she felt the unmistakable trickle of semen down her inner thighs, blood drained from her face. Her dizziness worsened and her empty stomach heaved.
“Wait. I changed my mind,” she whispered through parched lips, her right hand lifting to touch her left upper arm. A painful welt could be felt through her shirt sleeve. “I just want to go home.”
Eve stared at her computer monitor and felt an odd, vibrating panic well up inside her.
The Mark of Cain. The mark given by God to Cain as protection from harm while he wandered the Earth as punishment for killing his brother, Abel.
She’d been screwed within an inch of her life by a religious zealot.
That was scary enough. But what was even more frightening was the familiarity of the design. She’d seen it before, caressed it with her fingertips, her lips, thought it made the man who bore it even more of a rebel. Alec Cain’s tattoo had turned her on and spurred a night of sin that haunted her to this day.
Backing her desk chair away from her computer, Eve stood and left her home office. Every step she took toward the kitchen reminded her of the heated encounter in the stairwell. The soreness between her legs made it impossible to forget the feel of her mystery man moving fiercely inside her.
The breath she exhaled was shaky, as was the rest of her.
How could she explain the pleasure she hadn’t wanted to feel? The brand on her arm? The intact condition of her clothing? And the wings . . . Good god, the man had wrapped her in soft, white wings.
“I’m losing my mind.”
After she’d showered, Eve stared at the burn on her arm, a one-inch wide triquetra surrounded by a circlet of three serpents, each eating the tail of the snake before it. Unlike most deep burns, the intricate details of the mark were clearly visible. She might have thought the design was exotic and pretty, if she’d actually wanted it. Now it was hidden beneath a bandage and a thick coating of Silvadene burn cream.
The doorbell rang, and Eve hurried toward the living room. She reached into the console table by the door and pulled out her revolver. With quiet deliberation, she unzipped its padded case. She was a single woman living alone in the heart of a metropolis; it made sense to own a registered handgun. And since Eve believed that something worth doing was worth doing well, she maintained a membership at the local gun club and practiced often.
“Evangeline?”
The voice was familiar and dear; it belonged to her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Basso. Eve breathed a sigh of relief, surprised to find that she’d been frightened of something as simple as a visitor. She put the gun away.
Pulling open the door, she found her neighbor waiting for her with a concerned frown and a Tupperware bowl in her hands. Mrs. Basso wore her customary Dockers, dress shirt, and sweater vest. Today her ensemble was comprised of various shades of blue. Pearls decorated her ears, throat, and wrist. She’d been a raving beauty in her youth. Now she had a stately elegance that was marred only by the slight stooping of her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” Eve lied.
Mrs. Basso owned Basso’s Ristorante and Grille, a popular Italian restaurant. She and her husband had once operated the establishment together, but with Mr. Basso’s passing a year ago she’d begun leasing the business out. This afforded her a steady, reliable income without much work on her part. Because she was alone, Eve checked on her a couple of times a week. When she made a run to the store, she always checked to see if Mrs. Basso needed anything. In return, her neighbor doted on her like a favored grandchild.
“You should get your thyroid checked,” Mrs. Basso said.
Eve smiled. “Okay.”
Mrs. Basso extended the bowl to her. “I made you some homemade chicken noodle soup. Lots of garlic and a dash of basil. You should eat all of it.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Eve protested.
“And you don’t have to spend your time looking after me,” she countered. “But we do it anyway.”
Eve accepted the offering. “Come in and eat it with me.”
Mrs. Basso shook her head. “Thank you, but a Buffy the Vampire Slayer rerun comes on in a few minutes and it’s one of my favorites.”
“Which season?”
“Six.”
“Ahh, the one where Buffy and Spike finally get together.”
Mrs. Basso blushed. “That Spike is a hunk. Eat all the