Grace Page 3

  To her surprise, dinner came and went in a blur and if she’d been asked later she wouldn’t have been able to say what they’d eaten. Jaron was witty and easy to talk to, with a dry sense of humor that had her almost crying with laughter at certain points during their conversation.

  Wiping her eyes after yet another laughing fit, she glanced up to find him looking at her, a strange expression on his face. She’d caught the same look a few times—a combination of a smile and puzzlement that put a frown between his brows and a quirk on his lips.

  “What? Do I have something between my teeth?”

  “No, nothing in your teeth, I promise.” Jaron smiled and sipped his wine. The deep, rich fluid flowed past his lips, the strong muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. He watched her over the rim of the glass. “Why do you ask?”

  “You keep looking at me oddly. As though I puzzle you.” She took a sip from her own wineglass to hide her self-consciousness.

  Jason watched her. He’d made sure her glass was topped up all night but he didn’t intend to get her drunk and seduce her. No, his plans were longer-reaching, and although the temptation was there, he wasn’t going to take her to bed tonight. He just needed her in an amenable frame of mind for his proposal.

  Besides, when he got Grace into his bed, he wanted her stone-cold sober. Aware of every wicked pleasure he led her into, every touch and caress, every lick... He stopped the shiver midway up his spine, his cock jerking within the confines of his pants again. Shifting in his seat, he tried to ease the ache that had seemed to become a permanent feature around Grace.

  “You don’t puzzle me. You fascinate me,” he said, putting his glass down next to his plate as he studied her. Her words gave him an excuse to do openly what he’d been doing covertly all night.

  “I do? Why?” Grace asked in surprise, leaning forward to put her elbows on the table, her chin in one delicate hand as she waited for his answer. The firelight caressed her, highlighting the delicate collarbones revealed by her strappy dress and her porcelain skin.

  “You shouldn’t ask that. You don’t want to know the answer.” His voice was a low growl, almost lower than human hearing. Her closeness, his reaction to her, both affected him more than he realised. He held her gaze, getting himself under control with an iron will. Then he smiled, adding a little extra sparkle in his eyes to stop this line of questioning, one he didn’t want her to follow.

  “And if I do?” She persisted.

  “You don’t react as I expect you to and I admire your courage. Every week you come to the ballet, struggle up those steps alone. No, let me finish.” He held his hand up as she made to interrupt him, a frown already on her face. He knew she didn’t like any mention of her accident, or hint toward a physical weakness. More evidence of her strength of mind. The injuries she’d sustained were extensive and painful. The doctor he’d bribed had told him she’d be on a cocktail of drugs—mainly painkillers—for the rest of her life.

  He took another sip of wine, considering his words. If this were some corny vampire flick, the glass would have been filled with blood instead of the rich, red wine Jaron preferred. The plate, though, was empty, and had been all night. Grace wouldn’t remember whether he’d eaten or not; he’d been using his abilities passively, letting her see what she expected to see.

  He flicked a look up through his lashes. “You’re a strong woman, Grace, and that’s as sexy as hell.”

  Grace sucked in a breath at his expression. His face tight, he looked as though the admission had cost him dearly. His intense blue eyes were hypnotic. The sort of blue a woman—especially a desperate-for-love former ballerina not sure of her own worth—could drown in.

  But he still exuded a sense of danger. He lounged back against the ornately carved chair with one long-fingered hand curled around the stem of the delicate crystal glass. For a moment Grace felt like prey, looking into the face of the hunter. Then, in the blink of an eye, the look disappeared and he smiled again.

  Sighing, she leaned her chin on her hand and wondered what she’d been asking him. For a moment, it had seemed important, but the thought slipped away from her as she looked at him.

  “Do you mind if we talk about the accident?” he asked in a mellow voice. He turned the glass around by the stem, and the light from the fire reflected off the crystal.

  Grace shook her head. Fortified by good food and excellent wine she relaxed and simply enjoyed the moment. The more time she spent in Jaron’s company, the more she felt she could trust him. People Grace trusted were few and far between. She’d learned the hard way not to trust too easily, to let anyone get too close.

