Quicksilver

TWELVE

Virginia held her breath. She could not believe what she had just done. The invitation had been an uncharacteristically impulsive act inspired by the edgy sensation that was generating a fever deep inside her. It was surely a mistake, one she was certain she would regret. If Owen hesitated for even a heartbeat she would change her mind.

He did not give her time enough to catch her breath.

“I would like that very much,” he said.

The even, casually polite tone of his voice told her absolutely nothing. But his eyes heated a little in the darkness. She knew that he was in the grip of the aftermath of a heavy burn, just as she was. No one but another powerful talent could understand the sensation.

She pulled her cloak around her and started up the front steps. “It is not as if either of us will be getting much sleep tonight, is it?”

“No,” he agreed.

He paused long enough to pay the coachman. Then he followed her up the steps.

She dug her key out of the small chatelaine purse she wore. “And like it or not, we appear to be colleagues, at least for a while. We might as well share a drink and discuss the case.”

“It sounds like a very useful way to proceed,” he said.

She fumbled with her key and managed to drop it.

Owen snagged it in midair with no apparent effort.

“Allow me,” he said.

He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. She moved into the dimly lit hall. Mrs. Crofton had taken herself off to bed two floors above, but she had left a wall sconce burning.

She’ll know I’m home, Virginia thought. She’ll know that I am not alone. Housekeepers always knew everything that went on in their domain.

Owen set the dragon on the floor, stripped off his leather gloves and reached out to help Virginia with the cloak. When his warm fingers brushed the sensitive nape of her neck, another flicker of awareness went through her. The feverish sensation got more intense, but she did not feel the least bit ill.

He hung her cloak on a brass wall hook and then he set his hat on the console table alongside his leather gloves.

It is as if we were two lovers coming home late after an evening at the theater, she thought.

Her imagination was running wild, and her nerves were still tingling with the icy-hot sensation. She desperately needed a shot of brandy.

She led the way down the hall and into the darkened study. Inside the small, cozy room she turned up a lamp and went to the little table that held the brandy decanter.

Owen crossed to the hearth, struck a light and lit the fire with the easy familiarity of a man making himself at home. When he was finished he rose, peeled off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He was not wearing a waistcoat, Virginia noticed. He unknotted his tie and left it hanging loosely around his neck. Next he opened the collar of his shirt. With deft movements of his fingers he removed the cuff links that secured the sleeves of his shirt, and tucked them into a pocket.

Virginia caught her breath. Oh, yes, he was definitely making himself at home.

She splashed brandy into two glasses. The decanter clinked lightly against the rim of one glass. She realized her hands were trembling. She set the decanter aside and gave Owen one of the glasses.

“To both of us getting some sleep tonight,” she said, raising her glass.

“To us.”

Not quite the same toast, she thought, but she did not think it would be a good idea to correct him.

His eyes never left hers as he downed some of the brandy.

She took a more cautious sip and lowered the glass.

“May I ask what you saw tonight when that storm of hallucinations struck?” she said.

“I saw the victims of the murders that I have investigated over the years,” he said. “The ones I failed.”

She exhaled slowly. “You mean those poor souls for whom you could not find justice?”

“And those I arrived too late to save. They are the ones who haunt me.” He went to stand in front of the fire. “What did you see, Virginia?”

She crossed the carpet to join him at the hearth. “My visions were not unlike your own. Like you, I saw the ones I failed, those who died by violence. The ones for whom there was no justice because the killer was never caught.”

He nodded once, understanding.

For a long moment they stood side by side, gazing into the fire.

“Do you ever wonder why we have been cursed with talents such as ours?” she asked after a time.

“There is no such thing as a curse,” he said. “That is superstitious nonsense.”

She almost smiled. “I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Sweetwater.”

“Of course. My apologies.” He drank some more brandy. “I tend to be quite literal when it comes to matters involving para-physics.”

“I understand.”

“I will tell you the truth, Virginia. The reason I responded so sharply just now is because there have been many times when I have asked myself the very same question.”

He had used her first name again. But she now thought of him as Owen, she reminded herself. It was astonishing how sharing danger had a way of injecting a degree of intimacy into the atmosphere between two people who were otherwise barely acquainted.

“I am a modern thinker, sir,” she said. “Like you, I certainly do not believe in the supernatural. But have you ever come up with an answer to the question?”

He gripped the edge of the mantel and contemplated the fire. “I can give you an answer that conforms to the laws of para-physics, at least what I know of those laws. There is, as I’m sure you know, a great deal left to be discovered in the field.”

“I am aware of that. Well? What is the scientific answer to the question?”

“A person who commits murder or an act of violence generates a heavy surge of psychical energy. Even the coldest of killers leaves a hot trail.”

