Thirty Nights Page 9

  “But Scheherazade had to come up with a thousand stories. My time here is going to be much briefer.”

  “True.” For some reason, although he’d been telling himself that he was going to have to send her away before the deadline he himself had imposed, Hunter found that idea less than appealing.

  Needing something stronger than the excellent cabernet sauvignon he’d had delivered by Ben Adams’s mail packet from the mainland, he stood up, crossed the room to the antique sea captain’s chest where he kept the liquor and poured a splash of cognac into a glass.

  A strange aura settled over the room. A tense mood that was definitely not conducive to romance.

  No, not romance, Hunter reminded himself as he swallowed the liquor. Sex. That’s all it was. That’s all he would allow it to be.

  He watched her take another bite of stew. Watched her swallow and resisted touching his mouth to her smooth white throat.

  “You must be working on something important,” she said, glancing over at the computer. It was more than a little obvious that she was eager to change the subject. And the mood. Which, of course, was impossible now.

  “You could say that,” he answered obliquely, not wanting to get into the details of his multimillion dollar grant from the government.

  Hunter knew, all too well, that the project could prove to be personally dangerous. Even today the general had warned him of rumors of yet another terrorist group who’d put a bounty on his life. As if he needed a reminder after the letter-bomb attack in Bosnia. With a pragmatic eye to the future, he considered the sacrifice of a hand a small price to pay for the chance to contribute to world peace.

  “I suppose you’re like my father. Oh, I wasn’t accusing you of plagiarism, Hunter,” she said quickly when he immediately scowled at that less-than-flattering comparison.

  “I meant that when you’re deep in a project, you probably lose track of the world around you. Food, for instance.” She pointed out his still untouched stew. “Time. Perhaps even days.”

  Ah. Comprehension dawned. She was wondering why he’d been ignoring her. Hunter wondered with a twisted humor that was directed inward what she’d say if he told her that he’d been wondering the same thing himself.

  “I suppose I could be accused of being the stereotypical absentminded scientist from time to time.” He sat down at his desk again and stabbed a piece of potato.

  “I was hoping for an opportunity to thank you for the piano.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve been enjoying the free concerts.”

  “You can hear me?” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. The house is so large, I’d thought for sure that my music wouldn’t have disturbed your work.”

  She dragged her hand through her hair again in a nervous gesture he’d come to recognize. “I remember how my father hated any distractions. I never would have played so much if I’d known.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He waved her apology away with his fork, damning himself for having made such a stupid mistake. If she had any idea that he’d installed cameras and microphones throughout the house…

  “As I said, I enjoy hearing you play. You’re very good.”

  She managed a soft smile, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes. “It would be hard not to sound good on that piano. It’s an incredible instrument. And awfully extravagant.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “It was still a very nice thing for you to do.”

  “Trust me, Gillian, I’m never nice. The piano was simply a means to an end. If you’re relaxed and happy during the day, it stands to reason you’ll be more relaxed at night.”

  He took another bite of stew, wondering why it was that he’d never noticed what an exceptionally good cook his housekeeper was.

  “Mrs. Adams tells me you’ve taking up trapping.”

  “Trapping?” She glanced up at him uncomprehendingly. “Oh, the cat.” Her grin was quick and all too appealing. “The poor thing was starving. I just thought he could use a little food.”

  The smile faded from her face, as if she’d just realized that perhaps the food hadn’t been hers to give. “I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Of course not.”

  What kind of man did she think he was, that he’d refuse a few bites of roast or chicken for an abandoned animal?

  “I just think I should warn you not to get your hopes up. That’s a Maine coon cat, Gillian. And although the breed’s become popular among cat fanciers, that one’s feral. You’re not going to turn him into a soft, playful house tabby by feeding him Mrs. Adams’s chicken breasts.”

  “A coon cat? Are you saying he’s part raccoon?”

  “Folklore says they are. But they’re actually just called that because they look so much like raccoons. History has it that they were brought to Maine by European traders and sailors who used them as rat catchers on their ships. They were domesticated as farm cats, but many escaped to roam in the wild. That’s obviously what’s happened with yours.”

  “He was afraid of me in the beginning,” she divulged. “But I think we’re beginning to understand each other. Because today he nearly took a piece of sausage out of my hand.”

  “It’s just as well he didn’t. He’d probably take your finger off. And there’s always a chance he’s rabid.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s not,” she said quickly. So quickly Hunter knew her impetuous words came from her heart rather than her head. “I’m hoping to get him to trust me enough to let me get him to a vet.”

  He laughed at that, a rough bark that sounded rusty even to his own ears. “You’d have to stay here for a thousand days for that to happen. He’s wild, Gillian. Wild and fiercely independent. Even your soft feminine heart won’t be able to tame him.”

  She lifted her chin; her moss-green eyes gleamed with a challenge he found all too enticing.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

  She returned to her stew.

  They ate in silence. And Hunter, who never allowed anyone into his office, was surprised at how comfortable it felt.

  8

  “WOULD YOU DO SOMETHING for me?”