  Prima ballerina driven mad with jealousy. Former ballet star turns to drug abuse. She’d seen every conceivable story in the gutter press, all total fabrications sold to the tabloids by people she’d thought she could trust. Personally she’d liked the Ballerina claims kidnap by aliens stole her ability to dance. If it were that easy, she’d be tracking down the little green men right now. But no, it had been simple human error and impossible to reverse.

  “No, I don’t mind. Most people ask. I’m getting used to it,” she replied, taking another sip of wine and wondering what he’d want to know. Most wanted the gruesome details. Were her legs really broken in so many places? How many pins had she had to have? How many stitches? How bad were the scars?

  “I’m not most people, Grace,” he said. He gave her an odd look, as though he were making up his mind about something and he still wasn’t sure about it.

  He stopped spinning the glass and leaned forward, the neck of his shirt falling open. She couldn’t help her quick downward glance; she was only human, after all. He was lean, but as she suspected, packed with wiry muscle. Was that a hint of a six pack there?

  “I’m a doctor, Grace, and I have something—a treatment—that could help you.”

  She couldn’t help herself; she gawked at him. “You? A doctor? You’re shitting me.”

  Wincing a little at her language, he nodded. “Not in this country, of course, but back home I was a fully qualified physician.”

  Grace nodded. She knew he was from overseas. There was the faintest hint of a heavier accent when he spoke sometimes and a preciseness of speech that said English wasn’t his first language. But a doctor? She didn’t bother to conceal her surprise. “You don’t look like a doctor.”

  More like a male model with his lean good looks or, heaven help her, a male stripper. He had that sort of grace and presence that would go down a bomb on a catwalk or the stage. A very private stage, like in her bedroom… Quickly, Grace pulled herself out of a daydream as her cheeks heated. Even the thought of him removing his shirt was enough to have her looking around longingly for a fan.

  “Appearances can be deceptive. Actually, I specialised in your sort of injuries before I left.” He lied easily, watching her face, enraptured. The vampire, a creature of mystery and enchantment, be-spelled by his own victim. Preposterous, but nevertheless true. “I had some success with an old herbal remedy. I wondered if you’d be willing to try it?”

  “What’s in it for you?” She’d played this game before, with countless ‘herbal’ healers. They all wanted one thing—her name as validation for their product.

  Jaron shrugged. “Nothing, other than the pleasure of helping someone. Someone I see as a friend…perhaps more.”

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small vial. She’d seen enough drugs to be able to pick out a medical vial. It looked odd, not like the ones she was used to. Made of glass, it had a glass stopper rather than the screw-on cap she was familiar with. Almost like something she’d expect to see in a museum. Instead of a clear liquid, a viscous red fluid filled the vial. An instinctive tremor of alarm raced through her.

  It looked like blood.

  “I know, it looks awful, doesn’t it? It’s the herbs—when they’re distilled it gives the fluid that weird look.” He held the vial out to her. “Just drop this into a drink in the morning, cranberr
y juice should work well.”

  She reached out despite the small voice in the back of her mind that kept screaming about blood. She took the vial from him, and their fingertips brushed. A thrill arced from his hand to hers. Startled, she looked up. Their eyes met, awareness stretching between them.

  “I don’t want anything for this. Just try it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll never talk of it again. But whether you do take it or not, it doesn’t change anything. I still want to see you.”

  Chapter Three

  “Come on lazy, you can’t lay about in bed all day.” The brisk, sharp voice and the swish of the curtains as they rattled across the rail dragged Grace out of her contented doze.

  “Ugh.” She kept her eyes closed as a glass clunked down on the bedside table near her head, accompanied by the rattle of the medicine bottle. Maybe morning would go away if she pretended to be asleep.

  “No sympathy for you, not with you out half the night.” Fayte’s sharp voice stabbed through Grace’s ears as she bustled around, fussing in a way she knew Grace detested. Therein lay the problem. She and Fayte had never been friends. Rivals even as kids, they’d argued in the nursery before moving on to compete in the dance studio. The rivalry had ended with Grace’s accident but Grace still had no idea why Fayte had suggested she become Grace’s primary caregiver.

