Storm's Heart (29 page)

She stirred.
What do you mean?

He explained about the conversation he and Rune had had with Arethusa in the morgue, and the payout Geril had received from the bogus Illinois company that was supposedly owned by Cuelebre Enterprises.
Remember, I’m just making suppositions
, he said.
But given how Urien controlled traffic to and from Adriyel, it seems less likely that an outside agent from another demesne could have had the time to persuade Geril to act. And why would another demesne do that?

They wouldn’t
, she whispered.
They would have no reason to.

Exactly
, he said.
There’s no motive. Look at it as a risk/ benefit analysis. You’re already known to all the demesnes, and every last one of them is hoping to develop a good relationship with you. They may not like your connection to Dragos, but at worst they would watch and wait to see what kind of monarch you would make. Assassination could come at a later point if they feel you present an active danger to them. To try to assassinate you now wouldn’t benefit any of them strongly enough to offset the risk of inciting war with the Dark Fae or of incurring Dragos’s wrath.

She was still, huddled against him, and silent.

Again, I have no proof
, he said gently.
But what makes the most sense from what we know is that our perp was someone who crossed over from Adriyel to Chicago with Geril. Maybe it’s someone with an allegiance to Uriel’s old cronies; I am very interested in pursuing that line of investigation when we reach Adriyel. Our perp would have had time to work on him by promising a big enough reward. At the same time Geril would have perceived our perp as a big enough threat, so that killing you became more important than leaving you alive and trying to curry favor with you.

She shook off suds from her fingers to rub at her forehead, which had begun to ache.
Geril was a weathervane on risk and benefit
, she said thoughtfully
. It seems the benefit of a romantic attachment with me would have outweighed the risk from his coconspirator.

He might even have entertained giving up his partner
, Tiago said.
Until it became clear you had no interest in him. At that point his original agreement with his partner became more imperative. And his partner had to be in Chicago, not back in Adriyel, because they had the means and opportunity to act quickly to set up the second attack. That’s the best fitting profile we have right now. Everything points to it being someone in the Dark Fae delegation—or at least in their party.

She had already known there was a strong likelihood that whoever had tried to have her killed was Dark Fae, but somehow it was so much worse to hear it all laid out in Tiago’s cool, relentless logic.

She said aloud, “You sure know how to ruin a totally excellent bubble bath.”

W
hen the bathwater cooled, he picked her up and stepped out of the tub. Since he enjoyed carting her around so much, she decided to let him. He set her on her feet and handed her a towel. She scrubbed herself dry, her eyelids half shut. Then he swung her up into his arms again. She was asleep before he stepped out of the bathroom.

The next thing she knew she was warm all over, and her neck, cheek and ear were burning hot.

Irritable, she rubbed her neck and tried to burrow under her hard pillow, but she couldn’t figure out how to get underneath it. Her pillow moved up and down, and her eyes opened. She was lying on Tiago who lay sprawled on his back, his head turned to one side. All of the feather pillows had ended up on the floor. She lifted her head to peer down the bed. All of the blankets had ended up on the floor too. They were both nude, and the sheet was their only covering. The window curtains had not been completely closed, and a brilliant yellow band of morning sunlight slashed across the bed. The heat from the strip of sunlight was what had awakened her.

She tilted her head as she studied Tiago. She had never seen him asleep before. This was only the second time she had shared a bed with him. Apparently he did not understand the concept of bed sharing that well. He owned every inch of the bed and made the queen-sized mattress seem as small as a twin.

He radiated heat. She could feel it when she held her hand an inch away from his sun-burnished skin. His face was turned away from the morning sun. The arc from his head down the long column of his neck to the heavy flare of his collarbones was strong and graceful. He had a large scar that sliced across the right side of his torso. It started at the base of his right ribs and slashed all the way to his back. His broad shoulders and deep chest, with those defined intercostal muscles that rippled down his rib cage, indicated the kind of leviathan strength that could catapult his huge Wyr form through the air fast enough to bring down a helicopter gunship.

