Kissed by Moonlight (15 page)

"Bullshit. It's Alister. Has to be."

Things were serious if Kabita was cussing. I had a bad feeling she was right. There were a handful of people who would be happy to see me dead. Alister Jones was top of the list.

Kabita's phone jangled. She pulled it out of her pocket and frowned at the caller ID before answering. "Yeah? Uh huh? Where? Sure. Yeah, I can do that."

I raised my eyebrows as she hung up. "That was all kinds of mysterious."

"It was Jack. He wants me to talk to the SRA."

"What does Jack want with the SRA?" Jack preferred staying far under their radar for obvious reasons. The SRA did not have a good track record where Atlantean descendants were concerned, and Jack was more than your average Atlantean. Why hadn't he mentioned anything to me before? Like maybe while we were wandering around a bunch of underground tunnels?

"Apparently," Kabita said, sinking into her chair, "he has the sudden urge to travel."

I blinked. "What?"

"He asked me to secure him a private jet."

***

"Jack, you got some 'splaining to do." I might have channeled a tiny bit of Desi Arnaz. Might as well keep a bit of humor about the situation. I could do full-on confrontation if I had to, but more flies with honey, and all that.

"What are you talking about?" Jack's voice on the other end of the line had all the overtones of innocence, but underneath was something else. He had definitely been hiding something from me.

I headed down the front stairs of our office building and across the parking lot to my car. "A private plane? Really? What on earth do you need a private plane for?" I asked as I slid into my Mustang.

"Do you not understand the meaning of the word 'private'?"

I ignored his royal snippiness. "Does this have anything to do with what we found in the tunnels? With Alister?"

"No."

I didn't say anything. I snapped my seatbelt, turned on the ignition, and waited.

"Okay, fine. Maybe," he sighed. I could visualize him running his hands through his hair in frustration. He did that around me a lot. Couldn't imagine why.

"And you planned to tell me when?" I asked.

"This side of never," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"When I knew for sure." Back to innocence.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever. Do I need a passport?" I was pissed as hell at him for leaving me out of the loop after dragging me into this mess in the first place, but damned if I was going to let him know it.

A pause. "What?"

"I'm going with you." If he thought I was staying behind while he jaunted off to solve the mystery of the soul vampires, he had another think coming.

Another pause. "Morgan."

"You know I'm not taking no for an answer, Jack, and if you refuse to tell me, I'll just figure it out and follow you."

"Fine." He let out another exasperated sigh. "Yes. You'll need a passport."

"Cool. Where are we going?"

"France."

***

"So," I said, settling back against the plush leather seats of the private plane Kabita had arranged. When she and I traveled, we usually went first class, but this was so far beyond that, it was ridiculous. "Why France?"

Jack took a sip of his whiskey on the rocks and stared out the little oval window as if the tarmac were the most interesting thing in the universe. "It's where I'm from."

I rolled my eyes and opened my mouth to retort, but I was interrupted by the flight attendant. She handed me an icy glass of fizzy golden liquid from her silver tray before disappearing through a wood-paneled door at the back of the plane. I took a cautious sip. Pear cider. The good stuff. Delicious. How on earth had she known it was my favorite? I took a few more sips before returning to the conversation.

"Yes, I know that's where you're from," I said, setting my glass cautiously on a little side table. "Most Templar Knights were from France. I get that." I knew Jack had been another person, had another life, but that was nine-hundred-years ago, give or take a few decades. He'd spent the last several centuries as an American, and the centuries before that in Scotland. "But what's so important you need to take off right this minute for France?"

He took another sip of whiskey. He still hadn't looked at me. Not since I'd embarked on the plane with an overnight duffel and my turquoise rolly bag stuffed with weaponry.

"You know about the night the Templars were destroyed?" he said finally.

"Friday the Thirteenth, 1307." Some said that was when the whole bad luck superstition thing came from. "The King of France slaughtered nearly all the Templars. The rest, he arrested and publicly executed after forcing them to confess to everything from hanky panky with each other to consorting with the devil." King Phillip had been a power hungry rat bastard. He'd couched the slaughter in religious terms, of course, but it had really been all about two things: money and power. The Templars had both, and the king wanted them.

