Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [50]
“I could never destroy your work,” he repeated. His hand turned over beneath hers, catching her fingers in a warm embrace. “And having these pieces restored ... it’s part of my healing. Supposed to be, anyway.” He shook his head. “I don’t really understand it. But someone I ...” He hesitated, as if seeking the proper word. “Someone I trust advised me to have these things made, and I believe in him. Enough to try it.” He laughed sadly. “Even if I can’t for the life of me see how it’s supposed to help.”
His hand folded tightly over hers: warm contact, hungry touch. She could sense the need in him, not just for communion of the spirit but a far more substantive interaction. Passion and intimacy were allied within him; it was hard for him to seek out one without the other.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “Thank you for listening. For giving me a chance.”
“I wish I could do more,” she said quietly. Knowing the words for the opening they were. Not even sure of how she meant them. “To help.”
The bright eyes glittered, viridescent in the darkness. “You’ve done more than any woman has for years. Or any man, for that matter.”
“Even your lawyers?” she chided gently. Aware that her heart was pounding anew, in response to words not even being said.
“In a way,” he said softly. He drew up her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. Soft touch, gently erotic; she felt fire spreading up her arm, fanning out from the contact.
“Come,” he whispered. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you home.”
He made no move to call for the check, but laid a handful of coins on the table that would have paid for such a meal three times over. Then he helped her out of the booth, his touch warm upon her arm, his manner at once protective and possessive. The waiters did not question his leaving before a bill had been rendered, which meant that he had done this many, many times before. With how many women? she wondered. Had they all trembled like she did at his touch, or were they veterans of the same game, who knew what words and special gestures might be employed to maintain control of each move?
It was a long walk to her apartment, for which she was grateful. She needed the long dark streets, half-abandoned, quiet. She needed time to pull herself together. He walked by her side companionably enough, but she could sense the tension in him. Pain. Uncertainty. Desire. She could feel his warmth near her arm as their steps brought them close to each other, as his hand almost—almost—reached out and took hers. So very close. Her skin tingled with the nearness of him, but she was afraid to initiate any contact. What would such an act signify in his world, in that endless round of courtship and flirtation which was his normal venue? How did one approach a man like this, without giving him license to claim one’s soul?
And then: Her building. Her stairs. Two flights of them, wide and well-lit. A landing, with four doors. He let her lead the way, to the third door in line. Keys. They were somewhere. She fumbled for them, fearing to look at him. Afraid she would get lost in his eyes forever if she did. Afraid she might wake up in the morning to find him beside her and never know how he had gotten there, or if he would ever leave. Or if she ever wanted him to leave.
Then he took her face gently in one hand—ever so gently, a butterfly’s touch could not have been lighter—and tipped her head back until she was looking right at him. Warm eyes, living eyes, not like the Hunter’s at all. And yet the two men were linked, not just in appearance but in essence. The Hunter’s passion had sired this man; the Hunter’s blood ran in his veins. How could she look at Andrys Tarrant and not feel the power of his forebear’s presence?
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For listening.” His fingers stroked her cheek gently as he spoke, sending shivers down her spine. “It’s been a long time since anyone did that.”
She tried