Darkling

Darkling

Em Petrova

Niles Walker, a social worker in
the ’hood, stumbles across what appears to be a gorgeous homeless woman heaped
in rags in the middle of a heat wave. Drawn to her beauty, he struggles to keep
from peeling the layers off and taking the tantalizing curves beneath. Finally
he gives in to his urges and offers his apartment as refuge, though it puts his
job on the line. And too late, he realizes he can’t keep her from his bed.

Vega is a fallen star looking for
the magical object used to light newborn stars. She can’t believe the human who
gives her shelter can also inspire such need in her strange new human form.
She’s so hungry for his kisses and the fire he kindles inside her, she nearly
forgets her purpose for coming to Earth—retrieving the starscale, or risking
her future and those of her fellow celestial beings.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing

www.ellorascave.com

Darkling

ISBN 9781419936708

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Darkling Copyright © 2012 Em Petrova

Edited by Jillian Bell

Cover art by Dar Albert

Photography: David M. Schrader, Paul Matthew,
Olly/Shutterstock.com

Electronic book publication March 2012

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Darkling

Em Petrova

Chapter One

The midday sun baked the back of Niles’ neck as he meandered
through the city park. A bead of perspiration trickled into his collar and the
hair on his temples was growing damp but he reveled in the solitude of his
lunch break. After the morning he’d had at work, he needed it.

Six new cases had flooded his desk in only four hours. Two
kids who had been reported abandoned were picked up on the West Side, a man
who’d lost his home to the bank needed shelter, and one of his troubled teens
had tried to off herself that morning.

He scrubbed a hand through his thick hair with a sigh. He
couldn’t even focus enough to recall the other cases. As of now they were
faceless documents stuffed into a manila file. Not that he wasn’t caring—far
from it. But being a social worker in the ’hood wasn’t easy.

Drawing a deep breath, he allowed the scents of growing
things to fill him with calm. He knew by four o’clock his tranquility would
have fled. That’s when he’d go to the gym, tape up his hands and slip on his
boxing gloves. Going rounds with his sparring partner, feeling muscle and jaw
give beneath each blow, would quell his agitation.

At least until the next day.

The pavement stretched beneath his feet, winding around a
copse of trees where one of his favorite benches sat overlooking a small koi
pond. He glanced at his watch. In twenty minutes, he was due back at his desk
and with any luck Mischa, the teen who had overdosed two weeks ago on Xanax and
a host of narcotics, would be seated across from him. His heart ached at the
thought of one of his clients succumbing to that. If she’d only come to him…

The bench came into view. He drew up at the sight of a pile
of black rags half lying under the bench.
What the—?

He flipped his horn-rimmed glasses up and skimmed the
perspiration off the bridge of his nose. Pigeons scattered as he strode toward
the bench.

A crack in the pavement ran right up to a bare foot.
Approaching more cautiously, he studied the shape. Judging by the slender bones
of the foot, it was definitely a woman. The lines of her shapely ankle
disappeared into a heap of thick black layers. Knit, cotton, wool. She was
absolutely buried.

And probably suffering from heat exhaustion.

He inched toward her. His instinctive sense of empathy drove
him to help, though he had to err on the side of caution. Three months ago a
man had been shot by a homeless person he thought he was helping.

The breeze quickened and the woman’s rags fluttered. She
stirred and part of the hood shielding her face fell away to reveal a smooth
bronzed cheek the color of a perfect brown egg. The point of her chin was
delicate. Images of sinking his teeth into it danced through his head.

She twisted face up and his breath caught. Shock rippled
through him. Not only was she young but she was stunning. Drop-to-his-knees
gorgeous.

One fringed eyelid lifted and she pierced him in her dark
gaze.

For a moment, his lungs wouldn’t work. Her full pout sent
him reeling. The exotic tilt of her eyes gave him palpitations.

In a flurry, he reached down into the bundle of rags,
located her narrow shoulders and hauled her into a sitting position. Her body
was scorching, putting off such high temperatures she surely had to be on the
verge of heat stroke.

“Are you okay?”

She blinked at him and it struck him that she didn’t speak
English. He tried Spanish. When she continued to stare blankly at him, he
searched his mind for hints of the other languages he knew—Chinese and Arabic.

