Fixation (6 page)

“Nearly five.”

“Is it Sunday?”

He nodded. So I’d only lost part of a day, not a hundred years like some shapeshifting Rip Van Winkle.

That was still too much. I’d lost part of a day through no action or stupidity of my own, not even a migraine, and that just pissed me off.

“I want to go home. Now.” My voice dripped ice, at least as well as my lacerated throat could manage.

“You are angry with me.”

“Damn right I am.” I struggled to sit up without the support of Balam’s undeniably strong arms. “You used me.”

“No, Maya. I needed you.”

I managed to pull away from him, supporting myself with one arm so I didn’t topple back to the ground. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Balam gave a heavy sigh, shutting his eyes as he did so. Then he opened them again and looked at me. “Let me take you home and I’ll explain everything to you. We need to get you some nourishment to replenish what your body has lost with the change.”

The thought of food made my stomach churn. “I don’t think I’ll be eating any time soon.”

“Trust me—”

“Not likely,” I muttered.

He ignored my interruption. “The nausea will pass and when it does, you will be hungry.”

I let Balam help me to my feet, blanket wrapped firmly around me. Which reminded me--.

”What happened to my clothes?”

Balam guided me to the passenger seat of his vehicle, leaving the door open. “Wait here.”

Like I was going to go tearing off into the woods wrapped in nothing but a blanket. Besides, even with Balam’s help, the effort it took to get to the car and sit upright both exhausted and disoriented me. Shutting my eyes, I tried to pretend the world wasn’t spinning around me in stomach-churning circles. Ugh.

“Here.” I opened my eyes to see Balam holding the jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie I’d been wearing when I’d gotten in my sleeping bag last night. And was that my lace g-string? Yup, sure was. Seeing them made me feel oddly better. I mean, if he still had my clothes, didn’t it prove he hadn’t planned on ditching or, worse, killing me. Okay, he could be waiting to dispose of me and my wardrobe at the same time. But that seemed like overthinking the whole thing, right?

I reached for my clothes and tried to stand at the same time. Not a good idea. I almost immediately sank back into the passenger seat, willing myself not to throw up.

“Let me help you.”

I would have refused his assistance had things like raising my arms above my head and bending down to pull on pants not made my vision blur. Besides, he got me into this mess. The least he could do was play ladies’ maid for the night. Heat suffused my face as he slid my g-string up my legs and the blanket slipped off my shoulders, leaving my breasts bare to the cooling air—and his gaze.

“Shirt, please,” I said stiffly. He obliged, pulling the tee over my head as gently as possible. I slid my hands into the armholes, feeling better once the shirt covered my breasts and torso. I will say he did his best to help me maintain my modesty. He couldn’t help the fact the touch of his fingers made my skin tingle with anticipation. I felt even better once my jeans and hoodie were in place, even though my skin prickled under the fabric like a bad case of sunburn.

He brought my shoes, battered pink Converse knockoffs I’d bought at a swap meet. He helped me slip my feet into them, tying the laces with an economy of movement I could only admire. He managed to combine efficiency with an innate sensuality that brought back vivid memories of those clever hands and fingers on my body.

The memory made me blush, heat suffusing my face and no doubt turning it a lovely shade of red. No matter how tan or burned I was, my skin announced any embarrassment felt as clearly as a neon sign reading, “Maya is currently experiencing humiliation, thanks for noticing.”

“Shall I take you home?”

“Yes, please.” A thought occurred to me. He’d told Jeri I’d gone home with a migraine. So—

“Where’s Agnes?”

Balam looked understandably blank.

“Agnes. My truck!” This time his look included a raised eyebrow. I glowered at him. “Yes, I name my cars.” He tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile and I growled. “Don’t judge me.”

“Apologies, Maya. Your ... er ... Agnes is at the address on your driver’s license.”

“You drove Agnes without asking?” For whatever reason, this pissed me off more than the whole temporarily being trapped in the form of a jaguar there. I mean, yes, my truck was kind of a beater, but it’d been my first new vehicle when I first bought it and I didn’t let anyone else drive it. Ever.

Balam had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I apologize, Maya. Normally I wouldn’t dream of using someone else’s belongings without permission—”

“Except for the whole dream sex thing,” I muttered, even though that hadn’t exactly been without permission.

“—but these were unusual and extreme circumstances. I assure you your truck is undamaged and sitting in front of what I assume is your home.”