  Fayte had played on Grace’s sympathies, pleading her lack of job and home and Grace had given in. At the time it had solved both problems neatly and for a month or so the arrangement had worked. Then Fayte’s attitude had moved in.

  Grace winced as she turned over in bed, a slow, painful movement as she eased her cramped limbs into the day. Although snug and warm under the duvet, she could already feel the bone-deep ache that heralded another cold morning.

  “I’ll be up in a bit, Fayte. Would you get the coffee and toast on, please?” Grace asked, her voice still roughened from sleep.

  “Yeah, whatever. Don’t forget Roger’s picking me up in an hour. You need to be up and downstairs before he gets here or you’ll have to stay up here until I get back.”

  Grace held onto her temper with an effort as she pushed herself upright in the bed. Perhaps she should call the nursing agency today? Even having a stranger in her house would be better than this sort of verbal abuse before her morning coffee. Biting her tongue, she reached for the glass of water and her painkillers, her hand brushing against the small, beaded handbag she’d placed on the side table the night before.

  “Oh shit,” she hissed as the bag tipped and the contents started to roll from the open top. She made a grab for them but the lipstick and powder compact made their escape, falling to the floor. The third escapee wasn’t so lucky. Grace closed her hand around a hard, glass cylinder.

  The vial Jaron had given her. Curious, she held it aloft, tilting it from side-to-side as she watched the fluid inside gloop back and forth.

  A puzzled smile curved her lips. Jaron was just a bundle of surprises, wasn’t he? She’d seen him as the wealthy philanthropist, the sexy—and maybe a little dangerous—playboy. But as she was rapidly finding out, he was far more. But a doctor?

  Unlike any other doctor she’d met, he treated her like a person. Not like a victim or the sum of her injuries. He didn’t seem to be looking to make a name for himself by treating her. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned anything else about it. He’d just given her the vial, said it was mostly made up of herbs and carried on to charm her.

  He was sexy, if a little disturbing at times with his ice cold gaze, and he flirted with her. Usually, Grace became unnerved when men paid her too much attention. Especially these days. She knew how she looked, and in a society where appearance meant everything, a scar rendered a person less than human.

  Jaron didn’t make her nervous, though. He didn’t look at her with the combination of pity and horror she was used to seeing. No, he didn’t make her feel odd at all. Not even when he’d carried her back out to the car, something that she should have felt awkward about. Instead, she’d felt looked after, cherished.

  The vial was still on her bed when Grace made it out of the shower. Eyeing it, she pulled on loose exercise pants and a skinny rib t-shirt. What harm could herbs do? She slid it into her pocket as she headed downstairs.

  Sitting at the breakfast table, toast in front of her and coffee in hand, Grace sipped at the life-restoring liquid with a look of bliss on her face. The first cup of coffee in the morning was wonderful, soul-restoring. She shifted in her chair as Fayte bustled in and out.

  “There’s a plated salad in the fridge, left over from last night. You’ll have to make do with that unless you want to stand around cooking.” Again Fayte’s voice rang sharply. As though she were annoyed with the world in general, and Grace, in particular. Usually Grace ignored her sour mood, but today, with her legs already aching from the cold, it irritated her.

  A car horn sounded outside. Fayte waved as a sleek, red sports car pulled up in front of the kitchen window. Roger, Fayte’s boyfriend. As usual, he peered through the window. Grace hunkered down, using her coffee mug as a shield. She always felt dirty when Roger was around. The way he looked at her, as though he were mentally undressing her, made her want to take a month-long shower.

  “Right, that’s it, I’m out of here. Try not to fall over or anything and ruin my day, okay?” Fayte threw the scathing comment over her shoulder as she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

  Grace breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her cousin. She took another sip of her coffee, ignoring the car and its occupant outside. She had no clue what Fayte saw in the guy. Pushing forty, his tan was too dark, his teeth too white and his peroxide blonde ‘surfer’ hairdo was too perfect. A living Ken doll. He loved himself, too, and never passed up an opportunity to check his reflection in a mirror, window or other shiny surface. Grace suspected he’d try to check himself out in a bucket of water given half a chance. She recalled Jaron’s easy manner, the casual way he wore his clothes that said he didn’t really care what they were. By contrast, Roger couldn’t compare.

