Twilight Fall

She was staring at him now.

“Nothing, thank you. I never eat or drink… on planes.” He gestured to the seat across from his. “I would, however, enjoy your company.”

The girl sat down gingerly, as if she expected the seat to explode, and carefully poured tea into the cup. She added no cream or sugar, but took a small sip of the steaming liquid and winced.

Her embarrassed gaze met his. “Very hot.”

“I used boiling water.” Next they would be discussing the uncertainties of the weather. “Tell me why you've chosen to work at a rehabilitation facility. It seems an unlikely choice of employment for such a talented gardener.”

“Gardens are like little havens away from the troubles of the world,” she said. “Nothing seems impossible when you're surrounded by flowers and green, growing things. Most medical buildings have professional landscaping, but I noticed that few do anything more than that. I guess that's what first attracted me to working at hospitals and nursing homes. I'm not a trained therapist, but I know my gardens and flowers help the patients, even if they only lift their spirits.”

Valentin studied her face. “What you say is true. I find I am most at peace in my garden.” It was not the happiness she had claimed last night that he should feel, but it suited him.

“Luisa told me that you raise camellias. The bouquets you've brought for her room are so unusual.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, and then she glanced away.

Somehow he was making her feel more uncomfortable. “The camellias I raise are called Daijohkhan, or the castle camellia. They were originally bred at Castle Nayoga in Japan, but they are little known outside their native country.”

“I couldn't find them in any of the flora books I've checked.” Her smile came and went, quick and shy. “They're so white and perfect. How do you get such large blooms to grow?”

“I strip all but one bud from each branch,” he said. “Camellias are like roses in that they are egotists: The less competition they have, the more they blossom. You have planted some camellias at the Lighthouse that I didn't recognize.”

“They are Hakutsura,” she said. “I found several pots of them at a specialty convention last spring. I worried that the winters here were too cold for them, but the grower told me they originated in Asia, and that they would thrive—and they have done very well.”

“Ah, the White Crane.” He nodded. “I remember when they were brought over from Japan.”

She looked bewildered. “I'm sure that you weren't growing camellias in 1930. Mr. Jaus.”

“Of course. I must have them confused with another specimen.” He would have to watch his tongue; she knew more than he thought about his favorite flower. “I was curious as to why you planted violet beds at the front of the facility. I don't grow them myself, but I had thought that species was partial to shade.”

“Those are dooryard violets,” she told him. “They're native to Illinois, and they're very hardy and will grow in any light. I thought violets would be more welcoming to incoming patients and visitors.”

He was amused. “You speak as if flowers have personalities.”

“I think they do, in their own way,” she said. “Violets smell sweet and look restful, while zinnias with their crayon colors seem more energetic and showy. And you can't show me a rose that is humble and retreating.”

He found her fancies charming. “What of camellias? What is their personality?”

“Elegant and passionate. Resolute,” she added. “There is nothing hesitant about a camellia. It brings a certain presence into every garden where I plant it.”

“Tell me about your very first garden.”

“It was in Chinatown, at the home of a friend. There's hardly any room in the city, so I used containers and placed them around this tiny patio and a horrid rosebush she was trying to keep alive.” She shook her head. “I chose all the wrong plants, and half of them died in a few weeks. Still, it made Mrs. Chen very happy. She spent hours out there, sitting and watching the birds and butterflies that came.”

“How did the horrid rosebush fare?”

“Beautifully, although you'd never know it to look at it,” she said. “The first time I saw it, I thought it was dead; it was all ugly, gnarled brown canes. Mrs. Chen insisted that it would bloom, so I waited all spring. It grew a few leaves, which immediately became covered with brown spots. I trimmed one cane and it died. I think it did that deliberately.”

Valentin was amused. “I have never heard of a suicidal rosebush.”

“Mrs. Chen said it didn't like being touched,” she told him. “It was summer by the time it finally budded, and it produced only two small blossoms.”

“Did they become covered in spots as well?”

“No. They were apricot-colored blooms, with the merest hint of yellow at the base of the petals. The sort of heirloom rose you can't find anymore. They budded so slowly they took almost two weeks to open, and their scent was unlike any rose I'd ever grown.” She thought for a moment. “I can't describe it adequately, but it was strong and soft and so delicious. Not like the scent of roses at all; more like silk and fruit and the way sunlight warms the air after a rain shower. It made you want to keep your nose buried in them for hours.”

