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An Excerpt From: Shadows
Present
© Copyright Michele R. Bardsley, 2004.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's
Cave, Inc.
Isabella
Bradley almost fainted from sex-crazed delight when her college roommate
and best friend, Sierra, introduced her brother, Jag Masters.
He
was more than six feet tall with broad shoulders, lean hips, and tight,
tight jeans. The white T-shirt showed off the sculpted muscles of his chest
and stomach. He had chocolate-brown eyes, a smile that promised all kinds
of wickedness, and a face sculpted by the gods. The thick, curly brown hair
that she’d seen in a family photo was hidden by a decrepit Indiana Jones
hat.
She
fell in lust with him right then.
His
gaze took in her too-thin frame, her frizzy red hair, her dorky glasses,
and the smile on his lips fell away.
“So
you’re the frea—“
“Jag!”
Sierra stared at her brother in shock.
“I
don’t believe in psychics,” he said, unapologetic. “Maybe she needs that
kind of ruse to get attention. She’s not much to look at.”
Izzy’s
outraged gasp matched Sierra’s.
“You
moron!” Sierra thumped his chest with her fist. “You’re insulting one of my
dearest friends.”
Isabella
blinked, knowing her nervous reaction made her eyes look silly and owlish
behind the thick lenses of her glasses. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she
willed them away. She had expected Sierra’s brother to be more like, well,
like Sierra. The fact his gorgeous looks hid a black heart didn’t stall the
gut-clenching lust holding her hostage.
Izzy had
agreed to spend Thanksgiving with Sierra at the California
home she shared with Jag, since it was hours closer than her Gran’s place in Nevada.
Sierra had lost her parents in a car accident when she was sixteen and her
then nineteen-year-old brother had raised her. Now, at age twenty, she was
in her second year of college. Izzy was also
twenty, in her second year of college, and was an orphan, too. Her parents
had died in a plane crash when she was five. She was the only survivor of
the crash and she walked away with amnesia and a new gift. No, a new curse.
She’d
spent her life friendless and lonely with only her grandmother as good
company…until she met Sierra. The perky blonde didn’t care one whit about Izzy’s reputation as a mind-reading freak.
“It’s okay, Sierra. I scare him. He thinks I can read his
thoughts.”
“I
do not.” His hostile stare settled on her.
“Yes,
you do.” She met his glare with the calm reserve she’d cultivated over the
years from dealing with jerks just like him. Bullies couldn’t take a
stare-down for too long, especially when they sensed no animosity from the
opposing party. “I don’t read minds. I’m clairvoyant.”
“Yeah,
right.” He snorted and dropped his gaze. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
After
that regrettable meeting, Jag was polite but distant and spent a great deal
of time in his studio, ignoring her and his sister. He came out for the
Thanksgiving dinner Izzy and Sierra cooked,
offered his thanks but not his help for doing the dishes, and returned to
his studio.
Izzy
could take his animosity toward her; she was used to that kind of
narrow-minded mean-ass behavior. But even though Sierra tried to keep them
occupied with shopping, movies, and other such distractions, Izzy knew her friend was hurt by Jag’s iciness. Early
on Saturday evening, Sierra retired to bed complaining of a headache. By
Isabella’s estimation, the only real pain her friend suffered was named Jag
Masters.
She
attempted to watch television, but not even the usual brain-candy shows
distracted her from the angry restlessness scratching at her. She tried to
read a book and when the previously riveting mystery failed to catch her
interest, she dragged out her journal and stared at the crisp white pages.
It seemed no activity would squash her festering emotions. No activity,
save one: Yelling at Jag Masters for his selfish, ridiculous, childish
behavior.
It
gave her great pleasure to stomp across the living room to the slim door near
the kitchen entrance. It led down to the basement, to the moron’s studio.
Sierra said she’d never seen it and the one time she’d opened the door and
set her foot upon the stair, Jag had given her such a fright, she never
tried again.
Isabella’s
hand hovered above the knob. Despite her burning desire to give the big oaf
what-for, she was reluctant to intrude on his personal space. If he didn’t
allow his own sister into the studio, how would he feel about a stranger—a
woman he’d made clear he disliked—marching down the staircase to yell at
him?
She
grabbed the knob. Let him get mad at her. He’d listen to what she had to
say, like it or not, then he’d never have to see her again.
All
the same, Isabella was quiet as she entered the dark space. She crept down
the stairs, flickering yellow light from the left of the staircase guiding
her toward the floor. When her bare feet touched cool concrete, she
breathed a sigh of relief. The achingly beautiful strains of an unknown
song drifted to her; she peeked around the corner, her heart pounding so
loud it nearly drowned out the haunting tune.
Jag
stood at an easel, a huge canvas swirled with dark colors. All around the
studio were dozens of paintings that looked nearly identical. A huge
twisting darkness swirled endlessly. Within the tornado of darkness floated
a face of a woman with green eyes and flowing red hair. The features of the
woman were indistinct, faded and fuzzy like an old photograph. But she
looked familiar all the same. She looked like…no. That was impossible.
“What
do you want?” His voice was deep, its rasp a testament to the hours he’d
spent down here without speaking to anyone. He turned and looked at her,
his face a mask of pain, his gaze tortured. Other than a pair of ratty jean
shorts, he wore nothing. Paint spattered his bare chest, his arms, his
legs, and had even gotten into the thick curls of his hair.
“I…”
Izzy swallowed heavily. How had he known she
stood here watching him?
“Are
you deaf as well as stupid?” He put down the brush and the palette and
walked toward her with the same easy, deadly grace a panther used to stalk
its prey. “What the hell do you want?”
“You
are…” Her heart stuttered as he stopped within inches of her and stared
down at her, a frown creasing his lips. She saw the tick of his jaw, the
way his hands fisted. Danger rolled off him in waves of black energy, a
feeling so frightening and intense, it forced the breath from her lungs.
She’d
made a mistake. A huge, terrible mistake.
Izzy
turned to flee, but Jag grabbed her arm and twirled her around, whipping
off her glasses and tossing them onto the small table near the studio’s
entrance. “I knew it was you. Didn’t you think I’d know? How long have you
haunted me? How goddamned long have you been in my head? I can’t think. I
can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”
“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.” She jerked her arm out of his grasp
and squared her shoulders. She waved toward the paintings. “I’m not her. I
could never be her. Look at me.”
His
gaze lowered to her face. Whatever he saw confirmed she was the vision of
his paintings. His eyes darkened with desire. “Your eyes,” he whispered. He
trailed his fingers through the silky strands. “Your hair.”
“No.
Jag, I’m not—“ Her heart clenched. Beauty had
never been hers. The woman, even indistinct, was gorgeous. How could he
confuse the freak with the goddess?
His
lips claimed hers, but it was not a gentle possession. There was an aching
hunger in the demands of his mouth, a long-denied need fusing their kiss. Even
though fear throbbed a tempo in her veins, she reacted to his desperate
desire, flinging her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. His
intensity seemed to drain her then re-energize her, over and over, until
she was limp and wanting.
CLOSE WINDOW
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