Rejar Part 5

Lilac opened her eyes to another dream.

The same beautiful man she had seen the previous night in her sleep was back. Only this time he was lying across the top of the covers on his stomach.

He was still very much unclothed.

"Mmmm..." He rubbed the underside of his chin back and forth against the top of her thigh while staring impishly up at her.

"I don't know why I'm dreaming about you again."

{Do you not?} Rejar rested his head on his folded arms, letting his index finger lazily trace the outline of demarcation between her night rail and the sheet.

Annoyed, Lilac slapped his hand away. "No, and I wish you would stop touching me in such a forthright manner."

"Ah, you prefer a more subtle approach." His teasing eyes sparkled. "Now, how might I be more subtle, I wonder?" He rubbed his chin as if he were actually thinking it over.

Lilac narrowed her eyes. "I think you're playing with me in some way."

"In every way." A rakish dimple popped into his cheek.

He smoothly rolled over onto his back, lacing his hands behind his head before looking lazily over at her. His eyes were dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt.

For some reason, Lilac got the absurd impression of a cat swis.h.i.+ng his tail.

She shook an admonis.h.i.+ng finger at him. "You must be nice or I won't allow you in my dreams anymore."

"Very well." He turned onto his side. Propping up his head by leaning on a bent arm, he reached for her with the other.

"What are you doing?" she squealed.

"What you have asked-I am being nice."

"You don't look like you're being nice; you look like you're being quite mischievous."

He brought her small hand to his face. "Really. How do I look mischievous?"

"Your eyes sparkle in a certain way and you have these curved lines by your mouth, dimples really, which deepen and-Stop that!" He was running his tongue in a long, slow lick up the center of her hand, straight up to the tip of her middle finger.

"You do not like it?" He spoke around her finger, which was now gently being suckled into his warm mouth. When those thick, ink-black lashes of his lifted to meet her focus straight on. Lilac blushed to the roots of her hair.

"I-I didn't say that."

"Then why should I stop?" White teeth held her finger now and the rogue was laughing!

Before Lilac could think of an appropriate response, he was once more licking the inside of her hand, using his silken tongue to probe in a most intriguing fas.h.i.+on between her fingers where they joined at the base.

Her breath caught with an odd hitch in her throat.

"You do not want me to stop, do you?" His low, resonant voice was partially m.u.f.fled as he continued to pay the most indecent attention to her fingers.

Who would ever guess fingers could be so-so inspiring?

"I don't suppose"-Lilac cleared her throat-"it would be-I mean, you might continue for just a few more moments; seeing as this is a dream and such."

Rejar chuckled deep in his throat, his talented lips moving to her wrist. He lightly sc.r.a.ped her pulse point before pulling up the sleeve of her garment with his teeth.

Lilac gulped for air as his moist tongue slid across the crease on the inside of her elbow.

"You know I don't know how I thought you up, but I think you're exceptionally handsome," she whispered to him in the darkened room.

The corners of Rejar's lips twitched. As a rule Familiars never paid much attention to such compliments. For some reason, women always found them thus. Amused, he stopped to look down at her lying beneath him. "Do you?"

"Oh, yes! Although, I can't see you as clearly as I would like. What color are your eyes?"

Rejar began nuzzling at the collar of her gown. "Blue ..." His mouth trailed like hot silk across her collarbone. "... golden."

Lilac tried not to moan aloud at the feel of the sensual male mouth gliding over her with such devastating effect.

"Which is it?" she gasped.

"What?" His heated breath caressed her skin as he continued his sensual foray.

"Blue or golden?"

Rejar stopped.

It was not an easy thing to do; her skin tasted like the sweetest cream to his hungry lips. However, this was dangerous territory. If he told her the truth, it might jog her awareness of... something, the wrongness of his dual-colored eyes to her or, more probably, a connection to her new cat.

No, he could not chance it.

He reined his senses inward, bringing his breathing and body temperature back to normal. The process made him slightly irritable.

His sensual nature needed a release and he had gone far too long without it. He intended to remedy that as soon as possible. The long hunt would have to be momentarily put aside in lieu of a fast conquest.

Tomorrow evening his unaware "sponsor" into society was having a private gathering of his select friends at his country home. Rejar intended to be there.

His entrance into this society would serve a triple purpose: he would be establis.h.i.+ng a new life for himself; he would be meeting soon "face-to-face" with Lilac; and he would find somebody on the morrow who could relieve his present condition.

To hope she would have forest green eyes, Rejar acknowledged, would be overly optimistic.

He gazed longingly into those Aviaran eyes and bid them, {Sleep.}

Chapter Three.

He did exactly what Lilac thought he had done on their first meeting; he hid under the seat inside one of the coaches bound for Byron's country home.

When the inhabitants, two young lords who were already well on their way toward being intoxicated, lurched from the coach, Rejar was not far behind them. His deep coat helped to conceal him in the darkness of night, making it easy for him to find his own entrance through an open set of gla.s.s doors that led directly into a deserted library room.

From there, he quickly bolted up a back stairway to the bedroom suites, easily locating the master bedroom with his innate tracking abilities. Once inside he nudged the door shut, purposely striding over to a chifforobe in the corner.

Mirrored doors, which an instant ago had reflected a beautiful, long-haired black cat with blue and gold eyes now reflected a beautiful long-haired man with the very same eyes.

Opening the wardrobe, Rejar riffled though the contents, looking for something to temporarily cover his nakedness while he sought out his host.

Not for the first time, Rejar acknowledged one of the drawbacks of metamorphosing was that your clothes did not change with you. Normally, this did not pose too much of a problem as he usually returned to the same place to change back. However, when he had instinctively transformed himself back in the Tunnels, he had completely lost all his clothing in the turbulent cosmic storm.

