“Are you unwell?” he asked.
I’m warm. In the dreams, I never notice the temperature. Not the frigid air and snow. Not the heat from the hot tub. She’d realized that fact once upon waking. Walking through snow or wrapped in his muscled arms, she never felt the temperature.
This . . . is real.
“I’m not sure,” she mumbled in response to his question about whether she was all right. No matter how intimate they’d been in dreams, he was still a stranger, but standing so close to him triggered thoughts of the way he’d been in some of those dreams, the way he’d made her body tighten and bow under his touch.
She hesitated, exhaling a sigh, then took a step back. And another.
He didn’t pursue her. He remained still as a statue. Preternaturally still, it seemed to her.
She glanced back to where he’d lain. There were no tracks besides her own leading to that spot. It was as if he’d been there for a long time, and the snow had drifted around him. Or as if he’d fallen into the snow from the sky. She glanced up reflexively, then shook her head. There was nothing around for him to have fallen from. If he’d dropped from a helicopter or small plane, he would’ve been injured. Instead he looked . . . perfect.
And how had he recovered from being unconscious in the snow? He’d looked frozen—had been frozen—skin cold, body stiff. One possible explanation dawned.
Oh, God! She stiffened. He can’t be one of them.
Surviving the fall from an aircraft and an icy sleep could make him a ventala. The ventala, human-vampire half-breeds, were violent, unpredictable, and difficult to kill, but often incredibly attractive. It might also explain the way he invaded her dreams.
“I’d like to remove these wet clothes and dry myself,” he said.
Drawn in by the idea of him stripping, she shivered. If he was ventala, she needed to get away from him, but she couldn’t make herself so much as take another step back.
“Which direction to the nearest dwellings?” he asked.
Dwellings? What’s up with the way he talks?
“The closest houses are that way,” she said.
He glanced where she’d pointed, then back at her face. “It’s not safe here. Why are you traveling alone, girl?”
That stopped her. “Girl?” she echoed skeptically. “I’m a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist.”
His expression was puzzled and innocent, which made her frown. Surely he’d heard of the Pulitzer Prize.
He stretched his back. “Come,” he said, walking on her tracks toward the trail.
What the hell? He’s got amnesia. Shouldn’t he be the one following me?
Bronze didn’t hesitate, however. He struck out with strides that ate the ground. She skied after him until she was a few feet behind and tried not to notice the way the light gilded his hair.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You asked my name. That means we haven’t met before, but you seem familiar. Are we from the same village? Perhaps we’ve seen each other, but haven’t been introduced?”
“Not exactly,” she said, not prepared to explain about the dreams. As they followed the curve where the trail meandered through the woods, a flash of light glinted off his hand.
“Hang on a minute.”
He stopped and turned. “Yes?”
She reached for his right hand where he wore a ring on his fourth finger. His skin blazed with heat now, the warmth as sensual as a touch caressing her. She shivered and gripped his hand tighter, battling the urge to step forward and press her entire body against his.
There is no way he’s just human.
She shook her head, fighting to clear the fog of attraction. He watched her reaction to him with deep interest, making her blush self-consciously.
Get a grip, Kate! He could be a bloodthirsty monster. Are you going to be a simpering little victim who plays right into his fangs? You have a goddamned Pulitzer for investigative reporting. Act like it!
She cleared her throat, then took a deep breath, her muscles locking with resolve. She looked over the antique ring—the exact one that had been taken from her dorm room.