The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) (28 page)

Each part of the painting in front of her was gorgeous. The grapevines had the lifelike texture of the plants cascading from his hidden memento mori, and the people could have been caught unaware in a pause. In her heart she recognized that the workers and the vines together embodied the beauty of the divine and the unity that wine represented.

Stig’s painting made her vision real.

Her artist had been here. The hot ball of loss that had blocked her throat for so many days started to dissolve in the warmth of the colors in front of her. She scanned the hall for a note as oil paint and turpentine from the fresh masterpiece filled her nostrils, but he wasn’t watching from the shadows.

Of course not. She hurried to her door; her lock was good, but Stig was better. He was probably inside with a bottle of wine and dinner, waiting, and this was the first stage of an elaborate plan. Maybe he wanted to convince her to sleep with him again, which honestly wouldn’t take as much work as that painting represented.

As her key turned, anticipation bubbled in her veins like Prosecco and she tried to decide how to respond. Throw herself straight into the arms of the man who had sacrificed himself for her, or play a little cool with the man who hadn’t called to find out how she was or to say he was alive?

“Stig?” She carried the giant canvas sideways into her apartment. The living room was stuffy, the result of closed windows on a warm day. “Stig? Are you here?” She propped the gift carefully against a bookshelf, watching her hands so she didn’t touch the paint that wasn’t fully set. “This is an amazing...”

Her words trickled off. Clearly Stig wasn’t here. He didn’t care if she loved his gift or if it would make the perfect label for the wine she wanted to produce.

A hollow feeling, and the need to fill the space with tears, rushed over her. The contradictions were too hard to decipher. That she meant something to him was obvious the longer she stared at the painting, an overwhelming and clear statement that he cared, but then he’d disappeared before she could say thank you. She couldn’t understand a man who cared this much and who was brave enough to rescue her, but would skulk away.

She stared at the only clue she had and realized she knew the people he’d painted. The woman was her mother, the face copied from the wedding photo Christina had included in Big Frank’s obituary. The two men were Frank himself with his classic grin and a shadowy man whose back was to the viewer as he held his empty hands toward the light. But she guessed who he was, too, because while her mother and Frank picked grapes, the man whose face wasn’t visible had only one small thing in his hand.

A tiny silver ring with a dot of blinding white, a pearl.

Girl with Pearl Ring.

That man was her father, the one she’d never met, who’d probably died during the trip north. Stig had incorporated the lost members of her family into the painting.

I don’t paint people anymore. I’d rather not be burdened with memories.

He’d painted them for her.

An easily recognizable gift stood centered on her dining table. Of course the man had more than one bottle of Chateau Perlus squirreled away, but if he thought she needed additional wooing, he underestimated his artistic skills. She turned straight around, out to the hall, and locked the door with a quick fumble because Stig might be across the street, watching for her. She knew exactly how to greet him.

Outside, she scanned the trees, the building corners, doorways, parked cars. Nothing.

He’d broken all his rules. He’d painted people, he’d followed her. He’d become involved, as involved as she was, and maybe, just maybe, the vineyard scene indicated he wanted to be part of her future. Maybe it meant there was a future.

If she could find her thief.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A total prat, that was what he was. Stig stood in front of the darkened Double M and enumerated the ways he’d ruined Christina’s life. She wasn’t dead, but not for lack of opportunity since she’d become entangled with him. Her reputation and future were shriveled to nothing, and starting over in the internet-connected world was close to impossible. He’d never win her. She’d probably already taken the sharp end of a corkscrew to the canvas, although he doubted she’d pour the replacement bottle of Chateau Perlus down the drain.

Suddenly he was too exhausted to lurk, feeling sorry for himself. He wanted to sit on a cozy sofa, enjoy a special woman’s company and later hopefully her body. Only one woman fit. He turned his back on the shop and started walking toward Christina’s apartment.

Theresa had bought him paints and canvas in the first place as one of her American-style therapy notions and pushed him to come here to see Christina. The doctor claimed Christina had rung asking about his rescue and recovery, but at the time he’d been too gormless to return the call. Geoffrey Morrison was supposed to die, so he’d decided to fade out of Christina’s life.

However, there was no idiot quite like an old idiot, and he’d had fifteen centuries to perfect his stupidity. He had to know what Christina thought of his gift. What she thought of him. Or really, of
them.

An interminable block away from the Double M, he saw her compact gymnast’s shape trotting toward him. Her head, almost fragile-looking without the masses of hair she’d cut off, scanned left and right at each car and intersection. Searching for him, he hoped with a fervor that burst in his chest nearly as painfully as the bullet in Paddington.

His stride lengthened as much as he could without sending his leg into agony. He wouldn’t be any good bleeding on the pavement.

She saw him. He knew it when she stopped turning side to side.

It didn’t matter if his thigh muscle protested his pace. He needed to reach her faster. To feel that sense of life and excitement when he held her.

“Stig!” She barreled into him, two high-speed cars connecting with the objects of their desire, each other. Her hair smelled like vanilla and honey, sweetness rising off her to wrap him in warmth.

