Trinity Blue (4 page)

“You okay?” he asked, then lifted the mug and took a sip of coffee, studying her over the rim.

She was acutely aware of the sheriff watching them, so she just nodded and left it at that.

“He
start
around this time every day?” Hale asked with a glance at his watch.

“He’s usually here around 8.”

“And you let him just walk in like that? You give him a key?”

Jen narrowed her eyes at Hale’s tone. But, of course, that was exactly what he wanted, to get a rise out of her or, more likely, to get a rise out of Daemon. “No, he doesn’t have a key. Yes, he just walks in. I unlock the door in the morning before I put on the coffee.”

“He
leave
for lunch?”

“He—”

“Can answer for himself,” Daemon said gently, but his eyes glinted with a hard light as he settled a look on the sheriff. “I have lunch here. I leave when the day’s work is done. And I didn’t kill anyone. That about cover it, Sheriff Hale?”

Hale lifted his hat off the table,
then
set it back down with methodical care. When he looked up again, his expression was as hard as Daemon’s. “Jenny, you mind giving us a few minutes, man to man?”

For some inexplicable reason, she did mind, but had no reason to say so. Instead, she rose and collected her crutches. Daemon met her gaze, and offered a tight smile. She realized that he wanted this, wanted to talk with the sheriff alone. She supposed he wanted to lay any suspicions to rest. What other explanation could there be?

Seeing no option, she left them alone. But she lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, listening to the men talk. Daemon asked as many questions as he answered, and she had the thought that he was probing the sheriff for information as much as the sheriff was probing him. Their tones grew hushed and she lost the trail of the conversation.

Then the sheriff’s voice rose a bit and drifted to her. “So where were you last night, Mr. Alexander?”

“Last night?” Daemon’s tone was laced with perverse humor. “Why, I was right here, Sheriff.
With Jen.”

She froze. He didn’t exactly lie. He
had
been here with her as night fell.
But after that?
Where had Daemon been then? And why did he only offer a partial truth?

“Why do you ask, Sheriff? Was there some problem last night?”

“Mrs.
Peteri
says she saw someone lurking in the woods.
The same woods where a woman’s remains were found.
Someone with a flashlight that has a blue bulb.
A very powerful flashlight.
That wouldn’t have been you, would it, Mr. Alexander?”

Daemon laughed. “Come outside and search my car if you feel compelled, Sheriff Hale.”

“I just might do that,” the sheriff said. “Might like to look at where you live, too. You rent a room at
Maybelle
Tewksbury’s, don’t you?”

“I do. You’re welcome to look there, as well.” Daemon paused. “I don’t own a flashlight.
Blue bulb or otherwise.”

But he did. If not a flashlight, then some other type of light. Jen had seen it leaking through the door of the room Daemon had been working in last night.

Not bothering with stealth because her crutches made that hopeless, she headed up the stairs to the room under the eaves. Heart racing, she pushed open the door. The walls that had been covered with her grandmother’s floral paper were now a soft cappuccino color. She hobbled into the room. Paint tins were neatly placed on a folded drop cloth, roller trays washed and stacked. And there was a high-power light in the corner, switched to off, with the cord coiled neatly beneath the outlet. Which meant it needed electricity to work. This couldn’t be the blue light
Lina
Peteri
had seen in the woods.

With a sigh of relief, Jen turned back toward the bedroom door. Her heart twitched and stopped.
Because only three of the four walls had been painted that warm coffee color.
The wall behind her was still covered in her grandmother’s paper, but it wasn’t torn and stained any more. It looked as though someone had wound the hands of time backward. The paper looked fresh and new; there was no dirt, no smears or tears. Somehow, Daemon had cleaned and restored it. Moving closer, she placed her hand on the wall, feeling her world tip and tilt. What sort of man did something like this, something so selflessly kind?

From outside came the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine, and a moment later Daemon was there, framed in the doorway, his dark hair falling across his brow, his hard lips curved in a small smile.

“Sheriff Hale left?” Jen asked, feeling inexplicably awkward.

“Yeah.”

“Did he warn you not to leave town?”

He studied her face, his expression intent.
Then the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile.
“Yeah.”
He closed the space between them. “Do you like it?
The paper?”

 
“I love it.”
I could love you, if I let myself
. Oh, God, where had that thought come from? This man was not for her. He could never be for her. She had known for her whole life that she was different, that once she came into her full sorcerer power she would live for centuries, as her mother and grandmother did, never aging, using clothing and make-up to hide that fact for a time. But eventually, people noticed. And eventually, the sorcerer had to leave.

No mortal man could be her future. And for the first time, that reality made Jen unbearably sad.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save it all, but I managed to strip away enough bits from the three most damaged walls and use them to patch the fourth. Then I restored it with a gum eraser and a little brush—” he gestured at a couple of small paint tins “—after I matched the color of the flowers.”

“Thank you. You have no idea—”

“But I do. That’s why I did it,” he said.
For you
, he didn’t say. He didn’t have to.

Again, her world tilted. The amount of work he’d done, staying late every night.
For her.
He’d done this for her.

His blue eyes were bright and clear against the fringe of dark lashes, beautiful, deep,
glittering
with something she was afraid to acknowledge. She felt the heat of him as he stepped closer.

She lifted her hand and rested her fingers on his jaw, his stubble rough beneath her touch. The contact scorched her, made her ache and yearn.

He drew a shallow breath and held very still, careful, cautious. “Been a while since anyone touched me like that,” he rasped, his gaze holding hers as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer.

