Spirit Bound - Christine Feehan [30]
Everything in him froze. What the hell had he just done? What was wrong with him? His actions didn’t make sense. He stood, completely exposed, his body blanketing hers, the scent of her enveloping him. The wind tugged at her hair and strands blew back at him to slide temptingly over his skin. He was astounded at his actions, shocked, horrified even, but his feet wouldn’t move. One shift and he would be on the far side, placing her body between his and the water tower where he was certain Petr Ivanov lay up there with a rifle and scope. Petr was there—Stefan felt him. Felt the slick wash of menace that always alerted him, one of many psychic gifts. Still, he didn’t move. Where the hell was his ingrained sense of self-preservation? Years of survival training? All his expertise?
Warning bells went off like miniature explosions in his mind. His left palm itched so badly he rubbed it along his thigh. He remained where he was, as if his feet had grown roots. His heart pounded and he tasted passion in his mouth, a fruit he’d never known but recognized instantly. Judith. She filled up all the emptiness in him. Somehow in the small space of time he’d spent with her, she’d poured herself into him and brought him something he never imagined: hope. She represented life. Living.
He was aware of people moving up the walkway to their right, from the direction of the tower. He might be able to use the small crowd as a shield, work his way around to get behind Ivanov. If he could, he would track Ivanov back to his lair and kill him. The disposal of his body would be easy enough and that would give him time to find his brother without fear of exposing him to an exterminator.
Right now, the most imperative thing in his world was to protect Judith. He kept his body between the sniper and Judith. His mind demanded to know what the hell he was doing, but his body remained firmly in place.
He doubted if Ivanov would take the shot even if he had it. It was too soon. The assassin wanted Lev. His brother had disappeared here, presumed dead, and Petr Ivanov wasn’t buying it. His plan was to kill both Prakenskii brothers, not just Stefan. So he wouldn’t shoot, but just in case, Stefan’s sense of self-preservation should have forced him to move. It was impossible to though, and the terrible itch on the back of his neck grew.
Damn the woman. What in the hell was taking so long? “Do you need help?” he offered politely, staying in the role of Thomas Vincent.
“The lock seems to be stuck.”
Judith glanced over her shoulder at him, and his heart nearly stopped. There was something incredibly alluring about her face with that fall of silky hair across it. Her gaze drifted over him and for a moment time seemed to stand still. He wasn’t the only one tasting passion in his mouth, it was there, in her eyes. He had caught glimpses of fire in her earlier paintings and he hadn’t been wrong. No matter how cool and controlled she acted, the fire was there seething beneath the surface, ready for the right man to bring out.
He pulled back from his thoughts very sharply. What right man? He was nobody’s right man. He lived in another world, far from this one, and he had no right thinking a woman like Judith Henderson could be his. Not even in his imagination—yet he didn’t move, not an inch.
“Let me try.” He didn’t wait for her to step aside, but reached around her with both arms, trapping her between the door and his body, careful to keep her hidden from Ivanov’s scope while he took the key from her hand.
His fingers brushed hers. A jolt blazed through his body, the force of it shaking him. She was more frightening than any enemy he’d ever stalked and killed. She moved him when nothing ever had. A captive in the circle of his arms, she went very still, but he felt every breath she took. Heat rushed through his veins and settled like a fireball in his groin. He had used sex as an effective weapon, a perfect tool, extracting information, controlling his body, allowing an erection when