Perhaps she wanted him, if her greeting was an indication. The odds seemed to hint at a favorable outcome. The glistening pink of her lips beckoned him to kiss her. This kiss was better than every other because it was honest. Neither one wanted anything but each other and neither had a plan. Or at least he didn’t, and she must feel the same because she dug her hands into his hair and pulled him tighter as their lips fused.

The pavement wasn’t the place to claim her. The part of him that had lived centuries in the reserved upper lip land knew that, but the part of him who seemed to have come close to a true death two weeks ago wanted to explore life.

“Where?” His lips feathered over the smooth skin of her cheekbone as he panted his question. “I need you. Now.”

“My store.”

It was close, and they were there so soon she probably didn’t even notice how easily he lost his breath. Or she chalked it up to the kisses.

The key ring was outsized and jingly in her tiny hands. Her nails were repaired, neat and pale pink. He couldn’t see any marks left from the nightmare he’d put her through, but he’d hazard a guess that she had as many actual nightmares as he did. The interminable minutes it took for her shaking hands to unlock the dead bolt, then another lock and then key a security system, imprinted on his brain. He could have done it all in seconds, but then he would have had to look at the locks and not her.

“Are you well?” His voice sounded rusty, and he realized he’d probably gone two days without a conversation.

“Fine.” As she finally pushed open her shop door, her gaze shifted to where he leaned on the jamb, trying to be subtle about taking weight off his left leg. “How are you?”

He’d helped Galan rhyme couplets in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
but “Fine too,” was all he could compose in reply. Sod that.

Honesty.
“Actually, I’m not quite healed yet. But nothing—” and he meant nothing short of an earthquake or a direct hit from a meteor, “—can stop me right now.” Of course
she
could, if she sent him away, but after the kiss and her trembling hands on the dead bolt, he felt secure assuming she wouldn’t.

They entered the shop he’d only seen in internet photos. The large leather chesterfield beckoned.

“What exactly—” behind him she dropped the blinds to the left of the front door, “—did you intend by leaving that amazing painting—” she dropped the right-hand blinds, her wrist twisting the little stick to close out the rest of the world, perhaps the most seductive move that particular body part had ever performed for him, “—in my doorway and then disappearing?” She closed the last set, over the door itself, to create a cocoon.

“I don’t know.” He’d painted the vision she’d described of a winery that celebrated the people in the fields, but he’d been too afraid to see her face when she looked at his gift. Beyond giving her the painting, he hadn’t had a goal, other than the obvious one of checking her knickers. He’d become a man living an hour at a time, too close to not living to worry about tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he was standing here, because he no longer thought about what would happen when she inevitably aged and he didn’t. If they had an hour, he wanted all sixty minutes to be with her. If he had another century, he wanted to find as much adventure alongside her as they could create together.

He stood between the antique copper bar and the chesterfield. Her style, a blend of high street luxury and casual practicality, was clear in the store decor. The colors on the walls and accents—her chosen palette—were the same ones he’d used in the painting.

She crossed to him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, but she conquered him without speaking. Her hands unwrapped the cashmere scarf from his neck.

Since the fight with the dragon, he was often cold, but she ignited warmth in him where her mouth brushed his skin. Her lips breathed fire on his neck, all he needed to be released from his trance. He smoothed the back of her sweater, feeling the knit but yearning to touch her skin and hair. To satisfy the craving, he ran his fingers up the velvety short hair at her nape. “This cut is spectacular on you.”
Rule number two
—
always say you love the new style.

“Nervous?” She’d noticed his tremors. “The man who danced with a dragon?”

“I’m the man who got you put there in the first place.” This was a welcome he didn’t deserve, but like all the things he’d never earned, he’d take it anyway. “I’d understand if you never wanted to see me again.”

“Shh.” She traced the outline of his lips. He heard the tiny rasp as she stroked over his evening stubble. He didn’t want to mark her. He should have shaved.

Her sweater wasn’t nearly as silky as the skin of her waist where he slipped his hands underneath her clothing. This was the feel of pleasure. His fingers stroked higher, over the contours where her skin pulled taut over her ribs, to the edge of her bra.

She gasped, a little movement that permitted him to touch the twin treasures of her breasts. They were as responsive and pleasure-seeking as he remembered, her nipples tightening with each twist through the silky fabric.

Her quick fingers had already unbuttoned his shirt and were busy smoothing circles on his chest. Circles that called to be matched by his hands on her body. He rubbed harder over the points that pushed against the nerves in his palm, seekers and receptors each of them, wanting more, needing more.

“Why are we standing?” Her voice was breathy, as if the angle of her neck, thrown back in invitation, had trapped all her air. Or maybe it was his mouth at her collarbone or his hand on her breast that made her gasp. He certainly felt inhale-impaired.

“Why indeed.”

“Couch.” She waved vaguely to his right, toward the chesterfield with the brass rivets that looked as if it belonged in a gentleman’s club. Neither of them let go of the other as they staggered toward it, legs and arms and bodies pressing and entwining. The only thing that came apart was clothing. The button at her skirt waistband. The buckle of his belt. The large hoop earring that caught on his nose.