“Yes,” she said. She shivered at the memory of some of the images she had seen in the mirrors.

“The same is true of the victim if he or she has time to react to the assault,” Owen continued. “Strong energy does not simply evaporate. It continues to oscillate in the atmosphere of a space and is absorbed into the surfaces of furniture, walls and floors.”

“And looking glasses.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, although I cannot perceive what you do when you look into a mirror. The physics of looking glasses are quite unique.”

“I comprehend that both of us are sensitive to the residue of the energy that is laid down by violence. But why do we both feel the need to find answers for those who are left behind?”

“I cannot answer that.”

She swirled the brandy in her glass. “Do you think that all of those who possess talents like ours experience the compulsion to seek justice and answers?”

“No, far from it.” He downed the last of the brandy and set the glass on the mantel. He did not take his attention off the flames. “There are people endowed with talents similar to our own who savor the atmosphere of murder in the manner of connoisseurs who appreciate fine art and great wine.”

She nearly dropped the brandy glass.

“What?” she said, and gasped.

Owen’s jaw hardened. He looked at her. A cold fire replaced the other kind of heat that had lit his eyes only a moment ago.

“There are those who seek out the scenes of murder and horrific violence in order to indulge their senses in the sensations that were generated in the moment of death,” he said.

It seemed to Virginia that the room chilled. “That is difficult to believe.”

But she had sensed the unwholesome excitement of the killers when she had looked deeply into the mirrors, she thought. She had witnessed that terrible thrill through the eyes of the victims. Owen was right, there were those who savored the act of murder.

“Some with talents similar to ours revel in violent energy to such a degree that they become addicted to it,” Owen said. “In order to satisfy their craving they do not merely seek out murder scenes, they create them.”

“They kill.”

“Again and again. With their talents.” He looked at her. “Those are the ultimate predators.”

Comprehension flashed through her. “Those are the killers you hunt.”

“Yes.”

“It is the desire for justice that drives you.”

The faint curve of his mouth held no trace of humor. “I cannot claim any such noble excuse, Virginia. I do not understand the need within me. I only know that I cannot escape it.” He paused. “It is an addiction of another kind.”

She knew then that he was not seeking absolution. He was telling her a truth about himself, waiting to see if she could accept it.

“I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “that we can turn to Mr. Darwin and the theory of evolution for guidance here.”

Owen looked first startled and then he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What in blazes does evolution have to do with this?”

“Well, it occurs to me that nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and so does society. We have criminals among us, so it follows that there are those who are drawn to stop them. Such people perhaps become policemen or detectives, or they choose to study the criminal mind.”

“I am not a policeman,” Owen said in a voice of stone.

“If human predators with strong psychical powers have evolved, which is clearly the case, then it is also logical that there are those like you who have evolved to hunt them,” she concluded.

Owen said nothing. He just watched her with his hunter’s eyes.

She cleared her throat. “It is the way of the natural world.”

“That is an interesting theory.”

“I certainly thought so.”

“Why are you bothering to search for a scientific explanation for the existence of a man like me?”

She finished her brandy and set the glass on the mantel, alongside the one he had placed there.

“I suppose it is because I would like to find a similar rational explanation for my own talent and the compulsion I experience whenever I am summoned to the scene of a violent death,” she said quietly.

“We are not two of a kind, Virginia. I can kill with my talent, and I have done so.”

She stared at him. “Truly?”

“Yes. Do you think that makes me one of the monsters?”

She took a breath, very certain now. “No. You are a dangerous man, Owen Sweetwater, but you are not one of the monsters.”

“You are sure of that?”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “You would not have risked your own life to rescue Becky as well as me the other night at the Hollister mansion if you were a monster.”

Owen drew her into his arms. She caught a fleeting glimpse of their reflections in the mirror and was quite certain that she saw lightning flash deep within the looking glass.

“Virginia,” Owen whispered.

Her name sounded as though it had been dragged from the very core of his being. His kiss held the same raw power. It ignited the fires of passion that flared between them. Whatever came tomorrow, she would never forget, never regret, this night.

With a soft, muffled cry she wrapped her arms around his neck, abandoning herself to the storm that swirled in the room. He kissed her long and hard, drinking deep.

When she was breathless and shivering with need, he started to undress her. He undid the hooks that fastened the bodice of her gown with fingers that trembled with the force of his own desire. Knowing that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him filled her with a rush of soaring, feminine confidence. She began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

He got the bodice of the gown open, revealing her thin chemise. He tugged the dress away from her breasts and pushed the heavy folds of fabric down over her hips. The gown crumpled to the floor and pooled around her ankles. He untied her petticoats. The yards of white linen splashed on top of the dress. She stood before him, knee-deep in the heap of discarded clothing, clad only in her chemise, drawers, stockings and low-heeled walking boots.

