before she’d seen him. She felt something else, too. His blinding anger.
“Take your hands off her,” the stranger growled, his voice quivering with barely contained rage.
Curt went rigid. His hands fell to his sides and his eyes widened. Tamara took a step back, her hand moving to massage one tender, bruised shoulder. The heat of the stranger’s gaze on her made her look up. Those black eyes had followed the movement of her hand and his anger heated still more.
But how can I know that?
Curtis turned to face him, and took a step backward…away from the man’s imposing form. Well, at least she now knew he was real. She couldn’t take her gaze from him, nor he from her, it seemed. Her lips throbbed with the memory of his moving over them. She felt as if he knew it. She should say something, she thought vaguely. Sensible or not, she knew the man was about to throttle Curtis.
Before she could think of a suitable deterrent, though, Curtis croaked, “M-Marquand!” She’d never heard his voice sound the way it did.
Tamara felt the shock like a physical blow. Her gaze shot back to the stranger’s face again. He regarded Curtis now. A small, humorless smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded to Curt. A sudden move caught her eye, and she glimpsed Curt thrusting a hand inside his jacket, as the bad guys did on television when reaching for a hidden gun. She stiffened in panic, but relaxed when he pulled out only a small gold crucifix, which he held toward Marquand straight-armed, in a white-knuckled grip.
For a moment the stranger didn’t move. He stared fixedly at the golden symbol as if frozen. She watched him intently, shivering as her fingers involuntarily touched the spot on her throat, and she recalled the feel of those skimming incisors. Could he truly be a vampire?
The smile returned, sarcastic and bitter. He even chuckled, a sound like distant thunder rumbling from deep in his chest. He reached out to pluck the cross from Curt’s hand, and he turned it several times, inspecting it closely. “Impressive,” he said, and handed it back. Curt let it fall to the ground and Tamara sighed in relief, but only briefly.
She understood now what the little encounter between her and Marquand had been all about. She resented it. “You’re really Marquand?”
He sketched an exaggerated bow in her direction.
She couldn’t hold his gaze, embarrassed at her earlier responses to what, for him, had been only a game. “I can appreciate why you’re so angry with my guardian. After all, he’s been hounding you to death. However, it might interest you to know that I had no part in it. I’ve argued on your behalf until I’m hoarse with it. I won’t bother to do so anymore. I truly appreciate that you chose not to haul Daniel into court, but I would not suggest you attempt to use me to deliver your messages in future.”
She saw his brow cock up again, and she caught her breath. “Your guardian? You said so once before, but I—” His eyes widened. “St. Claire?”
“As if you weren’t aware of it before your little performance over there.” She shook her head, her fingers once again trailing over the tender spot on her throat. “I might even be able to see the humor in it, if I wasn’t already on the brink of—” She broke off and shook her head as her eyes filled, and her airways seemed suddenly blocked.
“Tamara, that isn’t what I—”
She stopped him by shaking her head violently. “I’ll see he gets your message. He may be an ass, Marquand, but I love him dearly. I don’t want him to bear the brunt of a lawsuit.”
She turned on her heel. “Tamara, wait! What happened to your parents? How did he—Tamara!” She ignored him, mounting the ice and speeding to the opposite side, where she’d left her duffel bag. She stumbled over the snow to snatch it up, and sat hard on the nearest bench, bending to unlace her skates. Her fingers shook. She could barely see for the tears clouding her vision.
Why was she reacting so strongly to the man’s insensitive ploy? Why did she feel such an acute sense of betrayal?
Because I’m losing my mind, that’s why.
Anger made her look up. She felt it as if it were a palpable thing. She yanked one skate off, stomped her foot into a boot and unlaced the other without looking. Her gaze was on Marquand, who had Curtis by the lapels now, and was shaking him the way Curt had shaken her a few moments ago. When he stopped he released Curt, shoving him away in the same motion. Curt landed on his backside in the snow. Marquand’s back was all she could see, but she heard his words clearly, though not with her ears. If I ever see you lay hands on her again, Rogers, you will pay for it with your life. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?
Sufficiently clear to me, Tamara thought. Curt seemed to be in no danger of being murdered at the moment. She put her skates in her bag and slipped away while they were still arguing.
Pain like a skewer running the length of his breastbone, Eric stroked the pink fur of the earmuffs she’d abandoned in her rush to get away from him. She’d left her coat, too. He carried it slung over one arm as he followed the two. Rogers had caught up to Tamara only a few minutes after she’d left. He kept pace with her angry strides, talking constantly in his efforts to end her anger.
“I’m sorry, Tammy. I swear to you, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you understand I was scared half out of my mind when I saw you in his arms? My God, don’t you know what could’ve happened?”
He scanned the bastard’s mind with his own, and found no indication that Tamara was in danger from him. He did the same after they’d entered Daniel St. Claire’s gloomy Victorian mansion, unwilling to leave her in their hands until he could be certain. And even then he couldn’t leave.
How the hell had St. Claire managed to become her guardian? When Eric had left her all those years ago she’d had two adoring parents who’d nearly lost their minds when they’d thought they might lose her. He could still see them—the small Miranda, a frail-looking woman with mouse brown hair and pretty green eyes brimming with love whenever she glanced at her adorable child. She’d been in hysterics that night at the hospital. Eric had seen her clutching the doctor’s white coat, shaking her head fast at what he was telling her as tears poured unchecked over her face. Her husband’s quiet devastation had been even more painful to witness. Kenneth had seemed deflated, sinking into a chair as if he’d never rise again, his blond hair falling over one eye.
What in hell had happened to them? He sank to a rotted, snow-dusted stump outside the mansion, his head in his hands. “I never should have left her,” he whispered into the night. “My God, I never should have left her.”
He remained there in anguish until the sky began to pale in the east. She now thought he’d only used her to make a point to St. Claire. She obviously had no conscious memory of him, nor knowledge of the connection between them. She called to him while in the throes of her subconscious mind—in a dream. She couldn’t even recall his name.
She paused outside Daniel’s office door to brace herself, her hand on the knob. Last night she’d avoided further confrontation with Curt by pleading exhaustion, a lie he’d believed since he knew how little sleep she’d been getting. This morning she’d deliberately remained in her room, feigning sleep when Daniel called from the doorway. She’d known he wouldn’t wake her if he thought she was finally sleeping. She’d waited until he left for DPI headquarters in White Plains, then had got herself ready and driven in late, in her battered VW Bug. Her day had been packed solid with the trivial work they gave her there. Her measly security clearance