"More or less." Jack nodded. "There were some who got away."

"Including you."

He shrugged. "Actually, I left several months before that. I guess the leaders of the order could sense change in the wind."

"Right. You hid out near the coast, and then went to Scotland. You told me all this before."

"Before that, though, I stopped in a tiny French village where people were sympathetic to our cause. I hid something there. Something I'd been entrusted with." He took another sip of whiskey.

I frowned. I'd known about the amulet. Hell, I was wearing it around my neck. I fingered its chain. "There's more than this?"

"Oh, yes," he said, his eyes darkening to the stormy blue gray of the Pacific Ocean in winter. "Much more."

"And we're going to France to get it?"

His expression was grim. "No. We're going to France because someone stole it. We're going to find out who took it and get it back."

Chapter 22

Soft lips pressed against my throat, skimming gently up to the sensitive spot behind my ear. Heat unfurled as a palm cupped my breast, kneading gently. Aroused, I pressed up against the solid body of the man holding me in his arms.

"Ah, love, I've missed you." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in awhile.

"Inigo?" The joy that flooded me was beyond describing. Tears welled in my eyes, swelling my throat tight as I cupped his cheeks in my hands, holding his head away so I could drink in every curve and plane of his beautiful face.

Sapphire-blue eyes stared back at me, heavy with desire. Lush lips curved in a smile. "Who else." His low, sexy chuckle sent my hormones and my heart zinging happily. Who else indeed?

With excruciating slowness, he undid my shirt, one button at a time. He pressed a kiss to each inch of skin he revealed, as though he were savoring the taste of me. I tangled my hands in his hair, letting the silky strands slide through my fingers as I guided him down, down...

He stopped at my waistband, and I let out a sound of frustration.

He chuckled again. "Patience, love."

"Not my strong suit."

His grin was infectious. "Don't I know it." Slowly, he kissed his way back up to my collarbone, sliding my shirt off my shoulders to toss it on the floor. He kissed my throat, my jawline, before settling his mouth over mine in one of those slow, hot kisses that left me feeling drugged.

His tongue slid and danced over mine. I lost myself in the wet heat of his mouth, and the scent of campfires and s'mores that was uniquely Inigo. I slid my hands over his hot skin, memorizing every inch.

"You were gone. You left me." I couldn't help it. All the pain and sorrow suddenly came welling out. Wounds ripped open by passion.

"Never," he whispered against my lips. "Never. I'm always with you Morgan. Every minute of every day. I promise you that."

"You make it sound like you're dead," I choked out, a salty tear threatening to spill over and slide down my cheek
.

"Do I feel dead to you?" He pressed himself into me until I could feel the hard length of his arousal
.

"Hells, no." My voice was a little strangled.

"Good." His expression turned serious again, focused on the task at hand.

With one hand, he flicked open my purple bra before pushing me down on the bed. The lacy confection joined my shirt on the floor.

"Perfect," he whispered as he cupped my heavy breasts in his palms.

Every woman should have a man who believes with every fiber of his being that she is beautiful. I slid my hands to the hem of his T-shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin against mine. To see his own perfection.

"Not yet."

He pulled my hands away, and then lowered his mouth to my left breast. Drawing my nipple into his mouth, he flicked it with his tongue. Heat shot straight to my core. I arched my back, wanting more. He obliged, drawing my nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth.

He moved to my other breast, repeating the process. He sucked and licked until I was so wet and wanting, I thought I'd come from that alone.

He slid a hand to my waist, popping the button on my jeans and lowering the zipper tab. I wriggled a little, helping him as he pulled my jeans and panties slowly down my thighs and off, tossing them off the bed.

Wanting him naked, I grabbed the soft hem of his shirt again, pulling it up and over. It joined my clothes in a tangled pool on the floor, but he wouldn't let me touch his jeans. "Not yet."

