slanted a curious look over his shoulder from the bathroom doorway. "Yeah?"
Heat crept up into her face like mercury rising in a thermometer, setting her on fire, leaving her breathless and flushed. "Where did you get that tattoo?"
A strange expression crossed his face, those deep blue eyes darkened by shadows. "The tattoo? In L.A."
"No, I mean, the design. Where did it come from?"
He held her stare for a moment, then muttered, "No idea," and walked into the bathroom, shutting the bathroom door behind him.
Dropping down onto the edge of the nearest mattress, Molly stared into blank space, unable to process such a strange, unsettling sense of premonition. That design meant something. She was sure of it. She just didn't know what. The answer hovered just beyond her reach, like smoke that kept slipping through her fingers when she tried to grasp hold of it. She didn't think she'd ever seen a cross like that anywhere before, though it might have been in one of the collector's books at The Paper Mill. She'd been working at the bookstore for several years now, and often spent her breaks in the paranormal section, looking through the thick, leather-bound texts. Had she seen the tattoo in one of the pricey tomes? Was it from a dream? Her imagination?
Or was she simply out of her mind...as crazy as the gorgeous bulk of studliness using her shower thought she was?
Groaning under her breath, Molly leaned forward, braced her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands.
Even after what he'd been through tonight, even after the strange shared dreams, the bite marks, the horrifying monsters--even after all that, she still didn't know if Ian believed her about the voices. If he believed his mother really spoke to her from beyond--believed she could truly hear the dead.
Why do you even care? her inner voice of reason whispered. It doesn't matter what Ian Buchanan thinks of you, so long as you do what you came here to do. So long as you see it through to the end. You have no business getting involved with him. Didn't you learn your lesson the first time?
Lifting her head, Molly narrowed her eyes, thinking that she really hated that damn little voice, no matter how right it was.
And it was right. There was a reason for the old saying What we want isn't always what we need. The adage certainly proved true when applied to her. She might have wanted Ian Buchanan with more intensity than she'd ever wanted anything in her entire life--but he was the last thing in the world she needed. Rude, crude and ruthless. Hard and distrustful.
Sneering and snide, when the mood suited him, able to bruise her with nothing more than his blunt way of saying things. Molly had no doubt that he would take her beneath his heel and grind her into dust when he was through with her, if she wasn't careful.
Wadding up the ruined shirt, she moved to throw it in the wastebasket, listening to the running of the shower while taking a moment to collect herself. She was still rattled, not only by the dream and that beautiful, compelling tattoo, but also by the kiss he'd laid on her when she'd opened her door.
He'd kissed her as if he was starved for her, and need had exploded through her system like a cataclysmic event, while he'd explored her mouth with a raw intimacy that made kissing feel like something so much more. Wicked and wet--like the actual act of intercourse, of sex itself.
She'd been kissed. And she'd lost her virginity years ago, before she'd decided to give up on the idea of a healthy, happy relationship with a man who could accept her as she was, crazy voices and all. But what Ian had done to her mouth was more intimate than anything any other man had ever done to her body. He'd possessed it, possessed her, his hands rough and shaking as they'd clutched at her jaw, and then her body, his taste as wickedly delicious as in her dreams, hot and rich and impossibly male.
Amazing, to think that after the shocking intimacy they'd shared the
Heat crept up into her face like mercury rising in a thermometer, setting her on fire, leaving her breathless and flushed. "Where did you get that tattoo?"
A strange expression crossed his face, those deep blue eyes darkened by shadows. "The tattoo? In L.A."
"No, I mean, the design. Where did it come from?"
He held her stare for a moment, then muttered, "No idea," and walked into the bathroom, shutting the bathroom door behind him.
Dropping down onto the edge of the nearest mattress, Molly stared into blank space, unable to process such a strange, unsettling sense of premonition. That design meant something. She was sure of it. She just didn't know what. The answer hovered just beyond her reach, like smoke that kept slipping through her fingers when she tried to grasp hold of it. She didn't think she'd ever seen a cross like that anywhere before, though it might have been in one of the collector's books at The Paper Mill. She'd been working at the bookstore for several years now, and often spent her breaks in the paranormal section, looking through the thick, leather-bound texts. Had she seen the tattoo in one of the pricey tomes? Was it from a dream? Her imagination?
Or was she simply out of her mind...as crazy as the gorgeous bulk of studliness using her shower thought she was?
Groaning under her breath, Molly leaned forward, braced her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands.
Even after what he'd been through tonight, even after the strange shared dreams, the bite marks, the horrifying monsters--even after all that, she still didn't know if Ian believed her about the voices. If he believed his mother really spoke to her from beyond--believed she could truly hear the dead.
Why do you even care? her inner voice of reason whispered. It doesn't matter what Ian Buchanan thinks of you, so long as you do what you came here to do. So long as you see it through to the end. You have no business getting involved with him. Didn't you learn your lesson the first time?
Lifting her head, Molly narrowed her eyes, thinking that she really hated that damn little voice, no matter how right it was.
And it was right. There was a reason for the old saying What we want isn't always what we need. The adage certainly proved true when applied to her. She might have wanted Ian Buchanan with more intensity than she'd ever wanted anything in her entire life--but he was the last thing in the world she needed. Rude, crude and ruthless. Hard and distrustful.
Sneering and snide, when the mood suited him, able to bruise her with nothing more than his blunt way of saying things. Molly had no doubt that he would take her beneath his heel and grind her into dust when he was through with her, if she wasn't careful.
Wadding up the ruined shirt, she moved to throw it in the wastebasket, listening to the running of the shower while taking a moment to collect herself. She was still rattled, not only by the dream and that beautiful, compelling tattoo, but also by the kiss he'd laid on her when she'd opened her door.
He'd kissed her as if he was starved for her, and need had exploded through her system like a cataclysmic event, while he'd explored her mouth with a raw intimacy that made kissing feel like something so much more. Wicked and wet--like the actual act of intercourse, of sex itself.
She'd been kissed. And she'd lost her virginity years ago, before she'd decided to give up on the idea of a healthy, happy relationship with a man who could accept her as she was, crazy voices and all. But what Ian had done to her mouth was more intimate than anything any other man had ever done to her body. He'd possessed it, possessed her, his hands rough and shaking as they'd clutched at her jaw, and then her body, his taste as wickedly delicious as in her dreams, hot and rich and impossibly male.
Amazing, to think that after the shocking intimacy they'd shared the
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