  Idly, she played with the little bottle, spinning it around and around on the table. Herbal remedy, he’d said. Just herbs. She watched the liquid in the glass spin and splash up against the sides of the bottle.

  Grace sipped her coffee as she contemplated his offer. It would certainly give her an excuse to see him again, for however long his ‘treatment’ lasted. What harm could it do if it was just herbs? Hell, if it meant he had to see her it was worth taking some foul-smelling plant extract for however long it took.

  The car door opened outside and Fayte’s voice drifted in through the open window. “Yeah, the cripple’s all sorted. She’ll be fine. She’ll have to lie in her own piss if she falls over; I’ve had enough cleaning up after her.”

  Grace froze as the harsh words, uttered with hatred, filtered through her brain. Tears prickled hot and insistent at the back of her eyes as she stared at the dregs of the coffee in her mug. She knew…well, she’d suspected, how Fayte felt. But to hear it like that was just too much.

  Mechanically she poured a glass of cranberry juice, refusing to give in to tears while they were still within possible earshot. If she could act normally until they’d driven off then everything would be fine.

  She moved without thinking, her hand shaking as she opened the vial. Absently, she tipped the fluid into her glass as she watched the window out of the corner of her eye. The thick, red liquid sank into the glass, dropping to the bottom before billowing out in a thick cloud and disappearing into the fruit juice.

  Finally the engine revved and the sleek red car pulled out of Grace’s line of sight. She sagged against the table, relief flooding her as she let go of the iron control, which had been holding the tears back. Annoyed with herself, she swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She would not let Fayte’s ugliness get to her; she’d been through worse. She’d call the nursing company today and get someone to replace her cousin as quickly as possible.
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  With a sigh, she contemplated the table in front of her. The toast…she wrinkled her nose at the butter and jam-saturated concoction. Her stomach rebelled at the idea of ingesting it. She pushed the toast away then picked up the cranberry juice.

  The smell warned her before she took a sip, an odd metallic scent assaulting her nostrils. She held the glass up. Was it off or something? Did Cranberry juice go bad? It would be just her luck. Then her gaze fell on the emptied vial on the table.

  “What the hell?” She looked at the glass again, took a sniff then shrugged. “Well, if a car can’t kill me, bring on the herbs.”

  She leaned forward and took a sip, holding her breath against the strong metallic scent. It didn’t taste as weird as she expected but rather it had a delicate underlying flavor that complemented the sharp taste of the cranberry. Oh wow. A soft sound of surprise rumbled in her throat as the drink hit her tongue, tantalising and seducing her taste buds. Eagerly she gulped down the drink, draining the rest of the glass in seconds.

  She closed her eyes in sheer bliss as a warm shiver ran over her entire body. Goose bumps rose across her skin. Her lips parted in a soft moan as the heat rolled inward to settle in the cradle of her pelvis. Wet heat slid from her as her pussy clenched, dampening her panties.

  She placed the glass down on the table heavily, the dull clunk shocking her out of her pleasurable daze. Blinking, she stared at it in surprise. What the hell had Jaron put in the stuff? She’d almost had an orgasm on the spot. If this was his idea of treatment, she was signing up for a year. Two. Hell, she’d sign up for a lifetime.

  Stretching, she arched her back and ran her hands through her hair. Movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned and caught sight of herself in the polished surface of the refrigerator. Hands buried in her hair, her stretch had forced her back into a sensuous curve, pushing her breasts out, full and aching against her thin cotton top. Secure in the knowledge she was alone, Grace slid her hands through her hair, down her throat and over the curve of her bust. Spurred on by the near-climax the drink had somehow brought on, she cupped her breasts, feeling the slight weight. Leaning forward, she pursed her lips seductively, pushing her breasts together so the cleavage in the deep V of her top increased. She laughed at the image of the femme fatale who looked back.