His question penetrated her mind. Dim-witted? Had he really just asked if she was dim-witted? Fury burned through her, mixing with fear.

Warmth poured into her mind, heralding Zacarias. Earlier when he’d struck, he had penetrated deep, invaded and conquered. This was different. This time he used a slow assault, a heat spreading like molasses, filling her mind with—him. Her breath caught in her throat and she bit down hard on her lower lip. The warmth didn’t just stay in her mind, it spread through her body, a thick lava that took her veins an inch at a time, moving lower and lower. Her breasts felt heavy and aching. Her nipples peaked. Her core grew hotter.

Her physical reaction to his invasion was more than disturbing—it was every bit as horrifying as his biting her neck. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she didn’t even struggle, horror and fury holding her in place. His hands caged her, settling on her waist, large hands, shaping her hips, feeling too possessive. Flames licked her skin right through her clothes where he touched her.

She had never had such a female reaction to a male in her life. She’d been told how danger could mask itself in seduction and now she could bear witness to those rumors. Zacarias was as sensual as a male could be, igniting a slow-burning fire inside of her. Marguarita shivered, fearing for her very soul. She made the sign of the cross in a silent attempt to save herself.

“I know you can hear me—whether I speak aloud or inside your mind. Your blood calls to mine. Mine answers. Do not pretend you cannot hear me.”

She moistened her lips. I am not dim-witted. A little thunderstruck maybe, but she understood him. She just didn’t understand herself or what was happening to her body.

She trembled, wanting to wrench herself from his hand, yet she burned for him. She could hear his heartbeat, the sound echoing in her own veins.

He leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “If you are not dim-witted . . .” One hand slipped from her hip back to her waist, burning through her clothes until her skin was branded with his palm imprint. The other hand slowly wrapped around her throat, one finger at a time. He forced her head back until she rested against his chest, until she had no choice but to stare into his dark, merciless eyes. They stared at each other, locked together in some strange combat she didn’t understand.

“Then do you have a death wish?”

His voice didn’t just whisper in her ear, but over her skin, touching nerve endings, the trail of fingers brushing gently, shaping her body. The sensation was so real she shivered, fear choking her. She swallowed hard against his hand. Mutely she shook her head. It was impossible to look away from him. His eyes were compelling, so dark and fathomless, heat and fire where he’d looked so flat and cold before. There was something real inside of him—she could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t entirely a killing machine, nor was he the undead as she’d first believed—those eyes were too alive. His body was too hot—too hard.

Marguarita reached for the animal part of him—the biggest part of him. He had long ago lost all civility—or maybe he’d been born as he was now, mostly cunning, savage and extremely territorial. She understood animals, even dangerous predators. Pushing aside her fear of the Carpathian, she concentrated on the animal, trying to find a way to soothe him. She didn’t expect to be friends, no more so than she would have a jaguar, but she’d encountered one of the big cats and they had both gone their own ways with no animosity. She hoped for the same with Zacarias.

The problem was, he confused her far more than a large cat—or bird of prey. She felt the flowing warmth that always preceded the connection. And it was easier than she’d believed, as if she already knew the path, as if it was well worn. She soothed him as she would a wild thing, a soft approach, touching him gently, stroking with her mind to quiet and calm him.

Zacarias abruptly stepped back away from her, dropping his hands, his eyes glacier cold and more frightening than ever. “You are mage-born.”

It was an accusation, a curse, a promise of dark retaliation. Marguarita shook her head vigorously denying the charge. She had no idea why he was accusing her of being a mage—a being who could cast spells. That would be more him than her—he was the one bemusing her. If his eyes were anything to go by, no mage wanted to cast a spell around Zacarias De La Cruz and most certainly she didn’t.

“What are you then?” he demanded.

She frowned. The answer should have been obvious, but then she was thinking of him as an untamed, feral animal, perhaps she was closer to the mark than she knew. I am just a woman.

Zacarias studied that perfect pale face in front of him for a long time. She was streaked with mud. Exhausted. Her heart-shaped face was all eyes, enormous and frightened.

I am just a woman.