“Jack’s gonna wonder what’s up with that. I usually park in the driveway.”

“Who is Jack?” Was it my imagination or was there a hint of possessiveness in his tone?

“My landlord.”

Balam frowned. “Most landlords don’t keep track of their tenants’ comings and goings.”

“He’s also a friend.” I didn’t offer any further explanation.

He made a low noise in his throat that sounded almost like a growl, but didn’t pursue the matter. Good thing, ‘cause if Balam was going to get all alpha on me after one night of fantastic—and possibly imaginary—sex, that was
so
not my problem.

Reaching over me, Balam fastened my seatbelt and tucked the blanket around me. He brushed a lock of stray hair out of my face with gentle fingers. “Try to get some rest. I know the way to your house.”

Okay, that was kind of stalkery. I almost said something, but already the warmth of the blanket and the comfort of plush leather seats were lulling me into a slumber happily free from pain—and weird-ass dreams.

“Maya...” Someone shook me gently by one shoulder. “Maya, we’re here.”

I pushed the hand away from my shoulder, unwilling to pull myself up from one of the most comfortable naps I’d had in a long while.

I heard a low, masculine chuckle. “Shall I carry you inside?”

My eyes flew open to find Balam’s impossibly handsome face a few inches from my own as he leaned inside the open passenger door. He’d already unbuckled my seatbelt and looked like he was prepared to make good his offer to carry me into my house.

“No! I can walk!”

Ouch. Throat still sore.

Balam raised an eyebrow, but stepped backwards to give me room.

Fully awake now, I swung my legs out the door and stood very slowly, using the “oh shit” handle to pull myself up. Other than the raw throat and some residual weakness, the pain, dizziness, and nausea were all pretty much gone.

Balam had parked across the street from the house, my truck directly in front of it. Jack’s motorcycle was in the driveway and lights were on in the house. I wondered what the odds were of sneaking in through the garage and into my home without him noticing.

“I need my keys.”

Balam reached into one of the pockets on his designer jacket, pulled out my “I Support My Local Cathouse” keychain, and dropped it into my outstretched hand. I made my way only slightly unsteadily to the pedestrian door, Balam right behind me. I sensed that if I stumbled, he’d be there to catch me.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

Unlocking and opening the door as quietly as possible, I crept through the garage, trying not to bump into any of the effluvia and thus alert Jack to my presence. Hopefully he was entertaining one of his girlfriends and wouldn’t want to interrupt the proceedings by checking on me. Balam followed so silently it was as if his feet were lined with velvet—or feline pads.

We reached the courtyard and the motion light flicked on above my door. Almost immediately Jack’s back screen door swung open with enough force to slam against the outside wall.

Crap.

I turned as Jack appeared in the doorway, his gray sweatpants and T-shirt spattered with paint in various shades of purples and blues. Paint also smeared his shaggy hair, clumps of it standing on end, which meant Jack was not having a good day. He tended to run his fingers through his hair during times of stress and even if he hadn’t, I could sense the tension radiating from him in an almost palpable cloud.

“Jesus Christ, Maya, where the hell have you been?” Anger and worry battled in his voice.

I felt Balam tense up behind me, his aura both protective and predatory.

Jack stepped off the porch and I stepped in front of Balam as Jack continued, “Your truck shows up in the middle of the night, you park on the street, you’re not home this morning...”

“Jack, this is Balam. He brought my truck home last night because I was too sick to drive. Migraine.”

Jack gave Balam a cursory nod without really looking at him. “So you couldn’t call and let me know you were okay? I left you half a dozen voice mails. You could have returned maybe one of ‘em!”

Ooh, boy. Add possessiveness to the vibe now pouring off Balam in waves.

“Jack, look, I’m sorry, but I was pretty much out for the count once the vomiting stopped.” I put a placating hand on his arm. “I slept all the way home or I would have called, okay?”

“It is a strange landlord who worries so much about a tenant.” Balam stepped forward, the lower register of his voice holding a low rumble that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a growl.

“Oh yeah?” Jack swiveled around and glared at Balam, finally taking a good look at him. The two men faced off, testosterone practically crackling in the air between them. “Not that it’s any of your goddamned business, but Maya’s like a little sister to me, okay? So when her truck shows up and she doesn’t, I’m gonna be worried!”

