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Authors: Heather Killough-Walden

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BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
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Daniels waited a beat before replying. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Ellie glanced up at him. He easily held her gaze. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and asked, “Why did you want to see me, Mr. Daniels?”
“It’s Christopher,” he said.
She didn’t humor him by repeating the question and he smiled at her obvious stubbornness.
“I was blown away by you last night,” he told her. “And you turned me down. Naturally, I had to try again.”
“Try what again?” She didn’t say “Mr. Daniels,” but she also didn’t say “Christopher.” Stubborn, indeed.
“Go out with me,” he demanded softly, leaning forward again to pin her with what was one of his more potent and famous gazes. “Tonight. I don’t want to wait for the gala on Thursday. Just let me take you out tonight.” He spread his hands out before him in a pleading and placating fashion. “Give me one single night of your life, Ellie. Would it really be so bad?” Eleanore sat very still on the couch for several long beats. Christopher Daniels was asking her out again. She couldn’t explain this sudden fascination the actor seemed to have with her. Was she really that attractive? Couldn’t he have anyone in the world that he wanted?
Why her?
When she didn’t reply right away, Daniels leaned back against the couch and draped his arms once more over the backs of the cushions. He studied her silently and inquisitively, but there was a tension to him as well. His muscles were flexed and his calm—even his breathing—seemed forced. The air around him felt . . . impatient.
Ellie considered his request. The truth was, she very much wanted to go out with him. But anywhere he went, he would be trailed by an entourage of agents and bodyguards and fans. That was too much publicity for her.
She was going to have to turn him down.
She slowly pushed herself up from the couch, and he watched her rise. Standing up afforded her a little height over him and that gave her the will to go on. She managed to clear her throat. “You’re a vampire, Mr. Daniels,” she said, deciding that staying within the realm of make believe was more comfortable to her at that moment than reality. “I never trust vampires.”
Something intense flashed in the green of Daniels’s eyes. His tone was low. “Never, Ellie?”
Several beats of silence followed.
“What are you afraid of?” Daniels leaned forward, taking his arms off the back of the couch. “Afraid I’ll bite?” He paused for effect. “Or that I won’t?”
Ellie blanched. She could feel the blood drain from her face.
“Or maybe you’d prefer something different?” he hedged. “Perhaps something from the pages of
Slave to a Vampire
?” He stood and strode to the shelf where the paperback had been stowed. He pulled it free from its stack and began sifting through the embarrassingly dogeared pages.
Eleanore felt that she would die right then and there. She couldn’t let him read what was in that book. Especially the pages she’d folded the corners down on! She lunged forward, scooting around the coffee table as he began so casually glancing over the words she had masturbated to a hundred times.
But as she went for the book, intent on yanking it from his grasp, he moved it out of her reach, turned to face her, and slipped his arm around her waist. Electricity shot up her spine. Time blinked, the world spun, and he had dropped the book to fist his fingers in her long, thick hair. In the next instant, he was forcing her up against him with a strong hand at the small of her back. Her breath left her and the world dropped out from under her when he closed the distance between them, his mouth claiming hers with a determined fierceness that was unlike anything Eleanore had ever imagined. Not in her wildest dreams could she have fathomed a kiss like this.
She couldn’t help but give in to it. He tasted too good—like white wine and licorice. His presence, tall and hard and dark above her, was making her so dizzy she was positive she was going to pass out.
He was demanding. He was delicious. She was in heaven.
There was a knock at the door, but it was far away and barely real. Christopher’s hand spread across her back, trapping her as his other hand slid beneath her hair to cup the nape of her neck. The gentlest pressure there ensured that she not break his kiss. As if she was going anywhere....
The knock came again, and this time Ellie stilled against him.
“Miss Granger, are you awake?” a woman called from the other side of the door. “I thought you’d be off today,” she continued, a little strained so that she could be heard through the door, “so I waited until this morning to bring your renewal papers by.”
Christopher’s grip on her didn’t let up, but he did end the kiss, slowly pulling away. She opened her eyes to look up at a gaze that had gone from jade to striking emerald, pupils expanded like those of a cat before it pounces.
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he whispered against her lips.
Ellie’s breathing was ragged, but she felt a little better when she noticed that his was as well. His grip on her back was nearly bruising, it was so tight. She could feel a tremble there in the immense strength of the arm that held her.
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back and his arms slipped from her body. The cold immediately came in to fill the space where he had been and Ellie fought not to shiver.
Christopher watched her for several more beats, his gaze scorching. And then he turned away and strode to the front door. Eleanore watched as he opened it to reveal a very surprised landlady on the other side.
Patty Jensen stared up at Daniels with a mixture of awe and vague recognition. She was obviously taken at once with his attractiveness. But then she frowned, just a little, and as Daniels nodded good morning to her and brushed past her to head down the stairs and leave the complex, Jensen turned to Eleanore. “Was that—”
“Nope,” Ellie replied, coming to take the forms from Jensen’s hands. “Nope, it sure wasn’t.”
CHAPTER FIVE
 
I
t took Eleanore two showers, with a trip to the gym in between, for her to expend even a small amount of the nervous energy that Christopher’s kiss had charged her body with. She had never kissed a man before. Growing up, she’d never been in one place long enough to have a boyfriend. And now that she was on her own, she hadn’t slowed down any. One glance at her sparse living quarters was testament enough to that.
Christopher Daniels was her first.
She had nothing to compare him to, but if her current frazzled, oversexed state was any indication, he was a good kisser. A very, very good kisser. Like,
The Princess Bride
, five best kisses ever kisser.
She couldn’t wait to tell Angel about it. Of course, she also knew that she
shouldn’t
tell Angel about it. After all, bragging about this kind of thing was what teenage boys did, not grown women.
She laughed at herself as she finished towel-drying her hair and headed into her office to sit down at the computer. The time at the bottom of the screen read 7:12 p.m. She had a little while before Daniels would show up if he was serious about taking her out. She had no way of confirming the date, as she didn’t have any method of reaching him.
Ellie pulled up her e-mail account, confirmed that Angel was online, and opened a chat box.
E: You’re not going to believe what happened today.
 