Five simple words, yet what did she mean? He knew women—but none like her. She was far more than just a woman. He searched his memories and he had many over centuries of time, but no one had ever caught his interest, not like this woman had.

They stared at one another for a long time. “You will return to the hacienda with me.” He stated it. Ordered it. Gave the command and waited for her typical reaction—disobedience. Perhaps she had some infirmity that made her do the opposite of a direct order.

He watched her throat work, a delicate swallowing and another wave of fear washed over him, hastily suppressed—one didn’t show fear to a predator. He knew they were still very much connected and he was feeling her emotions. It was interesting seeing himself through her eyes. He knew, on a strictly intellectual basis, that other animals, including men, thought him a killer, but he didn’t have a visceral reaction to the knowledge. Connected as he was to her on that primitive level, he felt her emotions as if they were his own and it was—uncomfortable.

Her small tongue licked at that perfect bow of her lower lip. She stepped back very slowly, feeling with one boot for solid ground. He shook his head and she stopped instantly.

Zacarias read her thoughts easily on her face. She wanted to run and she didn’t care if anyone—including him—considered the act cowardly. Her self-preservation instinct was strong now. She’d sacrificed herself once. As far as she was concerned, that was enough. She’d been punished.

“I am not finished with you, woman. You will return to the hacienda with me while I figure out what is going on. And you will not leave again without my permission.”

That got to her. He could see the storm clouds gathering in her dark eyes. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. Her eyes weren’t a dull gray like the world around her. Neither was her hair. Both were rich ebony, a deep midnight black, a true absence of color. Her mouth fascinated him. Her lips should have been gray or dull white, but he swore they were a darker pink. He blinked several times to try to rid himself of the impression, but the strange color remained, making him a little dizzy. She fascinated him as no other could possibly do.

Marguarita’s chin went up. If you are going to kill me, do so right here. Right now.

His eyebrow shot up. “If I am going to kill you, I will choose the time and place, not be dictated to by a woman who does not know the meaning of obedience.”

She pulled a pen and notepad from her pocket and began to write. Zacarias swept both items from her hand and pocketed them.

Mutely she shook her head and reached toward his pocket.

He shook his head just as resolutely, no longer shocked that she disobeyed him. He was certain she had an infirmity, some rare, peculiar mental disorder from birth, that made her do the opposite of what any authority figure told her.

“I read all forty-seven missives this night. I do not wish to read another.”

So she would use the blood bond when she chose. Something close to satisfaction rose in him. The fear had faded enough that she responded much more naturally to him. “Of course they were meant for me to read, kislány kuηenak minan—my little lunatic. They were clearly addressed to Señor Zacarias De La Cruz.” He bowed slightly. “Very formal and proper of you. One would think you would be able to carry out simple instructions.”

“You will use the blood bond between us.” He knew it made her uncomfortable because it was a much more intimate form of communication, but he found himself craving the intimacy of their bond.

Her eyes went even darker, turned obsidian, flaring like shiny fire-stones. She clenched her teeth together in a snapping bite. The whiteness of them caught his attention. Without thought, he gripped her upper arms and yanked her close, turning her head toward him so he could see the intense color—gleaming white, like little pearls. Not gray. Not the dingy brownish white he was used to. For a moment there was nothing else in the world, but those small, white teeth and her incredible almost black eyes.

Something smacked his chest, not hard, he barely noticed, but her little yelp made him look down. She had slammed her palms against his chest and had obviously hurt herself. He frowned at her. “What are you doing now?”

She had a temper. He recognized the smoldering fire now. She’d hurt herself though, and truthfully, he’d barely felt a thing. “Is that what you call it? You really are a little crazy. No wonder Cesaro tried to remove you from the house. He feared I would be upset with your insanity.”

Marguarita closed her fist and took a punch at him. Judging from the way she threw it, someone had taught her how to fight. He ducked to the side before she could land the blow and caught her, spinning her around, crossing her arms over her breasts and holding her tight against his body. His breath came out in a burst of sound that shocked him. He went very still, resting his mouth against her neck, against that warm pulse that beat so frantically and called so loudly to him. Laughter? Had he laughed?

