Phantom Shadows

Dr. Whetsman entered the room, his attention on an open file cradled in his hands. Raising his gaze, he caught sight of them, blanched and—without breaking stride—made a sharp U-turn and strode right back out.



“Who the hell was that?” Bastien grumbled.



“Dr. Whetsman.”



His countenance darkened. “The prick who scratched your face when Vince had his last break?”



“Yes,” Melanie said, stunned that he even remembered her mentioning it. So much had happened since then. And she had only mentioned it the one time when they were facing Vince as he struggled for lucidity.



Bastien’s eyes flashed amber. A growl rumbled forth from his muscled throat.



When he took a step after the retreating doctor, Melanie grabbed his arm. “Whoa there, tiger. Leave him alone.”



“He hit you.”



“He scratched me while he screamed like a little girl and ran away from a crazed vampire.”



His expression changed from fury to amusement to one of self-loathing. “Oh, hell. I forgot you were wounded.” Bending, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to an exam table.



Melanie gasped. “What are you . . . ?”



He seated her on it, then began to unwind the bandage he had applied.



“Bastien, you don’t have to . . .” She broke off when he took one of his daggers and applied it to her jeans. Her snug jeans. Which became something very close to Daisy Dukes on one side as he swiftly and efficiently cut away her pant leg above her injury.



“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice light with curiosity. “Your emotions are all over the place.”



It really was disconcerting that he could know what she felt anytime he wanted to simply by reaching out and touching her. The only thing worse would be his being able to read her thoughts.



“Just off the top of my head?” she said. “I’m glad I shaved my legs last night.”



He grinned. “What else?”



“I like you touching me, even though the cut is stinging like crazy.”



His eyes began to glow. “I thought we weren’t going to go there.”



“I’m a grown woman. I can go wherever I want to go.”



“Why would you want to go there?” His tone was pure puzzlement.



“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Anyone who spent five minutes in his company knew he was something of a mess, still trying to find his way in his new life. Still battling the bitterness of the past. Reluctant to trust after being deceived by—oh—about a hundred of his closest friends.



“There’s just something about you,” she said finally, “that . . . lures me.”



Bastien pilfered first-aid supplies from nearby drawers and cabinets.



Melanie sucked in a pained breath as he disinfected the cut. It felt as though he were holding a blow torch to her skin.



“Sorry,” he said, his eyes losing some of their glow as his brow furrowed.



She nodded, blinking back tears. Crap, it hurt. But it didn’t halt her body’s response when he leaned down and blew on her thigh in an attempt to squelch the fire.



Giving in to temptation, she reached out and combed her fingers through his dark locks.



She had never dated a man with long hair before. Bastien’s fell past his shoulders in a sleek midnight curtain.



It was so soft. She hadn’t expected that. More often than not when men let their hair grow long it looked frizzy, split-endy, or just plain greasy and in need of a wash. Bastien’s appeared as smooth and shiny as that of the models in shampoo commercials. Smoother and shinier than Melanie’s, making her wish she had found a better conditioner or used a curling iron or something to make her brown locks less blah. She was always just so tired when she got home in the morning. Even two extra minutes spent combing a conditioner through her hair in the shower seemed like too much work.



Bastien’s breath halted the moment her fingers sank into his raven tresses. His eyes flared bright amber again. His lids lowered.



Melanie combed his hair back on one side, let it fall forward in graceful waves. Heart pounding, she buried both hands in his hair—so thick—and slid her fingers, nails clipped short to accommodate her work at the computer, along his scalp.



A growl, more like the rumbling purr a leopard might make, arose deep in his throat.



Her pulse spiked.



Bastien braced his hands on the edge of the exam table, gripping it tightly.



“What are you doing, Dr. Lipton?” he asked hoarsely.



“Melanie,” she corrected, heart pounding so hard she was sure Cliff and Joe must hear it in their apartments across the hall.



“What are you doing, Melanie?”



She repeated the action. “Whatever feels good,” she whispered.



That drew a groan from him. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on her shoulder.



She waited for him to turn his head and nuzzle her neck, maybe take a little bite. But he didn’t. He increased the pressure of his forehead on her shoulder, pressed her back the tiniest bit, the battle raging within him palpable.