I groaned in frustration. "Jerk." I said it with more affection than malice. His laugh rumbled against my sensitized skin.

He caressed my stomach and lower, stroking, parting me. He slid his fingers through my wetness. "Oh, gods, Morgan."

His fingers swirled around my bud. I whimpered at his touch as little tremors shot through me.

Our kiss was so hot, I thought we'd both go up in flames. This time he let me take off his jeans and black boxer briefs. Finally.

He took me in one long, slow slide. Stretching, filling. Little mini orgasms shot through me. I dug my fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders, a whimper building in the back of my throat.

He pulled out, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in. Hard. I arched to take him as deep as I could, letting out something between a scream and a groan at the sheer pleasure. I'd never been a quiet lover.

We fell into a rhythm, each thrust sending us closer and closer to the edge. One more, and we toppled over. Our cries of ecstasy were music to my ears.

As the afterglow faded, I held him tight in my arms, afraid to let him go lest I wake up and realize it was all a dream. "Gods I've missed this."

"Me, too." His voice was muffled. One hand was clenched in my hair and the other wrapped around me, holding me close.

I stroked his hair and down his neck to the smooth skin of his back. "I've missed you."

"Why? I've been right here." He raised his head, and the face staring back at me wasn't Inigo's. It was Jack.

***

I came awake with a gasp, kicking and thrashing at the thin blanket which had managed to somehow wrap around my legs. I flailed, half out of it, until I realized I'd been dreaming after all. I hadn't just made love. I was on a plane. Headed to France. With Jack.

Jack.

Oh, gods.

I buried my face in my hands, feeling a little ill. How could I dream of two men like this? I must have something wrong with my head.

"You okay?" Jack glanced over from his seat on the other side of the plane. He was holding a book, one of those Dan Brown type thrillers, and looked only vaguely interested in my condition.

"Huh?"

"Looks like you had a bad dream."

I swallowed, heat rising in my cheeks as I shoved hair out of my face. "Something like that. Where are we?"

"We'll be landing in about thirty minutes."

I nodded. "Guess I've got time to powder my nose."

I jumped up and rushed to the bathroom. Jack shot me a baffled look as I slammed the door behind me. I braced myself over the sink, half afraid I might be ill.

I felt guilty. Like I'd actually just cheated on Inigo, even though it had only been a stupid, ridiculous dream. And we can't control our dreams, right? I would never do that in real life. Besides, Cordelia had told me not to put too much stock in these dreams of Jack and Inigo. But what was I to think when I kept dreaming of them both?

I knew it was ridiculous to get so worked up over a dream, but I couldn't help it. It had all been so
real
. I was still half aroused and completely wracked with guilt and confusion.

"Get a grip," I snarled at my reflection before splashing my face with cold water. I ran wet fingers through my hair, trying to wrestle it back into some semblance of respectability.

It was just a dream, probably brought on by the fact that it had been several months since I'd had sex. Not to mention my boyfriend was in a coma, or whatever you want to call that weird egg thing, and my life was a total disaster at the moment. The dream didn't mean anything. Except that maybe I needed to get my head examined.

Chapter 23

The French countryside stretched out on either side of the car, wild with daffodils and the pink and white fuzz of tree blossoms. Here and there, stone farmhouses dotted the landscape, colorful wooden shutters open to the morning sun. Despite the cool temperature, I had the window cracked so I could catch the fresh air. The wind teased at my hair and chilled my skin, leaving me grateful I'd thought to wear my leather jacket. For a moment, I could almost pretend this was just a vacation and it was Inigo driving the car, not Jack.

I cast a sideways glance at Jack. As if I didn't have every plane of his face lodged in my mind for eternity. If I were honest with myself, in a way I was glad it was him I was with. I had been so angry with him, and yet I had missed him, too. It felt good to be back on the hunt together, and that gave me yet another thing to feel guilty about. How could I enjoy myself and enjoy time spent with another man when Inigo was...