Had he really laughed? That was impossible. He had never laughed. Not that he remembered. Maybe as a young child, a mere boy, but he doubted it. Where had that sound come from? Was it possible this crazy, dim-witted woman was his lifemate? By all that was holy, it could not be. He could not in any way be mated to someone incapable of following the simplest of directions. And his emotions and colors should have returned at once. But truthfully, he felt more alive in that moment than he had in a thousand years.

Like him, she had gone quite still in his arms again, like a frightened little rabbit. She shivered, her wet, muddy clothes clinging to her soft, feminine form. The moment he became aware she was cold, he removed the mud and rain from her clothing, his body heating hers. Such things were natural to his kind, and with her, he had to remember mundane things.

“I will make excuses for you as you did not have a mother to teach you proper etiquette, but my patience will go only so far.” He whispered the words against her ear, determined that she would learn who was in charge. Certainly not some little slip of a thing, so silly she went out in the rain forest unescorted and at night. “You have certain duties.”

Puzzled, he glanced up at the boiling sky. “About four in the morning.”

He was tempted to bite that sweet spot between her neck and shoulder as punishment for her continued defiance. “When a De La Cruz is in residence, you are on duty from sunset to dawn. Or whenever I tell you. O jelä peje terád, emni—sun scorch you, woman. Do not argue with me. Have you learned nothing in the last few hours? You will not go unescorted, anywhere. You are a woman. A single woman. And you will have a chaperone at all times.”

She made no sound, but he felt her absolute rejection of his decree. Deep inside, it came again, that strange sound that started in his belly and welled up like champagne bubbles. By all that was holy, she made him laugh. He felt amusement. This slight woman brought laughter into his life. Until he figured out why she had such power over him, he wasn’t about to leave her side. She could deny his authority all she wanted, but she was about to learn what and who was the dominant in her life.

He inhaled her scent and found himself fighting the call of her blood. He tasted her in his mouth. That exquisite, rare taste beyond anything he’d ever known bursting in his mouth, trickling down his throat to seep into his veins, pouring through his body like molten gold. Her skin was so warm and soft, her pulse calling to him. He closed his eyes and simply listened to the rhythm of her heart. He wasn’t hungry, yet he craved her, like an addiction, wanting to bite down, to feel her soft flesh . . .

His hands slid up over her wrists, stroking, his palms brushing her breasts. Her nipples were peaked with cold—or excitement. He couldn’t make his mind stop long enough to find out which. His every sense, his entire being focused on her body. The shape of her. The feel of her. Time slowed. Tunneled. There was only his hands sliding over her, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing those hard nipples. His heart hammering. Hers answering.

Heat rushed into him. Filled him. Blood pounded through his center, rushed into his cock, until he was hard and thick and aching—and shocked. His body burned from the inside out. There was a strange roaring in his head. He felt on fire, flames scorching his skin, racing through his veins. Erotic images filled his mind, her body writhing beneath his, a million things he’d seen in his existence, a million ways to make her his. He had seen such things, but never once thought of them. Never once in all his existence had he ever entertained the idea of taking a woman without consent. Never considered burying his body deep in a woman and doing whatever he wanted with her—until that moment. The images and his terrible, brutal need overwhelmed him. Tiny beads of blood dotted his skin, sweat as he’d never known it. He felt edgy, out of control, insane with the terrible craving that had spread from his need of her blood to his body’s need of hers.

He shoved her away from him, breathing deep, taking in great gulps of air to stop the madness burning through him. He had known his soul was in pieces, no more than a sieve held together with tiny, fragile threads, but this—this would destroy him—destroy his honor. He wiped the sweat from his face and stared at the blood smears on his hands. “What are you, woman? You have bewitched me.”

She shook her head mutely, so pale she nearly glowed there in the darkness. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I don’t know why this is happening to you.

She’d felt him all right, felt the rising demand of his cock pushing against her body with urgent demand.

“You will not control me.”

She took two steps away from him, staring at the large bulge in the front of his trousers. He saw the exact moment when her fear got the better of her and she turned and ran from him.

