Chapter
Nine
Sleeping was hopeless. It was five in the morning
when Jillian entered her apartment, but her brain was racing like a
hamster in a wire wheel. She could still feel those iron muscles,
hard and tough under skin that was lightly dusted with crisp blond
hair. Those intense eyes, that strong face . . . it added up to
quite a delicious package, and it stirred her more than she cared
to admit. Still, she made a point of locking the door and angling a
chair under the handle. Stacked pots and pans on the seat of it.
Every dish she owned was plastic, so she gathered glass jars until
she had a double row of everything from cold cream to peanut butter
marching along the window ledge. James Macleod wouldn’t be entering
her apartment again without giving her plenty of warning. She
checked the phone beside her bed, made sure she had 911 on speed
dial. And tomorrow she would have some words with Connor. He really
should have given her some sort of heads up that his brother might
be staying in the building. In fact, it would have been more polite
to introduce her to James, not to mention a whole lot less
scary.
Satisfied, she looked at the clock. Six
A.M. The clinic was open every weekday but
only every other Saturday—and this wasn’t one of them. She didn’t
have to get up unless someone called in with a problem, so she
should really try to get some sleep.
Sleep? Oh crap!
She shoved the chair full of pots aside, dashed out the door, and
returned a moment later with the bag of herbs and the dream catcher
she’d forgotten by the loft ladder. Jillian hunted through drawers
until she found a large pushpin and hung the dream catcher as her
new friend had instructed, on the wall above the head of the bed.
She stood back and admired it, enjoyed the way the feathers
cascaded down from it like a soft waterfall. The early morning sun
caught the tiny crystals in the webbing and along the quills of the
feathers, making them glint and gleam. Rose quartz, fluorite, and
citrine—she remembered those three. And there was some turquoise
and some amethyst too. The rest she’d have to ask Birkie about
again.
It was all of 6:20 A.M. and Jillian couldn’t think of anything else to do.
She’d barricaded the door again, lined up the bottles of herbs on
the kitchen counter. Her eyes kept returning to the dream catcher,
fascinated with it as the pale morning light played across it. She
decided to lie down for a while, but she wanted to be able to see
Birkie’s beautiful creation, so she arranged her pillows at the
foot of the bed instead.
She yawned hugely as she got into her
favorite flannel pajama pants and topped them with a soft cami. The
mattress yielded comfortably beneath her, the blankets were soft
and warm. The sun dappled the wall but wasn’t bright enough to
bother her. Instead it lent a pleasant golden haze to the room.
Slowly her eyelids fluttered down.
James’s lips descended over hers,
barely making contact, but she could feel the heat of them. He
brushed the corners of her mouth, then back over her lips, again
and again. He touched nothing else, yet every inch of her skin
seemed electrified, abuzz with sensation and want. Her fingers
ached to knot themselves in his hair, pull his mouth to hers, but
her wrists were willing prisoners in his grasp.
Slowly, lazily, James nuzzled her face
and took possession of her mouth, cradling her head in one of his
large strong hands. Heat. Much more heat. Jillian had kissed a date
once right after he’d taken a swallow of hot coffee. But this was
far hotter, this was living heat. Not the
parched dryness of a fever, but the radiant warmth of an inner
fire. She melted into the kiss, felt her own lips become pliant,
supple. She feasted on each hot breath, drawing it into her lungs
as if from some sultry tropical night. His tongue explored softly,
lapped at her lips and slid gently alongside hers . . . and she had
a sudden mental image of dolphins mating in a heated lagoon. Her
own tongue dared to skim his lips and dart swiftly just inside. She
inhaled sharply as he caught it in gentle teeth. Held it there
until she let out her breath in a long slow exhale. She could have
pulled away but instead permitted him to suckle her tongue softly,
shivered as he drew it carefully into his hot, wet mouth. Then
realized she couldn’t pull away, not with that strong hand cradling
her head, holding her in place. But the tiny quiver of fear only
heightened the delicious sensations.
James drew her tongue in and out of his
mouth with painstaking slowness, released it and lapped at her
lips, occasionally pressing the point of his tongue at each corner
of her mouth. She took his bottom lip in her teeth and tugged
softly. Wanted, wanted something, wanted anything. Accepted his
tongue eagerly when it plunged deep.
