Heart Choice (20 page)

Mitchella had decided to ask the Hollys, but the Residence seemed cooperative. Clearing her throat, she said, “Residence, this room needs a Ritual spiritual cleansing. Old feelings still linger too heavily. What happened here?”

“Everyone died,” Straif said from the doorway. He glanced in, then averted his gaze.

She jumped. He moved so quietly, with tracker's Flair.

“When the household became ill, this room was used as a sick ward,” the Residence said.

“There were more than thirty beds in here at one time,” Straif said. “Mine was just a little right of the center, near the windows, where Antenn is standing.”

Mitchella flinched. Antenn made a strangled sound.

“You didn't know I caught the sickness and was near death?” Straif's silhouette shrugged. “Father was in the center of the room, easiest to reach. Mother next to him. Then me. Then Fasha.” His hand swooped. “Then all the rest of my Family who lived and worked here.

“They all died. I lived. One by one, they died. I'll never forget that last night. All noise stopped. Except my coughing. When I woke up the next day, I was the only one alive. I screamed for my Family, and Holm and T'Holly came.” Straif's face was white and strained, his expression terrible. “Now you know. Change this place, but don't ever expect me to enter it.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Antenn looked at her and swallowed.

Mitchella set aside the need to run after Straif and comfort him. He wouldn't welcome her. Better to concentrate on the room, make it bearable for him.

“Those pink walls gotta go,” Antenn said, voice high.

“I'll make it an oval, with an illusion of a domed ceiling,” Mitchella said. She could see it.

Antenn nodded, studying the dimensions. “Curved walls at the corners, used as closets. The walls are plain, add pilasters, moldings, fancy bits that can be easily removed after a few generations.” He shook his head. “Talk about a curse.”

“A beautiful holo for the ceiling. Holo spells weren't as fashionable, or as well developed as now. A light, Earth-blue sky with clouds would be good. Cream-colored walls would work well.” She hardly knew what she was saying.

Thunder boomed, and Antenn shuddered, paled. “I'm tired. I want to go to bed. Stand under the waterfall, then watch and listen to the waves until I fall asleep.” He ran out.

A shiver rippled through Mitchella. “Secure the ballroom.”

Gusts of wind carrying large raindrops banged the windows and doors shut as the spell took effect. When the fresh rain met floor or wall, it vanished as if sucked up by the intensity of negative emotions. She hurried from the chamber and made a note to use minimally Flaired workers to reconstruct the room.

She climbed the main stairs to the second story. She'd changed the hall lamps from flickering silver torches to glowing bronze globes that illuminated the corridor with a warmer light.

When she reached Antenn's suite he was already in bed. She kissed his forehead and listened to his sleepy “good night,” but paused by the door to watch the mesmerizing waves. Live audio of the surf from the nearest beach matched the holoscene on the wall. It should have soothed her, but the pull of the tide matched the pulse of her need to be with Straif.

She left Antenn's suite with the rhythm of the waves surging through her blood. When she thought of Straif, heat flooded her.

Her emotions were more than simple physical attraction, though every moment she spent with him increased her awareness of his virility, reminded her how long it had been since she'd made love with a sexy, demanding man.

Mixed with her desire was empathy, tenderness at his vulnerability, admiration for the strength of him—his body, his mind, his spirit.

“T'Blackthorn hurts,” whispered the Residence into her mind. Mitchella flinched. “The Residence hurts when T'Blackthorn aches.”

She wanted to deny the Residence's plea, but she heard it easily, her mind had become attuned to it.

What of Drina?
she projected to the house.

“She sleeps in her own room on the fancy bedsponge. She does not help her FamMan.”

Rest, T'Blackthorn Residence,
Mitchella sent.

The atmosphere around her changed as the Residence powered down. Throughout the day she'd felt its weariness as it struggled to keep up with her cleaning requests—and it told her when it siphoned energy from Straif.

The tide of her heart pulled her toward him. The last two days had been full of shocks for him as well as for her. She longed to be with him, comforted by his presence as she could comfort him with hers. She could not stop the tenderness for him that welled through her. He'd been so strong against the emotions that buffeted him.

She had to pass his door before she reached her own rooms—and the furnishings provided by her family. She didn't want to think of the Clovers either. She wished her new suite was as devoid of reminders as Antenn's or Straif's.

She was at the MasterSuite. She'd rearranged silver door panels and tinted them bronze. The door was cracked open.

She hesitated, and Straif's aura flowed out and enveloped her. Did he do that on purpose? She didn't know. His essence brushed over her, bringing with it the scent of sage, the pressure of gentle hands on her arms, drawing her to him. Underlying everything was deep melancholy. She hesitated, but could not pass by.

Pushing the door open, she found him in the sitting room, staring out night-black windows. “It's raining hard.”

“Is the suite to your liking?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “It's fine.”

A rush of irritation dissolved her previous mood.

Straif turned—his eyes cast in shadow, his expression stern. He forced a smile. “I seem to be apologizing today. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm. You did very well.” He waved at the room around him, painstakingly layered in shades of green, giving the atmosphere of dappled light of a forest. She'd thought it would remind him of his travels instead of his childhood. “You have a wonderful talent. This place is a sanctuary now.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and the fascination that spun between them spiraled until she thought it held the force of the tide, sweeping them together. “A wonderful talent,” he repeated. “A very womanly talent.”