Her lips framed her words in such fetching ways as she spoke, he thought idly. And the rose scent she described sounded exactly like how her body smelled to him. “Did your friend plant the rose?”

“No, she claimed that she inherited it from the previous owner of her house. She liked to blame a lot of things on the previous owner.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “She bought the house in the late thirties, so that would make it the oldest rosebush in the city.”

Valentin wondered why Liling spoke of her friend as if she were a parent, but made no mention of her own family. “Were you born in San Francisco?”

“No.” Her gaze remained direct. “I am from Taiwan.”

In spite of her body language, Valentin knew at once that she was not being entirely truthful. His Kyn abilities made him aware of the subtle changes stress caused in the scent of a human, and he had learned to detect the shift that occurred whenever they were not being honest.

But why would she lie to him about where she had been born?

“I've since learned to cultivate many heirloom flowers over the years,” Liling said. “But I still miss Mrs. Chen's garden, and that ugly, cranky, suicidal apricot rosebush of hers.”

A sudden jolt of turbulence made Valentin frown, and Liling wrap both hands in a protective gesture around her teacup.

Chapter 6

Liling peered through the window. “The clouds out there look very dark.” Lightning dashed, and she drew back with a visible flinch.

“I had thought the weather would be clear for the flight.” Valentin pressed the intercom button on the side console. “Is there a problem?”

“We've encountered an unexpected storm, sir,” the pilot replied over the cabin speaker. “We're ascending to avoid the worst of it. You should keep your seat belts fastened until we're clear.”

“Thank you.” He didn't care for how the pilot's voice had quavered, as if he were as nervous as Liling. He looked across to her and noted how her color had changed and her lips were pressed together. “It should be over in a few minutes.”

Liling nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on the window.

The turbulence increased until the jet bounced as if it were on springs. Liling lost her grip on her teacup, which flew across to smash against Valentin's chest.

“Mr. Jaus.” She fumbled with her seat belt before she knelt in the space between their seats. She brushed away the broken bits of porcelain and pressed her linen napkin against the quickly spreading stain. “Did it cut you? Are you hurt?”

“I'm only a little wet.” Seeing her like this, on her knees in front of him, made his dents acérées ache.

“That tea was so hot.” She pressed her full lips together as she lifted the napkin to look beneath it before her anxious gaze moved up to his face. “It must have scalded you.”

Oh, he was burning, but the tea was nothing compared to her touch, her scent, the midnight delights beckoning to him from the darkness in her eyes. Just as it had last night, the tantalizing perfume of her skin, like sun-warmed peaches, filled his head, his thoughts, his blood. He bent, wondering if her lips would feel as soft and sweet as her breath against his skin.

“Valentin?” Liling's lips parted on his name.

If you kiss her, this time you will take her.

“It's nothing. Miss Harper.” As Valentin rose, he reached down and gently lifted her, placing her back in her seat. “I keep a change of clothing in the back cabin,” he told her as he fastened her seat belt over her lap. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

Valentin focused on regaining control as he walked into the back cabin. He felt nothing for Liling, just as she felt nothing for him. The turbulence must have triggered his defensive instincts; his shedding so much scent in such a confined space would have bespelled any human. By the time he changed and calmed himself, the effect of l'attrait on her would wear off, just as it had last night outside the museum. Liling would never realize how close she had come—twice—to being ravaged by his endless, cursed hunger.

He didn't bother with the lights; like all Darkyn he didn't need them to see. Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulled off his tie and reached for the first of the buttons. As always, they resisted his one-handed efforts to unfasten them. It infuriated him to be so clumsy, even as he knew there was nothing to be done about it. He might be a cripple, but he would be damned if he would be reduced to having someone else dress him.

The shirt was new, the Fabric around the buttons stiff and unyielding. Viciously he tore at the front of it, sending buttons flying as he ripped it from his body.

“Mr. Jaus? I found a towel and a first-aid kit in the rest-room.” The door to the cabin opened, and a small shadow blocked out the light shining in from the center cabin. “Do you need some help? There's some burn cream here.”