Lyon. Elizabeth Amber
promised. The other girls at Valmont’s had described this to her—this hanging on a precipice of ecstasy. But until now, she’d never truly understood.
Every ounce of blood in her seemed to recede as she waited there, unfulfilled. A single tear fell, trickling down her cheek. Her white-knuckled fingers clenched between her breasts, gripping the crimson wool of her cloak as she bent at the railing, her entire body locked tight. A mere breath away from her first orgasm.
Then a hoarse, anguished shout split the air, and the man in the park climaxed. A simultaneous, feminine wail from his partner echoed his.
Oh, God!
The avid wave abruptly broke inside Juliette and blood went whooshing back through her system. Hurtling through every vein and artery, it all rushed toward one tempestuous goal. High between her legs, the shiny-pink, hidden heart of her swelled with it and gaped in a silent, passionate scream.
With a muffled cry, she came! In rolling, wracking spasms that pounded and tripped one upon the next, scarcely affording her time to breathe. Her nether mouth gulped and gasped and choked in an ecstatic, creamy rhythm. Her hand crept low and she cupped herself through her dress, trying to hold onto the rapture of it, and hoping no one would see.
This! This was what she’d yearned for.
Forgotten were the reasons she’d denied herself this for so long. Forgotten were the guilt and the pain of loss that had led her down a path of celibacy for the past three years.
The press of bodies behind her lessened intermittently, but she was unable to take advantage of any slack. She was frozen in place, helpless to escape, her inner thighs welded to one another, as her furious coming went on and on.
Below her the woman’s face remained hidden and anonymous, but now the man had shifted so that her legs had become visible between his sprawled ones. There was something unnatural about the woman’s body, Juliette realized. In disbelief, she watched her legs curve upward between his in an odd manner that bent them in the direction opposite that which knees normally went.
Her legs—they were conjoined! And they finished in a tail whose slender fins had curled themselves around the man’s calf!
No! Don’t look! She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing what might happen if she allowed her imagination to overtake her.
But it was too late.
Horrified, Juliette slapped both hands on her thighs, gripping their long muscles through her skirts. The flesh between them, from groin to knee, had begun to tingle and soften. To reshape. One limb had begun to kiss the other, longing to join in imitation of the creature lying under that man.
Pressing her palms together in a position of prayer, she wedged them, and by her action the fabric of her skirts as well, between her thighs. She dug and wiggled and poked. But in spite of her efforts, the inner seam was turning gelatinous. Fusing.
Her legs crumpled, refusing to support her. Quickly, she hooked both arms around the rail, gripping it for dear life.
She was transforming! It had been three years since anything like this had last happened! She’d assumed she’d outgrown the ability. The curse, as her foster mother had termed it.
Oh, why had she ventured out today? Why had she stayed out so late? Why had she let herself ogle this couple for so long?
The man in the park shifted again, suddenly revealing the face of the woman under him. A pair of feminine eyes the exact shape and sea-green color of her own met hers. The woman’s hands froze on the sloping hollow of her lover’s back as their shocked gazes tangled.
Recognition slid an icicle down Juliette’s spine. Her throat worked. Then a single word escaped her.
“Elise?”
Her near-silent whisper was one no human could have heard in the midst of the uproar on the bridge. But even as the syllables still hovered on her lips, the masculine giant shuddered under their impact. Rising on his arms, he arched his back turning his face upward.
In his shadow the woman still regarded her in dismay. But Juliette saw only the man now.
Bathed in moonlight, he was a handsome pagan god. Amber eyes as bright as jewels that might have adorned the crown of Croesus were set in a face limned by the faint bluish-white glow of the skin of woman under him. His jaw was square cut, his nose aquiline, and his throat was thick and strong with a distinct Adam’s apple. Framing his face, his hair was a tousled, gilded halo, washed in moonlight and damp at the temples from his exertion.
His gaze narrowed on Juliette as though he were trying to make out her features. Gasping, she fell back a step and hit the back of her head against someone’s shoulder.
Once eye contact was broken, she was swiftly released from the strangers’ spell and her body began trying to right itself. Swamped with dizziness and feeling like a well-loved rag doll, she drooped her head to lie upon her forearm along the rail. She took great gulps of air, filling her lungs and trying to regain a sense of normalcy. For the last few moments, she’d almost forgotten to breathe. No wonder she’d been lightheaded. And likely hallucinating.
“Madame, are you ill?” someone asked from nearby.
“Wh-what?”
She lifted her head to stare blankly at the gentleman’s hand on her arm, then followed it to the face of an elderly, whiskered man with concerned eyes. Coming alive, she groped at the offer of assistance, clasping his sleeve in a death grip.
“Oui, I’ve twisted an ankle, monsieur.” She had to shout in order to be heard above the din. “Can you assist me to my destination—the townhouse just across the quai there?”
“Certainment!” Her savior tucked her arm under his, giving it a comforting pat, then took the basket she nudged toward him with her foot.
Her legs quivered like wet pasta as she pushed off from the railing and she grasped him with both hands. They moved slowly at first as she tried to stave off any further transformation. Forcing her mind away from the scene she’d just witnessed would help, she was sure, so she counted her footsteps and ran mundane facts through her brain one after another trying to keep the memory at bay.
They passed King Henri and she informed her companion of every fact she’d learned about the statue over the past year. That he’d been cast from bronze obtained by the melting of two other effigies of France’s former ruler, Napoleon. That official documents had been secreted within the statue’s base. The man must’ve surely have thought her strange, but he only smiled and nodded, likely unable to catch every word anyway.
As her equilibrium returned, her legs firmed. They grew sturdy and dependable under her as they carried her away from the bridge and toward normalcy.
She had to get home. Once inside, the bizarre changes in her would reverse more quickly. Transformation was only possible to sustain under sky. Which was precisely why she preferred to spend her life indoors rather than out. Nothing suited her better than being neatly encased in a chamber constructed of brick and mortar topped by a slate roof.
Now they were moving along the Quai di Conti. Then she was up the steps, thanking her rescuer, and she was inside. Safe.
Or as close to it as she ever could be.
“Who the devil was that?” Lyon demanded. His incredulous eyes burned into Sibela’s stunned ones.
“What?” she stuttered. “I don’t know—”
He gave her a little shake. “That woman on the bridge. You recognized her. I saw it in your face.”
Sibela’s mouth opened and shut like a mackerel’s as she obviously sought a convincing fabrication.
“Save your lies.” He pulled from her channel with a lack of finesse he knew was appalling, but the sense of urgency that gripped him was so great that he did it anyway. In one lithe move, he was standing, straddling her with his feet planted on either side of her hips.
“I’ll