Drawn into Darkness Page 9

  “Your nature series is positively stunning. The drawings scanned in beautifully and I love the drama you’ve created with the light source.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re very talented, Rachel. And smart. I heard you created the wire-frame object models we’re using in the designs.”

  She shrugged. “It was easy.”

  “Don’t be modest. MaskWeave is a very complicated program. The rest of us are in awe.” His plump face creased in a thoughtful frown. “I noticed you’ve checked in eight new illustrations already.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm. Matt is a little behind in the pop art series. I wonder if you could take on a few of those as well?”

  Rachel stiffened. Every moment of her weekend was already accounted for. She had eight more sample files to complete, and a daughter who was headed for serious trouble if Rachel didn’t spend more time with her. “I don’t know …”

  “You’re so fast,” Nigel said, cajoling. “It’s a gift you have, working so quickly. Matt can’t keep up. But we’re all in this mess together, and if one of us fails, we all fail.”

  The mail room girl tossed an elastic-bound stack of new requisitions, production proofs, and documentation blues on Rachel’s desk as she sailed by, all of them demanding some kind of attention before the day was done.

  Damn. She already felt squeezed between a rock and a hard place, but if she didn’t help out, the project would suffer. Her stressed-out coworkers would end up with even more work on their plates. “Okay, I’ll do two. Where’s his creative spec?”

  “On the server.” Nigel, his purpose fulfilled, straightened. He minced down the corridor in his stovepipe check pants and Italian shoes, leaving behind a gagging cloud of Boss cologne. “Thanks, sweetie. I knew I could count on you. If you have any problems, come see me in the morning.”

  Rachel opened her mouth to break the bad news that she wouldn’t be coming in over the weekend, then closed it with a snap. Why ruin a good moment? Maybe they’d all be so busy, they wouldn’t notice her absence.

  She could dream, couldn’t she?

  Rachel’s feet were literally dragging by the time she got home from the office at eleven. Forty-one hours of wakefulness had taken its toll. Her pointy-toed pumps cinched her swollen feet like miniature iron maidens, and all she could think about as she hobbled up the stairs to the second floor was planting her face in her pillow.

  But her weary discomfort evaporated the moment she unlocked her apartment door and pushed it open. Why? Because Lachlan MacGregor lay on her living room sofa, his socked feet crossed over one armrest, his right arm folded behind his head.

  Sound asleep.

  She carefully closed the door, eased her feet out of her torturous shoes, and tiptoed over to look at him.

  He overwhelmed her plump chintz sofa as if it were doll furniture. His feet had pushed the glass bowl of apple-cinnamon potpourri to a precarious perch on the side table, and one of his hands had fallen off his chest to the moss green area rug. He looked younger, less burdened. Furrows of experience still lined his brow, but sleep had softened them, and Rachel was suddenly struck by how long his eyelashes were.

  And by how absolutely gorgeous he was.

  His big chest rose and fell with one deep breath, then two. As she watched, his nostrils flared and his eyes blinked open, instantly homing in on her face. His smoky gaze pinned hers, a turbulent eddy of dark, sultry thoughts.

  “Hi,” she said breezily, trying to ignore the responsive shiver that ran down her spine. “Looks like—”

  She never got a chance to say more.

  He grabbed her wrist, tugged sharply, and toppled her over the sofa, onto his chest. He gave her the briefest of moments to protest; then his broad hand dove into the waves of her hair, cupped her head, and yanked her lips to his.

  Rachel melted against his solid, spicy warmth. All memory of being tired and disheveled and ready to sleep was swept away by his kiss.

  And what a kiss it was.

  His firm mouth slanted over hers in a primitive male claim: roughly insistent, hot, and possessive. His tongue swept along the seam of her lips in a blatant demand for entry, and with a soft mewl, she opened her mouth. The tangle of her tongue with his earned her a short groan of satisfaction from Lachlan, and almost immediately, a gentling of his siege.

