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 shiny 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 shirt, 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.
In a night of horrors, that was the most horrible thing of all.
The snake reared up, dodging wildly back and forth, seeking the cat. Its blood spattered the walls and the floor. Its coils knocked over her speakers, trashed the stand full of her DVDs, smacked her clock across the room.
Karen inched along the wall, eyes fixed on the deadly, writhing reptile, desperate not to attract its attention, even more desperate not to get in its way.
Gradually the serpentas agitation calmed. It fixed its gaze on Karen and seemed almost to smile, its tongue flicking in mocking antic.i.p.ation.
It seemed to believe that Warlord had abandoned them both.
So. The snake was not as smart as she had previously feared.
Yet where was Warlord? Had the venom splashed in his eyes? Was he blinded?
Did she have to save herself by herself? She would try. Of course she would try, but as this thing lifted and balanced itself with serpentine dexterity, she realized its giant head reached as high as her throat.
She dashed toward the door, but the snake blocked her.
The fangs gleamed.
She backed away.
The eyes glowed red with flame. The body slithered toward her in great waves.
She wanted to scream but had no breath, wanted to run but had nowhere to go. She put one foot behind the other, groped behind her, desperate to avoid obstructions, to stay on her feet. Her mind raced. If she could jump onto the mattress and throw herself through the window, she might be hurt, but she would be free. She would run and scream, and security would arrive, anda"
She stumbled backward over something hefty, inflexible, something that rolled under her foot. She tried to catch herself. Her foot slipped on the tile. She sat down hard. Warlordas leather dress shoe was on the floor. Warlordas shoe had brought her down. She looked up, saw the cobra rising above her, its eyes black and elated, its two fangs bared, glaring white and ready.
She grabbed the heavy shoe and flung it, aiming for the long lift of the creatureas body above the floor.
The snake collapsed, off balance. Instantly it rose again, furious at her a.s.sault. She was going to diea"
The panther leaped back inside, onto the bed, then bounded off the mattress and onto the serpent, smashing its head toward the floor. With its teeth the great cat flipped the cobra up in the air, then snapped its spine with an audible crack.
Blood spurted. The ghastly thing writhed on the floor in its death agonies.
The great panther stood panting, its mouth crimson with blooda"and marks seared by the venom into his right cheek and both eyelids.
Rick. The cat was Rick, and Rick was Warlord, and her most bizarre nightmares had taken form in real life. She backed toward the window, knowing that flight was futile, knowing she had to try to escape from this nightmare where giant cobras spit lethal venom, and the man she knew so well . . . wasnat really a man.
The snakeas flopping became more frantic, an unnerving rhythm of serpentine death.
At the same time the panther groaned and changed. She couldnat tear her fascinated, horrified gaze away as the dark fur slid back into skin, shoulders and chest filled the shirt, leg bones stretched out straight, the paws grew fingers and toes, the face developed a strong chin, a prominent nose, and . . . one pale green eye sparked with life, while the other was swollen shut, with the skin peeled back and oozing. Ricka"or Warlord, or whatever it called itselfa"was almost human once more. Almost.
She shook her head and muttered, "No, no, no," as if the chant would somehow return her to reality.
Behind him, the snakeas upper body rose, fangs bared, its black, lidless eyes fixed on Warlord.
Horror froze her in place. She yelled, "No!"
But it was too late.
The snake buried its fangs deep into Warlordas thigh.
Triumph gleamed in its eyesa"but only for a second.
Warlord finished the change. Grabbing the cobra by the back of the neck, he jerked it free and slammed it against the wall. The skull cracked. The snake fell, dead at last.
And Warlord was completely human.
Too late.
She lunged toward him. "Are you all right?"
He fended her off with one hand. "Donat!"
"Let me get an antivenom kit." She reached for the phone.
"It wouldnat help with this venom. You have to go. Now."
"You could die!"
"Unlikely," he snapped. He held his leg in both hands. One eye was swollen shut. The skin over the other was scoured red and covered with dirt, as if head violently rubbed the venom off. "Theyare after the icon."
Nothing he could have said would have commanded her attention like that single word. "What icon?"
"The icon of the Madonna. The one you found in Nepal." When she still pretended ignorance, he said impatiently, "Youave got it packed in your bag with your motheras picture. "
"How do you know what Ia"" Head searched her room.
This was Warlord, all right. And Warlord was a panther.
She had guarded that icon, kept it secret, never told anyone about the childas body, and her eyes, and the way they had looked into Karenas . . . and only one man had ever seen the icon.
This man. "You told them I had it."
"No. I did not."
"Right." Her ire rose. "Because youare the bastion of honor. How do you know thatas what they want?"
"I spied on them. I heard them. I came here to warn you."
Remembering the last few days, she said, "You took your own sweet time about issuing the warning."
"I donat know how they found you so quickly." He lifted his arms, then dropped them. "But you donat need to repeat my mistakes. Listen to me. Get dressed."