Free Ritual Sins by Anne Stuart Page B

never come home again. She had no home. But even for the first thirteen years of her life it had been a battle zone, not a haven.
    Her only haven was when she was alone. And even that had been defiled by Stella’s greed.
    He’d touched her, and she hadn’t liked it, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. His hands closing over hers, enveloping them so that her own smaller ones had disappeared within his. The crown of thorns around each strong wrist. The feel of his body when she’d tumbled against him, bone and flesh and muscle, warmth and solid strength that was somehow terrifying. The closeness of his mouth.
    She didn’t like to be touched.
    She didn’t like the way he looked at her either. There was none of the saintly compassion he seemed to emit for the masses. His clear gray-blue eyes watched her with the intensity of a predator. He was very still, scarcely moving, and yet she had no doubt as to what kind of threat he could be. He’d taken her mother, he’d taken her money, he’d even taken from Rachel the illusion that Stella had an ounce of feeling for her. And he would take more, if he could. He would destroy her, and he would do so without a second thought. If she was weak enough to let him.
    She lay in the lamplit darkness, tense, angry, confused. Her throat still hurt, though not with the fiery ache of earlier, when she could barely force air through the rawness. Her body feltbruised and aching and the pain in her head had subsided to a dull throbbing.
    But there was something else disturbing. Whatever they’d given her, whatever they’d done to her, besides going an astonishing way toward healing her, had also left her feeling strange and restless. Her skin tingled. Her breasts felt tight, sensitive. Her lips stung.
    She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the odd sensations, and hateful erotic images danced through her mind. Bodies entwined, hands touching, mouths tasting, hair flowing, strength and a slow, sensual burn that threatened to engulf her in flames.
    She heard a muffled noise of protest, and she knew it had come from her own raw throat. Her memory was spotty, disturbing, edgy, and she tried to force something solid to materialize from the gray mist.
    Nothing was clear. Just hints and wisps of sensation that made her entire body ache in fear and protest.
    What in God’s name had he done to her?
    Luke closed the door behind him, sealing the room away from prying eyes, and turned to look at the wall of security monitors. All was as it should be to the untrained eye. The current crop of followers were partway through their two-monthstay, and they were going about their appointed tasks with docile obedience.
    Rachel Connery looked far from docile. She sat on her narrow bed, staring sightlessly into space, one hand brushing her mouth. Her nails were short, bitten to the quick. It didn’t surprise him.
    She touched her mouth with an absent curiosity that immediately made him hard. She didn’t know what he’d done with her mouth. What he had every intention of doing again, next time with her cooperation … or at least her full awareness.
    She stretched out on the narrow bed and he groaned. She was too damned distracting. He reached over and turned off the monitor, glancing at the others surrounding it.
    A handful of the Grandfathers were gathered in one of the smaller meditation rooms. Bobby Ray was with them as well. Odd, Luke thought, peering closer. Wishing he’d had the sense to install listening devices as well.
    They looked calm, peaceful, decisive as they made their plans for the future of the Foundation.
    Surely he had nothing to worry about?

6
     
    C alvin Leigh was the very last person Rachel expected would show up at her room later that day. She would have slammed the door in his face without a word when she noticed what he was carrying. A thermos and two empty mugs.
    “A peace offering,” he said in his soft voice. “Made with freshly ground Sumatran beans.”
    For a