  Hunter’s sudden question, asked in a quiet, even voice caused Gillian to lift her head. His eyes were smooth and cool. She wondered if it was only her overly active imagination that had her sensing a faint discomfiture in them.

  “I didn’t think I had a choice.” She met his impenetrable gaze straight on.

  “You’ve always had a choice, Gillian.”

  “Oh?” Even knowing that arguing with a man who held so much of her future—and her father’s—in his hands could be considered folly, Gillian arched a brow. “You wouldn’t let me leave that first night,” she reminded him.

  “If you truly believe that I would have honestly made you to remain here against your will, you’re not the woman I thought you were.”

  He shook his head with obviously mock chagrin. “Perhaps it’s time to send you back to your father. Where you’ll be safe.”

  His proposal was tinged with an acid sarcasm that suggested he didn’t believe her father had had her safety in mind when he’d persuaded her to come to Castle Mountain in the first place. And, dammit, Gillian acknowledged reluctantly, he was right.

  The sad truth was that George Cassidy’s own needs would always be of primary interest to him. If she were to be brutally honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she probably ranked somewhere below a cage of white laboratory rats in her father’s hierarchy.

  Part of the problem, of course, was that she’d never done anything to truly compel his attention her way. In an attempt to avoid making waves, she’d always tried to be the quiet, dutiful daughter. Seen but not heard, admired on those special occasions when he’d use her as an example of his superior genes, putting her on display like a champion King Charles spaniel at a Westminster dog show, only to be forgotten the rest of the time.

  Perhaps she should have rocked the boat more, Gillian considered belatedly. Caused a few more problems, or even embarrassed him publicly. Of course, he’d undoubtedly have been furious if she’d started showing up in after-hour clubs with green hair and pierced body parts, but at least anger was a strong, deeply felt human emotion. It would have been better than nothing.

  Hunter watched the range of feeling wash across Gillian’s face: irritation, frustration, pain, regret, and then something that looked a great deal like humor, even though he personally couldn’t find anything amusing about her situation.

  “Something funny?”

  “I was just wondering what my father would have done if I’d shown up at his lab with a silver ring in one eyebrow.”

  Hunter shrugged. “What makes you think he’d notice?”

  Good point. “Are you always this cruel?”

  “No. I am, however, always this truthful. There may be times you might not like what I say, Gillian, because sometimes the truth hurts. But I’ll never lie to you.”

  “Though you might hurt me.”

  “I told you, I’d never do—”

  “Anything I don’t want you to do,” she broke in.

  “That’s right.”

  She didn’t immediately say anything.

  As scintillating scenes of what she’d dreamed of him doing to her, with her, spun in her mind like the tumbling, glittery facets of a kaleidoscope, Gillian couldn’t say anything. She took another sip meant to soothe and realized her mistake when the wine only made her blood warmer. The tension rose, stringing between them like the silken cords of a deadly spider’s web.

  A web where Hunter sat in the center, watching.

  Waiting.

  Her lips were dry. Too dry. Forgoing the wine this time, she licked them, realizing her mistake when she caught th
e spark of hot hunger in Hunter’s formerly too cool eyes.

  “What exactly is it you want me to do?” It was barely a whisper, but easily heard in the cathedral-like stillness of the room. Gillian braced herself for the worst.

  “I thought it might be nice if you’d play for me.”

  “Play?” Her eyes widened. “The piano?”

  “Do you have a problem performing for an audience of one?”

  “No. It’s just that I…”

  She lowered her eyes, and in trying to escape Hunter’s steady gaze, Gillian found herself staring at that huge bulge beneath the denim jeans.

  She’d done that, she realized with a sense of feminine awe. She’d made his body hard, had caused his eyes to darken with lust. She was the source of the male hunger radiating from him, making her more aware of her own body than ever before in her life.

  She was also more nervous than she’d ever been in her life. Including that memorable time when she’d first played in public. Utilizing a relaxing technique she employed before going on stage in her concerts, she willed her mind to calm and pictured a peaceful tropical lagoon. The sand, beneath the shimmering rays of a soothing sun, glistened as if diamonds had been spilled from a pirate’s treasure chest onto the shore; the water was a deep jade green and was lapping ever so gently against the sand while winds whispered in the fronds of the palm trees overhead. Nearby, a liquid silver waterfall tumbled over a lush green cliff.

  The image, taught to her by a psychotherapist to rid her of stage fright early in her career, never failed to work. It was again tonight until suddenly, without warning, a man appeared from behind that frothy, falling water. He was tall and dark and fully aroused, resembling an ancient fertility god carved from a mahogany tree trunk.

  As he began moving toward her, in a loose-hipped predatory stride, Gillian realized he was not some inanimate god carved from wood, but a man. A man who wanted her. A man who was unnervingly, unmistakably familiar.

  “That was fascinating.”

  Hunter’s low voice reverberated like the growl of a jungle beast, making it momentarily difficult for Gillian to separate fantasy from reality. Gingerly lifting her gaze, she viewed the unbanked lust in his eyes.

  “I was watching your face,” he said. “You were on the verge of orgasm, all by yourself.”

