Mind Game (GhostWalkers, #2)(33)

It took him a moment to control the urgent demands of his body. As he stepped away from her, the pad of his finger slipped down her throat and trailed over the swell of her breast before he dropped his hand to his side.

Dahlia shivered at his touch. She remained still, only inches from him, refusing to back away . . . or move forward. “Fortunately, Jesse stashed some clothes here for me. He’s a thoughtful man.”

“Is that what you call him? I think interfering busybody would just about say it all. I like you without clothes.”

“Nicolas,” she cautioned. “I’m hanging on by a thread. You’re supposed to help.”

“Tell me why again, and I’ll work on it.”

“We don’t know what can happen.” He was still standing close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. His need was urgent and evident and he made no effort to hide his arousal. “And,” she held up her hand before he could speak, “I’m not completely comfortable with you yet.”

He sighed softly. “You managed to think of the one thing to say that gives me no other recourse.” He went up the stairs, his body aching for relief.

Nicolas would normally revel in the hot shower after such uncomfortable conditions, but he found he was different. Soaping the mud from his hair, he contemplated his uneasiness. As a rule, he enjoyed solitude. He needed seclusion. Isolation was his chosen way of life, so much so that he normally avoided people, yet he felt reluctant to be away from Dahlia.

He was a methodical man, one who thought things through logically. As he showered, he forced his mind to regain discipline and control. He should have been the one controlling the situation, not Dahlia, and yet she had stopped them both times. His lack of discipline when he was all about discipline confused him. Determined to recover his normal tranquility, he used the training ingrained in him by his maternal grandfather, Konin Yogosuto. Automatically he began deep breathing. He concentrated on his teachings, beliefs that were a part of his life, a part of who he was. Unification of mind and body. Complete harmony in the universe. One with the universe. Where there is chaos, there must also be calm. He repeated the soothing mantra, allowing the familiar teachings to center him.

Energy, sexual or violent, even normal energy, swarmed to Dahlia. He created the energy simply by thinking of her. By wanting her. If he was to find a path with her, he needed to find a measure of control. Dahlia was a unique woman, one who had lived a life of solitude and betrayal. She wouldn’t trust him until he earned that trust, no matter how attracted they were physically. Dahlia needed friendship and she needed to feel “normal,” whatever that might be. Whatever it was, he was determined he would find a balance that would work for them.

It felt good to be clean and dry again. He dragged on a pair of jeans and thought about what Dahlia’s life had to have been like. While he was hunting and fishing and learning martial arts, she was alone in rooms filled with one-way glass and silent watchers. His grandfathers loved him and often hugged him, beaming with approval when he succeeded. There had been two women in Dahlia’s life, and their loyalty had not been entirely hers. She needed time. Even if a sexual relationship bound them together, Nicolas knew it would never be enough for him. He knew he wanted all of Dahlia Le Blanc, not just her body.



DAHLIA dressed slowly, grateful for the clothes Jesse had stored in the closet for her. As she pulled on a pair of jeans, she listened to the sound of the shower. Nicolas had power now, and he knew it. Dahlia had never let another human being have true power over her since Dr. Whitney had when she’d been a child. Others might believe they had control, but it was never so. She should never have blurted out the truth, telling him she wanted to kiss him.

Jesse had always told her she should have a backup plan and not to trust anyone entirely. It had never seemed a problem before. Even Milly and Bernadette, the two people she’d really loved, had reported to someone else about her. It hadn’t been just Dr. Whitney they’d reported to. Whitney had lost interest in her around the age of seventeen or eighteen. He had provided the money for her home and the specialized gymnasium equipment, but once he had made a decision that she would never be able to work as an operative, he never returned. Had he checked, even once, he would have found she’d proved him wrong, perhaps out of sheer stubborness.

Dahlia wandered into the kitchen and opened cupboards. They were stocked only with the bare necessities. She made a pot of coffee, mainly for the aroma and something to do with her hands while she tried to puzzle out who wanted her dead. Who knew about her, and why would they want her dead? Was it possible those she’d worked with didn’t want it known that she did recovery work for them and sent out a team to kill not only her, but Milly and Bernadette as well? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

She rubbed at her damp hair with the towel, taking out the excess moisture. There was no need to kill any of them. No one would ever believe Dahlia Le Blanc, a woman raised in a sanitarium. It was the perfect cover and the perfect protection. If she were caught, she was simply a mad-woman unhinged by her own conspiracy theories.

She looked up as Nicolas sauntered into the room. His hair was damp from his shower and he wore only a pair of soft blue jeans. He was barefoot and shirtless, showing a broad, bronzed chest that robbed her of her ability to think clearly. She tried not to stare, but it was a losing proposition. In a lame attempt to cover her reaction to his presence, she settled into one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m just making coffee. I thought we both could use a cup.”