Heat Gauge

Chapter Fourteen

She came to slowly, riding dreams. Beautiful rainbow colours swirled around her. She was weightless. Wingless, yet buoyed. Afloat in a bright world. And he was there. His smile, his eyes. His musky scent, expensive cologne he assured her attracted women. And she'd laughed, like she laughed now to feel the familiar smell filling her lungs. Laughed with joy. And ached. A deep, blunt longing to feel his arms around her once more. Shadows encircled her, warm and inviting. She nestled into them, content to live in darkness forever.

She could hear death whispering her name. Its fingers feathering her hair. Her heart tightened with fear, but only for a second. Then all tension left her body. Her muscles melted for the first time in a decade. She embraced death willingly. She wanted nothing more than to join him.

“Nikki ...”

I'm coming, death. I'm slipping away. I'll be there soon.

“Nikki ...”

The whispers had become more urgent. A slight frown creased her brow. What was the hurry? Did it matter, in the end, how quickly she died, as long as she did?

“Nikki, wake up ...”

Icy fear grasped her chest in a vice-grip. No. She wouldn't wake up. Life was a vicious struggle, and she had fought it for too long. She deserved to die. She deserved to join her love in the afterlife, if there was one. She was done fighting. There could only be death now.

The fingers brushing her hair became more insistent, rougher. She roused a little, enough to feel the hard, muscular thigh pressed against her back, enough to see musty light filtering through her closed eyelids. The after affects of the chloroform lingered on the back of her tongue, and the dank smell of mildew and rot filled her nostrils. Her limp muscles tightened enough to turn her head.

“Nikki.”

An involuntary groan escaped from the pit of her stomach. It snagged at the sharp pain in her ribs from the Russian's boot, eliciting a breathless gasp.

A shadow fell across her eyelids, and she felt lips brush ever so gently against her forehead.

“Nikki …”

The lips moved to her cheekbone.

“Nikki ...”

Below her ear.

“Nikki ...”

Feathered along her jawline.

“I love you ...”

Tenderly, reverently, sweetly he kissed her on the mouth, parting her lips gently with his own. She couldn't help but reply in kind. His broad, warm hand cupped her face, fingers threading into her hair. A tear splashed against her cheek and slipped downwards, mingling with her own. Her heart welled with the familiarity of his embrace, and her soul soared. In that moment Nikki Heat crossed the wall she had built around her heart after her mother's death and stepped into the sunshine for the first time in ten years.

When the kiss ended, she knew what to expect when she opened her eyes. Jameson Rook's moist, sea-green irises drank her in. The tears that didn't fall to her face slipped to the dimples created by his gentle smile. Her gaze traced every detail of his face, as intimate to her as her favourite memories.

“Am I dead?” she asked, her voice hoarse from lack of water. She moved her dry tongue in her mouth in an attempt to moisten it.

He shook his head, tears welling anew. “No,” he breathed, “and neither am I.”

She frowned, confused. “But … your apartment. I saw the flames.”

“Just a ruse. I knew too much, they had to silence me.”