Her gaze traveled higher, over the sleek, stunning beauty of his back, the deep furrows of muscle that lined his spine, higher, lifting to his broad shoulders, and she suddenly gasped, unable to believe what she was seeing. Shock slammed through her with whipcord strength the instant she spotted the dark, intricate tattoo between his shoulder blades. She didn't know why the image affected her so strongly--she only knew that she felt its power like a physical touch thrumming against her senses, intimate and deep. It was uniquely beautiful. A thick cross, like a Maltese, with four equal arms, the surface covered in what looked like tiny, intricate symbols.
"Ian," she whispered, her voice soft with amazement.
He 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 past two nights, that kiss was the first time his mouth had actually touched hers.
The shower stopped, and a moment later, Ian opened the door, steam billowing out around him, a white towel wrapped around his lean waist, powerful arms crossed over the muscled width of his chest. The rugged angles and hollows of his face seemed more pronounced, accentuating his masculine perfection, storm-blue eyes even darker beneath those thick black lashes. For a moment Molly was speechless, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She'd seen him undressed in the dreams they'd shared. Had felt his body covering her, penetrating her. But she was still unprepared for the incredible beauty of his dark, powerful physique.
Her heartbeat fluttered like a flock of startled birds, the moment stretching out endless and long as they stared at one another across the distance of the shabby motel room. Outside, the storm continued to rage, violent and vicious and loud, and then he finally said, "As impossible as this all seems, I really don't have a choice anymore. I wish like hell that you weren't involved, but I guess I'm ready to believe you."
"YOU BELIEVE ME about Elaina?" Molly whispered, staring at him as if she'd never before set eyes on a man wearing nothing but a towel. "About your mother? The things she's told me?"
Ian glanced down at the raw slices slashing across his rib cage and snorted. "Yeah, I believe you. You know, when my mother started talking about how the Merrick were still alive, she'd always say that one was right under my nose. That when the darkness called, I'd find him.
Guess I should've listened to her."
"Well, the important thing is that you're listening now," she murmured with obvious relief, before heading toward one of the suitcases stored in the corner of the room. "We can talk while I get those cuts cleaned. You don't want to risk getting them infected."
"You're not going to ask why I came here? Why I came to you?" he questioned, watching as she pulled out her first-aid kit.
She didn't look at him as they moved into the shabby kitchenette, as if purposely avoiding his mostly naked body, her intense stare focused on the supplies she was setting out over the small table. "I heard what it said about Kendra in your dream. Heard it threaten to go after me, as well. I imagine you came here to make sure I was all right." Gesturing toward one of the rickety chairs, she said in a soft voice, "You can tell me what happened while I work."
Sitting down in the chair, Ian tucked the towel between his legs and leaned back, feeling remarkably well, considering the events of the night. The hot shower had helped, but more than that, it was the woman. There was just something about her--something he'd noticed when they first met. Something that eased the tension he'd carried inside for so long, calming him, at the same time she made him feel insatiable and out of control, ready to fight to protect her, defending her to the death. Odd, unsettling sentiments for a man who had always prided himself on detachment--on never caring about anyone but himself.
Releasing a rough breath, he ran his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back from his face. He'd have given a limb for a cigarette at that moment, but he'd left his pack back at his apartment and he knew from the taste of her mouth that she didn't smoke. "When I woke up from the dream," he told her, getting on with his explanation, "I knew something was wrong.
I could feel...Hell, I don't know how to explain it. It was like there was this thing inside of me, and it wanted out. And unlike the nightmares I've been having, it was damn painful."
Her brow knitted with concern. "It hurt?"
"Like a bitch," he sighed, watching as she went to the sink and washed her hands, then came back to the table and opened an alcohol swab.
"You fought the change, didn't you?"
"Yeah," he muttered, grimacing at the first touch of the medicated swab against the deepest of the cuts on his arm.
"Maybe that's what accounted for the pain."
He grunted and drew in a deep breath that smelled of Molly and the lemon hand soap she'd used to wash her hands. "Maybe."
Ripping open a fresh swab, she asked, "What happened then?"
"I remembered that it'd threatened you in the dream, and the next thing I knew, I was running out into the night, into the forest. I ran through the woods like a friggin' madman, until I heard it. I stopped, and it was there. Waiting for me. Calling me. Who the hell knows?"