She reminded herself that this was not the first time he had seen her partially undressed. She had been in a similar state two nights ago when he had discovered her in the mirrored room beneath the Hollister mansion. But tonight everything was different.

Owen looked at her as though she were a creature of magic come to life.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. He sounded awed, even worshipful.

She was no great beauty, she thought, but in that moment she felt like a goddess.

“So are you,” she blurted, without thinking.

His laugh was a low, husky growl. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you are.” She got the last of the buttons on his shirt undone and flattened her palms on his bare chest, fingers tangling in the crisp hair she found there. His skin was warm to the touch. The feel of the firm contours of his sleekly muscled body intensified the stirring deep inside her. “You are magnificent.”

“You are the magnificent being here in this room.”

She smiled. “Are we going to argue about our mutual magnificence?”

He laughed again, sounding somehow younger, almost lighthearted, like a man who, for a time, at least, had shed a great burden and the responsibilities that accompanied it.

“Not tonight,” he said. “This is no time to argue.”

He crouched in front of her and undid the buttons of her walking boots. She gripped his shoulders while he eased the boots, one by one, off her feet. He slid his hands up under the chemise and drew the drawers down to her ankles.

“Owen,” she whispered.

He got to his feet and kissed her again, silencing her. He moved his thumb across her nipple, caressing her through the delicate fabric of the chemise.

She was so sensitive that even the light touch sent tiny shock waves through her. She sucked in a sharp breath, not certain if what she felt was pain or pleasure. His hand stilled instantly.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked against her mouth.

“No.” She pulled back a little and then leaned close again to drop a feather-light kiss on the side of his hard jaw. “It is just that I have never felt anything quite like this sensation.”

“Neither have I.”

The earnest declaration amused her. “There is no need to pretend that you are inexperienced in such matters, Owen. You are a man of the world.”

“This is different.” The statement was flat, categorical, not open to debate. “You are different. You are the one.”

In spite of the currents of passion that had inflamed her senses, the familiar flicker of intuition tingled through her. This man is dangerous.

“The one?” she repeated, baffled. “I do not understand what you mean.”

“Never mind.” He picked her up in his arms, lifting her free of the pool of skirts and petticoats. “This is not the time for explanations.”

The room spun around her. He carried her to the large leather reading chair. Just before he sank down into the depths of the chair with her in his arms, she caught another glimpse of their reflections in the mirror. Energy flashed and sparked like hot sunlight in the depths of the looking glass.

And then she found herself draped across Owen’s strong thighs, her stocking-clad legs dangling over the padded arm of the big chair. In the firelight Owen’s face was taut with passion and something akin to hunger. He kissed her again, a slow, intoxicating kiss.

While he held her in thrall with the kiss, he explored her body with his free hand, touching her as though she were the rarest and most valuable work of art ever created. She gave herself up to the sensual storm that was breaking over her, engulfing her.

She was aware of his palm gliding down her leg, but she was occupied with the kiss and did not pay close attention until she felt his hand slip beneath the hem of her chemise. A moment later she realized that his fingers were on the inside of her thigh.

“So soft,” he growled against her mouth.

She knew then what he intended, but she was torn between shock and wonder. He cupped her gently. She tensed, her fingers twisting in the expensive white linen of his shirt.

He tore his mouth away from her lips and kissed her throat. “I want to feel you melt for me.”

This is the night, she thought. She was on the edge of exploring the great mystery she had yearned to discover with the right man. At last the secrets of passion were being revealed to her. She would not turn back now.

He probed deeper with his fingers. Everything inside her seemed to be liquefying. She clutched the front of Owen’s shirt, crushing the fabric, hardly able to catch her breath. A great restlessness and a sense of urgency consumed her. The tension caused her whole body to tighten.

“Owen.” She twisted in his arms, needing more. “Owen.”

“I’m here,” he said. It was a vow.

He lifted her again. This time he settled her astride, her knees gripping him on either side of his thighs. She did not understand what he intended until she looked down and discovered that somehow he had managed to open his trousers. The size of his engorged shaft shocked her senses all over again.

She had seen nude statues of the male figure. She and Charlotte had pored over the lascivious drawings of couples engaged in intercourse in the books that Charlotte kept tucked away in a locked closet. But nothing had prepared her for this.

Fascinated, she reached down and touched him lightly.

Owen groaned and half closed his eyes. “Ahh, my sweet, have a care.”

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, horrified.

“No.” His mouth curved at the edges. “But I am very sensitive to your touch, Virginia Dean. You have a great deal of power over me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He stopped smiling. The heat in his aura and his eyes seemed to intensify.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “I have known that from the start. I need you, Virginia.”