With a lurch, she gathered her feet beneath her and
attempted to stand. She tilted precariously and he caught her, grappling in her
clothing for her elbow.

And came up with her breast.

The full mound filled his palm. Pangs of need roiled through
his body and he quickly staunched them. The last thing this woman wanted was to
look down and see the bulge of an erection in the front of his khakis. She
needed water. Air-conditioning. Less clothing.

That thought spiraled out of control. Lurid visions flitted
through his mind. Visions of peeling away each layer to find the tiny gift
within, as if he were unwrapping a package.

Damn, the heat has fried my brains.

He sucked in a breath and rather than catching the stale,
moldering scent he associated with many of the homeless people he worked with,
he got a whiff of spicy jasmine. He rocked back on his heels. Where was she
from? Why was she lying under the park bench? To find that heavenly smell
associated with this woman was mind-numbing.

She twisted away from his touch, leaving him with a
throbbing sense of loss and a raging hard-on.

“You need to get out of those clothes. It’s ninety-six
degrees today. You’ll have a heat stroke.”

This time she responded to his words. One small hand emerged
from the depths of her layers and waved. “I need the coverings.”

Her accent was strangely lilting and indiscernible. It
dawned on him that she was perhaps of Middle Eastern descent and her dress was
traditional.

“You need to find someplace cool. Can I help you home?”

Those wide eyes blinked at him once more, as if she didn’t
register what he was saying. Maybe the heat had already addled her senses. He
reached for her again.

“Let me take you someplace cool and buy you a drink. You
need to lower your temperature.”

Her dark, naturally red lips twitched at the corner and he
went absolutely still, eager to hear her voice again, wondering if she’d smile
for him.

What are you doing, Niles? Get her into a restaurant, set
her up with a lemonade, then get your ass to the office.

Her mouth worked as if trying to form words, giving him the
impression that English was not her native language.

“I don’t have a…what did you call it? Home.”

Her admission unlocked that small place in his heart.
Emotion rushed in and he knew beyond a doubt that she was his next project. It
seemed as if every year he found one person who needed help more than others, a
person who touched him deeply enough to devote his time to. Hell, if he had to
give up his evenings boxing to make room for her in his schedule, he would.

He racked his brain, trying to think of which shelters had
extra beds. This morning when he’d placed Rodney—after the man had lost his
house and spent four days on the street without food or shelter—he’d fought for
the last bed on this side of town. To get her into another shelter he didn’t
work with regularly would mean some groveling was in his future. Sometimes the
social workers in the city would get together and do a sort of pool of
accounts, trading for people who could better help them. He hated to lose any
of his clients—he loved them all. But if it meant getting this woman into the
safety of a shelter, he’d do it.

She wouldn’t last one night on the street. She’d be raped,
beaten, murdered.

A shiver ran down his spine.

“Come with me, please. I can help you.”

Her long, black brows knitted in the center and creases
outlined her beautiful mouth.

“I swear I’m here to help you.” He dug into his back pocket
and pulled out his ID. “See that? I’m Niles Walker. I work with people who need
help. I can help you.”

Her mouth softened but the divot between her brows remained.

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

Again her mouth worked, her full lower lip jutting out in an
irresistible pout, then stretching tight as she formed the word. “Vega.”

For no good reason, the notes of her name sent a spike of
need straight to his groin. The little door of his heart creaked open wider.

He found himself smiling. “Vega. All right, Vega, please let
me get you a drink. Come this way. My office is around the corner.”

She drew up to her full height and the rags she wore seemed
to undulate around her form. He hoped she’d at least take down her hood once
they reached the privacy of his office. He knew little about ethnic customs and
made a mental note to do some research tonight before he went to bed. In the
meantime she needed to find some cool.

He located her arm beneath her layers. Heat scalded him and
he almost jerked away. Damn, she had to be ready to collapse. Bending at the
knees to peer into her eyes, he studied her. Her gaze was direct and bright,
not glassy or dull. How was she putting off temperatures like that without
passing out?