Zacarias took another deep slow breath and spread out his arms, welcoming another shape, needing the relief from his male human form. Feathers burst along his skin as he shifted. This time the harpy eagle was enormous. He took flight, staying low as he gave chase. The eagle twisted and turned, easily making his way through the trees, hunting his prey. He loomed over her. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide with terror as he dove, his talons reaching for her, snagging her as she ran, and lifting her into the air, Zacarias’s enormous strength aiding the large harpy eagle.

Marguarita struggled, but as he took her higher, his giant wingspan beating to gain height, and the ground dropped away, she went utterly still, her hands wrapping around the bird’s legs. Once he gained altitude, he sped his way through the rain forest back toward the hacienda. Harpy eagles easily flew a good fifty miles per hour when they wanted, and with the ferocious wind at its back, the bird swiftly covered the distance, reaching the ranch in record time.

Zacarias dropped Marguarita gently in the grass just outside the front door. He shifted as his feet touched the ground beside her. She didn’t attempt to run again, but lay quietly, her hands pressed tightly over her waist where the talons had clutched her so tightly. Zacarias bent down and caught her up in his arms, cradling her to his chest.

Her eyes took up half her face and the fear was back, all traces of temper gone. She couldn’t scream and her mouth wasn’t open to try to call for aid, and that upset him more than it should have.

“Do not look at me that way,” he snapped. “Had you simply come with me without a fuss, I would not have had to drag you back in such a manner. Has no one ever taught you consequences?”

She looked away from, shifting her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder, but she couldn’t contain the shudder that went through her. Perhaps his voice had been too harsh. He had to remember her infirmity. Her father certainly should have addressed her need to flout authority, but he was there now, and he had no doubt he could get the job done.

He waved his hand at the door and it opened for him. He swept through with Marguarita in his arms and placed her on the sofa while he turned back to employ safeguards. He wove intricate, very strong guards around the entire structure, taking his time, determined no one would enter—and no one would leave while he slept. The workers on his properties knew when a De La Cruz was in residence, they were not to be disturbed during daylight hours. When he was satisfied no one—not even one of his brothers—could get through his weave, he turned back to study the woman who embodied the word mystery.

Marguarita sat up slowly. He saw her catch her breath and pain flashed across her face. He frowned and stepped close to her. The scent of blood hit him. Zacarias pulled her to her feet. She kept her hands pressed tightly to her waist. He could see small red droplets trickling through her fingers. Humans didn’t heal themselves. He hadn’t spent time around humans in years. He’d fed and was gone, a ghost in the night no one ever saw—or remembered.

“Let me see.” He softened his voice when her gaze jumped to his. “Take your hands away, woman. I need to see the damage done.”

Apparently he sounded just as menacing when he used a low tone because she shivered, but couldn’t seem to move.

Very gently he gripped her wrists and moved her hands. The puncture wounds from the grizzly-sized talons of the harpy eagle wrapped around her, front to back on either side. He should have thought about what those talons would do to human flesh, not about her defiance. Watching her face, he spit into his hands. His saliva would not only help mend the punctures, but he had numbing agent that would stop the pain as he healed her. He fit his palms easily over the marks, pressing into her, his hands nearly spanning her midsection.

“You will feel warm, but it should not hurt you,” he assured her.

She was trembling so hard he wasn’t certain she could remain standing. Her eyes stared into his with the exact look he’d seen on the prey of cobras. She looked mesmerized and terrified, unable to look away from him.

“Stop fearing me.” He had wanted her to be afraid, now he wished he could take it back. She looked very fragile, vulnerable, and so very alone. “I will not allow anything to happen to you. It is my duty to look after you.” He was telling the truth to her. Nothing would take this woman from him—certainly not death. By some miracle or some devilish trick, he was at long last coming to life, his body reborn, his mind once again intrigued.

He looked around the room and everything in it remained a dull gray. When he looked back at her, he could see emerging color, faint, but there. Her eyelashes were that same amazing black as the rope of her hair. Enormous eyes of deep dark chocolate stared back at him. Her eyebrows were black. Her lips were definitely pink. Colors could only be restored by a lifemate. Emotions—and he was having unfamiliar reactions to her—could only be restored by a lifemate. The fact that his body had reacted physically to her was astonishing, problematic and yet exhilarating—if he could feel exhilaration. But a lifemate would have restored those things instantly.