  He adjusted his body beneath her, fully taking her weight and easing the awkward angle of her hips. It was both a thoughtful gesture and a mind-blowingly sensual one. Pelvis to pelvis, it was impossible to miss the hard ridge of his arousal against her belly. His hand slipped under her silk shirt and grazed up the length of her spine, the rasp of his calloused fingers on her sensitive skin sending sweet, delicious ripples along every nerve ending.

  Her breath shortened and her nipples puckered. Her belly quivered and her skin grew feverish.

  So lost in sensation was she that she barely noticed him release the clasp of her bra with one deft flick. All she knew was pleasure. For the first time in forever, she felt attractive and desirable—a woman. As his warm hand slid around to cup her naked, aching breast, she moaned into his mouth.

  Lachlan suddenly broke off the kiss, his breathing ragged. He stared at her for a long moment, the look in his eyes raw and dark … and heart-stopping. His hand shifted to a safer spot at her waist.

  “You were supposed to slap my face and send me packing,” he said huskily.

  “Nuh-uh. Not buying that.” Still throbbing with fiercely awakened needs, she kissed his chin, nibbling upward along his jaw, reveling in his musky scent and the rough texture of his skin. “I made it pretty clear earlier this afternoon that I was interested, and I know you’re a smart man.”

  A low chuckle rumbled through his chest and into hers. “You say that as if you believe a male brain actually functions around a beautiful woman.”

  She grinned. And then, because he indirectly called her beautiful, she kissed him again, this time on the lips.

  “Perhaps,” Lachlan murmured against her mouth, “this would be a good time for me to mention that Emily is in her bedroom and, as of ten or fifteen minutes ago, was still wide-awake.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  Rachel swung her feet around and leapt to her feet, glancing over her shoulder at Em’s bedroom door. The door was firmly shut, thank God. She hastily shoved her hands under her shirt and refastened her bra.

  Lachlan sat up.

  “How to be a great role model,” Rachel said, grimacing as she smoothed her hair into a vague semblance of order. “Not.”

  “You’re doing a fine job with Emily.”

  “A little two-faced of me to tell her not to go around kissing some black-clad stranger she barely knows, though, don’t you think?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  “So,” Rachel said, diving onto the velvet chair across from him and folding her hands neatly in her lap. She studied her fingers, amazed that they looked so prim and proper when they felt so hot and tingly. “How did the talk go? Learn anything?”

  “Aye.”

  His tone was suspiciously flat, and Rachel’s gaze darted up to meet his. “What? Is it bad?”

  “Drusus has successfully wormed his way into Emily’s affections. She likes him a great deal. It’s going to be very difficult to keep them apart.”

  “Did you ask her about the drugs? Is she using?”

  “Yes, I asked her, and no, no’ yet.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? Maybe he won’t—” Rachel’s hands clenched, gaining more from the look in Lachlan’s eyes than she got from his words. “You think it’s just a matter of time, don’t you? That he’s just slowly reeling her in.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye? Aye?” An image of her precious Em, wild-eyed and emaciated, desperate for another hit, invaded her mind, seeming all too possible. Her chest clamped so tight she could barely breathe. “How can you be so calm? He’s manipulating her, and the path he’s leading her
down will probably end up kill—”

  “Rachel, stop.” Lachlan tugged her to her feet, his voice soft. “It’s okay, trust me. A visit with Drusus is next on my to-do list.”

  “Talking isn’t enough. We have to do something.”

  “Don’t worry.” He folded her into his arms. “I won’t let him walk away, not this time. You have my word. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure he’s punished.”

  His pledge, low and unequivocal, left no room for doubt, and she eased. Wriggling deeper into his embrace, she turned her nose to his broad chest and inhaled a swirl of his reassuring fragrance. “I’m being a stupid, hysterical mom, aren’t I?”

  “You love her.”