Jillian had never imagined a man making
love with only his mouth. Her hands were free, but she could think
of nothing but touching his face, cupping his powerful jaw beneath
the close-cropped beard, and tracing his strong features as he
kissed her long and deep and slow and hot. Again and again. And as
he kissed her, James began to stroke her throat from chin to
collarbone with a heated hand.
Her body had relaxed, gone lithe and
supple. She exulted as her cami was skimmed away, leaving her naked
to the waist, and the warmth of his body blazed into her skin right
through his clothing as he lay beside her. Her heart skidded and
skipped as she realized she could feel his erection, hot and
straining within his jeans. Her hip was pressed tightly against the
thickness of it.
Suddenly he cupped her breast, engulfed
it in heat. He broke off kissing her and leaned over to taste her
nipple, lapping at it with a hot, wet tongue. Oh! Her breasts felt tight, the nipples hard and seeming
to strain toward him. Deep within her core she could feel the
sudden hard clenching of her womb, the spread of warmth and
moisture between her thighs. Dear God, she wanted this
man.
His eyes never left hers as he slowly
opened his mouth and drew her nipple into the moist warmth there.
He suckled gently at first, letting the reaction of her body guide
him. Then James paused for just a moment to breathe deeply, to
inhale as if to pull her scent into his lungs, as a lion or a wolf
might savor the subtleties of pheromones newly released. And to her
chagrin, Jillian whimpered a little, missing him already. He bent
his head to suckle once more at her breast, harder this time,
faster, as if it were the most delicious thing on
earth.
Jillian held his head to her, almost
shaking with the excitement he was creating in her. His hand rubbed
softly, steadily over her pajamas, up and down, up and down the
thighs—then dipped insistently between her legs until she parted
them, moaning for more. He palmed her then, pressing firmly against
those sensitive parts until she arched and pushed back, until the
flannel was soaked through. And then the pajama pants disappeared.
One moment they were on and the next there was only cool air
against her quivering skin. She supposed she should feel
vulnerable, completely naked now while he was still fully clothed.
Instead, it simply added to her arousal.
His hand slid down and rubbed her flat
belly. She was surprised at how exciting that felt, how intimate.
She jumped a little as his fingers moved further down to barely
brush the soft curling hair.
James! Her hands
tightened their grip in his hair. She felt nearly wild with wanting
him to go on, to reach further, touch her there. He lifted his head and sought her lips again, his
tongue darting in and out, in and out, wet and hot. Then without
warning he ran his fingers up the insides of her thighs and stroked
lightly across the soft moist folds that enclosed her most
sensitive places.
Jillian was certain her heart had
stopped. James’s light touch electrified her, fanned tiny embers
into flame. In a split second she had forgotten all, forgotten
everything she had ever known except that she wanted James’s touch,
needed, craved his hands, strong and gentle,
hot and soothing, on every part of her body.
His fingers brushed her downy folds a
second time. A third. He smiled against her breast—funny how those
harsh warrior features were lightened by that smile—and ran his
tongue over her other nipple, as his fingers parted her folds and
dipped into the moisture there. Her breath hitched as he began to
stroke her intimately.
James! Oh God, James!
Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m—
There was a ringing in her ears, then a
ringing in the room. A doorbell. An alarm. No, a phone.
A phone! The dream vanished like a soap
bubble. Jillian’s eyes shot open and she lay there stunned. Awake.
Wide, wide awake—and very unsatisfied.
“Jeez goddamn Louise!” She kicked the
blankets off in a fury and got to her feet, wanting to punch
something. Cursed herself, cursed whoever was on the phone (which
was still ringing and damned if she was going to answer it) and
most of all, cursed James Macleod. It was bad enough that the man
had occupied her waking thoughts far too often—and that was before
she knew he was real. It was downright unfair for him to start
taking over her dreams as well.
She glared at the dream catcher on the
wall and pointed an accusing finger at it. “You! Why did you let a
dream like that in here?”
Jillian plunked down on the edge of the
bed, her body abuzz with an unfamiliar pressure. Got up hurriedly
when she realized James had once sat on that very spot. “Good God,
there’s no hope for me. I need a cold shower. Something. Anything
to stop thinking about him.”
Coffee was a good antidote for almost
anything. Making it in such a distracted state proved difficult.
She spilled the entire package of coffee filters when she caught
herself wishing James had turned around just once so she could
catch a glimpse of his behind. It just proves I’m not dead, she
reasoned. That’s all. And that’s what she told herself again in the
shower when her skin felt over-sensitive to the water spray.