At the words “little sister” I felt the tension dissipate from Balam almost instantly, and his attitude changed on the spot. “She is lucky to have you looking out for her, then.”

“And just who the hell are you?” Jack snarled, unwilling to back down.

“He’s loaning one of his jaguars to the breeding program,” I interjected. “And donating a hefty sum of money to the compound.”

Balam smiled, a totally charming and natural smile, and held out his hand. “Balam Cadejo. I am visiting from Belize.”

For a moment it looked as though Jack would ignore the proffered hand, but then he heaved a sigh and shook it. “Jack Van Dorn. Sorry for the agro but I’ve been worried sick since I realized she wasn’t here.”

“My apologies, then,” Balam said with believable sincerity. “Had I known, I would have explained the situation to you when I dropped off Maya’s truck.”

“Why did you drive her truck all the way to San Francisco?” Jack’s suspicious question actually echoed my own unasked query on this subject. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense for her to just drive home after her migraine went away?”

“I had business in the city,” Balam answered without hesitation. “ Maya’s generosity in trusting me with her truck prevented me from the need to hire a taxi to bring me here. And now I have my own vehicle for the duration of my stay.”

I found myself admiring the ease at which Balam spun his tales, as well as the elegance of his language. His speech patterns weren’t exactly formal, but they had a certain grace most people lacked. His smoke and velvet voice didn’t hurt either.

“Well, as long as everything’s okay,” Jack said when Balam was finished. “Gotta say I’m shocked Maya let you borrow her truck.”

“She was very generous indeed,” said Balam. I had a feeling he was talking about more than my truck.

“I must have been too sick to know what I was doing,” I said pointedly.

“But you’re better now?” asked Jack, happily missing the undercurrents in our exchange.

I nodded. “Much better. Just starving.” And I really was. Balam had been right about this. “We’re gonna get some dinner.” Out of politeness I added, “Have you eaten yet?” even though the last thing I wanted was for Jack to join us. I wanted to hear the rest of Balam’s story and find out exactly what the hell happened to me last night. That wasn’t going to happen with Jack in the room.

Jack’s expression turned suddenly sheepish. “Um... I’ve kind of got company.”

“Well, then, you should kind of get back to her, doncha think?”

Jack cast one more uncertain look at Balam, then back at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I will take care of her.” Balam’s tone left no room for argument.

I rolled my eyes. “Just feed me, okay? Night, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once inside the house, I immediately headed for the bathroom. Before shutting the door behind me, I turned back to Balam. “I need to take a shower,” I said. “There are take-out menus in the kitchen in the drawer nearest the fridge. Pick what you like. I’ll eat anything at this point.” I shut the door and then opened it again. “Except if you get pizza, no onions or green peppers.” I started to shut the door yet again, then paused long enough to say, “Make yourself at home.”

Satisfied I’d fulfilled my hostess duties for the moment, I turned on the showerhead, stripped out of my clothes, and stepped into a few minutes of blissful hot water sluicing down over my head and body. It soothed the residual aches and washed away the dirt and god-knew-what-else from the last twenty-four hours.

Drying myself off, I rubbed vanilla spice body butter into my skin, put moisturizer on my face and neck, and slipped into the bedroom to find clean clothes. I emerged a few minutes later in black yoga pants and a long-sleeved, forest green thermal shirt, my feet encased in bright red fuzzy socks. I was ready to face the world—or, at least, Balam.

He’d taken my “make yourself at home” to heart. The fairy lights were on and he’d lit a number of candles placed around the living room. He’d opened a bottle of zinfandel I’d bought at a winery on a trip to Paso Robles and poured a generous amount in two stemless wine glasses. Half-empty bottle and glasses were on the coffee table, along with a half-dozen take-out menus. Balam was crouched in front of one of the bookshelves, studying the titles with great interest. I padded quietly up behind him. He’d honed in on my books about exotic felines. He’d pulled out
Jaguar
by Alan Rabinowitz, the zoologist responsible for establishing the first jaguar preserve in Belize.

“A great man, this,” Balam said, flipping through the pages.

“You’ve read it?” I knelt beside him.

He nodded. “Yes, and met him.”

He put the book back on the shelf and got to his feet in one smooth movement, holding out one hand. I took it, feeling the contained strength as he pulled me up seemingly without effort. I tried to put the memory of those strong hands on my body firmly out of my mind.