Since Byron was a much smaller man than he, his choice was limited to a red silk robe. He yanked the garment out of the closet, securing it around his lean waist with the sash. Then he went in search of his "sponsor."

Every woman in the room and several fops turned to stare agog at the positively stunning man who stood unabashedly in the doorway wearing nothing but a red silk robe.

His tall, powerful frame filled the doorway, yet there seemed to be a certain lithe sensuality noticeable in his movements as he scanned the room, apparently seeking out someone. The silken robe he wore slid sinuously against the obviously nude, muscular body beneath in such a provocative way as to make several of the ladies feel quite faint.

There was a captivating aura of individuality about him, a feeling that this was someone who would either lead or walk alone. Never follow. His regal demeanor proclaimed to all that this was a man who would very much do as he pleased. His presence in a drawing room, so attired, told all he was not in the least concerned about what others thought of him.

Against fas.h.i.+on, he wore his glossy black hair long. The silken ma.s.s fell to the middle of his back with the rich, l.u.s.trous texture of the finest Russian sable. In fact, his hair seemed softer than sable and there wasn't a woman in the room who didn't immediately itch to feel that hair beneath her hand.

Counter to that gorgeous silken mane, his smooth skin was a tawny golden color; and since the robe gaped open occasionally when he moved, revealing a portion of sleekly muscled thigh, it was evidently his true skin tone all over. Such delectable skin as this invited touching.

But it was his face which captivated even the most discriminating of connoisseurs in the room. For it was a face of such utter sensuality and masculine beauty that many of the women actually gasped aloud.

He was breathtaking.

Madeline Fensley, who had been eyeing the newcomer with a mixture of awe and disbelief, sidled over to her only real compet.i.tion in the room. Lady Harcorte.

"Darling, is he really there or do you think Byron put one of his interesting surprises in the wine?"

Lady Harcorte blinked at the vision of masculine perfection in red silk. "I was wondering the very same thing myself."

The two women stood side by side taking in their fill of the luscious surprise which had presented itself this evening.

"So, what do you think?" Madeline murmured to Lady Harcorte. "Can he possibly be as good as the wrapping indicates?"

At thirty-five years of age, Leona Harcorte was known throughout the ton as a most accomplished mistress of the boudoir. A widow, her affairs were legend, but while she was indulgent, it was also known she was most discriminating. Men vied for her favors; women sought out her advice. It was said she could accurately a.s.sess a man's skill in the art of amour with just a look, and, conversely, ruin his masculinity with just a word.

Leona studied the man intently, noting the fluid, sinuous way he moved, the air of steamy sensuality which surrounded him. There was only one thing a woman thought of when looking at a man like that, she mused. s.e.x.

The man embodied it, dripped it, and probably tasted it too.

"I think, in this case, my dear Madeline, the wrapping is the hors d'oeuvre." Fastening her trained sights on him, she left her rival in stunned silence, already making her way toward him.

Apparently, not having found the person he was seeking, the stunning creature was about to turn from the room when she caught up with him.

"Dressed casually, are we?"

As was his nature, Rejar turned in response to the feminine voice.

She was surprised by his eyes. Rimmed in thick, black lashes, one was a pale glittering ice-blue, the other a heated, fiery gold. They were stunningly beautiful. Eyes that captivated and enticed.

Such eyes promised a wicked pa.s.sion.

Leona Harcorte had no doubt that by next week every woman in the ton would be talking about those eyes.

He swept her a mocking bow.

"You have me at a disadvantage, madam." His voice was low, melodious, rich.

What an incredibly s.e.xy voice, she thought; why, it almost has a purring quality to it...

He had a slight, undefinable accent; or perhaps it was just the cadence of his speech which was a bit different. Whatever it was, it only added to his overwhelming allure.

Leona raised an eyebrow at his facetious reply. "A disadvantage?" She raked his form with an appreciative glance. "An impossibility, I'm sure." His eyes glittered at once with a knowing sensuality.

How exciting! A man who knows exactly how to play the game. He confirmed her opinion by waiting for her to take the next step. She was more than happy to oblige.

"Do you often come into drawing rooms attired in such a manner?" Her hand swept the length of him. To outward appearances the gesture was meant to convey the robe he was wearing; only he felt the tips of her fingers barely graze down the front of his body.

His sensual mouth curved up slightly at the left corner. "I am a man of simple tastes."

His expression conveyed he was anything but.

Lady Harcorte's response was frank and experienced. "Or a man who simply tastes everything life has to offer?"

At her provocation, his eyes traveled slowly down the length of her form, revealing more of those lush black lashes of his. When he raised his glance to meet hers, his eyes were twinkling with innuendo.

He did not need to verbally respond.

Leona Harcorte was no novice in the art of seduction, but by comparison his blatant, practiced regard made her feel like an untried country girl. She was suddenly desperate to have him. Who was he?

An introduction was definitely in order.

"Countess Harcorte," she said imperiously, using her t.i.tle in a slight power play.

Rejar looked into her cold yet feverish eyes and knew this woman for exactly what she was. It would never have entered the Familiar's mind to judge her in any way for the excesses of her pleasures. Rejar understood all about excesses of pleasure.

He stood back from her for another reason.

This was a woman who seized power in her pleasures. She did not take joy in the pleasure itself but in something else-something... . not good.

All his senses reacted negatively to this and he mentally backed off, s.h.i.+elding himself from her spiritually, if not physically. So his response to her introduction was rather clipped.

"Prince Nickolai Azov." He did not feel dishonest in using that particular t.i.tle. Taking into account his position within his own society, he was probably ent.i.tled to it.