“Hormones. All hormones. And I’m dead tired. Don’t they use sleep
deprivation to brainwash people?” She leaned against the tiled
wall, was tempted to bang her head against it. “Look at me, I’m
drooling like a brainless idiot over some strange guy I just met.
Talk about mind control.”
Two cups of strong coffee later, her
brain kicked in enough that she wasn’t thinking about his body.
Well, not constantly. She was wondering about the look in his eyes.
That haunted expression, the one that had stopped her in her tracks
when she was about to run out of the loft screaming. What had
happened to James Macleod?
I should be asking what
happened to his clothes. Maybe he’s not quite right in the head or
something. Although you’d think Connor would have warned me.
She shoved those thoughts away as she poured coffee into a travel
mug, checked her watch, and headed out the door. If she hurried,
she could still go yard-saling with Birkie. Maybe she could even
find something useful for her apartment. Like a baseball bat to
keep by the bed.
James badly wanted to Change. He had
had his fill of being in his human form, of feeling human emotions
and thinking human thoughts. But not a damn thing had been
resolved. And now there were even more things to think about. For
instance, there was that little detail about the date. He was still
in shock from that discovery. He knew
instinctively that he had been a wolf for a long time. Knew Evelyn
had been gone for a long time—he could feel a distance. But thirty
years?
And the dream—he couldn’t even remember
the last time he’d dreamed like that. Like a
human. When he was a wolf, there were only brief pleasant
dreams of the hunt, the chase, forgotten within seconds of
awakening. This dream was different. Not only did he recall every
detail, it felt more like a memory than a dream. Had he been
remembering something? James thought carefully, recalled the sight
of the blond woman on the ground. The picture matched the odd
vision he’d had when he left her sleeping on the trail below Elk
Point. It had to mean something. And if it was a memory, then there
was more to remember. Would he dream again?
As he paced the loft, he caught sight
of something from the corner of his eye. The bit of fluttering
plaid turned out to be a hanging strip of his sleeve. Closer
inspection of his clothes—or what was left of them—revealed that he
wasn’t as dressed as he’d first thought. No wonder Jillian thought
he was homeless.
Annoyed, he seized his shirt in both
hands and yanked. It came away with no resistance, and he held the
shirt up to look at it. The material was not just torn, but the
edges looked charred, and the entire left shoulder was missing.
James stared, then touched a tentative hand to his own shoulder.
Changelings didn’t scar, but there had been a wound there, no, two
of them. Shot. How had he forgotten that?
There was no blood on the shirt of course—the Change had taken care
of that, converted it into energy as it did with most organic
substances. But he had been shot. By whom he
didn’t know, only that it had happened as he knelt over Evelyn.
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
The urge to Change was strong. He
didn’t want to think about any of this stuff, didn’t want to think
about anything at all for that matter. Except now there were
practical concerns to be dealt with. Even if he was planning to be
a wolf, there was always the chance he’d have to switch to human
form, even briefly. Who knew what situation would come up? He’d
certainly never expected the situation he was in now. And Jillian’s
reaction to what he was wearing—which was little better than
nothing—proved that he didn’t have a hope of blending in with other
humans. Instead he would attract attention, something that went
against every natural instinct. Shit. He’d
have to follow her advice and raid Connor’s office, find something
to wear, something to last the next thirty frickin’ years. It was
definitely going to take him a while to adjust to that
date.
In the end, he remained as a human and
sat in the loft to wait. He watched Jillian drive away in one of
the clinic trucks, saw traffic on the road beyond the clinic. One
car turned in a little later, with a young girl behind the wheel.
James could hear the keys in her hand as she unlocked the front
door, heard excited barks in the kennel room and sounds in the
livestock areas that told him she was looking after the animals.
The girl left. The traffic slowed to a trickle. Shadows grew
smaller, then nonexistent as the sun reached its midday peak. And
still James sat staring out the window.
As a man. A man who was highly
attracted to Jillian Descharme, whether he wanted to be or not. He
still couldn’t remember what the connection was between
them—between her and the wolf, he corrected—but he knew there was
one. He could feel it. More than that, to his surprise he wanted to
feel the connection, but James shoved that notion away every time
it surfaced. It was only attraction. Nothing more. If he hadn’t
Changed to human form, if he wasn’t in human form now, he wouldn’t
be having these feelings at all. He felt guilty for having them, as
if he was being disloyal, even unfaithful to Evelyn. It added to
the burden of guilt that he carried over her death. He had brought
that danger to her.