  “I was not.” Gillian was unnerved by the way he’d read her private thoughts so easily. “And you’re wrong.”

  “Want to put it to the test, sweetheart?” He did not use the word as an endearment, but a dare. “I’ll bet it’d only take one touch to send you over the edge.”

  He spread his fingers on his thigh, enticing her attention back to his erection. The sight of that hardness, mingled with the lingering image of her waterfall fantasy, caused a deep yearning to touch. To be touched. All over.

  “I thought you wanted me to play for you.”

  “I told you, Gillian, I want everything. But I believe, in civilized circles, that seduction is best begun with good food and wine, which we’ve already had. Then music is a nice next step.”

  “As you’ve already pointed out, Hunter, I accepted your terms by coming to Castle Mountain. Seduction isn’t necessary.”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Just gave her another of those long looks that Gillian found impossible to read.

  “Actually,” he stated finally, just as her nerves had reached their screeching point, “it is.” He stood up and held out his hand to her.

  And as they walked, fingers linked—almost like friends, or lovers—from the room, Hunter wondered what Gillian would say if she knew that she was the first woman he’d ever felt the need to take the time to seduce.

  In the beginning, it was Gillian who should have fled.

  Now, as they entered the library, Hunter decided that if he had any instincts for self-preservation left, this would be the time for him to take off running.

  A fire had been laid earlier in the evening. Outside the wall of glass, sea and sky melded together like an ebony satin comforter. Gillian stood in the doorway, watching as Hunter casually strolled about the room, lighting the candle wall sconces that cast flickering golden light on the cedar walls.

  The way he seemed to loom larger than life in the candlelight once again brought to mind the Beast of her youthful fairy tale. Or, Gillian considered as she glanced over at the piano, the Phantom of the Opera, perhaps.

  “Something wrong with lightbulbs?”

  “These are more practical.” He blew out the long match. “The power goes out a great deal on the island.”

  “You don’t have a generator?”

  “Of course. But there are times when I prefer candlelight.”

  Once again he surprised her. Gillian would not have expected a man of his obviously modern tastes and lusty male appetites to take time to consider mood lighting. Then again, perhaps there was some other reason. One they should get out into the open before things went any further.

  “Or perhaps you prefer candlelight because it softens the scars on your face,” she suggested. Since he’d vowed never to lie to her, she felt it important that she be equally open with him.

  She saw the surprise on his face, then watched him quickly stifle it. “Some women might find my features dampen their desire.”

  “Some women should learn to look beyond the exterior.”

  “Admit it, Gillian. Aren’t you secretly appalled by the changes in my physical appearance?”

  “No.”

  “Disgusted?”

  “Not at all. I’m not some fragile, overly sensitive artiste who needs to be wrapped in cotton wool, Hunter. I’ve played charity concerts in some of the most war-ravaged regions of the world. Physical scars don’t concern me,” she said quietly. “Except when they lead to emotional ones.”

  “But you are curious,” he continued to press, as if searching out flaws.

  Gillian was tempted to fudge, but honesty won out. “Of course. I’m curious about everything about you. Your work, what you’ve been doing since you left MIT, how you ended up here living like a very wealthy hermit—”

  “How half of me got blown away.”

  “From what I can tell, you injured your face and lost a hand. That’s not exactly half of you.”

  “True enough.” His grin was quick, wolfish and designed to insult. “Don’t worry, baby, all the parts you need to be concerned about are in full working order.”

  “You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that.” Deciding they’d parried enough, she pulled out the piano bench. “And don’t call me baby. My name’s Gillian.”

  Damned if she didn’t have spirit. Hunter knew her father well enough to know that George opted for bluster and threats when pushed into a corner. Her mother, on the other hand, would inevitably resort to the feminine seduction ploys she’d pulled out every time he’d showed up at the Cassidy home in Cambridge.

  Gillian, who had both self-serving individuals’ blood flowing in her veins, appeared to possess a very different nature.

  Once again it occurred to him that the woman was turning out to be a lot tougher than she looked. A man who’d always enjoyed contrasts, Hunter was growing increasingly fascinated the more he studied her.

  “Whatever you say. Gillian.” He sprawled out on the leather couch. “Play that song from the Irish coast,” he commanded. “The seal one that starts out sounding like fairies dancing in the moonlight. The ‘Song of the Selkies.’ I like it best.”

  The song, inspired by an old Irish legend about creatures who were half women, half seal, and telling how they suffered when their husbands hid their skins, effectively holding them hostage and preventing them from returning to the sea, was Gillian’s favorite. The fact that she and this dark, brooding man could have anything in common—other than lust—unnerved her.

  “Thank you. I wrote that one.”

  “I know.” He folded his arms behind his head.

  “You do?”

  “I would have figured that out even if I hadn’t read the liner notes on the CD. The song’s a reflection of you, Gillian. I can hear all your moods in the music,” he said. “At first it’s a light Derry air, then it turns sad, then stormy by degrees, making a listener feel as if he’s drowning in the roiling waves of a dark sea.”