Part 18 (1/2)

He opened his fly, dropped his pants, rubbed himself between her legs. His bare c.o.c.k rubbed against her panties, the silk making him slip and slide.

The friction was like kindling to start a campfirea”and she burned in immediate response.

She wrenched her head back, banging it on the wall. Banging some sense into her pea-brained head.

How could she have not known? How could she not have recognized his scenta”leather, cold water, fresh air, and that peculiar aroma that was his alonea”the smell of wildness? Yankee Candle could use Warlord as a scent, and women would flock to light that wick.

”d.a.m.n you.” She struggled in his arms like a b.u.t.terfly pinned against the wall. ”I have friends here, and they wonat let you get away with this.”

”Your friends watched you lead me to your cottage. Do you think theyare out there waiting to hear you cry out in ecstasy?”

She took a long breath, ready to scream.

And he kissed her. Really kissed her this time, taking advantage of her vulnerability, absorbing her taste, reacquainting himself with her essence . . . coming alive with pa.s.sion.

This was the man she remembered, intense, fiery, so alive desire leaped from his body to hers. In all the history of the world, no man had ever wanted a woman the way he wanted her.

He held her as if she were precious. One hand supported her; the other caressed her waist, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her throat, like a collector who adored each facet.

And she absorbed his adoration, responded to the pure excitement of being close to him again. Her toes curled. One black satin pump clattered on the tile floor. Dimly, as her muscles clenched and her breath quickened, she knew she was revealing too much of her long, lonesome craving. Yet sensation swamped her, rising like a tide to fill the desolate, lonely parts of her, the hidden corners of her soul that had withered from loneliness. From wanting him. With him between her legs, against her body, she bloomed again.

When he tore his mouth away from hers, she gasped, eyes closed, trying to regain some composure before meeting his gaze. Because he knew, had always known, that she couldnat resist him. He would be mocking her. Of course.

The change, when it came, came quickly.

As if he were no longer aware of her, he doused the fire between them and stood stiff, still, cold. He let go of her legs, put both hands on her waist.

She opened her eyes and saw his head slowly, so slowly, turn to look toward the bed.

Warlord was motionless, on edge, a wary, ready predator. His nostrils flared as he smelled the air. His eyes moved back and forth, trying to see what was hidden, and in their depths she saw a red flame glow.

Something was wrong. Something was here.

Her gaze flew to the window.

Shead left it open an inch, with a lock stop holding it in place. Now it was open wide.

She heard a slithering sound.

In a flash Warlord let her go.

Her feet hit the floor hard. She staggered sideways on one high heel.

As he twisted, his eyes changed. He changed.

In his place stood a panther, black, snarling, hunched, and facing the bed.

Chapter Twenty.

She screamed and backed against the wall.

Warlord... Warlord was a panther? Or the panther was Warlord?

Huge, black, sleek, threatening . . . but not threatening her.

Two years ago in Nepal, she had witnessed the supernatural when she touched the long-dead child, the villagersa sacrifice to the devil . . . and the little girl had opened her eyes. Those unforgettable aquamarine eyes that had so completely matched Karenas.

Karen had hoped never again to see anything so eerie, hoped never again to be so close to that other world where fantasy took life and evil held reign for a thousand years.

But Warlord had returned, and now . . . from beneath Karenas bed, a king cobra lifted itself from its hiding place. Its skin was s.h.i.+ny and glorious with color: black and red and gold. The evil thing was ten feet long, as round as her thigh, its hood spread wide-open, its segments glinting like jewels of death, its intelligent black eyes tracking the movements of the panther. Of Warlord.

Yet she knew with terrifying certainty that the snake was aware of her, and antic.i.p.ated murdering her with keen relish.

How did this thing get in here?

Why was it so big?

How could it have such an intelligent and malevolent intent?

Only one answer was possible: This snake was like Warlord, a man who became a creature from h.e.l.l to stalk, hide, take life with intelligent efficiency.

Warlord said he had fallen into the heart of evil.

She flattened herself against the wall. Her nails sc.r.a.ped along the wallboard.

Now head pulled her in with him.

With a flash of intuition, she realizeda”the deal with the devil. Warlord had told her the legend on the day head touched the icon and burned hemself.

The deal with the devil . . . This was the result.

Incongruously, the panther wore Warlordas s.h.i.+rt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up.

The serpent swayed hypnotically.

Not a muscle moved on the great catas sleek body.

Without warning the cobra spit. Silvery drops of venom struck the pantheras face.

The panther screamed, a shriek of agony, as his flesh sizzled.

Poison dropped to the floor, thick as mercury and just as deadly.

The panther staggered backward, then leaped straight up and twisted in midair. Its back claws slashed the cobraas wide-open hood.

Then the panther landed on the bed and jumped out the window.