Maggie Shayne - Twilight Hunger

This woman … she wasn’t one of them. And yet he was drawn to her, pulled. He wanted her.

He stood so close to the doors that his breath, though cool, fogged the glass. He wiped it away, looking at her, and he wished silently that she would tug the sheet away, so he could see her more fully. Know for sure if she wore anything against her skin, underneath the covers.

Almost before the thought was complete, the woman lifted her hand to the top of the sheet and peeled it slowly away from her body. She was completely naked, as he had suspected. And for a moment all he could do was look at her and drink in her beauty. Small breasts, but soft, their tips rose-colored and plump. She was far too thin, ribs showing clearly beneath her skin. The hair between her thighs was the same burnished color as that on her head.

He let his gaze move up her body again. Let it linger on her breasts, and he thought about tasting them, and even as he thought it, her nipples stiffened. Frowning, Dante watched with some amazement. Could she be aware of his thoughts on some level? He could exercise mind control over a weak-willed mortal, he knew that, but he would at least have to be trying. The odd stray thought shouldn’t.

He shifted his gaze to her face and wondered, should he happen to think about her creamy thighs parting for him, whether she would.

Her legs moved apart. Dante shivered with arousal and hunger, and not a little fear. It was as he was backing away that his mind cleared, giving him the answer he should have seen right away. Suddenly he understood what he’d been sensing earlier, that prickling awareness and attraction.

She was one of them. She was one of the Chosen.

He backed across the balcony, reached the railing and, turning, jumped it without hesitation. On the ground, he stood, looking around him and then out to the sea, as if it held the answers. If he’d had anywhere else in the world to go, he would have gone, and gladly.

But the sun would be up soon. And this place was the only haven he had left. He could create others, but that would take time. No, for now, he could only stay here.

But he was going to have to avoid the woman at all costs. Never had he experienced that sort of mind link with a mortal. Never. Nor had he with others of his own kind. What the hell did this mean?

He walked out toward the cliffs and, at the familiar spot, looked down at the stone ledge, some fifteen feet below. There was a small opening in the stone wall that backed that ledge. It was still shrouded by the vines he had planted ages ago. They sprouted around his feet where he stood and grew from the bits of soil along the cliff-face, draping downward to cover the cave’s entrance like a curtain.

He hoped the passage that ran beneath the earth all the way back to the house hadn’t collapsed by now. And he hoped the rooms hidden beneath the old house hadn’t disintegrated to dust after so much time.

She was dreaming about Dante again.

He stood over her bed, staring down at her. Just stood there. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t touch her.

She lay there, staring back at him, wishing he would do or say something. Anything. But he didn’t.

She opened her mouth to speak and found she couldn’t. So instead she looked at him. It was odd that she knew his face so well, she thought idly as she perused it in her dream. It was angular, and cruel. Longish and shadowed. His jawbone was sharp, his nose narrow. The eyes set deep, and so dark that he seemed to be looking out at her from somewhere deep within. From his soul, maybe.

He wanted to see her. Her eyes, once held by his, were locked there. And she knew what he wanted. All she wanted was to please him. She lifted a hand, peeled her covers away and lay there, completely naked and unashamed, as his dark, intense eyes burned over her. Every part of her.

Touch me, she thought. For the love of God, just touch me.

She blinked—and he was gone.

Just that suddenly.

Awake now, Morgan lay in her bed. Her covers were on the floor, and her body was alive. But she was alone.

God, these dreams were taking on a life of their own, weren’t they? Maybe she needed to think about some sort of therapy. Not that she hadn’t dreamed about him, over and over, night after night, since she had come to live here. But this time it had been different. It had been. real.

She sat up slowly, ran a hand through her hair and got to her feet. She pulled on a satin robe the color of cream, walked to the glass doors and opened them, stepping out onto the balcony, inhaling the night air deeply. It tasted good.

Then she paused and stared straight ahead.

A man stood on the cliffs, wind buffeting him as it was buffeting her. He was staring out toward the sea, and she couldn’t really see his face. And yet there was something so incredibly familiar about him. The fall of his hair. His stance. Something.

A fist seemed to close around her stomach as clouds skittered away from the moon and, for just an instant, his face was touched by moonlight.

“Dante.” She whispered his name, breathed it.

And as if he had heard her, even though it was impossible from that distance, he turned sharply, looked right at her.

“It can’t be …” Morgan closed her eyes, took three openmouthed breaths as her heart hammered in her chest. “It can’t be.”

She opened her eyes again.

The cliffs, the sea, the wind, and nothing else. No one was there. No one was there at all.

Maxine leaned back in the ergonomic chair and blinked her eyes several times. You didn’t blink often enough when you stared at a computer screen all day. She’d read that somewhere. It wasn’t good for your vision.

The front door opened, and Storm came in, a big white bag from the bakery in one hand and the morning mail in the other. “Time to take a break!” she called. “Carbs, calories and cream filling, just what the doctor ordered.”

Max sighed, pushing the chair back. It rolled on its casters from the computer desk to the middle of the floor in what used to be the living room and was now an office. If you used the term loosely. It more closely resembled an explosion in a paper-and-file-folder factory. With computers. Lots of computers.

Storm dropped the bag on her own desk, sat down and peered inside. “Mmm, I got jelly and cream filled, and now I can’t decide.”

“How many are in there?” Maxine asked, lifting her brows.

“Half dozen.” Storm didn’t look up. The doughnuts had her mesmerized.

“Better go for one of each, then.”

She looked up then, brows arched. “You think?”

“Oh, yeah. Far better than the risk of making the wrong choice.”

“I like the way your mind works,” Stormy said, smiling, as she reached into the bag to pluck out a doughnut.

Max got out of her chair and wandered into the kitchen, which was still a kitchen, where she poured two cups of fresh coffee. “Did you ever wonder just how screwed up I must be to be in the same town, in the same house, in the same rut, after all this time?”

“No.”

Max smiled at the sound of the word, because it was doughnut muffled. She carried the two mugs back into the room in time to see Stormy taking another bite and closing her eyes in ecstasy.

Max set Storm’s cup down in front of her and bent to help herself to a doughnut, knowing they would vanish if she didn’t.

“You care to elaborate on that answer, or are you just gonna go with the one-syllable reply?”

Stormy swallowed, licked her lips, took a sip of her coffee. She still had a ring of powdered sugar around her mouth, but what the hell?

“Who wouldn’t be in the same house? Shoot, girl, your mother gave it to you free and clear. You’d have been nuts not to take it. And I fail to see any rut. You’re running not one, but two, businesses. Both turning a profit, I might add.”