Mitchella could
feel
the roundness of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, was utterly aware of her femininity. Her body longed to press against his hardness.

“Beautiful.” He took a step toward her, gazed locked on hers, smiling slightly as she stared at his mouth. “The rooms are as lovely, as complex as yourself.”

“Thank you,” she said.

His lips formed a true smile. “I'm thanking you. The bed . . .” He waved to the open door of the bedroom, but didn't take his eyes from hers. Mitchella fought to keep her breath and words steady. She wished he hadn't mentioned the bed.

“You like the bed?” Now
she'd
mentioned the bed, what was wrong with her? They should not be thinking of the bed. She should not be thinking of the bed and his lean form naked and over her, of night pleasures that would involve more than her body, of loving that would not survive the light of day.

“You did an incredible job on the bed.”

Mitchella flushed, tried to recall how she'd changed the huge, immovable four-poster Earth bed made of dark wood.

Straif took another step toward her. The force of attraction doubled. “I think the vines have already grown up the lattices and are spreading over the top grid. Shall we check?”

Ah. She'd surrounded the posts and headboard in removable cubes of thin wood strips. “No,” she croaked. She'd never made love in an old-fashioned Earth bed instead of a bedsponge. She didn't know what would happen if she did, what effect it might have on her. Straightening her spine, she said, “No bedroom.”

His glance fell to her breasts. “So beautiful, so lush.”

One more step brought him to within a finger's breadth of her. She tilted her head back to match her gaze with his. His eyes were a deep, fiery blue. She inhaled and smelled sage and Straif, and her mind whirled. Blood pounded in her temples so she couldn't hear his next quiet comment.

His hands reached for hers. He lifted one hand and brushed a kiss on the back, then his lips kissed her other hand. His mouth was hot. Heat flashed straight to her core.

“Thank you,” he said. Since he spoke a little louder and close to her ear, she heard him.

He took a step back, keeping a firm grip on her hands, and she followed.

“Thank you for making the suite homey,” he murmured.

Her breath caught at his simple words and the feeling behind them. She shook her head in mute acceptance of his gratitude.

A few more steps and he backed against a forest green wingchair of furrabeast suede. “Thank you for coming to me tonight. You are generous in all ways.” He placed her hands over his heart, and her own heart thudded hard as something snapped together. For an instant she thought she saw a bright silver chain, thick as her wrist, linking them. Again she shook her head, overwhelmed by the haze of desire, to collect her wits.

Her vision was clear enough to see his surprise. He blinked, then sat on the chair behind him and drew her between his thighs. Suddenly his mouth was on the level of her breasts. Her whole body went liquid with heat and longing.

“We are right for each other,” he whispered. She sensed it was directed more to himself than her. “This time, this place, is for us.”

A warning rang in her mind, but he took her hands and kissed the palms, laving the hollow of each and all thought fled. She made a small sound of arousal, and a tremor rippled through him.

“Soft, beautiful woman,” he whispered.

She stood swaying with want, with weakness, with passion. The silence thickened, and she thought she felt the hot, wild beat of his own desire. She looked down, only to be trapped by his eyes—dark blue, intent, focused on her. His face was set in lines of need. She slipped her hands from his, and his callouses along her skin made every nerve thrill.

That face, that man's rugged face, called to her. His features showed the stamp of generations of resolve to survive and triumph. His Flair engulfed her, and she glimpsed the bright traces of all the people who'd worked in the room and was awed at his talent. But his own sparkling aura drew her like a lodestone—a silver pool of deep, liquid mercury. She wanted to immerse herself in it, steep herself in him. Know him.

In the stillness of the night, her heartbeat matched his, the ebb and flow of her blood moved with his. The meshing was an exquisite pleasure flooding her, penetrating every cell. Her breath came harsh now. She braced her hands on his shoulders, and they were wide and solid under her touch, thick with sinew and muscle. Her head fell back as she surrendered to the passion spinning between them. Her body arched to him.

Straif groaned.

Fourteen

“This is too much,” Straif rasped. His breath came hot
against her breasts. “Stay or go.”

She couldn't go. It wasn't possible. The simple magnetism between them was too much for her to break.

She didn't want to go. Desire rose within her, warming her, tempting her with the knowledge that if she stayed she'd enjoy the best loving she'd had in a long, long while.

Looking up at her, he said nothing, but a flush painted his cheekbones, his eyelids lowered, and the pulse in his neck throbbed. She couldn't tear her gaze away from that vein. The thought of tasting the saltiness of his skin right there made her lips tingle, made her nipples tighten.

“I vowed not to touch you, Mitchella.” His voice was strained.

Then he tilted his head back against the chair, and his gaze locked on hers. “Mitchella,” he said as if savoring the syllables of her name, like he'd savor other parts of her. “Mitshell-ah.” Her name was soft, exotic on his lips. She focused on his mouth, and a low ache began between her thighs.

His hands clenched over the arms of the chair. “I want to touch you, Mitchella, so much.” Husky, wooing, tender . . . layer upon layer of temptation formed the timbre of his voice.

“Your softness. Your femininity. Your beauty. I need you. Mitchella.” His words were the rhythm of the sea, of her heartbeat, of his.

She couldn't go.

She had to stay.

Her fingers touched the backs of his hands, and he turned them over. She brought his palms to her breasts and shuddered when his fingers curved over her, shaped her. She moaned.

One last desperate thought swam through her mind. “You have a HeartMate,” she choked out.