The Immortal Highlander

Page 16

5
Far too many things to lose, Gabby thought glumly.
Her virginity. Her world. Her life. And—if it had its wicked way—probably in precisely that order.
At the very last moment, just before its lips claimed hers, its grip on her face relaxed slightly and she did the only thing she could think of: She head-butted it.
Snapped her head back, then forward again, and bashed it square in the face as hard as she could.
So hard, in fact, that it made her woozy and gave her an instant migraine, making her wonder how Jean-Claude Van Damme always managed to coolly continue fighting after such a stunt. Obviously, movies lied. She wished she’d known that before she’d tried playing action hero.
Fortunately, it appeared she’d hurt it more than she’d hurt herself, because she recovered faster.
Fast enough to land a direct hit with her knee to its groin while it was still looking dazed.
The sound it made as it doubled over sent pure panic lancing through her veins. It was a sound of such affront, of such animalistic rage and pain, that she really, really didn’t want to be around by the time it managed to recover.
As it sank down to the floor, groaning and cupping itself, she dashed past it, making a frantic beeline toward the back door. There was no point in bothering with the front door. She’d never be able to outrun it on foot. She needed her car.
She darted through the living room, skittered around the table in the dining room, and burst into the kitchen.
Looming ahead of her—freedom—an open rectangle of doorway, splashed with morning sun.
She could still hear it cursing, three rooms away, as she reached the threshold. The hell with her luggage, she thought, leaping over it, she’d be lucky to escape with her life and she knew it.
Vaulting through the open doorway, she—
Slammed into Adam Black’s rock-hard body all over again.
She screamed when it caught her roughly, lifting her up until her feet dangled helplessly above the ground. The expression on its stunning dark face was icy and terrifying.
It crushed her against its body, tightening its arms around her until the air was whistling as she tried to suck it into her lungs. And she knew, if it tightened its powerful arms just a little bit more, her oxygen would be cut off completely.
It kept her like that for long painful moments, and she went perfectly still, face buried in its neck, its torque pressing into her cheek, willing herself to be soft and limp, to exude a nonthreatening air. She sensed instinctively that she’d pushed it to the brink, and if she evidenced even the slightest degree of resistance, it would respond with even greater force.
Her body wasn’t going to be able to withstand greater force.
So it was true, she thought dismally as it held her immobile, the Fae could move about in the blink of an eye. One instant it had been lying on the floor three rooms behind her, the next it was in the doorway in front of her. How on earth was she going to escape something that could move like that? What else could it do? Suddenly her mind was stuffed to overflowing with all Gram had ever taught her about the Fae, all the horrifying powers they possessed. The ability to mesmerize humans, control them, bend them to their every whim.
Could she be in any deeper shit?
After what seemed an interminably long time, it drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Just as she was drawing a shaky breath to start apologizing, or more accurately, begin begging for a swift and merciful death, it said with silky menace:
“Now it’s not just my lip you’ll be needing to kiss if you’re wishing to make amends with me, Irish.”
Five minutes later Gabby was securely tied to one of her dining-room chairs with her own clothesline.
Wrists bound behind her to the ladder-back chair, ankles snugly roped to the legs.
Dispiritedly she wondered how it was possible that a person’s life could go so thoroughly to hell in a handbasket in so short a time. Only yesterday morning the biggest worry on her mind had been what to wear to her interview. Whether Ms. Temple might think a black suit too severe, a brown one too modest, a pink one too frivolous. High heels too flirty? Low heels too butch? Hair up or down?
God, had she really worried about such things?
Mornings like this certainly put one’s life in perspective.
Dragging a chair around to face hers, Adam Black dropped into it, legs spread, elbows on its knees, leaning forward, mere inches from her. A long silky fall of midnight hair spilled over its muscular shoulder, brushing her thigh. The thing clearly had no concept of personal space. It was much too close. Just as she thought that, it raised a hand toward her. She flinched, but it only grazed her cheek with its knuckles, then slowly traced the pad of its thumb over her lower lip.