Just like he was putting Jillian
Descharme in danger every moment that he lingered. He should leave
right now and never go near her again. But what about the wolf? If
he returned to lupine form, submerged the human fully within the
animal, would Jillian be safe then or would his animal nature
continue to seek her out? Hell, the wolf seemed drawn to her as the
tide was drawn by the moon. What on earth was the attraction
there?
Suddenly his heart stuttered as the
animal within stirred. Mate.
Mine.
James clapped a hand to his chest.
Fiery pain exploded there as the wolf within tried to force the
Change, tried to claw its way out, snarling and snapping.
Mate. Mine.
Long moments passed before James was
able to regain the reins of control. When it was over, he was
kneeling in the straw, sweating profusely. The blood was pounding
loudly in his ears, and his ribs felt like they’d been kicked
repeatedly. “Jesus. Jesus Murphy. What in the goddamn hell was
that?” The wolf was part of him, was him. It didn’t have a mind of
its own. Did it? Had he finally snapped? Had he been a wolf too
long?
He drew a long shaky breath.
Mate, the wolf had declared. That was
ridiculous. It couldn’t be that, it wasn’t possible. Some
Changelings were said to be able to recognize their future mates,
but he didn’t know any personally. There were stories in Changeling
history about it, but he had always figured they were myths, the
lupine equivalent of the human ‘love at first sight’ theme.
Hollywood had always made money with that story line, probably
still did. The uneasy thought that he had no idea if Hollywood was
still around crossed his mind.
Besides all that, he didn’t need a
mate. He’d had a mate, had chosen her and loved her with all his
heart, and because she had loved him back, she was dead. He wasn’t
going to let that happen again, had already resolved to live a
solitary life. Yet the wolf continued to be focused on Jillian.
Even obsessed. Had he slipped over the edge without knowing it,
splintered into two personalities, the man and the
wolf?
A truck pulled into the laneway and
around to the bay. Connor. James had a momentary impulse to escape
out the window but was instantly ashamed. His younger brother was a
Changeling too, with all the senses and gifts that entailed. The
moment he opened the door, he would be all too aware that James had
been there. Undoubtedly Connor already knew that James had been
here before. Better to be up-front about it, let
Connor find me here. But he would find the wolf, not the
man. James didn’t plan on staying in human form one minute more
than he had to. He sure didn’t want his brother or anyone else to
get used to seeing him in two-legged form.
“Aha, just as I thought.” Birkie dug
between layers of stained melamine bowls and chipped glass ashtrays
until she had a small dish in her hand. “I think this little
treasure should go home with us.”
Jillian squinted at it in the dim
light. The garage ceiling was low, with only a single bulb hanging
from it, giving the whole place a cave-like atmosphere. The dish in
her friend’s hand was shaped like a scallop shell, but there were
lots of shell-shaped dishes in the world. Except for the fact that
it was much dirtier than anything else in the garage—earth was
crusted inside as if it had been used under a plant pot and there
was even a dead fly stuck rakishly on the rim—she could see nothing
special about it. “Um. It’s interesting. . . .”
“Much more than interesting, hon.”
Birkie held it up and used a manicured thumbnail to gently scratch
away the grime that obscured the mark on the bottom. Limoges, France.
Jillian’s jaw dropped. “Is that what I
think it is? How on earth did you know? You must have X-ray
vision.” She gestured helplessly at the cluttered stacks of
mismatched dishes that covered every square inch of an eight-foot
table. She felt like an archaeologist on a dig. No, more like the
archaeologist’s bumbling assistant who didn’t have a clue what to
look for. Birkie had already plucked an Austrian crystal candy dish
from under a stack of plastic fastfood cups. She’d mined similar
treasures from the other yard sales they’d visited that morning,
all of which were lined up like trophies on the backseat of the
truck. With them were Jillian’s spoils—a couple of paperback books
she knew she’d probably never get around to reading, a set of four
glasses with cows on them, some extra spoons, and a TV table. She’d
found a baseball bat at the last sale but conceded it to a little
boy and his mom.
The older woman smiled. “It just takes
practice, hon, and the love of a good bargain. So, back to your
adventure with James. You were saying you just left him in the
loft?”