 
A: Hey, girl! What happened? Something good, I hope.
Ellie was about to reply when she heard the sound of a Harley roaring up the lane beside the apartment complex. Eleanore knew that Angel loved motorcycles; she went nuts over the silhouette of a man on a bike. Ellie was pretty sure that the
real
reason the girl liked Christopher Daniels was that in
Comeuppance
, he’d ridden a Triumph.
The bike drew nearer and Eleanore let her fingers play over the keyboard.
E: Hold on—hog going by. Sounds like magic.
 
 
A: Oooh! Quiet moment of respect now commencing....
But as Eleanore read, she frowned. There was a skidding, swerving sound, distinct and chilling. And then that brief heartbeat of silence, the kind that occurs right before something goes very wrong.
The sound of a crash in the night is electrifying. It captures your attention, no matter what you’re doing. It shoots through your body like a steel rod and activates the scenery of your imagination. The sound of the accident was like the crunching of full tin cans beneath a steamroller, and it instantly iced Eleanore’s blood.
She was up and out of her chair before she fully realized what she was doing. Her body moved on autopilot—through the office door, through the living room, and then through the front door of the apartment, which she barely realized she’d opened using telekinesis.
When she stood on the landing outside, she turned toward the street, automatically searching for any immediately visible signs of wreckage or mangled bodies. However, she saw nothing but the slight sheen of the blacktop in the reflected light of streetlamps above. The night was silent.
Had she imagined it? Maybe she was more tired than she’d thought. But then something blinked. Red. White. Red.
A taillight,
she thought. She raced down the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. Distantly, she wondered why she was the only one to have heard the crash. It wasn’t that late at night. Shouldn’t there be other lights going on behind the windows of neighboring apartments by now?
Eleanore hit the bottom landing and rushed toward the parking lot and the street beyond. There, she stopped and peered in the direction from which she’d seen the blinking light. The street was empty, and there was no noise save for the buzzing of the streetlights, the harsh sound of her breathing, and the whimpering of a chocolate Labrador retriever who sat beside a toppled, crunched, and riderless motorcycle.
Eleanore’s heart leapt into her throat. She willed her legs to move once more. The November night was cold. All she wore was a thin pair of yoga pants, a white T-shirt, and a pair of sheepskin Warmbat boots.
The taillight continued to blink on and off, but there was no sign of the person who had been in the motorcycle’s saddle. There was a ditch a few feet away, its deep recesses lost in shadow. Stomach knotted with fear, Ellie crept to the lip of the ditch and looked down. In the vague darkness of the shadows below was a long figure wearing what appeared to be leather. He was instantly recognizable as a man—tall, lean, and broad shouldered. At first glance, none of his limbs were twisted at odd angles. But his helmet was missing.
A black puddle was spreading from beneath a shock of longish, unruly white-blond hair. Eleanore couldn’t see his face. He was lying on his stomach. As she skidded down the cement slope, unconsciously grateful for her boots, she realized that she didn’t
want
to see his face. It could be gone, after all. If he hadn’t been wearing a helmet at all, it was likely that he was dead.
She reached the bottom and then crouched beside him, heedful of the ever-expanding crimson-black puddle. Her long, slim fingers checked at his wrist for a pulse.
There wasn’t one.
“Oh God, no . . .” She felt herself beginning to panic and heard it in the rising pitch of her voice. She knew she had to get his heart beating first, before anything else. She could heal his wound easily enough, but if he had lost too much blood, his heart would give her trouble. She couldn’t make a heart beat if there was nothing for it to pump.
Eleanore placed her hand palm-down as gently as she could on the man’s leather-clad back and closed her eyes. She felt the heat in her hands and she knew that the magic was working when she also felt herself grow weaker.
She urged his heart to beat first and then quickly concentrated on his head wound.
Too hard
, she thought distractedly. The wound was more difficult to mend than it should have been. She healed one separation to find something wrong underneath; layers and layers of misfiring synapses and broken connections and internal bleeding. It was a head injury of the worst kind.
This is wrong
, she thought, her teeth clenched in frustration. It shouldn’t have been this hard. It was as if his body were fighting her, damaging itself on purpose in order to make things more difficult. Healing someone always drained her to some extent, but this one had her careening toward unconsciousness.
Eventually, the body under her hand stirred and slipped from beneath her, but by that time, she was utterly wasted. She started to fall forward and caught herself on the man’s shoulder just as he rolled over and looked up at her. His eyes were the color of a charcoal storm, speckled with flecks of platinum that looked like both diamonds and steel. The storm deepened beneath her and Eleanore found herself entranced.
He sat up and shifted so that he held her exhausted body in his gloved hands. She had no choice but to let him; she was weak beyond speech or movement.
BOOK: Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
9.64Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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