She touched the scar. One of the persistent legends about Tiago that circulated the Tower was from a time in the late 1960s when he had troops pinned down by enemy gunfire from a gunship. His fighters were dying, so he changed into his Wyr form and slammed sidelong into the helicopter. He drove the helicopter toward the side of a cliff, and managed to pull up just before it exploded against the cliff face. He had sustained serious injuries, as one of the helicopter blades had sliced into him, and he had been forced to take a six-month hiatus. Remembering how he had leaped forward to stop her SUV dead in its skid, she could believe the story.

As she studied him, the extent of his handsomeness was revealed, with those proud high cheekbones, dark slashing eyebrows, lean cheeks, a bold forehead, nose and chin and that mobile expressive mouth. When he was awake, intelligence and aggression carved him into a natural biological weapon. He was such a battering ram of a male, his personality was the kind of force that could roll over a country and bring down a government. No wonder the Dark Fae reacted so strongly to the possibility of him moving into their lands and home.

He’d had fun yesterday. Fun. She thought of him sprawled in the armchair in the downstairs study, calmly demolishing pastry after pastry while Aubrey looked at him in shock. Or what about that god-awful dinner? A variety of people looked daggers at him and tried several times to deliver a direct verbal cut, while he plowed through alarming amounts of beautifully prepared food with evident enjoyment for the cuisine and a monumental indifference for anybody else’s opinion. It wasn’t that he didn’t get that people had been trying to insult him. He just didn’t care.

She pinched her nose hard and bit her lip to keep from laughing and waking him up. He needed so much less sleep than she did, and to the best of her knowledge he had not had a chance to rest since he had arrived in Chicago. She wanted to enjoy this rare treat of watching him while he slept.

She had to learn to trust him, he’d said. He was right. Yesterday he had gleaned a surprising amount of information just by observing people, and he had a clear, strong vision of what he needed to do. His ruthlessness, his aptitude for tactics and strategy, and his incisive logic and investigative skills were all natural fits for the position he had reached out and taken for himself.

She took a deep breath and sighed. For the first time in what seemed like forever, the tight, restricting band around her chest was gone. She felt lighter, full of hope and optimism.

Tiago’s compilation of facts was persuasive. She believed as he did, that a killer lay in quiet wait in the house. But she now believed that the killer would be caught, and that she and Tiago had a fighting chance in this new life they had begun to carve out for themselves.

Belief, hope, optimism. Passion and laughter. A sense of safety. Look at the wealth of gifts he had given her. Just days ago she had been drunk, injured, frightened and alone.

Overcome with emotion, she pressed a kiss to his warm pectoral. She watched his face as he stirred, his beautiful mouth pulling into a sleepy smile. He put a hand to her cheek and fingered the pointed tip of her ear. She felt his penis stiffen against her hip, felt her own responding clench of hunger, and she indulged in a luxurious full-body stretch that moved her body along the length of his.

“Faerie, you sure do know how to make a man glad he’s alive,” he said. His morning voice was gravelly, deeper, and it rumbled against her cheek. He yawned.

“I notice that you are taking up the whole damn bed,” she said. She kissed his nipple. It pebbled under her lips.

“It’s comfortable so why not?”

“Tiago, it’s my bed.” She licked his nipple and nibbled at it and listened to his breath catch. It was the sexiest sound she had ever heard. Her hunger sharpened and became liquid as she felt his erection pulse.

His smile widened. He cupped her cheek with those long, clever fingers of his. “You’re my faerie. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining in the night.”

“I’m complaining now,” she informed him. She nipped gently at the pebbled flesh. He sucked air.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he said between his teeth. His legs shifted restlessly underneath her. “Take your time, tell me all about it. I’m a patient man for these kinds of complaints.”

“I demand recompense.” She slid farther down that long rippling torso, licking and kissing as she went.

He hissed, lifting his head to watch her with black glittering eyes. He cradled her head between his hands with tense care. “This is called recompense? I’m learning a whole new language here. Please, for pity’s sake, have as much recompense as you want.”

