The murders had been on the news all day. But visitors to the city—revelers on the streets—probably believed they were a strictly local phenomenon. Still, most people would be more careful that night; when they met in the city’s bars or clubs they’d talk about what had happened not far from the French Quarter.
But while they’d react with horror and sympathy, they would tell themselves that it didn’t affect them.
Danni usually turned on the television in the evenings. That night, she didn’t. She already knew what she’d see on the news.
Quinn came upstairs, quietly opening the door, and just as quietly closing it behind him.
“You asleep?” he asked her.
“Seriously?” she replied.
“I’d rather hoped not,” he said.
“Wolf’s been relegated to the hall?”
“He doesn’t seem to mind. He lets me be the alpha dog.”
“And I thought I was the alpha dog,” Danni said.
He stood in the doorway. “I was thinking—” he began.
“No thinking tonight!” It had been too long. She rose naked from the bed and walked over to him, met his hungry, urgent kiss with her own as she tugged at his shirt.
He kissed her while removing his jacket, shoulder holster and gun, allowing her to play with the buttons on his shirt.
Then he grew impatient and unfastened them himself.
Danni wondered how she’d ever had the strength to let him go. In his arms she immediately felt the inferno between them. His clothing was strewn about the floor and since she hadn’t bothered with any...
They fell together on her bed. He laughed, rising above her, and then his lips found hers again and they kissed, tongues delving, lips locking and breaking apart so they could gasp for breath, then joining again. She grasped his shoulders, the muscles moving sleekly beneath her touch. He was back; he was with her. It was real, the sheets beneath her were real, the moonlight filtering through the drapes was real. And the force of his body against hers was both solid and dreamlike. For long seconds she was content to feel his flesh, to stroke his shoulders and down his back. But she felt his kiss moving against her, felt his lips on her throat, teasing her collarbones. His hands curved around and caressed her breasts and then his tongue and lips bathed her where his hands had been. She thought she might crawl out of her skin, she was so desperate to be part of him.
He was a tender lover, a careful lover, always wanting to arouse as he was aroused. But she felt the hardness of his erection so swiftly that night, felt him slide into her, and she wanted him so badly, she shared his impatience, entwining her limbs around his, moving with him, arching closer. She felt the frantic rhythm of her heart and his. The music from Bourbon Street seemed to fade away, and even the moon seemed to pale. All that remained was the feel of each other, their desperate, urgent need to be together again.
She rose toward him, the urgency so sweet it was nearly painful, and yet she wanted the moment to go on and on. She saw his eyes, the passion in them, and the wonder he seemed to feel when he was with her, and it was an even greater seduction. She curved her arms around him, and felt the euphoria sweep through her as they shuddered, almost violently, both rocked by their climax.
He half fell and half eased himself to her side. For a minute he was silent. “Whose idea was it that we were better off moving slowly?” he finally asked.
She smiled and turned into him. “Yours.”
“No, I think it was yours.”
He held her, drawing her to him, and kissed her lovingly. “We won’t always need to be apart. When I’m in the city, it just makes sense for me to stay here.”
“We...” Danni faltered. For her, he was perfect. She’d met him not long after her father died. She’d been at a loss, confused, disbelieving—and Quinn had barreled into her life.
“We what?” he asked her.
She ran her fingers through the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “You know, I didn’t even like you when we met.”
“And I wasn’t that fond of you, either. Except that I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.”
“And now?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve always thought that actions speak more loudly than words,” she said primly.
He grinned. And she smiled as he swept her into his arms. Their world might be going to hell again. But he was with her that night.
She wanted to cling to every moment until morning came.
* * *
Quinn could only explain the fact that he hadn’t awakened when she left the bed by reminding himself that he hadn’t really slept in almost forty-eight hours. He’d barely been back at his house before Larue had called that morning.
He woke now because Wolf was nudging his hand and whining. And if Wolf was in the room, the door was open. But the dog wasn’t injured and he wasn’t barking; there was no intruder in the house.
He jumped up, grabbing a robe. Then he grabbed a second robe. This had happened before. If the dog wanted him awake but nothing had disturbed the house, Danni was in her studio.
He hurried down the stairs and stopped in the doorway, watching her. He worried when he saw her like this but he was also afraid to startle her. She seemed frenzied and intent, yet she wasn’t actually awake.
She sat before the canvas on its easel, her posture completely straight. She made a picture of absolute beauty with her hair flowing down her naked back. Her palette of colors lay next to the canvas where she worked, and she painted as if she were an automaton.
He walked over to stand beside her.
Something inside him seemed to tighten.
She’d copied the Hubert painting he’d seen in the gallery that morning except...
There was nothing deceptive about its beauty. The colors drew the eye and compelled the viewer to look more closely. What he saw revealed the emotions hidden in the original work. Her version of the painting made immediately explicit what Hubert’s had veiled.
Everyone in this painting had apparently been startled and had turned as if to face a camera. The beautiful woman on the settee or love seat had her dagger out and seemed to be snarling at the man. He’d aimed his gun and moved into position to shoot the woman, an expression of hatred on what you could see of his face. The suits of armor has stepped forward, both holding swords. The chess pieces were running in terror while the children who’d been playing the game were trying to smash them with a large chalice and a medieval shield. Over the fireplace, the man in the portrait was directing the action with a cruel zeal written into his features. The child playing with the guillotine was slicing off the head of another doll—but the doll seemed to be alive and screaming.
That damned giclée. She was creating her own image of the giclée in the shop. Had the horror of it gotten to her?
He knew that wasn’t true. Danni was strong; she’d been born with her father’s strength. He knew her, and he’d known Angus, so he was sure of that.
Danni’s hand paused in midair. He caught her wrist gently and took the paintbrush from her fingers, setting it on the palette. He placed her robe around her shoulders and knelt beside her, shaking her lightly as he said her name. “Danni. Danni, wake up.”
She blinked several times and then stared at him with wide eyes. She shivered, and he gathered the robe more tightly around her. Her eyes quickly scanned the studio and then met his again.
“I—I was sleepwalking?”
“Sleep painting,”