“Why?” she asked, utterly bewildered.

“Later,” he promised.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s complicated and I cannot talk coherently at the moment,” he rasped.

“Owen?”

“Please, if you have any generous feelings toward me at all, not now.”

“All right,” she said. “But later.”

“Later,” he said again.

He groaned and kissed one breast and then the other through the chemise. The gossamer fabric was no barrier to his hot, hungry mouth. He moved his hands up the insides of her thighs. When he reached her heated core he found the wellspring of the growing urgency that consumed her.

“Yes,” she gasped. Her fingers clenched around his shoulders. She closed her eyes against the rush of exquisite tension.

He stroked her, finding places of intense sensation that she had never known existed. Everything inside her shivered and tightened until she could not abide it any longer.

A surging energy flashed through her. Suddenly she was sailing on a glorious tide. The release stole her breath. She clung to Owen, her rock in the storm.

She was only vaguely aware of him pushing into her, forcing his way gently but relentlessly into her passage. She paid no attention, too enchanted with the cascading waves of energy.

He thrust suddenly, deeply. Even though she knew enough to be prepared for some initial discomfort, the sharp, lancing pain caught her off guard. The electrifying sensation was not just physical. It crackled across all of her senses.

She flinched, gasped and bit the nearest thing at hand, Owen’s earlobe, quite fiercely. The small act of retaliation was as much of a surprise to her as it was to Owen.

He sucked in a harsh breath and held himself very still within her.

For a couple of heartbeats neither of them moved.

“I think we both just drew blood,” Owen said. He sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth.

She took a breath and was shocked by the coppery taste on the tip of her tongue. Good grief, she really had bitten the man. It wasn’t his fault that she was new to this business.

“My apologies.” Mortified, she dropped her face back down onto his broad shoulder. “One reads about this sort of experience and one thinks one is prepared, but I wasn’t expecting quite such a jolt.”

“Neither was I. Tomorrow I must remember to purchase a gold ring to insert into the ear that you just pierced.”

She raised her head again, alarmed. She stared at the small drop of blood welling on his earlobe. As she watched, the tiny crimson rivulet dripped onto the collar of his pristine white linen shirt.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “This is awkward.”

“Not as awkward as the position we are in at the moment.”

She could feel the steel-hard tension in his muscles. She sensed that he was holding himself in check for her sake.

She cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, “is that all there is to the business? I must say, after waiting so long to escape spinsterhood, I did expect something a bit more interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, a bit too neutrally.

“In sensation novels there is always a transcendent metaphysical passion that accompanies the physical act. I expect when that occurs, it compensates for the uncomfortable side of the experience.”

“You didn’t experience anything of a transcendent nature just now?”

“Actually, I was engaged in an extremely transcendent experience, but you just ruined it.”

“It is my turn to apologize. I did not expect you to be a virgin.”

She glared at him. “Why not?”

“You are a woman of strong passions,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I assumed that by now—”

“You mean at my age—”

“I assumed that by now,” he repeated deliberately, “you would have found some way to explore those passions.”

“Well, I was considering an appointment with Dr. Spinner.”

He caught her face between his hands. “Could we discuss this some other time?”

“Certainly,” she said politely. She winced, trying to adjust to the feel of him inside her. “Do, please, get on with it. We’ve come this far. We may as well carry on to the conclusion.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

“No, Virginia, believe me, I am not laughing. It would hurt far too much. I doubt that I would survive.”

He began to move slowly inside her, using his grip on her hips to guide her into the rhythm. She was raw from his initial entry, but she was increasingly certain that she could at least endure the remainder of the process.

To her astonishment, the pain began to transform into a stimulating sense of urgency again. She was still exquisitely sensitive, but the sensation was now a compelling force. Her fingers locked around Owen’s shoulders.

One of his hands left her rear and shifted to the place between her legs where their bodies were joined. She felt his fingers on the bud that was the center point of sensation.

A short time later he struck an invisible chord, launching her back out on the fabulous waves of sparkling energy. Small, powerful currents flashed through her, sweeping her along on the dazzling tide. She wanted to scream with the pleasure of it all; she wanted to laugh, to sing, to cry.

But she could do none of those things, because with another low, savage groan, Owen crushed her mouth beneath his own, swallowing any sound she might have made. He thrust heavily into her one last time, and then he went rigid. She felt the shuddering power of his climax slam through him in near-violent waves.

For a timeless moment they sailed the storm together. Then with one last heavy, groaning sigh of release, Owen relaxed deep into the chair.

When Virginia opened her eyes she saw that he was watching her with the lazy satisfaction of the hunter after a successful hunt.

“I knew you were the one,” he said.