“I think I will.” His erection lay along his washboard stomach, the head almost touching his navel. It was as beautiful as the rest of him, large, hot and velvet-skinned, his testicles voluptuous, tight globes underneath. She gripped his penis under the head, lifted it to her mouth and sucked him in.

His head slammed back against the mattress and he opened his mouth in a silent shout. The sight of his extreme pleasure was so erotic she moistened further, her hunger settling between her legs as a deep, insistent ache. She scratched lightly at the side of his ribs as she suckled him, and his torso arched off the bed.

His hands and heavy, powerful thigh muscles were shaking. She did this. She caused this man to shake. She purred, opened up her throat and took all of him in.

“Holy gods, Niniane!”

This peaceful sunlit bedroom was their oasis, their time to let go of outside stresses and dangers and relish the nurturance of their sensuality. When they left they would have to arm themselves with weapons and watch the world with wary eyes, but for now they had this moment and she would take everything she could from it before she let it go. Under the lavish generosity of so many gifts, she dared to think and say what she felt. She whispered in his head,
You’re mine
.

He said between gritted teeth, “I couldn’t be more yours. Take all of me, faerie. Don’t leave one piece of me behind.”

She held her hands out to him. He laced his fingers through hers. They held on to each other as she took him until the warm vitality of his climax flooded her mouth.

He wasn’t done, of course. She had roused him to such an extent, he rose over her with his face desperate, stripped of all self-protection. He pinned her to the bed and drove into her. She turned her head at the gorgeousness of his entry, and the morning sun blinded her. The world around her was radiant, full of light. He stretched and filled her, and she clenched on him with all the strength she had. She caught the shadowed arc of his wide shoulders flexing over her. His head was flung back, eyes closed. People kill for this kind of beauty.

He took everything. It was unthinkable to keep one piece of her behind.

I love you. She heard the echo in the room and knew she had said it.

He framed her face and drove his mouth down on hers as he drove in her body. “So this is called love,” he gasped.
“La petite mort.”

Drenched in gold, she lay transfixed by the surprise of him, the language of his body, the poetry of his mind.

La petite mort
. The little death. More than a climax, a spiritual release.

Then they both took flight.

L
ate that afternoon, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Niniane called out, “Yes?”

Vrayna, one of the household staff, said, “My apologies, your highness, I know you said you did not wish to be disturbed, but a Chicago policewoman is here to see you.”

“Oh good, that’s Cameron!” Niniane dropped the clothes she held to clap her hands. “Please show her up.”

A few minutes later a second, firmer knock sounded on the door. She flung it open. Cameron stood in the hall, dressed casually in jeans, black shoes and a red summer tank top. Her sandy hair was pulled back in a plain clip, and her cinnamon-sprinkled face was lit with pleasure. Niniane threw her arms around the taller woman. Cameron laughed in surprise and hugged her back.

Then Cameron looked over Niniane’s shoulder. “Okay,” said the policewoman. “And you still intend to leave tomorrow?”

Niniane turned to look too.

The lovely bedroom was a rainbow-colored disaster. There were two armchairs arranged by a small table near open windows. The table held the remains of a meal on a food tray. Tiago occupied one of the chairs. He lounged with his long legs stretched out. He was dressed in jeans, a plain black T-shirt, boots, and just one visible weapon, a handgun in an arm holster. Jewelry boxes and toiletry bags were piled on one end of the bed. The other end was piled with dresses and other outfits. The closet spewed dozens of shoes on the floor. The second armchair was stacked with paperbacks, magazines, folder files and a laptop.

Tiago’s lap was mounded with filmy garments in a variety of colors, pink, cream, royal blue, black, lacy red, and a few things that were patterned with flowers. He held in his hands a pair of pale pink high-heeled slip-on shoes with marabou trim. They looked absurdly tiny in his massive grip, the marabou feathers waving gently in a breeze that wafted in from the windows.