Page 84 of Brushed By Moonlight
Hell yes. But it was only — I glanced over, then gaped at the clock — er,alreadyten in the morning, and we had a long day ahead of us. Maybe even a flight to Mallorca.
My hand went from the neutral territory of his shoulder to the riskier terrain of his hip. “Well, yes. I’m only human, you know.”
Are you, though?his eyes asked, though he didn’t actually speak.
Good, because that was a long story, and frankly, our time was better invested in sex.
I did, however, cave in enough to give him the short version.
“My father’s side of the family — the American side — is a mix of fox and bear shifters.”
Marius considered that. “That doesn’t explain how you evaded Henrik that night he stalked you from the attic.”
Ah, the shadow-walking. Hard to explain — especially since I hadn’t completely mastered it.
“Old family secret,” I said. “Not mine to share, sorry.”
He pursed his lips but didn’t press me on it.
“That comes from your mother’s side of the family, I take it?” he asked.
I nodded. “A mix of shifters and witches from here in Burgundy. But so mixed, and so far back, that we don’t have any truly special abilities.”
He snorted. “You mean, except for evading vampires?”
I flashed a thin smile. “Occasionally.”
We lay quietly for a while, thinking, touching, nuzzling.
“My turn for a question,” I eventually whispered.
“Uh-oh,” he murmured, only half joking.
I traced a line of muscle in his forearm, working up the courage to ask.
“That charge of attempted murder. Any regrets?” I quietly asked.
“Only that I didn’t succeed in killing him.”
So, points for honesty, if not lawfulness. But if that man was as bad as Bene said, well… Could I blame Marius?
I digested that for a while, then decided to try my luck with another question.
“What will you do when you finish working for Gordon?”
His eyes wandered over the ceiling, then the walls.
“Not sure,” he said.
I nodded, uncertain what I wanted his answer to be, let alone how I might reply.
Stay,a voice in the back of my mind pleaded.Forever.
A minute ticked by, far more comfortably than I expected.
“Did you paint those?” Marius murmured sometime later, indicating the row of framed art on the wall.
I shook my head. “Only that one.” I pointed to an oil painting of the garden fountain in better days. “There are dozens more in storage. As a kid, I came here every summer and spent most of my time sketching and painting.” Then I cleared my throat. “That one, that one, and that one are my father’s.” I pointed to watercolors of the local landscape. “He loved it here. My grandmother used to joke that he was more her child than my mother was.”