“I need you to not do that,” he said, voice low.



“Why?”



“Because every time you touch me I feel how much you want me and it makes me want you even more.”



Her blood heated. “I don’t have a problem with that,” she murmured.



Bastien groaned and did turn his head, then pressed his lips to her throat. “You should.” He lifted his head, stared at her with those incredible, luminescent eyes. So bright. So beautiful. So full of desire.



Mere inches separated them.



He raised one hand, cupped her cheek, smoothed his thumb across her skin.



Melanie had never wanted a man to kiss her more.



He shifted, leaned closer, touched his lips to hers.



Her breath caught.



“I can feel everything you feel,” he whispered.



“Is that the only reason you’re kissing me?”



His head moved from side to side in a barely discernible shake. “You don’t know how much I wish it were.” His lips again closed on hers, firmer, hungrier.



Melanie hummed in pleasure as fire licked its way through her veins. His tongue met hers, stroked, enticed. So hot she thought she might melt onto the table.



Abruptly, he broke the contact and again braced both hands on the table, rested his forehead on her shoulder.



“We can’t do this,” he said gruffly. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my long life, Melanie. A lot. And, knowing me, I’ll make many more. I don’t want you to be one of them.”



“What makes you think I’d be a mistake?” She couldn’t change his mind if she didn’t know his train of thought.



He straightened suddenly, shoulders stiff, eyes lowered, though not enough that she couldn’t still see their glow. Bastien may do his damnedest to appear cold and indifferent, but his eyes reflected the strong emotions that whipped through him.



“I won’t do this.” He spoke not another word as he finished cleaning and dressing her wound.



Melanie was impressed by the quality of his work. “You’re good.” She tested the dressing. “Have you studied medicine?”



“Formally, no,” he answered, tossing the discarded makeshift bandage and other trash into the can marked hazardous waste. “But I long ago grew tired of butchering myself every time I had to remove chunks of lead, shards of glass, blades long and short, and once, a wooden stake nearly the width of your wrist. So I purchased a library full of medical textbooks that have helped me improve my first aid skills.”



“Did you understand what Montrose Keegan was doing then? His research?”



“Some. In the beginning, I read all of his notes and paid close attention to his experiments. But destroying Roland and maintaining control of an army of men who were rapidly losing their grips on reality was . . .”



“A full-time job?”



“Yes. How do you feel? Do you require pain medication?”



“For this?” she scoffed. “No.”



When she had first begun her training, she had been so freaking sore all over that she had walked like a century-old human. Hunched over. Bitching and moaning with every step she took. (The last part wasn’t necessarily characteristic of an old woman. But for some reason it had helped her to complain about it.)



She had taken no pain relievers for it though. Her trainers had emphasized the importance of becoming accustomed to pain so that if she ever engaged in battle, the pain of any wounds she might incur wouldn’t totally freak her out.



Mission accomplished. She thought she had held her own rather well tonight.



“By the way, are the vampires you hunt usually so chatty?” she asked.



He laughed, some of the tension in his body easing. “No. Many are boastful or make scathing comments until I strike the first blow. Stuart was something of a surprise. He must be like Cliff. The madness must be progressing more slowly in him, otherwise he would have run off or stayed and fought without listening to a word we said.”



“I hope he can be trusted.”



“I do, too.”



“I guess we’ll find out in three nights. Can I go with you to meet him?”



“Hell, no! It could be a trap.”



“All the more reason to have an extra set of hands—”



“Not gonna happen.”



She could see he wouldn’t budge. “Fine. At least call me and let me know you’re on the way to meet him in case it is an ambush.”



The tension in his face eased. “That I can do. Now, I’d like to go ahead and speak with Cliff before Richart returns so I’ll bid you good night.”



Melanie stared up at him. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into kissing me good night, could I?”



She thought he would refuse. So, when he cupped her face in his large hands, ducked his head, and captured her lips in a fiery hot, tongue-tangling kiss . . .



Well, she lost the ability to think and speak coherently and could only feel.



His eyes blazed brightly when he raised his head. “Good night, Melanie.”