Angel of Desire (8 page)

His smile was thin and humorless. Slowly, without taking his seductive eyes from her wary ones, he traced the outline of her lips with his thumb, creating a ring of exquisite lightning.

Rachel was having so much trouble breathing, she worried that she was literally falling apart. Perhaps, when her superiors heard she'd been audacious enough to ask for more time, they'd simply canceled her quest and called her back.

Perhaps any moment now, she'd find herself seated at her computer, watching Shade as she had for all these years. From a sometimes frustrating but always safe distance.

Shade watched her soft pink lips part, he saw the physical awareness stir in her wide pewter eyes and found himself on the brink of something dangerous.

"Let's blow this joint and move our conversation to somewhere a bit more private. Like your hotel."

"My hotel?"

Despite her scant personal experience with men, Rachel had the uneasy feeling that Shade had a great deal more than mere conversation on his mind. A memory stirred—a misty image of Shade and a female assassin together in the shower.

Rachel wondered what this self-professed loner would say if he knew she'd been the one responsible for that bar of soap on the tile floor. The same soap the woman had slipped on just as she'd slashed downward with the stiletto, causing her to strike bone rather than Shade's more vulnerable flesh.

Shade watched the look of self-satisfaction move fleetingly across her delicate features and wondered at its cause. "Where are you staying?"

"The Mayflower." Rachel had decided it was proof of Joshua's sometime warped sense of humor that he'd booked her into a hotel named after a boatful of Puritans. After her unhappy experience in Salem, Puritans were not exactly her favorite people.

Despite that little double cross in the shower, Shade had always been extremely careful when it came to his relationships with women. He had enough danger and unpredictability in his work life. When it came to taking a female to bed, he preferred predictability. He also insisted on remaining totally in control.

But some deep-seated inner instinct told him that control would be difficult, if not impossible, with this woman. Only a few hours with Sister Rachel and he was in danger of getting himself set up before he even knew what the damn game was.

Shade hadn't lived this long by taking unnecessary chances. And Rachel Parrish, as luscious as she might be, definitely represented one helluva risk. Which meant the lady was off-limits until he could find out who she was and what she was up to.

"That's a pretty pricey joint. And no offense intended, Sister, but you don't look as if you're exactly rolling in dough."

He rubbed his chin, appeared thoughtful for a long minute, then said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I'm staying with a friend. I know she wouldn't mind more company. How about we go to the Mayflower, pick up your stuff and you can come home with me?"

It was neither a suggestion nor an invitation, Rachel surmised, but an order. "You don't trust me."

"Not on a bet." He tossed some bills onto the table and stood up, prepared to leave. "But don't take it personally, Sister Rachel," he advised when he saw her downcast expression. "I don't trust anyone."

Which wasn't a surprise, considering the life he'd led, Rachel allowed. But such lifelong cynicism was so very sad. As she left the restaurant with Shade, Rachel vowed that before her time on earth was up, she would teach Shade Blackstone to trust.

Chapter Four

IF MARIANNE O'DONAHUE was surprised when Shade showed up at her home with a blond female in tow, she possessed enough good manners not to show it. She greeted Rachel warmly, even insisting that her unexpected guest take her own bed.

"Oh, I couldn't put you out of your room that way," Rachel said quickly. She felt embarrassed enough about arriving on this woman's doorstep without an invitation.

"Don't worry about it." Marianne waved Rachel's protest away with a graceful hand. Her nails, like Rachel's, were short and unpolished; unlike Rachel's fingers, a simple gold band gleamed warmly on the fourth finger of her left hand. "The downstairs couch is nearer to a bathroom. Which these days, since I seem to be up all night, is a lot more convenient."

Rachel returned the woman's smile and found herself beginning to relax for the first time since her arrival on earth.

"The first months of a pregnancy are difficult," she allowed. "But it gets better."

"That's what they taught me in medical school," Marianne agreed. "But it's hard to remember that when I'm down on my knees, tossing my cookies into the toilet every morning."

"Ginger tea is quite effective for morning sickness," Rachel offered helpfully.

"Really? I'd love to do something to feel better, but I'm trying to stay away from drugs. How do you fix it?"

"Wait just a damn minute!" Shade snarled, suddenly interrupting the women's conversation. He took a menacing step toward Rachel. "How the hell did you know Marianne's pregnant?"

"Why, that's right," Marianne murmured, turning her own curious gaze toward Rachel. "I only found out for certain myself yesterday."

Pride was a definite burden at times, Rachel moaned inwardly. The very same immodesty regarding her midwife ability that had resulted in her untimely death now was making Shade distrust her all the more.

Pride goeth before the fall, Joshua constantly warned her. Rachel knew from personal experience that he was telling the truth. The problem was that she'd discovered the hard way that it was much easier to quote pithy little axioms than to live by them.

