Touch of Darkness Read Online Free PDF

when the first stone in that wall moved, everything in this grave went out of balance." She h eld Rurik's shirt in her fists and whispered softly, wanting none of the reporters to hear. "The old demon who's buried here is determined to make us pay dearly for the contents. Nothing's safe."
    "Then what are you doing here?" His abdomen was solid. He was warm.
    And she was cold and afraid. He felt like security to her.
    That was wrong. So wrong. "What did you want me to do? Leave Hardwick to the carrion birds?"
    He seemed to stop breathing, and his lids drooped, and his eyes grew . . . clouded, as if he fought to conceal some secret within him.
    Hastily, she released his shirt.
    No one knew better than she did that his straight, brown hair felt smooth when she tangled her fingers in it, that the taut body beneath his work clothes could transport a woman to ecstasy, that the tattoo that etched his chest, belly, and arm must have been a young man's foolishness, and that tracing it was a woman's. The memory of the pleasure they'd shared made her melt. The heat of possession, when he sought to brand her as his, had sent her running.
    More than that—sometimes when she was close to him, she experienced the sting of something . . . frightening. Something that reminded her of that night of fire and destruction, fear, and unending darkness.
    She eased herself off and away from him.
    His eyes returned to normal, and they snapped with irritation. "Do you always have to be the one to fling yourself into danger? Can't you just once let someone else do the report on the massacre in Somalia or the plague in Indonesia?" He acted as if they'd had this fight a hundred times, when actually he'd never mentioned her work before.
    They'd hardly talked before. Their mutual antipathy hadn't required words.
    Neither had their mutual passion.
    No. No memories. Not now!
    She glanced up at the faces peering at them. The villagers were there. The reporters. The archaeological team. "This is no time for that conversation."
    "When would you suggest we talk? After we've made love all night? No, wait. You don't stick around for a leisurely breakfast. You leave without saying good-bye." Rurik remained on the ground, mocking and, to all intents and purposes, relaxed.
    He didn't fool her. Every muscle in his body was taut.
    Because he wanted to grab her? To remind her that the last time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd been naked in his arms?
    "Not now," she said between her teeth.
    "Believe me, I realize that, or I'd be shining a light in your eyes while I interrogated you." Deliberately, h e sat up, and rested his arms on his bent knees. "Tell me what happened here."
    She was more than glad to change the subject. "Hardwick never saw it coming. He took one stone away and the blade popped out—it had been waiting for a thousand years for just that moment."
    Rurik looked at Hardwick, and his face showed no sign of compassion. "The dumb son of a bitch."
    "He didn't deserve to die for his stupidity. No one deserves that."
    Rurik's gaze shifted to her. "No. No one deserves that. Unfortunately, it happens more than any of us like."
    "Look, is every word you say going to be rife with significance?" She heard a murmur, glanced up at the lines of avidly staring faces, and realized her voice had risen.
    "Shall we get him out of here?" Rurik asked.
    He acted as if her unrestrained outburst had satisfied some perverse need in him, or proved something to him, and that made her madder. "Try not to get your head cut off. You might need it someday." She led the way back to Hardwick's body.
    Rurik followed, keeping his profile low and his body tight, a man presenting a smaller target to his unseen—and long-dead—assailant. Grasping Hardwick under the arms, he lifted him easily, gently.
    The tears prickled Tasya's eyes again and made her nose itch. It wasn't only sorrow and shock; seeing Rurik treat Hardwick as if he were a baby who needed his rest caused her a pang of tenderness