The back of his knees bumped the seat and he sprawled on the bottom, one leg over the padded arm, as she scrambled to straddle him. He wished he could have lifted her into place, but she did a damn fine job of wiggling into position.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” she said.

“Unh.” He pushed her skirt higher on her thighs. Even he didn’t need to talk right now.

“You tried to tell me you were immortal so many times, but I didn’t understand.” At least the chitchat didn’t impair her ability to create friction with that tight little arse rubbing circles where it mattered. “I didn’t even try to listen. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll give you several chances to make it up to me.” American women had the luscious habit of going without tights, offering convenient access to the smooth skin of their inner thighs, but after a fortnight he wasn’t going to dawdle to get her fully naked. His fingers slipped under the elastic top of her knickers and eased them down, forcing her to lift herself and let his hands shape the whole curve of her buttocks, the sleek line of her thighs, as he slid them lower. Yes, this was heaven.

Then she unzipped him, and his brain did a bunk. When her hands spread apart his fly and pulled him free, he knew he’d finally reached the glorious hall of heroes. Nothing else could feel like this, her small hands strong on his cock, squeezing and pumping, then those same hands bringing him right to the place he needed to be. When her wet, hot center came down on him, he thrust in her and couldn’t think beyond rising and falling.

There might be people who had never felt need as strong as the one that pounded through him or the rhythm that bound his heartbeat, his hips, even his life, to hers as he lifted and drove home. There might be people who didn’t need the rhythm of her squeezes and the sounds of her moans when she couldn’t stay quiet, but there was no one who could hold back when she slammed down and contracted around him, and threw her head back to shout his name. No one.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. He had to remember to breathe and figure out if his heart would still beat, and she seemed to lack the bone structure to move off his chest.

“You lied to me, you know. About something important.”

Her words were too throaty and slow to cause alarm, so he continued smoothing her short hair, which felt like petting a tabby. “Which time?”

“Driving to Luc’s. You said you weren’t a good man.” She pressed her lips to the spot on his neck where his pulse beat. “You turned out to be a hero.”

His hand stilled. He’d done what he’d had to do, but he wasn’t a hero. A man as arse-over-teakettle for her as Stig was wouldn’t correct her fantasies. He’d have to live up to them.

In the pause, he snicked down the zip at the back of her skirt, now at the side because her clothes were twisted. Her waistband opened. If he wanted to pull the skirt off, they’d have to disconnect, so he tugged it over her head.

“It’s a little late to undress now, isn’t it?” she said when she emerged from the fabric.

“It’s never too late to admire a life model.” He reached around and unclasped her bra. Freed, her breasts beckoned in front of his face. But he had another idea and lifted her own hand to place under her breast. Both hands would be a more balanced composition, and he wanted to see the darker nipples peeping through her fingers. The light pink polish and the hands slightly more tanned than the hidden skin.
Beautiful.

He spread her fingers a little farther apart and licked his own to roll the tips of her nipples, making them glisten. Not enough, not nearly enough, so he stretched to the offering and sucked each one between his tongue and teeth for a long instant, flicking over the skin. When he released her, the brown points poked hard out between her fingers, exactly as he’d intended to present the visual bounty of love. Perhaps a charcoal sketch could capture the values of light and dark in her skin tones.

“Am I allowed to move?” Her husky-voiced question accompanied a mysterious smile worthy of a Renaissance courtesan.

“I lack a sketchbook, so I suppose you may.”

With that permission, she tightened her thighs and lifted and it was very, very clear that only part of him had been thinking about drawing. Her hands cupped her breasts exactly as he’d placed them. It was the fire of a glass furnace fusing around him as they collided and lifted.

He would never leave her. “I love you.”

She must have heard his whisper because she rocked harder, threw her head back and drew his name out like a battle cry. His name wasn’t the reply he wanted to hear, but he’d take it as a starting point while he emptied into her.

Eventually his gulps of air settled into light panting, but the awkwardness of an unanswered declaration hadn’t disappeared, requiring a strategic quip. “You Americans are awfully serious about exercise, aren’t you?”

She humphed, a sound that vibrated through her diaphragm and around his stick, a bit ticklish in the aftermath. Then she shifted and wiggled, he withdrew and rotated, until they were side by side, a patterned blanket from the back of the chesterfield covering their bodies like steerage passengers sharing a single bunk. Or two people who knew each other well enough to cuddle like spoons.

“I’m serious about you too.” Her declaration was vague enough for a politician.

His left arm was trapped under him, but his right searched beneath the blanket until he found her hand. He was fucked, but he was committed to the course, so over the top he went. “I’m not the man I was two weeks ago. Or a thousand years ago.” Perhaps he was still as healthy as an average bloke, although likely a shade better in the sack, but he wasn’t going to fight any dragons this week. “I’m not healing completely. Maybe I never will.”

“Seriously? You think you’re less than full speed?” Her Americanism was endearing. She rolled over, putting her nose nearly in his throat and her breasts squashed against his chest. “We just did it twice in thirty minutes. I feel confident speaking for my gender and saying there is nothing wrong with you.”