  “The funny thing is, I never thought I’d be like this. You know, the hovering, overprotective, smothering type. My parents gave me plenty of rope to hang myself on—they even let me fly off to study art in Paris when I was twenty.” Her gaze found the maple smoking pipe displayed on the mantel, the top of the tobacco bowl darkened by frequent use. Her dad’s.

  “Life changes you,” Lachlan said.

  “Yes, it does.” Marriage to Grant had certainly changed her. She’d fallen hard for that lazy charm and irresistible smile, only to meet disappointment. Unwilling to give up his bachelor lifestyle and feeling strangled by their commitments, he’d disappeared into the city every weekend, leaving her to shoulder their burdens alone. Rachel shuddered.

  Lachlan’s arms tightened around her.

  “Guess the pendulum swung a little too far in the opposite direction,” she said wryly. “Now I’m so tightly wound, I can’t let go and I’m pushing her away.”

  “Your caution is warranted. Drusus is a genuine threat.”

  She glanced at her daughter’s door. “I wish I could convince Em of that.”

  He stood back and looked her square in the eye. “Give it time.” Then he grazed her lips with his, a brief but promising kiss. “I have to go, and you should get some sleep. We’ll touch base again in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  Then he slipped on his shoes and was gone.

  Rachel stared at the apartment door with eyes that grew wearier by the second. She wished the evening had ended a little differently, but sleep sounded awfully damned appealing. One date with soft pillows and cool cotton sheets, coming right up.

  Then she groaned—right after she checked Em’s room to make certain there was a warm body still under the covers.

  It took seventeen minutes of ruthless meditation to clear his mind enough to perform the summoning chant. The sweet taste of Rachel on his lips refused to die easily, and for that, he had no one to blame but himself. The look in her eyes when he woke—the one that suggested he was a man worthy of her interest—had brought him to his knees. He’d known precisely what would happen when he kissed her, and he’d done it anyway.

  He’d claimed her.

  Like some raiding warrior of old. Now the primitive part of him insisted she was his; insisted that he had the right to hold her, make love to her, to never let her go.

  An impossible reality.

  He slammed a mental door on his folly and carefully tried the summoning again. This time, he got a response, though it wasn’t the one he had hoped for. Death sent one of her anorexic bodyguards in her stead.

  He scowled at the gray-faced ghoul. “This is an official request. I’ve followed proper protocol. Get your scrawny arse back there and tell her she has to see me.”

  The milky-eyed guard stared at him for an interminable moment, then nodded abruptly and disappeared.

  Ten seconds later, Lachlan was yanked through the frigid chill of time and space without any warning, and without the standard allowance for preparation. It was a damned good thing he was alone in his apartment.

  “This had best be important, MacGregor, or I may claim an ear for my irritation.”

  Lachlan thawed enough to open his eyes.

  Death stood before him, staring into a long, garishly lit vanity mirror, powdering her already-pallid nose. Today she wore black stiletto pumps, diaphanous black stockings, and a crisp, stylish black suit. Her white hair was smoothed back into a tight knot, emphasizing the fine bones in her face.

  Her eyes met his in the mirror. “Speak.”

  Lachlan glanced around. They appeared to be in a public restroom—judging by the fixtures, somewhere in Europe. Two of her guards blocked the door. “I need a tool with which to defeat a lure demon.”

  Her laugh was a trickle of water over ice. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The girl’s soul is at stake. Give me what I need.”

  Death closed her powder compact with a snap. She tucked it in her purse and then spun around to face him, folding her arms across her chest. “This lure demon has her ensnared?”

  “Aye.”

  Her long white nail tapped her suit sleeve. “By the venomous gods, I hate that bastard.”

  Lachlan blinked.

  “Selfish to the core, a blackguard of the worst kind. He has no reason to interfere, no reason to stand in my way. He’s doing it merely to spite me.”

  It seemed impossible that she would curse at a lowly demon, even an ancient one like Drusus, so Lachlan hazarded, “Satan?”

  “Who else?”

