Man (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 9) Page 2

  A quarter moon illuminated Cain’s path as he climbed over the rocky outcrop between the beach and Olivia’s house. There wasn’t enough light to find his way without the risk of tumbling off the cliff. For a terrain this rough, he needed help from the night vision goggles. Quietly, he moved across the lawn and climbed the steps to the front door. Thanks to Sara, who was working from the van parked five miles away, the dogs next door didn’t make a sound.

  Punching in the code, Cain deactivated the alarm. It hadn’t been difficult to steal the code. He’d spied on Olivia with the Eye in the Sky, the team’s satellite, when she’d entered it. From in or outside the house, it would appear as if the alarm was functioning normally. The camera feed was replaced with the satellite recordings he’d taken of a sleeping Olivia. To the outside world, he was invisible in Olivia Reid’s house.

  Tonight, he went straight for the basement, easily locating the wooden panel with the hidden door. Lann was right. It was impossible to open without the code and a fingerprint. If Godfrey’s lab was behind that door, they had precious little time to break in. It had taken a month to find Mrs. Reid after an informant had spotted her in Rio. A month too long. Godfrey already had six of the forbidden arts cells. With the seventh, he could render himself not only immortal, but he’d also be able to clone, populating the world with Godfrey replicas. They had to find him before he succeeded. Cain intended using Mrs. Reid in his quest. He wasn’t going to cut off her finger as Maya had suggested. There were other ways of forcing her to comply. Certain there wasn’t another way into the tunnel, he made his way to the bedroom.

  The woman’s naked form was splayed out on the mattress. She was lying on her stomach, her long legs on top of the sheets. A flawless back and the firm globes of her ass were exposed. With one knee bent and her leg drawn up, a dark patch between her thighs hinted at the treasure sheltered between.

  He was a patient man. He’d bide his time.

  Godfrey had told Cain’s chiromancist in Amsterdam that his wife held the six cells. It was only a matter of time before Godfrey showed up with the seventh. In the meantime, Cain planned on learning everything he could about Mrs. Reid, in particular why she was the only person whose thoughts he couldn’t read. Yes, it was only a matter of time before he’d crack the code of her complicated mind that never seemed to shut down. Even now, she stirred with restless dreams. What they were, he couldn’t discern. She’d pulled a veil over her thoughts so effectively it sheltered even her subconscious state. All he could tell was that they weren’t pleasant.

  She changed positions, turning on her side. Her arm obscured her breast, but the underside of the shapely curve peeked out. His footsteps made no sound on the carpet as he walked to the side of the bed. The smell of patchouli reached his nostrils. She moaned, the deep sound of her voice vibrating with distress. A frown pleated her brow. He reached out, tracing a finger just above the line between her eyebrows. She stirred some more.

  Open your mind to me, pretty Olivia.

  A closed book. He changed the direction of his hand, capturing a strand of hair between his fingers. Damp. She’d gone to bed without drying her hair again. He rubbed the rebellious curl. Silky. Sometimes, she dried her hair straight and combed it back. At other times, she left the curls to bounce around her face. She moaned and swiped at her head. He had no choice but to let the strand slip through his fingers. Turning on her back with her head to the side, she lifted one arm above her head and rested the other on her stomach. Cain stood perfectly still. His eyes trailed over her, from her straight nose and full lips to her strong chin and slender neck. Her collarbone made a beautiful embossed pattern under her skin, a vein throbbing steadily in the hollow just above. Her breasts were firm and round with small, honey-colored areolas and delicate nipples. Her ribcage tapered to a narrow waist, and her hipbones formed an alluring valley for her flat stomach and the short-trimmed triangle of hair that lay lower. The trim exposed the shape of her pussy lips and the slit that parted them. Every inch of her was covered in sinfully smooth, unblemished skin.

  Ogling her in her sleep was no different than spying on her in the shower, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. His dick grew thick and hot. The erection didn’t surprise him. How long it lasted did. She had a strange effect on him. He’d had many hard-ons after his wife’s death, but he’d eased them effectively with a hand job. Something told him a hand job wasn’t going to do for this ache that persisted in her presence.