“What else was I supposed to do? He’s a
grown-up. And if he wants to sleep in the hay, I can understand how
that might be pleasant. Short-term, anyway. Although I don’t
understand why he’s not staying with one of his brothers. I
wondered if maybe he was a little, well, off
or something, especially with the condition of his
clothes.”
“Were you afraid of him? You
were eyeing that baseball bat.”
“Yes . . . no . . . well, when he
surprised me, I was scared shitless. But after that, no, I wasn’t
afraid. There’s just something about him.”
“Well, there’s the fact that he’s tall,
blond, and handsome as sin. Could sure help a gal to overlook a
lot.” Birkie deliberately fluttered her lashes as her friend rolled
her eyes. “Those Macleods always were a
good-looking bunch.”
Jillian latched onto that. “So, you’ve
lived in this area a long time. You must have known James pretty
much his whole life.”
There was a pause as Birkie circled a
couple of ads. “Not his whole life but quite
a while, you could say. Say, aren’t those eyes of his something
else? You have to admit he has great eyes. Just like
a—”
“Like a Viking? That’s what
I thought when I first saw
him.”
“I like that. Yes, he certainly would
make a great Viking. All those muscles, and him so tall too. I can
just picture him on the deck of one of those dragon
boats.”
Suddenly Jillian could picture that
too. James dressed in leather, his belted tunic open to the waist
so his muscled chest was clearly visible. His arms bare except for
ornate bronze bands circling his thick biceps. Below the tunic
would be powerful legs. She imagined they would have the same
dusting of blond hair as his chest. And as for what was under the
tunic . . . Jillian started and blinked to find her friend fanning
her with an old calendar.
“Takes a girl’s breath right away,
doesn’t he?”
“Oh, all right. I admit it, he’s hot.
Scorching, have-a-fire-extinguisher-with-you-at-all-times
hot. Connor’s gorgeous too, but for some
reason it’s not the same. I don’t daydream about him. And I did
find myself wishing James would turn around for just a
moment.”
“What for?”
“So I could see if his butt matched the
rest of him.”
They both burst into helpless giggles
then, and when other yard-sale enthusiasts turned to stare, giggled
even harder. Still laughing, they staggered out into the sunshine,
clutching each other’s arms for support. Jillian finally had put
her hand over her mouth to stifle herself while her friend counted
out dollars to an elderly man basking in a lawn chair.
Back in Birkie’s red pickup, Jillian
asked, “So is something wrong with him?”
“With who?” Her friend was scanning the
classifieds for their next yard sale.
“James. Is something wrong with him?
Mentally, I mean.”
Birkie looked up quickly. “Good
heavens, no. Not at all. In fact, James Macleod is as smart as they
come. Believe me, the brains match the brawn in this
case.”
“And?” Jillian pressed. “Oh, come on,
you have to give me some details. I’m the
one who nearly had a heart attack over an intruder in my apartment.
I’m the one who had years taken off her life when a man grabbed me
in the loft. I deserve a little description here. If you have any
compassion at all, you’ll spill whatever juicy information you
know.”
“Well, I’m not sure that I remember
very much. My memory—”
“Birkie!”
“Sorry dear, you’re just so much fun to
tease. Let’s see now. James is an independent soul, very
hardworking. Talented too—not many people have the knack for
farming that he does. Crops or animals, doesn’t matter. He’s
amazing at both. My Gram used to travel out to his ranch sometimes.
They’d talk plants and herbs for hours.”
“He has a ranch?”
“He and his wife did, on the other side
of the valley. Near Spirit River actually. But it was sold a few
years back. He’s . . . well, James has been away for some years
now, hon.”
“His wife? He’s
married?”
“Was.” Birkie pointed to the newspaper.
“Look at that! Enid Malkinson has herself a little sale going on.
We’ve just got to say hi to her and Poodle before we grab a late
lunch.”
Jillian had to leave off fumbling with
her seat belt and grab the handle on the dash for balance as the
red truck sped away from the curb and headed down the street. She
liked the elderly Siamese cat and his owner, but right now they
seemed to provide Birkie with a convenient diversion from her
questions. So James was married once. Well, that happened to a lot
of people. Not everyone stayed together. But she couldn’t help
wondering why any woman would want to let him go. Did he snore? Did
he squeeze the toothpaste tube wrong? Gamble? Drink? Womanize?
James had seemed gruff, almost grouchy. Had he always been like
that?
Birkie was still talking a mile a
minute about Enid Malkinson. Jillian sighed inwardly and put her
questions on a back burner. For now.