Burnt Offerings - Laurell K. Hamilton [83]
I padded barefoot to the chair and gathered my clothes up. I was struggling into the strapless bra, gun beside me on the bed, when I smelled his aftershave. I felt the air move under the door and knew it was his body disrupting the currents of air. His aftershave wasn’t that strong. I shouldn’t have smelled it. I knew suddenly as if it had been whispered in my ear that Richard could smell me through the door, that he knew I’d worn Oscar de la Renta perfume for Jean-Claude.
I felt his fingertips press to either side of the door in a small push-up motion, felt him draw a breath and scent my body deep into him.
What the hell was going on? We’d been bound for two months, and I’d never felt anything like this, not with Richard, and not with Jean-Claude.
Richard’s voice, achingly familiar: “Anita, I need to talk to you.” The anger was in his voice; in his body, rage. He was like thunder pressed against the door.
“I’m getting dressed,” I said.
I heard him pace in front of the door. “I know. I can feel you in there. What’s happening to us?”
That was a loaded question if ever I’d heard one. I wondering if he could feel my hands as I’d felt his a moment ago. “We haven’t been this close at dawn since we were bound. Jean-Claude isn’t here to act as a buffer.” I hoped that was it. The only alternative I could think of was that the council had done something to our marks. I didn’t think that was it, though. But we wouldn’t know for sure until we could ask Jean-Claude. Damn.
Richard tried the door handle. “What’s taking so long?”
“I’m almost done,” I said. I slipped the dress on. It was actually the easiest piece of clothing to get into. The shoes were not comfortable without hose, but I would have felt even less prepared barefoot. Can’t explain it, but shoes make me feel better. I moved the chair and unlocked the door. I stepped back, a little too quick, until I was on the far side of the room. I put my hands behind me, still holding the gun. I didn’t think he’d hurt me, but I’d never felt him like this. His anger was like a burning knot in my gut.
He opened the door carefully, as if he was having to think before each movement. His control was a trembling line between his rage and me.
He was six foot one, broad-shouldered, with high-sculpted cheekbones, and a wide soft mouth. There was a dimple in his chin, and he was altogether too handsome. His eyes were still perfect chocolate brown; only the pain in them was new. His hair fell in thick waves around his shoulders, a brown so full of gold and copper highlights that there should have been a different word for it. Brown is a dull word, and his hair was not dull. I’d loved running my hands through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it when we kissed.
He was wearing a blood-red tank top that left his muscular shoulders and arms bare. I knew that every inch of him you could see, and what you could not, was tanned a nice soft brown. But it wasn’t really tanned, just his natural skin color.
My heart was beating in my throat, but it wasn’t fear. He stared at me in the black dress. Face scrubbed clean of makeup, my hair uncombed, and I felt his body react to the sight of me. I felt it like a twist in my own body. I had to close my eyes to keep from looking at his jeans to see if what I was feeling was visible.
When I opened my eyes, he hadn’t moved. He just stood there in the middle of the room, hands balled into fists, breathing a little too hard. His eyes were wild, showing too much white like a horse about to bolt.
I found my voice first. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk.” I sounded breathless. It was like I could feel Richard’s heart, his chest rising and falling, like it was my own. I’d had moments of this with Jean-Claude,