  Carefully, he pulled the sheet from the foot of the bed up to her shoulders, as if hiding her lustrous physique could eliminate his need. They shared a dark, one-sided relationship. How could they not? After studying her for the better part of a month he knew her as someone who met her in normal circumstances couldn’t know the reclusive Mrs. Reid in a year. She kept to herself, had no friends, and almost no contact with the outside world. She got up every morning at six-thirty for her first cup of coffee and hit the gym in the basement level of her house at seven. At eight, she had a shower, followed by a breakfast of fruit at nine. From ten to twelve she did the laundry and cleaned the house. From twelve to one, she ate a salad on the balcony. In the afternoon, she painted in her studio. He’d researched all the paintings she’d ever exhibited and sold. They were all dark and disturbing. At sunset, she enjoyed a cocktail in the lounge or on the veranda, and then she’d cook while listening to music before retiring to bed with a book. Whatever lived in her head was haunting. Her dreams and paintings were evidence of that.

  Since he’d first broken in, he’d been through the house from top to bottom searching for the six forbidden cells. Sooner than later, she’d have to give him what he wanted or he’d have to force it. Hurting her wasn’t something he looked forward to. She was an enigma he failed to understand. He admired her lonely perseverance, artistic mind, and brilliant talent that had won her several art awards. Everything she did, she did flat-out, which was why she had a body most young girls would die for. He admired the self-control he sensed, and pondered the sensuality he felt hidden under the layers of her self-induced isolation.

  Who are you, Olivia?

  He lingered another few minutes, and when her mind didn’t open up for him, he left the same way he’d come.

  Yes, he’d bide his time. Just a little bit longer.

  In the dusty light washing through the stained-glass windows, Olivia knelt in front of the altar. The church interior was cool in the heat of noon. A dark veil hid her face, even if the church was always empty at this hour. She lit three candles––one each for Amy, Henry, and baby Emma. Clasping her hands together, she said a silent prayer. Then she lit another three and prayed for Adam, Lily, and Nicolas. It was probably wise to light one for herself––her time was running out, after all––but she didn’t deserve the mercy or forgiveness that went with prayer. Glancing over her shoulder, she ensured she was still alone.

  She pushed to her feet and dusted her knees. After making the sign of the cross, she ventured back into the bleached-out daylight and heat. On her way home, she stopped at the market to stock up on fresh produce. There would be consequences if she weren’t prepared when Godfrey arrived. Back at the house, she went for a run on the treadmill, pushing her body to the brink of collapsing before having a shower and a salad for dinner.

  To put off the nightmares for another couple of hours, she curled up in bed to read, but the words didn’t sink in. Her mind wasn’t on the poems. Giving up, she shut the book and turned off the lights. If she were lucky, sleep would take her for a few hours.

  Sometime after dosing off, she woke with a start. A glance at the backlit alarm clock on the nightstand told her it was just after midnight. She couldn’t be sure what had woken her, but her gut waved red warning flags at her. With unquestionable certainty, she became aware of a presence in the room. Her scalp prickled, and her hands turned clammy. Her heart worked painfully, every beat a punch in her ribcage. With the moon being in its first quarter, it was too dark to see into the shadows that obsc
ured the corners of the room, but she could feel another human being’s energy. Swallowing her fear, she sat up. Slowly, the shape of the shadows changed, morphing into the outline of a man.

  Chapter 2

  “Show your face,” Olivia said. “I know you’re there.”

  The man edged from the dark. His steps were quiet but powerful, like those of a feline hunter. On the exterior, he appeared relaxed, but an undercurrent of deadly danger emanated from him. His energy was palpable. It reached her in zaps of static electricity, making her skin tingle and her heartbeat pick up in fear, not without a measure of awe. Perfect control radiated from every tightly drawn muscle. He was a man who’d mastered himself, a man who commanded attention. He didn’t show himself because she’d asked. He’d done it because he wanted her to see him. He owned this moment, the very situation.

