Waking The Serpent. Jane Kindred
muster—which was zilch.
Rafe grabbed an afghan from the back of the couch and threw it around her. “Phoebe, I—I swear to you, that wasn’t my... I don’t know what happened—”
“You don’t have to explain. It was the shades. I’ve never felt any quite so...determined before.” Her knees began to shake in the aftermath of the possession, quickly morphing into a full-body tremble, complete with chattering teeth. “I need to warm up.” How ironic. She’d been plenty hot a second ago. “This happens sometimes, after.”
“What can I do? What do you need?”
“Run a bath for me. Please.” Her knees buckled and Rafe caught her, easing her to the couch. After gently setting her head on a pillow, he hurried down the hall, the sound of running water announcing he was doing as she’d asked. He stayed in the bathroom while the tub filled, too mortified, she supposed, to be in the same room with her. She had to admit, not looking at him right now was probably a really good idea.
When it was ready, he came to get her, dressed in his damp, steamy clothes fresh from the dryer. She was still unsteady, and she made a little yip of surprise when he swept her off the ground and carried her the rest of the way, setting her on her feet only when he’d reached the bathroom rug.
“Do you need any help?” He addressed the top of her left ear.
“No. I’ve got this. Thanks. It’ll just take me a few minutes to warm up.”
Rafe nodded and stepped out, closing the door to give her privacy. He’d also given her bubbles—lavender. That was sweet. Phoebe dropped the afghan and her underthings in a heap and climbed into the claw-foot tub, sinking into the aromatic suds. It was impossible not to replay every touch—illicitly received though they might have been—as she lay back against the porcelain and closed her eyes. Her body wasn’t likely to forget it, even if she managed to stop thinking about it. Even the taste of his mouth and the smell of his skin lingered.
A sound carried from the front of the house—the click of the front door closing. Damn.
Rafe drove through the storm toward home on autopilot, his gut churning as his truck wound through the hills. What the hell had just happened? He was beginning to think the Covent was right about step-ins. If one could control him so completely, it was easy to imagine he’d been taken over by a step-in long enough to kill poor Barbara Fisher. Yet for this, despite being unable to take autonomous action, he’d been fully aware on some level—watching himself. Feeling every sensation.
And what sensations. Phoebe’s skin against his had felt like the rain itself, caressing, enveloping, washing him clean. He knew it was Jacob’s desire for Lila he’d felt, but it was impossible to extricate his own from the experience. He’d never wanted any woman so intensely. His cock was still stiff as a steel rod in his pants.
He could smell her on his fingers gripping the wheel, intoxicating and incredibly arousing. There was no way he’d be able to sleep tonight without relieving the tension. Yet the thought of what he’d done, lack of personal volition notwithstanding, was mortifying. How could he even think of taking pleasure in the memory?
The storm had passed over the valley by the time he punched in his code at the gate to Stone Canyon. His place was modest compared to the family home, but the gated community always made him feel like an imposter. Phoebe Carlisle’s little cottage was much more his style. Of course, if his lawyer couldn’t get him acquitted of the murder charge, he’d be living in an altogether different gated community soon enough.
That ought to be what occupied his mind right now—the very real possibility that he might spend his life in prison for a murder someone else had committed, whether with his hands or otherwise—not his inappropriate arousal at being used as a vessel for another man’s desire. How very Freudian it all was, even without the puppet sex show he and Phoebe had almost starred in. Had starred in. Things had gone far enough to constitute one hell of a performance.
He had to get her out of his head, and the scent of her off his skin. As soon as he arrived at the house, he hit the shower: cold and pounding him with the ultra-massage setting. It was a temporary reprieve, but he needed to pull himself together and take care of some business before clients started backing out after hearing he was being investigated for murder. God only knew what kind of conversations they’d already been having with Rafael Sr. The fact that his father had sent his fancy lawyer to the county jail to intervene but hadn’t contacted Rafe himself spoke volumes.
After drying off and getting dressed, he pushed down the insanity of the entire day and dove into his business communications to keep operations running smoothly. He’d earned a reputation as a solid manager in the years since graduating from college and taking on increasing responsibility while Rafael Sr. concentrated on his political career, and he knew he could count on the people in his employ.
In the beginning, the men and women on the ground at the Diamante sites had viewed him as some kind of pampered playboy amusing himself with his father’s money, but he’d quickly proved himself and earned their respect. And when he’d taken his place in the Covent after earning that on his own, as well, through hours of mundane magical practice, the privileged connections available through the arcane community had also become his own instead of hand-me-downs from his father.
When he made his calls, he made a point of asking after family members and mentioning them by name before addressing the Fisher business, as if it were an unfortunate misunderstanding that would blow over by Monday.
Distracting himself with business worked until he collapsed into bed and closed his eyes. The scent and taste and texture of Phoebe rushed back at him as if she were lying right beside him. Worse than the ill-gotten knowledge of her body was the certainty that his desire for her was distinct and his own. This wasn’t some residual effect of the step-in. And no amount of worry about the Fisher case or the business could seem to dampen it.
But it didn’t matter, because the unfortunate incident with the step-ins wasn’t going to be repeated. He’d have to clear his name without Phoebe Carlisle’s help.
As he drifted off into a fitful sleep, the tattoo seemed to prickle under the skin at his back, as though Quetzalcoatl were moving.
* * *
The evidence of last night’s debacle spread across the coffee table like a surrealist painting: The Persistence of Memory in encaustic. She’d let the candles burn down, too tired to come back to the living room after her bath.
Phoebe sighed and got to work scraping the spattered puddles of wax off the table and the hardwood while Puddleglum looked on with disapproval at her apparent misplaced interest in something that didn’t involve rectifying the travesty of the tiny spot of emptiness visible at the center of his otherwise full cat dish.
It was possible she was getting dangerously close to becoming one of those crazy cat ladies, providing motives and inner dialogue for Puddleglum as a sad testament to having no life. Nah. That was totally what he was thinking.
“At least you don’t bolt in horror if you accidentally see me naked.” Because there was nothing weird about having a one-sided conversation with her cat. Not that talking to herself was new. It had taken her until fifth grade to realize no one else had “guests” stepping into them to ask questions—out loud, through their mouths. She’d developed coping mechanisms, becoming a theater geek so she could pass off her random changes of voice and non-sequiturs as doing impressions or rehearsing lines.
Ione had teased her mercilessly, thinking Phoebe was just a weird kid, while the twins, Theia and Rhea, five years younger, were immersed in their own private language—and what often seemed to be their own private world. Then Ione had taken an apprenticeship with the Covent, leaving Phoebe to her own devices. Luckily, being on her own was something she’d always excelled at. She’d had to. By the time she went off to college, it had become second nature to have step-ins wander in and out—which