staying for Mark Bellingham's sake, or for Mabry, or for her father. She was staying because she wasn't quite ready to leave the dangerous fascination of Richard Tiernan.
She was escaping from him. Richard knew it. She was in her room, dressing, humming something beneath her breath, and he could smell her perfume as it slithered down the hallway. The scent surprised him.
Diana had always favored something light, flowery, innocent. It had been part of her allure, the innocence, and the chancre underneath.
Cassidy Roarke favored something richer, muskier, defiantly sexual. It suited her about as well as innocence had suited Diana. A lie, but then, he was used to the lies of women, from their lips, from their bodies, from the very scent they wore.
He'd kept away from her, afraid of what he might do. The darkness was closer now, hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness, and he was afraid of what might happen if he gave in to it. As long as he held himself remote, no emotions, just cold intellect, then he would win. He would accomplish what he so desperately needed to accomplish, and face his execution with the same cool equanimity.
He found himself wondering whether he might have made a very great mistake in choosing Cassidy Roarke. She was getting beneath his skin, disturbing him, drawing him back into the land of the living, when he was already making plans to leave it as gracefully as possible.
But he really hadn't had any choice in the matter. He'd taken one look at the silver-framed photograph and known, with an instinct that was almost unnatural. It was too late for second thoughts, for guilt, for worrying about the consequences. He would do what he had to do.
He didn't want her going out with Mark. He didn't want her smiling at his friend, her green eyes sparkling, that wariness that infused her entire body whenever she was around him vanishing.
Of course, he went out of his way to put that wariness in her eyes. He was doing everything he could to terrify her. And he was about to up the ante.
He followed the scent of her lying perfume, aroused by it even as he distrusted it. Sean and Mabry were out someplace, and he didn't expect them to return for hours. It wouldn't matter if they did. He had no qualms about having an audience.
She was in the kitchen, and he stood in the shadows, watching her, as he had so often, waiting until she realized he was there.
She was dressed in something long and flowery, and her red hair was loose on her shoulders. She hadn't put her shoes on yet, and she was on her toes, reaching up, and he could see the long, strong line of her body, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. She was a woman, lush and full, and he wanted to fill his hands with her. It had been so very long since he had touched a woman.
He didn't move, didn't make a sound, but she turned, staring at him, for a moment all her carefully nurtured fear and fascination visible to him. And then she pulled her defenses back about her like a cloak, and she tilted her head back. He could see the nervous pulse ticking at the base of her throat, and he wanted to put his mouth on it.
"You decided to go out with him after all," he said, no accusation, no emotion in his voice.
She flinched anyway. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" she countered.
The dress was cut too low. He could see the swell of her breasts above the neckline, see the nervous rapidity of her breathing. He allowed himself a small smile.
"It depends on how fascinated you are with risk."
Her face was pale in the murky light of the kitchen. "What risk are you talking about? You're not suggesting Mark is the one who…"
"Killed my wife? Not for a moment. Mark doesn't have a violent, bloody bone in his entire body."
"Then where's the danger?"
Stubborn, she was, and determinedly brave. He should take pity on her. But he couldn't afford to.
"From me," he said gently.
She backed away from him then, coming up against the old-fashioned
She was escaping from him. Richard knew it. She was in her room, dressing, humming something beneath her breath, and he could smell her perfume as it slithered down the hallway. The scent surprised him.
Diana had always favored something light, flowery, innocent. It had been part of her allure, the innocence, and the chancre underneath.
Cassidy Roarke favored something richer, muskier, defiantly sexual. It suited her about as well as innocence had suited Diana. A lie, but then, he was used to the lies of women, from their lips, from their bodies, from the very scent they wore.
He'd kept away from her, afraid of what he might do. The darkness was closer now, hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness, and he was afraid of what might happen if he gave in to it. As long as he held himself remote, no emotions, just cold intellect, then he would win. He would accomplish what he so desperately needed to accomplish, and face his execution with the same cool equanimity.
He found himself wondering whether he might have made a very great mistake in choosing Cassidy Roarke. She was getting beneath his skin, disturbing him, drawing him back into the land of the living, when he was already making plans to leave it as gracefully as possible.
But he really hadn't had any choice in the matter. He'd taken one look at the silver-framed photograph and known, with an instinct that was almost unnatural. It was too late for second thoughts, for guilt, for worrying about the consequences. He would do what he had to do.
He didn't want her going out with Mark. He didn't want her smiling at his friend, her green eyes sparkling, that wariness that infused her entire body whenever she was around him vanishing.
Of course, he went out of his way to put that wariness in her eyes. He was doing everything he could to terrify her. And he was about to up the ante.
He followed the scent of her lying perfume, aroused by it even as he distrusted it. Sean and Mabry were out someplace, and he didn't expect them to return for hours. It wouldn't matter if they did. He had no qualms about having an audience.
She was in the kitchen, and he stood in the shadows, watching her, as he had so often, waiting until she realized he was there.
She was dressed in something long and flowery, and her red hair was loose on her shoulders. She hadn't put her shoes on yet, and she was on her toes, reaching up, and he could see the long, strong line of her body, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. She was a woman, lush and full, and he wanted to fill his hands with her. It had been so very long since he had touched a woman.
He didn't move, didn't make a sound, but she turned, staring at him, for a moment all her carefully nurtured fear and fascination visible to him. And then she pulled her defenses back about her like a cloak, and she tilted her head back. He could see the nervous pulse ticking at the base of her throat, and he wanted to put his mouth on it.
"You decided to go out with him after all," he said, no accusation, no emotion in his voice.
She flinched anyway. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" she countered.
The dress was cut too low. He could see the swell of her breasts above the neckline, see the nervous rapidity of her breathing. He allowed himself a small smile.
"It depends on how fascinated you are with risk."
Her face was pale in the murky light of the kitchen. "What risk are you talking about? You're not suggesting Mark is the one who…"
"Killed my wife? Not for a moment. Mark doesn't have a violent, bloody bone in his entire body."
"Then where's the danger?"
Stubborn, she was, and determinedly brave. He should take pity on her. But he couldn't afford to.
"From me," he said gently.
She backed away from him then, coming up against the old-fashioned
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