  She couldn’t get herself to move. What was the point of running? If her life had to end, she’d rather it be by the hand of someone who wordlessly forced respect than a lesser man. She faced him squarely, waiting for his next step, letting him suck her into his control. It was pathetic, but by God it felt good to let go and set herself free from the stress of forever fighting, forever looking over her shoulder.

  Another stride and only half a shadow played over his profile. In the light of the moon, the partially obscured portrait of his countenance showed a face with high cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken. His chin was square with a dimple in the middle and his jaw strong. Dark curls brushed his ears and the collar of his shirt. The greying hair along his temples gave him a gentlemanly edge, but it would be unwise to be fooled into such a notion. The man who’d broken into her house and stood at the foot of her bed had a polished appearance, but underneath the veneer lay something deeply disturbing, something dangerous.

  From head to toe, he was dressed in white. Even his leather gloves were white. It seemed fitting. A killer in an angel’s costume. Maybe the angel of death. For long moments, they stared at each other, the hunter and the prey assessing one another. Her heart had gone from a gallop to a sprint. Blood zinged in her ears. Under the sheets, her knees trembled.

  Unable to stand the tension any longer, she wet her dry lips. “I know why you’re here.”

  A smile flirted with his lips. “Is that so?”

  His voice matched his hard body. It was deep and raspy, stroking over her senses like a flute player’s hypnotizing tune. When he moved she jumped a little, her nerves skittish despite her forced bravado.

  “Tell me why I’m here,” he said, slowly rounding the bed.

  He made the words sound like a non-negotiable instruction. She was afraid of him, but not to face the facts or speak the truth.

  “To kill me.”

  Stopping next to her, he studied her with an unreadable expression. Time paused as she scanned his face, having a full glimpse of him for the first time. His eyes were a deep brown, like unrefined sugar and molasses. A birthmark flared over his cheek, scarring him in a way that emphasized the dangerous imperfection of his soul. She didn’t need to know him to know she was right. Her instinct was too strong.

  The fingers of his right hand moved at his side, as if they were running over the keys of a piano or as if he was warming them up for a task that required a delicate touch. She didn’t jerk back when he lifted his arm. Neither did she scream when he wrapped his fingers around her throat.

  “How are you going to do it?” she asked while she could still speak. His fingers could tighten in a moment, cutting off her airflow or crushing her windpipe. “The least you owe me is to tell me how you’re going to end my life.”

  He pushed her down until her head hit the pillow.

  “Comfortable?” he whispered.

  A gentleman killer. He’d make it quick and painless. Adrenaline morphed into lethargic acceptance. She was ready, but she had a last request.

  Her breath moved the air between them. “Please.”

  An indulgent spark flared in those intense eyes. “What do you need?”

  “Not with the gloves.” A measure of human contact would soothe her when she blew out her last breath. Skin on skin.

  Lowering his head, he grazed her ear. “For you, anything.”

  Her neck turned strangely cold when he removed his palm. In mesmerized fascination, she watched as he plucked each finger of his glove in a purposeful, economical movement until his hand came free. Everything this man did was with intention. None of his actions was wasted. He held his naked hand up to the moonlight, flexing his fingers. Strong, manly veins ran under the skin. His palm was broad and his fingers long and slender. It was a hand that could be trusted to inflict a deathblow instantly. No bullets. No blood.

  Time was up.

  Tilting back her head, she offered her life. The moment had always been a given. There was no running from it. There was nowhere on earth she could hide, and God knew how tired she was of hiding. If this is the end, so be it, but she wasn’t going kicking and screaming.

  He brought his big hand down, but instead of going straight for her neck he splayed his fingers over her jaw, keeping her head in the vice of his grip while his middle finger gently drew down her bottom lip. Her lips parted willingly. No more fighting. His finger slipped into her mouth, his skin tasting warm and salty. In an instinctive dance of the prey submitting to the hunter, she wrapped her tongue around him, coating him with moistness. It was a breathtaking, erotic dance of death. He was going to let her die beautifully.