Mages had infiltrated, occupying the neighboring ranch only a few months earlier, biding their time in hopes of destroying the De La Cruz family. Dominic and Zacarias had stopped them, but there was a slight chance the alliance between the master vampires and the mages had held and mages had found their way back for another attempt. If Marguarita was shadowed by a mage spell—he would have known. As much as he kept coming back to that explanation, a dread was growing in him that he knew the real explanation.

If Marguarita truly was his lifemate, then something had gone wrong, and he feared he knew the answer to what that was. He had not found her in time. His soul was in tatters, already beyond repair. His other half could not seal him to her, could not bring light to the utter darkness within him. It was no surprise that he was a lost cause. He had probably been born that way, but still, there was a time when he’d dreamed of this moment, when he’d envisioned a lifemate and even actively sought one.

His palms grew warm as he pushed heat through his body into hers. Her lungs fought for air and he purposely breathed for her, calming her, the air flowing naturally through his until her body followed the same even rhythm. Her heart pounded so hard he feared she would have a heart attack.

“Just breathe, mića emni kuηenak minan—my beautiful lunatic.” There was an inadvertent ache in his voice, a mourning for what he’d lost long before he’d ever found it.

Marguarita looked up at Zacarias De La Cruz’s strong face. It was a face carved from the very mountains, chiseled with battle and age, yet strangely handsome. This was not a man who had ever been a boy, he was all warrior. For the first time, deep in his eyes, she saw sorrow. The emotion was deep and real and when she touched his mind, she wanted to weep. He didn’t appear to realize the depths of his anguish, or maybe he simply didn’t acknowledge emotion, but it made her want to weep for him.

He was completely self-contained, not needing anyone. So powerful. And so utterly alone. He inflicted pain, terrified her and then so very gently healed her wounds. Perhaps he was a little mad from being alone for so long. Each time he called her something in his language, his voice softened almost to a caress, his words wrapping around her like strong arms. Sadly for her, that lonely, feral quality in him drew compassion from her. Already her mind reached for his, automatically soothing him, sending him warmth and understanding.

Without thought she lifted her hand to touch those deep lines carved into his face. He caught her wrist, startling her. She hadn’t been aware she was actually contemplating touching him. Her wrist ached from the force of his palm slapping her skin. He was as hard as a kapok tree, his flesh not giving at all. His fingers wrapped around her wrist easily, clamping down like a vise, making it impossible to pull away. Her heart slammed hard in her chest and she blinked up at him. Her breath exploded out of her lungs. She’d managed to stir the tiger again, without even thinking.

The suspicion in his eyes was so like a wary wild creature that she couldn’t stop that flow of compassion and warmth from her mind into his. She felt as if she needed to calm him. He didn’t belong inside a house. There was no way four walls could contain his power or his savage nature. She couldn’t imagine anything or anybody being at ease around him. He was too dominant, taking over the room, his aristocratic ways and hard authority adding to the terrifying aura surrounding him.

“Were you planning on petting me?”

There was no sarcasm in his tone, but his question hurt. She licked her suddenly dry lips and shook her head. She didn’t know what she had been doing. If she had her pen and paper—maybe she could try to express herself, but she felt cut off from the world most of the time, like this moment. How did she try with mere impressions to convey the way her strange gift manifested?

She wasn’t even certain how her gift worked. She only knew that everything in her reached out to the wildness in him, to the tortured soul, stark and lonely and in need. He didn’t even know he was in need. How could she explain when she didn’t have a voice?

I’m sorry, she repeated, unable to think what else to do.

Zacarias’s expression remained absolute stone as he brought her fingertips to his face and held them there. “Do not be sorry. I am not.”

Her stomach performed some weird acrobatic somersault at the touch of his skin beneath the pads of her fingers.

“If you wish to touch me, you have my permission.”

For the first time since the vampire had attacked her, she was glad she couldn’t speak. There were no words. Nothing. She should have been irritated by his aristocratic condescension, but instead she wanted to smile.