Her crutches limited her movements, and she cursed them silently. She wanted to rise up on her toes, press her mouth to his.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. It was both an order and a plea.

He slid his fingers to the base of her skull, threading them through the strands of her hair. Her eyes flew open,
then
fluttered closed as he kissed her, lips hard on hers. He wanted her and he let her know that, his kiss spinning through her, touching every part of her like a live wire. With a moan, she arched into him, her crutches clattering to the floor, her weight held in his arms.

Heat and need spiraled through her. She wanted him, needed him, here, now. She opened beneath his kiss, tongues twining. With one hand, he slammed the bedroom door shut,
then
pressed her back against it, his mouth hungry on hers. His hands moved up and down her back, then slid down to cup her ass.

She couldn’t stop touching him, her palms skimming the corded muscle of his shoulders and chest then sliding lower. His erection bulged against his jeans as she fumbled with the zipper, freeing him, closing her hand around his hot skin. Desire scoured her, leaving her panting.

“So damned sweet,” he murmured against her lips. Then he kissed her jaw, her throat, his tongue tracing a burning path to her collarbone. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to the swell of her breast before moving lower to suck her nipple through the thin cotton of her shirt and the lace of her bra.

She made an inarticulate sound, part pleasure, part embarrassment.

“Too fast?” he asked, lifting his head to stare down at her. His eyes were blue flame, his lips drawn taut with desire.

It
was
too fast. And she couldn’t remember why she ought to care. She felt like she’d been waiting for this moment, known this was going to happen from the first second she’d seen him standing in her yard. Besides, she was the one who’d shoved her hand down his pants.

In answer to his question, she raked her nails lightly along his shaft, then closed her fist around him and stroked.

His hand slid under her cotton skirt, his fingers dipping between her legs, making her gasp. He traced her thigh to the edge of her splint, and he must have decided the effort of taking her panties off was too great because he yanked them sharply, the sound of tearing cloth loud in the empty, echoing room.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered against her throat as his fingers moved between her thighs. The he cupped her buttocks and hiked her higher against the door, one hand curving under the splint that guarded her injured knee, lifting and supporting it. She guided him to her, his erection nudging her, easing in just a little, stretching her. With a moan, she let her head fall back against the door, and she gave herself over to him, to the promise that his tightly corded muscles could hold her there.
To the pleasure of his thrust as he filled her.

He kissed her, open-mouthed, deep. Sensation spiked, her hips rocking in time with his, her moans and cries swallowed by his kiss. He made a raw sound, hard-edged pleasure and animal lust, and he moved in long, full strokes, harder, faster, until she unraveled, her body clenched tight around him as he shuddered his release. Ecstasy rode her senses, blurring her thoughts, her awareness.

Finally, panting, he dropped his head, nuzzling the curve of her neck, still holding her up against the door. She felt weightless, boneless.
Wonderfully alive.
Then he shifted her so she was cradled in his arms and he carried her to her bed. There, he stripped off her clothes and kissed her—her neck, her belly, her breasts—taking his time, teasing her.

Then he took her again, driving them both over the edge.

“Sleep,” he whispered, cradling her in his arms.
“Sleep, love.”

And she did, her lids drifting shut, her body replete.

When she woke, he was gone. But he’d brought her crutches from the room under the eaves and left them on the floor by the bed.

o0o

Daemon was sanding the patch he’d put on the wall in the dining room when he heard Jen behind him. Schooling his features just in case she was having a moment of regret, he turned to look at her and felt a shimmer of the
continuum
. No doubt about it. Jen carried a hint of magic. She wasn’t a sorcerer or a demon... but maybe she was a blighted seed, a human who had a magical progenitor somewhere in her past. Such mortals usually tapped their limited power to become psychics or healers or energy workers. But Jen was none of those. He was certain she had no clue that magic, both light and dark, existed at the edges of her world, no idea that there really were monsters in the closet.

She was an accountant.

An incredibly beautiful, sexy accountant that he was willing to break all his self-imposed rules for.

 
“Hey,” she said, sending him a glorious smile. No reservations. No regrets. Not his Jen. He should have known. “Break time. I’ll make lunch.”

His Jen
.
What the hell was he thinking? That they’d set up house here in Freetown? Tend the garden? Walk in the park? And when he never got sick, never aged? When the trinity got restless and demanded release? What then? He knew how quickly love could shrivel in the face of the truth.

“Turkey sandwiches?” he asked, forcing a light tone.

She cocked her head to the side and studied him, a faint frown marking her brow, and he knew she sensed his tension. She saw too much, read him too well. It was like they’d known each other forever, rather than a few short weeks.

“Turkey it is.
With tomatoes.
And no sprouts,” she said. “Give me five minutes.”

 
He could hear her moving around the kitchen and he closed his eyes and listened to her humming as she set out plates. After a minute, he headed out to his car to retrieve a package from the trunk. He left it in the front hallway and met her in the kitchen. “I, uh, bought you something.”

She shot him a look of surprise. “You already gave me a gift.
My grandmother’s wallpaper.
I don’t want you to… that
is
… I just...”

Her voice trailed away, and he realized that she was worried about him spending his money on her. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
If she only knew.
Finances were no issue for him. One could amass quite a fortune in two hundred years.

Looking down at her upturned face, at the sweet spray of freckles and her sparkling eyes, he had the crazy urge to tell all, to share with her his past, his present,
the
knowledge of what he was.