  He tilted his head, studying her with heat in his eyes, as if he was looking at a sensual painting on a gallery wall. Pressing down on her tongue for a second, he released her mouth, dragging his wet finger from her lips and over her chin. Sparks sizzled over her skin as he closed his fingers around her neck and applied the slightest of pressure. His calloused skin grated her with gentle abrasion as his hand moved over her collarbone and between her naked breasts. Shivers rippled out over her skin as he drew his fingertips over her stomach and lower. Without breaking their gaze, he ran his light touch over her pubic bone to the junction of her legs. She jerked at the contact. This wasn’t what she’d expected or wanted, but in a strange, warped way it felt right. It felt carnal. Like death.

  The same finger that had parted her lips outlined her labia in a slow, meticulous circle, as if he was trying to form a picture by touch only. Bending low, he caught her gaze. He held her eyes with the same ease as he held her body captive without rope or cuffs. Unwritten understanding passed between them. He was reading her reaction with his eyes as he was reading her body with his fingers. How effortlessly he controlled her, like a master puppeteer. His hand went to her breast, palming the curve while his eyes invaded her body. He stole her fear and reason, and gave her the haunted distraction of pleasure instead. Such a kind killer. Leather-cladded fingers rolled a nipple, making her back arch and an arrow of heat shoot straight to her clit. Her folds swelled. Blood rushed to her head. Her wetness coated his exploring finger as it drew languorous patterns over her skin.

  Triumph invaded his eyes. He didn’t hold back or ask for permission. At the first physical clue of her arousal, he parted her like he’d parted her lips, with dominance and a command to be let inside. The tip of his finger played around the inside of her labia, coating her rather scientifically with her arousal not like a man who got turned on by what he was doing, but like a man who wanted to arouse a woman and keep his own need in check. His action was born from experience and knowledge of a woman’s body, taking care to lubricate her well before plunging his finger deep inside.

  She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her knees slamming together. He didn’t seem to mind that his hand was trapped in the vice of her thighs. He didn’t reprimand her or force her legs open. His acceptance of her reaction was like a green light to let go, to behave in whatever way her body prescribed. No thinking. Just feeling. With the same unhurried ease as before, he flipped his hand palm-up, giving his thumb access to her clit. Her muscles contracte
d when he pressed on the nub of nerves. Dear God, it had been too long since she’d felt a hand other than her own there. For a slow count of five, he kept still, giving her time to adjust while his thumb teased her clit. Her inner muscles dilated. When her legs fell open, he started moving, thrusting in a pattern that made her clench the globes of her ass.

  The gloved hand moved back to her neck and found purchase around the column of her throat. He was going to strangle her while making her come. Utterly kind. He could have tortured or mutilated her. An irrational bond surged between her and her murderer. It was crazy, but she was helpless to stop it. He’d successfully drawn her emotions into the intimate act, driving her from a plain of fear to rapture. The connection between them was fatal and complete. Pure in its agony.

  “Olivia,” he said, rolling her name on his tongue, “come for me.”

  Die for me.

  Her body obeyed. Her womb reacted to the pace of his finger. She stifled a scream as an all-compassing orgasm rocked her, robbing her of any coherence safe for the pleasure that shocked through her. The moment was too sacred to break with a sound. She whimpered through her ecstasy as a spasm stronger than an electric current refused to let her muscles go.

  “That’s it,” he cooed above her, his face a blur in her unfocussed eyes. “You did beautifully.”

  He didn’t remove his finger until the last shockwave had ebbed. Her body was sweaty and her brain fuzzy. Why was she still breathing? Before new fear had time to take root in her mind, the stranger brought his hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the finger that had touched her so intimately.

  “Goodnight, Olivia. Sweet dreams.”

  His smirk taunted her with the unanswered question, and then he was gone.