She had no excuses. Whatever compulsion he seemed so worried about was obviously working on her as well. And without her pen and paper she felt vulnerable, stripped naked, unable to communicate. She swallowed hard and nodded, wondering a little hysterically if he thought she should thank him for his consent.

He dropped his hand, leaving hers against his shadowed jaw. She pressed her palm into that dark scruff and felt her heart reach out to his. The sensation was so strong it scared her. She dropped her hand abruptly and stepped back, confused at her reactions to him. She was very afraid of him, yet the sadness in him weighed so heavily on her she couldn’t stop herself from feeling compassion.

She’d done this to him. She was guilty and there was no getting around that. He had come here to end his life honorably, and she had stopped him, leaving him once more in the loneliness of his bleak world. If there was truly a man who was an island unto himself, it was Zacarias De La Cruz. She couldn’t see his entire lonely world, but she felt the tip of it and that was enough to make her want to weep forever. She owed him and a Fernandez always paid their debts.

I didn’t know what I was doing when I stopped you from ending your burdens. If I could go back and undo it . . . Would she? Could she stand by and let him die? Her shoulders slumped. She couldn’t lie to him. She would never be able to just stand there while he burned in the sun. It was beyond her ability. She raised unhappy eyes to his. I’m sorry. Was there nothing else she could say to him?

Zacarias studied her face for so long she began to think he wouldn’t speak again. Then his gaze dropped, drifting over her body, studying her feminine form much like one of the ranchers assessing stock. She bit her lip hard to keep from shoving him away from her. She wasn’t a horse. She owed him, yes, but she’d apologized more than once. And he didn’t have to look at her as if she was a germ.

His gaze jumped back to her face, locking with hers. “I am reading your thoughts.” His hand dropped to hers. He lifted her clenched fist to his chest and one by one pried open her fingers. “You are a bad-tempered little thing, aren’t you? And very confused. One moment you feel remorse and think to offer me your services and the next you think to strike me. You already serve me. I have only to order and you will provide whatever I require. As for striking me, it is not advisable or permitted.”

Talking to him was much like having fur rubbed the wrong way, she decided. It mattered little that everything he said was true. She had been about to call a truce with him, to offer her services willingly—not grudgingly. That man was so arrogant he didn’t seem to know the difference. And as for striking him—it might not matter whether or not it was permitted if he kept talking like that to her.

A slow, rusty smile, very faint, but real, softened the hard line of his mouth. It was brief, she barely caught it, but his smile was—incredible.

“I am still reading your thoughts.”

She frowned at him. That isn’t polite. I can’t help what I’m thinking. Maybe she’d conjured up that smile, it had disappeared so fast—more like ice cracking.

“Of course you can. You will sleep during the daylight hours as I do. You will not, under any circumstances, leave the hacienda without my permission. You will provide for all my needs until I leave. And most of all, you will obey me instantly, without question.”

What he needed was a robot, not a woman. She fought not to roll her eyes. How long will you stay? God help her if it was longer than another night.

His eyebrow shot up. “You have no need of that information. You will be happy to serve me as long as I choose to be in residence.”

He was serious. She could see that he was totally serious. He expected her to be happy—even grateful to serve him—the arrogant, impossible, dominant royal pain in the neck. Should I curtsey, your majesty?

His brows drew together. The silence grew until the very walls seemed to expand with the tension. His gaze remained locked on hers, unblinking and menacing. She fought not to look away—not to be totally cowed by him. He appeared enormous. He dominated the entire room, his shoulders blocking out everything behind him, making her aware of his power—and her vulnerability.

“Perhaps the alliance between our families has come to an end. If that is what you wish, you have only to say you will not honor our agreement.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He wouldn’t allow her to leave. She could feel the need in him. He couldn’t. He didn’t recognize that he had emotions boiling deep below the surface. She tapped into them through their primitive animal connection, but not only didn’t he recognize his own feelings, he had no idea they were there. Even if she allowed her fear of him to ruin the alliances between the De La Cruz family and her large extended family, it wouldn’t save her.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. I wish to serve you.

“Without question.”

