute silence he could hear her. Her soft breathing. Her moan of irritation as she shifted position in the bed. She moved again, and he heard her mutter his name in her sleep. Her heartbeat called out to him, strong and steady, and he caught himself taking a step, and then another—towards her.
No! he screamed in his head. Leave! Run! And he turned, forcing himself away from Layla. As he ran, picking up speed with each stride, his body shimmered, shifting and contorting, until he became a wolf, his glossy, ebony fur shining in the moonlight, his indigo eyes glowing with an unearthly, crimson light. He stopped and looked back, barely able to see her house across the distance he'd covered. Before he turned away again he threw back his head and howled, long and mournful, pouring his sorrow and his regret, into the night's call. Then he ran, wanting to put as much space between himself and Layla as he could.
†♥†♥†♥†
Layla came awake with a start. Every nerve ending was tingling and her heart was pounding. She had the intense feeling that she was in great danger. Had Kent gotten into the house while she slept despite the locks Nicolas had installed? No, this was a much deeper, primal danger, and she fumbled in the darkness for the lamp, snapping it on with a little cry of fear. The bedroom was empty, except for her. No one was stalking towards her bed. No one was standing in the doorway. She looked around again, trying to reassure herself that what her eyes were seeing was the truth. That she was safe.
Then, over the sound of her own ragged breathing, she heard a howl, lonely and sad, and for some reason her heart broke. Why did she feel like she wanted to comfort it? Why did she have an almost overwhelming urge to go out into the darkness and find the creature?
Chuckling at her own foolishness she crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom. She wet a washcloth and held it to the back of her neck then took a cool drink, trying to get control of herself. You're being silly, she chastised herself. Go back to sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow.
Her heart gave a lurch to the side when she thought of Nicolas coming for dinner the next night. Maybe she should buy a new dress, she thought. Something little. She imagined the look in his eyes when he saw her and she decided that was a good idea. Something to make his heart pound. She smiled. Now she was never going to get back to sleep.
†♥†♥†♥†
The howl carried farther and longer than expected or intended. Nicolas Thorne was uncharacteristically giving himself away, and Xavier knew he'd found another woman. The bastard wasn't going to do it again. Not if he had anything to say about it. He would find her and protect her, whether she liked it or not.
Xavier opened his pocket watch and looked at the miniature painting inside the domed lid. Annalissa. She'd been so beautiful, so full of promise and life. Until she'd met Nicolas. Barely twenty and she'd begun to fade away, to become wan and weak, like an elderly woman. But at the same time, he'd never seen her happier. She smiled all the time, her eyes dreamy, and she talked about Nicolas incessantly. It got to the point where Xavier had threatened to do her bodily harm if she didn't stop. She'd only laughed at him, her voice like the ringing of bells, and kept right on talking about Nicolas. Xavier could only roll his eyes and laugh at himself with her.
Xavier clenched hisjaw, the fury over his sister's fate sweeping through him once again, and heresisted the urge to smash the watch in his fist. It was his only link to thepast, so he slipped it back into his pocket before he could do any damage. Thehowl had come from the west, but he couldn't tell how far. No matter. He'd juststart in that direction. If this woman was anything like Annalissa, she'd causeNicolas to lose his iron control and expose himself again. Xavier just hoped hegot there before Nicolas killed her too.