Her hand stilled, the expression in her eyes hidden beneath the thick fringe of her lashes.
"Was it...Did it look the same as in the dream?"
"Oh, yeah." His mouth twisted with a bitter smile. "Scared the ever-loving hell outta me."
Working her way down the shallow wounds, she paid meticulous attention to her task as she said, "And yet you fought against it, faced it down. You didn't run like most people would have."
His head tilted a fraction to the side as he studied her, wanting to reach out and hook the fall of her hair behind her ear, just so that he could watch the shifting angles of her expression.
Maybe then he'd be able to understand her. Get a read on her motivation, since it was clear by now that this wasn't a con. He wanted to find out what made her tick--made her willing to risk her life by coming there and delivering her strange little messages from beyond, though it was still hard to get his head around the idea that she talked with his mother's ghost. "How do you know I didn't run?"
Pausing, she gave him a quick, soft smile that melted something in the center of his chest, making it burn with a slow, sweet fire. "I just know. No matter the odds, I can't ever see you just giving in without a fight."
Ian rolled his shoulder, aware of an odd heat climbing up the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, it did a pretty good job of kicking my ass."
"So you didn't change then, either?" she asked, carefully rubbing a slick antiseptic ointment over his bicep, her fingers cool against the heat of his skin. "Not even when you fought it?"
"Something happened," he grunted, working his jaw as the cold salve seeped into the wound.
"It threatened you again, told me it was coming after you, and after that, I was pissed enough to let that thing...to let whatever the hell's inside of me have a go at it. But then it seemed to pick up on something else in the woods."
Frowning, she met his stare. "Like what?"
Ian shrugged. "No idea. Maybe it was an animal. Bear. Mountain lion. Whatever it was, it scared the bastard off."
"And then you came here." The words were hushed, almost solemn.
"Yeah. I..." His voice trailed off as she placed one hand low on his side, holding herself steady while switching her attention to the ugly cuts on his rib cage. Ian noticed that her fingertips were now smeared with his blood, and the jarring intimacy of that strange, unsettling sight slammed into him like a physical blow. "You don't have to worry about that,"
he murmured under his breath, jerking his chin toward her fingers. "I've been tested."
Her hand stilled, and then she resumed her task with a gentle touch, hiding behind the fall of her hair again. "Thanks," she whispered. "With everything that's been going on, I wasn't even thinking about that."
Ian grasped her wrist, waiting patiently for her to look him in the eye. When she did, he asked, "What about you?"
She ran her tongue over the sleek swell of her lower lip. "What about me?"
"Been tested?" he drawled in a quiet, husky rasp, as her gaze grew deeper, making him feel as if he could fall into those warm brown depths and find her soul.
She arched one slender brow in a cynical lift and pulled free of his hold. "That's a pretty personal question."
"These are pretty personal circumstances," he shot back, his breath suddenly hissing through his teeth as she returned to her task, applying a fresh swab. Ian took advantage of her absorption with his injuries to lose himself in the study of her features, lingering over the individual details that when put together, created a face that if not the most beautiful, was certainly the most fascinating he'd ever seen. Soulful, big brown eyes. Pink, full mouth that somehow managed to look sinfully angelic. Feminine nose and jaunty chin. Masses of thick, silky curls that begged for the touch of a man's hand.
The details were pretty, delicate, sweet...even innocent in their purity. She could have been a Sunday-school teacher. A college student going for her master's degree in humanities. The kind of girl who married a high-school sweetheart, raised 2.5 kids with a white picket fence and a flurry of schedules to coordinate, from gymnastics to soccer practice, living the Norman Rockwell equivalent of the American Dream.
And yet...the way she made him feel was none of those things. Dark. Edgy. Desperate. The explicit things he wanted from her, wanted to do to her, wanted to make her do, they had no business in that world of innocence and happily-ever-afters.
"I had blood work done when I went on the Pill two years ago."
"What?" Ian shook his head, trying to find his way back to the conversation, his body buzzing, head foggy, reminding him of his drug-hazed days. Molly Stratton was that potent, like a narcotic, jacking him up, making him crave a fix. He'd fought so hard to get beyond that kind of need--that kind of dark, addictive craving--he almost could have hated her for dragging him back there.
"I said that I had blood work done two years ago, when my doctor put me on the Pill."
"That's a long time to go without getting tested," he managed to mutter, shifting in the chair.