She gritted her teeth. He wanted his pound of flesh for her sins. Or maybe she was reading him wrong. He didn’t seem to have the least idea how to deal with humans. He probably hadn’t been in polite society for hundreds of years.

“Nor did I care to do so,” he said, obviously still reading her mind.

She considered taking great delight in stitching his mouth closed while he slept in his chamber. The moment she began to think there was a remote possibility that he could have excuses for his imperious and crass behavior, he opened his mouth and ruined everything.

She flashed him a quick look and saw his lips curve into that ridiculously incredible very brief, faint smile. Her stomach reacted with the same earlier slow-rolling somersault.

“I am getting the distinct impression of someone, who looks suspiciously like you, sewing my mouth closed with a needle and thread. Could I possibly be interpreting your thoughts incorrectly?”

Marguarita tried her best to look innocent. Perhaps we could communicate more accurately if you gave me back my pen and paper. That way, we wouldn’t have these little misunderstandings. Surely that wasn’t a lie. And if nothing else, it might keep her out of trouble.

“I doubt a pen and paper has that much power,” he remarked.

She really wished he’d stay out of her head. I need to sit down, Señor De La Cruz. She hadn’t realized she was swaying. Shock maybe, but suddenly the room was spinning.

He caught her arm and lowered her onto the sofa. “Would you like a glass of water?”

Anything for a reprieve from his overwhelming presence. She nodded her head, trying to look like the fainting type. She was fairly sturdy, so maybe he wouldn’t completely believe it, but he was so feudal it was just possible she had a good shot at it.

His mouth did that slight curving twitch that indicated a faint smile. He shook his head and handed her a glass of water. “You are not very good at censuring your thoughts. Tell me what your normal day is like.”

She shrugged and ran through her days in her mind. Bath. Brushing hair. Cleaning her room. Breakfast. Cleaning the house. Ordering for the homes on the ranch. Checking horses and cattle for illness or injuries. Making lunch. Taking hot coffee and sandwiches to Julio. Riding with him while they chatted . . .

The air in the room turned heavy. The walls expanded and the floor rolled. She scowled and grabbed at the sofa. What’s wrong? You asked me to tell you a typical day. I do get free time for lunch and riding.

“Who is this man you laugh with?”

Marguarita frowned. You don’t know Cesaro’s son? When he continued to stare until she swore she felt a burning sensation in the region of her forehead she sighed. I need a pen and paper. I can’t send correct impressions.

“I think I understand your impressions very well. You will not be riding with this man again. Proceed.”

Marguarita rubbed her head. She had the beginnings of a headache. She was exhausted and too confused to be afraid anymore. One moment she was angry with Zacarias and the next amused. She had absolutely no idea how to handle him. The connection between them seemed to be growing stronger the more she was in his mind. She didn’t want him in her head, and the more she communicated with him through telepathy, the easier it was for him to slip into her mind without her knowledge. The sensation had become so natural in such a short space of time, she could no longer feel anything but warmth.

“I cannot tell if you eat alone.”

He sounded so grim she glanced up at his set face. He looked like stone. She pressed her fingers to her head. Most of the time. I clean up the kitchen, bake sometimes, bathe and read before I go to bed—alone.

He reached down and settled his fingers on her temples. “Close your eyes. I think you have had enough for the night. You need to rest. We will continue this conversation at sunset tomorrow. We shall call a truce between us. Tonight, you will sleep and be unafraid. I have provided strong safeguards. Should a servant of the vampire come, he will not be able to gain entrance to my home.”

Her heart jumped. He’d said “my home.” She had never heard of any of the De La Cruz family refer to a place as their home. The thought slid away from her before she could hold on to it, the warmth replacing the ache in her head making her slightly fuzzy.

Zacarias bent and scooped her up, carrying her through the house to her room. The bedroom door was perfectly intact. Her bedroom was immaculate, she noted in passing. Her eyelids felt heavy, her body not wanting to move. He laid her on her bed and smoothed back her hair, his touch almost a caress.

She couldn’t remember why she thought him overbearing and arrogant and feudal. He tucked her in and reassured her that she was safe. She felt safe. She even smiled at him before she let her lashes drift down. She liked the idea of a truce. She could totally manage a truce.