"I am, after all, a midwife," she reminded Shade. "I should be able to tell when a woman's expecting a child."

"You're a midwife?" Marianne's eyes lit up with both professional and personal interest. "How wonderful."

She placed a hand on Rachel's arm. "You must tell me all about your work," she insisted, leading Rachel up the stairs and away from Shade's relentless gaze. "Have you ever considered international relief work? The Rescue the Children Fund can always use experienced midwives. Do you know anything about the organization?"

Shade ground his teeth as he had no choice but to let Rachel escape any further questioning for now. He didn't buy this latest lame explanation any more than he did any of the others she'd tried to hand him earlier.

The woman was up to something. But what the hell was it?

IT WAS LATE. A cold, white quarter moon had risen high in the sky outside the bedroom window. Neighborhood lights had all been turned out; the only sound of life on the street was a tomcat crying a lonely, romantic lament on some nearby fence top.

But there was one house on the block whose residents had not yet gone to sleep. Rachel lay on her back in Marianne and (Ionian's double bed, trying to discern the muffled voices drifting up the stairs. She knew that Shade was undoubtedly filling Marianne in on what he'd learned today. She also was beginning to realize how frustrating it was to be without her power.

She was accustomed to knowing everything about Shade: what he ate, what he drank, where he went and what perils he was risking. She even knew about all the women he'd bedded in all the remote corners of the globe. But at this moment, her only knowledge came from what she could observe firsthand. And unfortunately, that wasn't a great deal.

She'd heard the tapping of a portable computer in the guest room earlier, before he'd gone back downstairs to talk with Conlan's wife. Ignoring the little voice in the back of her mind that told her what she was about to do was wrong, she slipped out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall to Shade's room.

Afraid that turning on the light might draw his attention, she made her way to the desk by the window. Fortunately, the glow from a streetlight provided sufficient illumination for her to see that the laptop computer was not all that different from the system she was accustomed to.

She pressed a switch, rewarded by a slight humming noise. Moments later, the screen lit up, casting an eerie green glow over the room.

Before she could begin her search for Shade's entry code, a strong arm circled her waist and long fingers closed over her mouth from behind.

"Don't make a sound," the male voice rasped in her ear. "Or I won't be responsible for the consequences." The hand over her mouth tightened. "Understand?"

The unmistakable cold steel of a knife blade was pressing against her neck. Her heart in her throat, Rachel slowly and silently nodded her acquiescence, making no move to struggle.

"All right. Here's how we're going to do this. You're going to put those larcenous hands on top of your head. Then, and only then, I'll release you. Then you're going to turn around very slowly. And if you so much as utter one word, I'll cut that lovely throat."

Rachel didn't believe Shade would follow through on his threat. But knowing that he'd killed before, she slowly lifted her hands and placed them atop her head.

"Okay," he growled. "Now, let's see how good you are at following the rest of my orders."

She felt the steel band around her loosen. Taking a deep breath that was not quite sufficient to calm the wild hammering of her heart, she slowly, gingerly, turned around.

Although he'd released her, he'd not backed away. He was still standing close to her, too close for comfort, close enough that their thighs were almost touching. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. Close enough for her to see clearly the cold fury in Shade's emerald eyes, eyes made even greener by the fluorescent glow of the computer monitor.

Close enough to see—dear Lord!—that he was naked. She'd seen Shade Blackstone without clothes before, of course. But never so up close. So personal. So—she swallowed—unnervingly distracting.

Shade's body was every bit as hard as his nature. There wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on him.

Shade didn't make a move to cover himself up. He stood there, bold and proud in his spread-leg stance. He was holding the knife at his side, but Rachel knew that his almost negligent attitude was feigned. All it would take would be one false move from her and that knife would be at her throat again.

"You know, Sister Rachel," Shade murmured, his lips twisting into a mocking parody of a smile, "if you were that eager to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to sneak into my room like some second-story cat burglar. That is what you came here for, wasn't it? A little midnight tumble in the sack?" His tone was both arrogant and challenging. As was his gaze.

Shade Blackstone was very good at intimidation. Of course, Rachel allowed, the scar helped. As did his deadly knife.

Shade's mocking eyes took a slow, sensual tour down the slender body clad in a white cotton nightgown. The virginal style—floor-length, with a high, ruffled neckline and long, flowing sleeves—was decidedly unrevealing.

Unless its wearer was standing with her back to a bright yellow streetlight as Rachel currently was.

Shade noted with absent male interest that the reflected glow outlined full, high breasts, a slender waist, pleasantly curving hips and long firm legs.

When his gaze lingered on that faint shadowed triangle between her thighs, he felt a slow aching pull in his groin and wondered idly exactly how far she'd go to fulfill whatever the hell mission had her sneaking into his room in the middle of the night.