In Destiny's Shadow. Ingrid Weaver
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to keep traveling?
“Melina?”
At the deep voice, she snapped her head up. As if she had conjured him out of her thoughts, Anthony stood less than two yards away.
Her heart did a painful thump. It wasn’t only from surprise. His gaze probed into hers and sent a tickle of awareness all the way to her bare toes.
He wore the same clothes as he had the night before. Black jeans encased his long legs and rode comfortably loose on his slim hips. A black leather bomber jacket hung open over a shirt that had likely started out black, as well, but was faded to a washed-soft pewter. The sober tones suited him—even though he stood squarely in the light that poured in from the window behind her, he gave the impression of being surrounded by traces of shadow.
“Melina, are you all right?”
How long had she been staring? she wondered belatedly. She surged to her feet. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“We agreed to meet at eight,” he said. The gold at his earlobe glinted subtly as he tipped his head behind him. “When I knocked on your door, it swung open. I thought I heard you moan, so I came in to make sure you were okay.”
“I didn’t hear any knock.”
He scowled. “You obviously didn’t hear me come in, either. You have to be more careful. Titan’s people don’t give second chances.”
She looked past him. The door to the corridor was closed now. She remembered undoing the security chain when she had picked up the newspaper from the threshold. She had been talking to Neil so she hadn’t bothered to rehook the chain. She also hadn’t paid any attention to whether or not the electronic lock had engaged.
Her carelessness jarred her. “Thanks for your concern, but as you can see, I’m fine. And I believe I already mentioned to you how I don’t take orders.”
“It was advice, Melina.”
“We won’t quibble over semantics,” she said, deciding it was time to take control of the situation. She stepped forward, expecting him to move aside. “I’ll meet you in the restaurant downstairs.”
He didn’t budge. “I’ll walk down with you.”
She wished she had taken the time to put her boots on—she could have used the psychological advantage of the extra three inches. Not that she felt threatened by Anthony’s presence, which was odd, considering his size. He had to be at least six foot two, maybe three, and he’d already demonstrated how easily he could manhandle her. Back in that alley, he had picked her up and lugged her around as if she weighed nothing.
So why wasn’t she nervous? He had appeared uninvited in her hotel room, she’d known him for less than six hours and she didn’t entirely trust him. Source or not, why didn’t she simply step around him, grab her boots and leave?
Those were good questions. She didn’t have answers for them, other than to chalk up her lack of fear to a gut feeling.
Her gaze dropped to his throat. She noticed his pulse beating at the base of his neck where he’d left his shirt collar unfastened. She caught a hint of his scent, the musk of warm male skin, and she remembered how she had felt when he’d sheltered her with his body.
A few dark hairs showed at the top of his shirt. She had a sudden urge to test their texture with her fingertips, to unfasten more of the buttons and slip her hand inside and run her palm over his bare chest and drag her lips across the swells of his muscles and—
She didn’t realize she had moved nearer until her toes came up against the hard leather of his shoes.
She blinked and leaned back. When had she leaned forward? And when had she lifted her hand? Her fingers were only inches away from his top shirt button. She snatched her hand away and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. The touch made her shudder—her lips were tingling.
What on earth had just happened?
Melina didn’t know what to say. She felt ridiculous. How could she explain reaching for him like that? He must think she was coming on to him. All right, she found him attractive, even compelling, but she was a mature, rational woman. She wasn’t ruled by her impulses. She clenched her jaw and looked up.
God help her, she wanted to reach for him again.
“On second thought, Melina,” Anthony murmured, turning away, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
There were only a dozen people in the hotel dining room—November seemed to be a slow time of year for the Pecos—so Anthony had his pick of the tables. He chose one at the far end, near the terrace doors, where the ventilation system and the music that played through the speakers in the wall would mask any conversation. The spot also provided him with a good view of all the exits and the courtyard beyond the terrace, as well as everyone in the room.
He draped his jacket over the chair back, ordered coffee, then angled himself so he could study the other guests over the rim of his cup. Beneath the wrought-iron chandelier that hung in the center of the beamed ceiling, four men in suits sat at a round table. Businessmen, from the look of them, he decided, likely no threat. A young couple, possibly honeymooners, were at a table secluded behind a clay planter full of cacti. A small, middle-aged woman with a colorful fringed shawl draped around her shoulders sat by herself in a corner. The rest of the patrons were seated in pairs or alone, all of them occupied with their meals, none of them particularly suspicious.
Still, Anthony remained alert, observing their reactions as Melina entered through the archway from the lobby. He looked for anyone who paid too much attention, or was trying to seem as if they were paying no attention at all. He was confident no one had followed Melina and him when they had left the Grand, so they should be safe here for a while, but he couldn’t afford to let down his guard.
And he couldn’t afford to get distracted, either. What was happening to his control? Maybe it was fatigue. Or maybe it was Melina. The mere sight of her walking across the room toward him was making his pulse race.
She had a straightforward, no-nonsense stride, her slender legs making quick work of the distance to the table that Anthony had selected. She likely had no idea how tantalizing she looked, with her hair tumbling in rich curls over her ivory sweater, and her skirt swaying in rhythm with her hips. Her boot heels clicked delicately on the wood floor, a sweetly feminine sound. Her chin was lifted, her fingers were wrapped around the strap of her shoulder bag and there was no smile on her face—she was obviously prepared for business. Yet, except for the honeymooner, she drew the regard of every man she passed.
Anthony wiped his palms on his thighs and rose to hold out her chair.
She seemed startled by the courtesy—startled enough to look at his face.
Oh, hell, Anthony thought. She wasn’t helping his concentration. The moment her gaze met his, her eyes darkened. A flush pinkened her cheeks. Beneath her sweater, her breasts lifted with her quickened breathing.
He’d wondered about it last night, but after what had happened—or almost happened—in her room a few minutes ago, there was no longer any doubt in Anthony’s mind. It was obvious to him that Melina was as attuned to the sexual connection between them as he was.
The strength of the connection likely puzzled her—she would have no way of understanding the source. Few people outside his family knew the full extent of his special, psychic ability. Fewer still knew about its peculiar side effects.
Anthony’s ability was a legacy from his mother’s Gypsy heritage. He could sense and control energy fields. That was how he’d caused the transformer in the alley to overload, and how he’d guided the live wire into swinging in the direction he’d wanted. It was how he’d deactivated the electromagnetic lock on Melina’s hotel room door a few minutes ago when he’d heard her moan. Normally, he was extremely precise in his manipulations. Sometimes, though, the excess power he gathered in order to exercise his talent…spilled.
In the right circumstances, the