“I ordered pizza,” said Balam, handing me one of the wine glasses. “I haven’t had it in quite a long time. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I said. I could eat pizza every day for a month without getting tired of it.

“No onions or green peppers,” he added before I could ask. “Cornmeal crust with feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, black olives and salami.”

My favorite combination. “How did you—”

“Your last order was attached to the menu.” He grinned then, a surprisingly boyish expression on that very masculine face. He picked up the other wine glass and extended it. “Cheers.”

“What are we toasting?”

“You, Maya.” He looked at me with those amazing green eyes, flecks of gold flickering like flames in their depths. Talk about a smoldering gaze.

I stared back at him suspiciously. “Why?”

He paused, glass still extended. “What do you mean, ’why’?”

“I mean, why me?” I clutched my wine glass. “Why, out of all the people at the compound, why did you choose me? Was I just in the right place at the right time?”

Balam sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that spoke of great weariness. “I will tell you everything, I promise, but after we eat. My strength is still not what it should be. The shift from animal to human form takes much energy at the best of times, but even more when a spell is involved to stop the transformation.”

My mind flashed on one of those websites for tracking calories in and calories out. You know, where it tells you you’ve burned X amount of calories spending a half hour walking up hills. I wondered if I could add “transforming into were-jaguar” as an exercise option.

“For now, share this toast with me.” He turned the smolder up a few notches. This time it was underscored by the tone of a man used to getting his own way. I found the combination both infuriating and sexy. “Please.”

The “please” pushed the sexy quotient higher. Damn.

I raised my glass and clinked it against his, then took a sip of wine. It was excellent; lots of dark berry flavors underscored by spice, rich on the tongue. I’d been saving it for a special occasion. I guess this qualified as special.

Balam did a little swirl, chew, and swallow routine, yet managed to not look pretentious. He made an appreciative noise deep in his throat. “You have good taste in wine.”

“When I can afford it, yeah.” I took another sip. The flavors were incredibly vibrant and the mouth-feel was like silk. “This is even better than I remember.”

He nodded. “You’ll find your senses enhanced for a day or so after the transformation. Both the good and the bad.”

“So is that why it hurt so damn much to change back into a human?” Even as I said it, part of me could not believe I was calmly discussing shapeshifting as if it were real.

“In part. It also always hurts more the first time.”

I couldn’t help it; I snorted. Feels like the first time, indeed.

Balam raised a quizzical eyebrow.

There was a knock on the front door; the pizza was here, saving me from having to explain the band Foreigner to Balam.

I reached for my purse, but Balam put a hand on my wrist and shook his head. He pulled out a wad of cash from one pocket and answered the door. I sat down on the couch and had some more wine while Balam charmed the delivery girl, a normally sullen Goth type in her late teens. I rolled my eyes when I heard her giggle. I’d remember that next time she treated me like an inconvenient necessity when delivering my pizza—and tip her accordingly.

Within minutes I had a slice of hot pizza on a paper plate in front of me. I let the aroma waft up for a minute, marveling that I could smell each separate ingredient from the yeasty cornmeal crust to the feta cheese. The first bite was nothing short of orgasmic. I forgot everything in the sheer joy of eating what had to be the best piece of pizza in the history of mankind, followed by a second and third. Balam appeared to be enjoying his meal too, if the half-closed eyes and blissed-out expression were any indication. Between the two of us we polished off the entire large pizza and were well into our second glasses of wine by the time we finally settled down to talk.

“Ask me what you will.”

Balam stared at me, the angles and planes of his face illuminated by candles and fairy lights. He looked like something out of an impossibly sexy dream.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but one popped out of my mouth without hesitation. “Did we really have sex? Or was it just a dream?”

By the surprised look on his face, that was not the question Balam expected to hear. But to his credit, he answered me.

“What we did ... it all took place in what we call Dream Time.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. “So nothing really happened.”

Balam arched an eyebrow. “Some would argue that which happens in Dream Time is more real than anything that happens in the corporal world.”

I matched him with a raised eyebrow of my own. “So every time I’ve gone to school naked in a dream that’s really happened?”

Balam snorted. “You are confusing common dreams with Dream Time. They are not the same thing.”

I looked at him. “And I’m supposed to know this how?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “My apologies, Maya. I forget you do not know these things.” He reached out and took one of my hands in his. “I feel like I have known you for much longer than I actually have.”