Free State of Grace (Resurrection) by Elizabeth Davies Page B

standing by the door. I hadn’t seen him move.
     
    Footsteps could be heard faintly from the passage and they were getting louder. I stilled, holding my breath anxiously, waiting for a knock on the door, or for someone to walk in; however, the footsteps hal ted before they reached us, and I could hear muffled voices and the high tinkle of a woman’s laughter. A door opened and closed softly, and the noises ceased.
     
    Roman waited for a moment, one palm flat on the wood, until he was sure our hiding place wouldn’t be discovered, all the while his eyes never left my face. I wondered if he was worried about me, or about himself. The way he had checked this room was empty before he had pulled me inside suggested he had little more right to it than I did. Did he live here, or was he a guest, or, just as plausible given the way he had been creeping around, was he a burglar?  Whatever the reason, I was glad he wanted to remain hidden; I wasn’t exactly dressed for company, hell, I wasn’t dressed at all. I was reminded of the way his eyes had raked my body and I struggled to ignore the wild beating of my heart and the heat in my belly.
     
    My thoughts must have been visible on my face again, because he smiled knowingly at me. His skin was particularly pale in the dim light and his eyes were startlingly dark. Intensely dark. His hair hung to his shoulders and gleamed in the light from the candles and the fire , and I thought I would love to get my hands on whatever conditioner he used. Then I realised what a ridiculous thought that was and I stifled yet another giggle. I was definitely going mad: mine was not a normal reaction to the state I was in. I put it down to nerves or the sheer oddity of my dream.
     
    My eyes went irresistibly to his, drawn to them almost against my will. I couldn’t stop looking at him. His lips parted and I caught a glimpse of teeth and once again, I noticed their sharpness. In the moment it took me to blink he was standing in front of me. I had never seen anyone move so fast and I jerked back in shock, then paused as his arm stretched out slowly, and his hand (God, those fingers were cold) brushed aside the fur. I crossed my legs quickly, but I had not been quick enough. Talk about a Sharon Stone moment! Desire engulfed me once more.
     
    I had never been in a situation more erotic and every particle of me yearned for his touch. Dark fantasies sparked through my mind and I vaguely hoped this increased libido was not a result of the tumour: no one had mentioned this as one of the symptoms. At the moment my lust was contained within my hallucination, but what if I couldn’t control it? I blushed furiously with mortification, my cheeks reddening with embarrassment.
     
    ‘Dieu!’ The word exploded fro m his mouth. Now that was something I did recognise. The noise had broken the mood once again, and I managed to restore some semblance of control and as I did my fear of him returned. Talk about mixed message: the circuits in my brain seemed to be firing in strange and convoluted pathways.
     
    ‘Parlez vous Francais?’ I tried out my atro cious school girl French on him, my voice shaky and high with tension, desperate to make him understand me. If I could maintain a kind of dialogue with him, then hopefully he would be less likely to harm me. On the other hand, perhaps I didn’t want to know what he had in store for me.
     
    He frowned, puzzled, and shook his head. I wasn’t sure whether he was saying that he didn’t understand me, or that he didn’t speak French.
     
    He asked me a question, this time in a different language. I didn’t understand him any better, to my disappointment. I thought it sounded vaguely Italian, but if it was, it had all the passion sucked out of it. He sighed in frustration and tried again. This time the language he used was guttural and harsh, at odds with the silver and honey of his voice. If I concentrated hard I thought I could make out a word or two, but I