Marilyn Tracy - Something Beautiful

I’m trying to find a way to save you, he ached to tell her.

“Would it frighten you if I was?” he asked instead.

“Yes,” she said simply, then added, “and no.”

“You’re so vulnerable, Jillian,” he said, and meant it from the best part of himself.

“And you are so very alone,” she said softly, not having any idea how shockingly accurate she was.

“You don’t know how alone,” he told her.

“Should I be frightened?” she asked.

You should be terrified. You should run as far and as fast as you can.

After having lived in both Tel Aviv and Moscow in conjunction with the U.S. State Department, Marilyn Tracy enjoys writing about the cultures she’s explored and the people she’s grown to love. She likes to hear from the people who enjoy her books and always has a pot of coffee on or a glass of wine ready for anyone dropping by, especially if they don’t mind chaos and know how to wield a paintbrush.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my beautiful nieces, Penny, Sunday and Vicky

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Steven Sayers turned his gaze from the lovely woman standing inside her sprawling adobe home to the waning afternoon sun. He closed his eyes against the red glow and held his palms outstretched. He felt the faint, delicate caress of ultraviolet light, took it inside his skin, letting it warm him, restore him.

He tried to remember what it had felt like to live in nothing but light, to be as insubstantial as the wind, as intangible as a dream. But ten thousand years of this body had stolen all but the dimmest of recollections.

Oh, to be one with the universe again, to stretch into infinity, a blaze of light, a burning star, pure reason and mathematics, blending with and sharing that searing core of energy.

Or to be here, once and for all—really, truly here—a mortal possessing all of a mortal’s chaotic longings, lusts, that eagerness for laughter, for joy. To feel a mortal’s simple acceptance of love, friendship, even pain.

But Steven Sayers was neither one nor the other. He was trapped somewhere in between. In many ways—in the sensations, the briefly intense moments of feeling—he felt he was more than he used to be. And then, when that brief moment passed, he always found himself less, aching for something he couldn’t quite grasp, couldn’t hold in his all too seemingly mortal hands.

For ten thousand years, longer than recorded human history, he’d roamed this earthly plane, forever searching for those few like him, those few whom he fought so fiercely. Ten thousand years of battles stretched out behind him, a harshly cut swath of destruction in a cosmic war started so long ago that habit had overtaken zealousness and painful memories of human contact made him shrink from what few offers of companionship had been given.

Those moments of contact, their shockingly swift intensity and their equally lightning-quick demise, had, over the years, made him reluctant to reach out, made him almost resentful of the very mortals he championed—if such as he could be called a champion.

So it was far easier to remain distant, to hold himself aloof from all forms of society. He’d tried entering it fully, and found it only brought pain and longing. And in ten thousand years, it was far simpler to disappear for decades at a stretch, waiting for the next portal carrier’s birth, spending solitary years reading, contemplating the secrets of humanity, pondering the questions of what comprised the soul, what separated the soul from the man.

Then, when he felt the portals born again, he would come forward, tracking their growth, following their development. And the battle would rage anew. And thus far, while he’d often failed to win, he’d never lost. Until now.

Now Steven knew with utter certainty that his ten-thousand-year hell was soon to end. The longings would end, the aching would fade away forever, no matter if he was victor or vanquished.

The autumnal equinox was only two weeks in the future, and the final battle would be waged on that night. With only two of them remaining, and so much hanging in the proverbial balance, no stalemates would occur this time. This one battle would end the war once and for all. Forever and, hopefully, for good. And only one could be deemed a victor.

In reviewing those ten thousand years, Steven decided he felt only two regrets. One was that he could never experience the single perfect moment he granted those unfortunate mortals who gave their lives for his war. He would never be able to snatch one day, one hour, from his ten thousand years and say, “Here it is, this is my finest hour.” Because for him there were only endless days and nights, all stretching together, links in a hellish chain, moments spent waiting for battle, fighting, only to wait again.

His only other regret focused on the woman inside the house, the carrier of the portals. In two weeks’ time, she would have to die—and with her final gasp, he would give her back her finest hour, her perfect moment. It was his one magic, his one gift. A cosmic consolation prize.

But Steven didn’t want to grant that moment to Jillian Stewart. She didn’t deserve it.

Jillian Stewart leaned her forehead against the cool glass panes of the French doors leading to the side courtyard. She felt grateful for the support and irritated at the aching need for it.

She could hear the slightly rasped voice of her friend, but wasn’t really listening to what Elise was saying. She heard the soft clink of the china coffee cup more clearly than any words.

Would the hurt of losing Dave ever go away? she wondered. Would the pain ever become just another of life’s more uncomfortable memories? A full year had slipped by in a time-warped blur, and grief still crawled into bed with her at night. Pain still taunted her in the early morning when she stretched her hand to feel her husband’s warmth and found a cold, empty pillow instead.

Too often she’d found herself standing beside the empty hammock, a soft drink in her hand, staring vacantly at the leaves caught in the now-frayed webbing. She couldn’t count the times she’d passed the den sofa on a Saturday afternoon and reached out to pat feet that would never again scuff the hand-carved armrests. And the silence from his studio still seemed deafening, Dave’s unplayed Steinway a constant reminder that more than her husband had been buried with him that stormy autumn morning.

Even the world outside their rambling adobe home seemed to tease her, mocking her efforts to maintain a semblance of normality. Everything about Santa Fe seemed to whisper Dave’s name, conjure his image. He had loved the city so, delighting in the sharp seasonal changes, the deep snows—Jillian, Allie, find your skis, grab your mittens, there’s a slope with our names on it— the lazy summer afternoons—Let’s skip your gallery opening and open a bottle of champagne instead—the biting chill of a spring evening—Do you need a jacket, hon? Or are my arms enough?—and the long, golden Indian summers, brisk and beautiful autumn days…days like today.