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She gave him a smile that looked
a little too tight as she caught up her locket in long fingers and began to rasp it along its gold chain. “Well, immortality sounds pretty cool.”
Impatiently, he waved off the statement. “Somehow I doubt you’re stupid enough to really believe that.”
Her blond brows flew upward, and she drew back, visibly offended. “I’m not stupid at all.”
“Good. Because Arthur wasn’t kidding when he said you need to be damned sure you want to do this. It can get you killed in some really ugly ways.”
Her gaze went chilly. “Not being immortal is no guarantee you’ll die in bed, Ridge. And I like the idea of being able to defend myself.”
There was a bitter note to that Southern Comfort drawl. “Is there a particular reason you need to be able to defend yourself?”
She turned away and moved to the stone balustrade. “The world is full of predators.”
“True.” He followed her to study her expressionless profile. “And we tend to encounter a lot of them in this job. Mostly because we go out and look for them. If you stay human, you’d have a reasonable chance of avoiding all those killers.”
“Only if you’re lucky. Not everybody’s lucky.” Her fingers found her necklace again.
“Who do you know that was that unlucky?” Realization dawned. “The girl in the picture on your mantel? The one who owned that necklace?” He reached for the locket.
Kat lifted one delicate shoulder in a half shrug, pulling away before he could touch her. Her fingers tightened protectively around the locket.
Ridge brushed his fingertips along the line of her jaw. Her skin felt warm, silken. She automatically looked up at him. The pain in her eyes deflated his own useless anger at past failures. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
Her mouth twisted into a bitter line. “It’s a little late for that.” But as she studied his expression in the moonlight, the tension in her face slowly melted into sympathy. “You’re grieving too.”
He looked off over the gently rolling lawn. Its clusters of moonlit trees glowed with the soft magic of the Mageverse. “A friend of mine died in the Dragon War. She . . . burned. One of the demons threw a fireball and hit her. She was standing six feet away, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have the magic to put it out. And neither did she.” Ghostly shrieks rose in his ears again.
“A lover?” There was no pity in those lovely eyes, only understanding. Yes, Kat had her own memories that sliced the mind like broken glass.
“We hadn’t been together like that in decades. But she was the one who made me a vampire. You never forget the one who Changes you, whether there’s real love there or not. Watching her die . . .”
“Hurt.” Kat said it as if she knew how utterly inadequate the word was to express such howling agony.
“Yes.”
She rose on her tiptoes, caught the back of his neck, and drew his head down until she could reach his mouth. It was a surprisingly tender kiss, less an act of passion than an offer of comfort.
Her lips felt exquisitely soft as they brushed over his, a delicate seduction. She started to draw back.
Ridge caught her nape, felt the cool silk of her short hair against his fingers, impossibly soft. Opening his lips, he deepened the kiss, drinking in her taste, savoring the sweet comfort she offered.
Kat responded with a tiny moan, a whimper of breath against his mouth. She leaned into him, the silk of her gown warm from her body, her breasts lush and full against his chest. Her long legs moved restlessly, brushing his thighs.
Her scent filled his head, some delicate perfume tinged with jasmine. And beneath that, the heady musk of female arousal. He hardened in a hot, sweet rush, his balls going tight.
Vampire hearing picked up the rush of her pulse, the sea tide of her blood. His fangs slid from their housing in his jaw. He bent his head, nuzzling, and she tilted her chin, giving him access to the big, pulsing vein. . . .
What the hell am I doing? The thought blew through the smoky heat of his arousal, chill as a sudden draft. Ridge blinked.
Oh, hell, he was losing it. If he didn’t stop this, he’d be balls-deep in her and coming before he knew what hit him.
And that was a really bad idea. Tempting, yes—Merlin’s Cup, he was tempted—but there was no way he could maintain his objectivity if he banged the girl.
No, not banged, a voice whispered from the back of his brain. Nothing with this woman would be as simple as a bang. Kat Danilo wasn’t the kind of woman a man used for meaningless physical release. She might draw you in with that pretty body, but she’d snare you tight with her intelligence, with her questing mind and dry wit. Not to mention the subtler temptations of shared grief.
That might be the most dangerous snare of all.
