Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(65)

She smiled and looked at her lap when his expression went stone serious, and he slipped out the door without a word.



She would be calm, would sit quietly, and would seem platonically interested. Certain things took time, should progress slowly—the problem was, time wasn't her friend. Still, there was no real reason to feel all jumpy. The butterflies in her stomach would go away. He was a decent soul, biker or not; she was in the company of a true gentleman. The problem was, however, he was in the company of an almost vampire. But she had to stop being silly. She hadn't actually turned into one, yet. All she had to do was get to her grandmother's. So it was best that they both ignore the huge white elephant in the center of the room—the bed.

True, she had turned on the green light with her offer to allow him to wash her hair. But that was a signal with a caution flag to let him know she was interested, would like things to progress, and that she considered him a suitor… but…

Tara looked at the closed bathroom door and listened to the water. She briefly closed her eyes and let her mind wander, wondering what he looked like with suds running down his strong back and broad shoulders. The momentary fantasy produced a wave of desire, and she quickly opened her eyes. Oh, no, no, no, no, no—not until she was safe. This man had been so good to her, but he was in mortal danger and didn't even know it. Right now the best and most prudent course of action would be to develop the friendship, allow the courtship to proceed, get to Grandma's, then let nature take its rightful course.

But it was going to be challenging, especially when she could see him through the door in her mind. That new awareness made her tear her gaze away from his direction and cast it into the paper that she couldn't concentrate on to read.

She was getting stronger. More of the dark power was taking hold as the afternoon sun lowered. Yet, they said she was a seer. Maybe it wasn't the thing that would remain nameless within her. What if the fact that he was a guardian was increasing her sight?

Tara clung to that thought as her hands tightly gripped the newspaper.



He almost slipped and cracked his head in the tub, he was in and out of it so fast. He'd nearly blinded himself as he'd tried to scrub road dirt out of his hair while cleaning his fingernails, and brushing his teeth in the shower at the same time. He had to clean the tub, and dry the floor, and get on his jeans, and go out there calm, cool, act like this was just a walk in the park. Just another spring day. Couldn't let her see him behaving like a fool over the idea of washing her hair. But the finest woman he'd ever seen in his life was in the other room, sitting on the side of the bed, naked under a towel, still damp, reading the newspaper. He stumbled twice as he zipped up his pants, willing away an erection, trying to mop up the floor with his feet, using the towel.

"You ready?" he asked brightly, his voice almost cracking from anticipation as he burst out of the bathroom more eagerly than intended.

"Yup," she said, popping up from the bed and bringing the shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom clutched in one arm.

"Cool, uh… right," he said, coming into the bathroom behind her quickly and turning on the tub, adjusting the water temperature as she got on her knees and leaned over the edge of it. He'd never done anything like this in his life… never washed a woman's hair. He'd done a lot of things, but this was too intimate. It was messing him up, big time. Then what was protocol—where was he supposed to stand? The tub was running, she was waiting. The practical position would be to straddle her and bend over, but that might seem too suggestive. Holy Moses.

She glanced up over her shoulder, and threw her mane over into the tub and leaned against the side of it deeper. It exposed the delicate nape of her neck, and her supple spine stretched and flexed when she did so. The sight was disorienting. The towel barely skimmed the back of her thighs. Her already wet hair formed little wisps and ringlets at the nape of her neck and before her ears. God, she was gorgeous, a stark contrast to the all-white glare in the confines of the tiny tiled room.

"Rider, the hot water is going to run out, if you don't hurry up."

"Yeah, sure," he said fast, wondering if there was some female code to what she'd just said. "Uhmmm… I'm not trying to be funny, but I need to stand a certain way, because your hair is so long."

"Go ahead, no problem. I trust you."

He swallowed hard and put one bare foot on either side of her and bent over to capture the heavy weight of her hair in his hands. For a second, he closed his eyes as the water fused with velvet in his palms. He suddenly became aware of how rough his hands were from everything he did in life. Working under a hood, working on motorcycle engines, playing the guitar, all of it made his fingers snag the silk he was holding and he was almost ashamed to even touch it. Almost.

His legs felt like steel on either side of her hips. She willed herself not to think about his sensuous stance, and refused to allow herself to consider the gentle way he stroked her hair. His tenderness was dissolving her into lather. She was practically a puddle on the floor. This was a bad idea. How in the world was she going to keep her distance from him if he worked on her like that?

"I need to wet it up good and then I'll put the shampoo in."

"Okay," she murmured and let out a slow exhale. She had to remember to breathe, and to not assume every word he said had a double meaning.