  “Then arm me properly, and we’ll see him and his hellspawn thwarted.”

  She snorted. “Do not attempt to play me, MacGregor. What do I gain if I give you the wherewithal to seek out and destroy one of Satan’s favorite bootlickers? Trouble, nothing more.”

  “Does the girl’s safety no’ concern you? The danger is real; derailing the demon’s efforts will be difficult.”

  Death turned back to the vanity and picked up her purse. “I will be most displeased if you fail. You require nothing extra. The tool you need to defeat the lure demon is already within your grasp.”

  Lachlan’s heart slowed to a heavy pound. If true, that was a very valuable piece of information. “No Gatherer has ever slain a lure demon.”

  “Yes, well, think of it as yet another record you can break.” She strode toward the door, her stiletto heels clicking on the white ceramic tiles. As she reached for the handle, her two bodyguards shimmered and evaporated. “Your allotted time is up, I’m afraid. I’ve got a very important date with a workaholic executive from British Telecom.”

  “Wait,” he barked, annoyed that she would dare to leave him hanging. “What is this mighty weapon of which you speak? The one I apparently possess?”

  She tossed a look over her shoulder and smiled.

  “You’re a smart man, MacGregor. Figure it out.”

  “Find a spot along the wall and put your back to it,” Lachlan ordered briskly. “Slide down until your knees are at ninety degrees and hold your position until I call halt.”

  All six of his new students complied without protest. Or, to be more accurate, they said nothing until the first minute had passed and their muscles began to quake. Then they grumbled. After the full five minutes, most of them were moaning.

  “Halt.”

  They collapsed to his living room floor amid pathetic sighs of relief.

  “Now find a partner.” He waited for them to roll to their feet and pair up. “One of you will stand with your feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, buttocks tight. The other will attempt to knock you to the floor. After five minutes or a takedown, whichever comes first, switch places. Everyone clear on the exercise? Good. Go.”

  Everyone obeyed—except Brian.

  “I don’t have a partner,” he complained.

  “You and I have done this exercise many times.”

  “Yeah, and you always win. Come on, let’s spar. It’s my day to introduce your ass to the cold hard floor; I can feel it.”

  “No’ today.”

  “Why not? Got something better to do?”

  “Aye.” Like figuring out why everyone kept insisting he was smart when he was actually stumbling about in a bloody fog.

  “What?” Brian peere
d over his shoulder at the notes he was making. “More exercises?”

  “No.”

  The younger Gatherer waited for Lachlan to add to his terse response, but his patience went unrewarded. “You know, MacGregor, you’re one close-mouthed son of a bitch. I doubt what you’re working on is a state secret, so why the hell won’t you just fess up?”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Are you sure? I saw the word persuade written there in your girly, old-fashioned handwriting, and thought I’d remind you I was the top salesman in my brokerage firm before I wrapped my Lambo around a tree. I know a thing or two about persuasion. Come on, MacGregor, try me.”

  Lachlan put down his fountain pen. “All right. I’m working out a plan to defeat a two-thousand-year-old lure demon. Got any experience with that?”

  “What’s a lure demon?”

  Lachlan snorted and returned to his notes. “Point made.”

  “No, wait. What’s he after, this lure demon?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because the key to swaying a person is figuring out what he wants and then giving it to him. In a manner of speaking. What’s this creep want?”

  Well, the Linen, for one. But as for why Drusus had targeted Emily … “Still a question mark. But the plan involves seducing a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Webster, stay with the conversation, please. Obviously, I need to keep him away from the girl.”

  “No,” Brian said, with a thoughtful shake of his head. “You need to convince the girl he’s not worth having. You have to sell her something better, something she needs more than she needs your demon.”

  Lachlan arched a brow.

  Brian pivoted and studied the six Gatherers who, red-faced and sweaty, were wrapping up their assigned exercise. He pointed to a lean yet muscular young man over by the window, and said. “You need to sell her him.”