Mirror of My Soul

to breathe.
He was just…gorgeous. Perfect. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth. She
needed him. Now.
He was talking to an intense-looking younger man who’d pulled the ottoman for
the chair just beyond the range of Tyler’s long legs to sit on it. The man was perhaps in his early thirties with brown and black hair streaked with blond, revealing that he spent a good deal of time in the sun. His gray eyes shifted restlessly. She suspected it wasn’t abstract boredom, but because that was his nature. He was not sitting on the ottoman as much as he was perched on it. She also noted that he was dressed more casually than the partygoers, in loose torn jeans and an untucked cotton shirt, only several buttons 61
Joey W. Hill
fastened. Celtic design tattoos were around his wrists and the suggestion of more body art was shadowed within the folds of the almost open shirt.
His wire-rimmed glasses increased the unusual intensity, but made him more
boyish and sensually appealing at once. The hair was disheveled, carelessly shoved away from his face. That and his clothing gave the impression of having rolled out of bed to come down and join the party. He was beautiful, the kind of man…
His gaze shifted to her and she picked up on it like the scent of a Darjeeling in the mist-covered foothills of India. Someone she would have snapped up in a heartbeat in The Zone. Perhaps even resorted to throwing elbows to get him if need be. This one knew pain, had the look in his eyes combined with the sweet sensual innocence of his mouth that so strongly appealed to her. But she sensed he was also one who had found peace for his demons. The focus of his eyes was unsettling, the way they examined her not exactly sexual but as if he were devouring every feature. It was obvious that he’d recognized her nature in the same blink of time she’d recognized his.
Jesus Christ. His lips moved in the words, probably said it, but the only voice she could hear was Tyler’s as he broke off and turned to see what had drawn his
companion’s attention so abruptly.
She moved at last, made her way across the thirty feet of lawn left between them.
She didn’t let herself falter though she was afraid, more so with every step. She was about to go somewhere she’d never thought possible, trusting all her dark corners to someone else.
Tyler had given her that, the awareness that there was a black hole slowly
spreading within her that would eventually take away everything she’d built. The things that she’d thought would compensate for the lack of true healing. He wanted her to accept a relationship where she’d have to have the courage to believe the darkest, deepest betrayal would not be lurking around the corner for her again. And there were no guarantees. Remembering her father’s eyes—what they’d once reflected, what they’d become—she faltered.
Tyler rose at the same time as his companion. Without taking his eyes off her, he neatly stepped in front of the gray-eyed man, impeding his forward progress. Pressed his drink into the grinning man’s hand and came toward her.
Tyler couldn’t fault his friend’s reaction. Josh was an artist. How else would an artist react to the ultimate challenge to sculpt? How could you capture a tenth of a goddess’s beauty in clay or bronze, even with hands as masterful as Josh’s?
The people she’d passed when she’d crossed the lawn were openly staring at her.
He was sure they were wondering who she was, how she figured into this group.
Men who dealt regularly with beautiful women had gone stock-still when they saw her, probably not even certain what it was about her that made them want to get on their knees. Josh knew and he knew, but it was more than that for him. He’d felt her tremble beneath his touch, just as he’d seen ugly darkness pour out of her. But still she emanated a mysterious feminine power, something that called to the soul as much as 62
Mirror of My Soul
the cock. Under her touch, a man could find absolute power, torment, or a lust that knew no civilized constraints.
He could tell she’d come for him with a single-minded purpose and she had no
interest or desire to interact with anyone else. The thought made the want that had been branding the inside of his gut for days become raw. He’d missed her to the point there were times he’d felt like a rabid dog. Working out until his muscles were quivering, he’d run along the path by the Gulf until he was so exhausted he could barely make it back home. And still he couldn’t keep himself from going back to the guestroom, stretching out on the sheets and pillow linens he hadn’t permitted Sarah to change so he could breathe in her lingering scents.
She’d piled her hair up on her head, a twist with a silken tail that fanned out over her shoulder and left breast. She’d done that thing that women knew how to do, soft wisps of hair around her temples. No eye makeup, just a pale pink lipstick.
The dress she wore was a creation of soft cream. Sleeveless, a clinging cotton that hugged her body from breast to thigh, baring the points of her finely boned shoulders.
She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath it, her small bosom perfectly molded, the posture of her body showing she was entirely unselfconscious by the stretched fabric, the anatomically specific display of the shape of her breasts, the points of her nipples. Those long, shapely calves were bare, tucked into a pair of strappy-heeled sandals, her pale pink painted toenails matching the long nails of her fingers on her elegant hands. No jewelry, no rings. Just Marguerite.
As he made his way toward her, all the sharp desire of the past two weeks throbbed in him like untreated gunshot wounds. She watched him come,