“Come on.” Giving a little tug, he tried to lead her to the
path. Five minutes ago, he’d been peacefully strolling that trail but now he
felt shaken. Off balance.

Heat prickled his side where she walked. Her steps were
light and tripping like a dancer’s. Where in the hell had she come from?
Perhaps she was an illegal alien and found herself in this country without
means. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d run across such a case in his
thirteen years as a social worker.

The film of sweat on his face made his glasses slide down
his nose and he nudged them up with a forefinger. If he was drenched in his
white cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, she must be about to
expire in her black layers. Yet she didn’t seem to be feeling the heat like
him. Her skin was clear and dry.

As she walked, her hood slipped, giving him a tantalizing
glimpse of a dark wave on her forehead. Quickly she righted the cloth. It
swallowed her face and shaded her eyes.

“Where are you from? Can you tell me?”

Shaking her head, she set her lips in a line.

Aha. An illegal then.
But he didn’t care. She was a
human and deserving of help—help he knew how to administer.

First a drink. Not far around the bend usually a hot dog
vendor was set up. He’d have bottled water.

As the thick shrubbery gave way to an open grassy yard, he
spotted the vendor’s signature red baseball cap. He called out in his usual
loud Brooklyn accent at their approach.

“Niles, my man. What gives today? No hot dogs for lunch?”

“Not today. But I’ll take two bottles of water, please.”
Even if she was hungry, it was best to see how she kept down fluid first. She
could be very ill, despite her appearance.

He fished a couple bills from his front pocket and handed
them over in exchange for the water. He placed the cool bottle in her hands.

She stared at it blankly, rotating it to see the label. Her
fingers left marks on the condensation. Again, explicit images ripped through
his mind, of drawing one dainty fingertip to his lips and lapping off the
moisture there.

He shuddered.

Taking the bottle from her, he twisted off the cap. “Drink.
You need it.”

It was a wonder she was on her feet, let alone functioning
so well. Though she did seem a little spaced-out.

When she tipped the bottle to her mouth, he grew fixated on
the way her lips clamped around the plastic. Her throat moved with her
swallows. She drained the bottle in a few seconds and reached for the other
one.

He gave a short laugh. “Not so fast. Too much water can make
you sick. Just process that first.”

Taking her arm, he set off toward his office. Emerging from
the tranquility of the park was always a shocker. The city street bustled with
foot traffic and the noxious fumes of buses filled his nostrils. He longed to
lean in and draw a lungful of Vega’s jasmine perfume instead.

Vega.

An unusual name, but so fitting for her. Exotic and yet
musical. The way she walked could have been a dance, her steps light and
silent. Damn, he’d like to get a glimpse of her hips.

Man, I’ve been deprived for too long.

His last relationship ended nine months ago. While he could
find plenty of women interested in dating for fun or one-night stands, he was
old enough he didn’t want that. He was ready to find that perfect woman and the
comfortable apartment, the two kids and the dog.

He flicked his hair off his forehead. In heat like this, he
wondered why he didn’t take his mother’s advice and cut his hair short. She
liked to see his ears—said he had good ears. He argued that he wore it long
since the third grade when Marjorie Clee said his ears looked weird.

“Are you feeling okay? Not faint or anything?”

She shook her head and a dark curl tumbled down to caress
her jaw.

Burning need washed through him and he twitched his hands
into fists to keep from brushing away that glossy lock. This time she didn’t
bother to conceal it in her hood, but stared at him steadily.

“I’m okay.” She pronounced the word exactly as he did, with
the same enunciation on the “kay,” making him believe she was copying his
language.

“Vega, I’m going to help you. Whatever you need—food, a cool
place to lay your head at night, clothes—I’ll get for you. And I’m here to
listen to you too.”

She mouthed the word “listen”, then sank her square white
teeth into her plush lower lip.

White heat crawled the walls of his core. God, had he ever
reacted to a woman so strongly before?

She doesn’t need your kisses, Niles. Get a damn grip.

As they wended their way through the crowded city street to
his office, he wondered how he was going to put aside his other clients to take
care of Vega. He itched to jam his hands into his gloves and deliver the mean
left hook he was known for. He had a feeling his frustrations were only
beginning.

This was going to be a long day.