Eve fumbled as she worked to unfasten his belt. His strong fingers were rubbing between her legs, sliding through the slickness there. The hand at her breast gentled, his thumb stroking back and forth across her puckered nipple. She whimpered and spread her legs wider, helpless against the hunger.

A monotonous droning noise caught her attention. A quick glance up confirmed her suspicions—a security camera was pointed in their direction, the flashing red light beneath the circular lens confirming that it was fully operational.

Flushing with embarrassment, Eve wondered what she must look like with her knee-length skirt bunched around her waist. A wanton. A slut.

What the hell had gotten into her? She’d never done anything like this before.

But she felt delicious, despite her consternation. The man who reminded her of Alec Cain was pushing all the right buttons. The ones that turned off her inner morality police.

“Hurry,” he growled.

Jolting at the sound of his rough voice, Eve resumed her task, somehow managing to tug the belt free and open his trousers. The waistband clung to his lean hips for a moment, then collapsed into a puddle around his ankles. When she lifted the wrinkled tails of his shirt, she discovered he was going commando. He was thick, long, and ready.

“Oh God,” she breathed, her body clenching with excitement and heady lust.

“Yes,” the man purred, just before he caught her by the backs of her thighs and hefted her with effortless strength. “He knows.”

“Condom?” she gasped. Her eyes met his. His gaze was dark and intent, roiling with mysterious secrets and dangerous desires. She began to pant. With hunger. With fear.

“Hush,” he crooned, brushing his lips across hers. She felt the muscles in his buttocks and thighs tauten.

Then he thrust deep.

Her cry was both pained and aroused. He gave her no time to think, to move, to fight. He launched into a hard, pounding rhythm and rode her straight into climax. She writhed and sobbed with the pleasure, her body shuddering violently in his arms. He continued to surge into her, over and over again, stroking through her spasms, spurring her into another violent orgasm. And another.

“No more,” she begged, pushing weakly at his shoulders. “I can’t take any more . . .”

Holding her with one arm beneath her buttocks, he tore at her shirt, scattering the tiny ivory buttons across the floor and down the cement stairs. He bared her shoulder and watched as she came again, the climax arching her body like a tightly strung bow. He lifted his hand and bared his palm, revealing an intricate tattoo in the center. It began to glow, turning into a white-hot brand.

“Bear the Mark of Cain,” he growled, pressing his hand against her upper arm and searing her skin. He took her mouth, swallowing her screams, rocking into her, his tempo unfaltering.

Eve’s nails dug into the flesh of his back, the mixture of intense pleasure and pain overloading her senses, making her see things that couldn’t be real.

Her lover appeared to change, illuminating from within, his clothes falling away to reveal a muscular body and rich golden skin. His dark eyes changed to swirling amber as he threw his head back and roared. His powerful neck corded with strain as he came hard and long. Deep inside her.

It was a nightmare and a wet dream rolled into one, hurling her into an experience that stole her sanity. Huge white feathered wings unfurled from his back and embraced her.

Darkness followed suit, closing swiftly around her.

CHAPTER 3

Ms. Hollis? Ms. Hollis, can you hear me?”

Eve’s eyelids fluttered, then lifted.

“Ms. Hollis?”

She ached all over and felt hot, but she was shivering, as if she had the flu.

Awareness of her surroundings came to her in lapping waves—the male voice calling out to her, the dozen faces that stared down at her, the glass ceiling of Gadara Tower.

She bolted upright, her head whacking into the chin of a rubbernecker. The man cursed and stumbled backward, but her attention was focused on her clothes. As she took note of the crisply ironed length of her skirt, her fingers drifted down the row of tiny white buttons that secured her pale blue shirt.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice hoarse and raw as if she’d been screaming.

“We’re not sure.”

She turned her head to meet the blue eyes of a uniformed paramedic. Her gaze dropped to his name tag. Woodbridge.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked, his arm strong at her back.

Thinking about her morning, she nodded. “Yogurt and coffee.”

Woodbridge smiled. “It’s two in the afternoon. That’s a long time to go with just yogurt. I think your blood sugar dropped. You became light-headed and passed out.”

Two Gadara security guards pushed the crowd back and Eve stood with the paramedic’s assistance. She wobbled a moment on her heels, was steadied by strong hands, then fingers pushed into her long black hair and gently felt her scalp. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

She hurt everywhere, but she knew what he meant. “No.”

“I don’t feel a bump, but I’d like to take you to the hospital as a precaution.”

“Sure.” She held onto his arm as the room tilted.

As 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 soup, you hear?”

Eve laughed. “Of course. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do after all you do for me.” With a wave, she moved back down the hall and paused. “There’s a new Hugh Jackman movie out next week. He’s a hunk, too.”

“It’s a date.”

Mrs. Basso winked and stepped out of view.

Eve stared down the hall for a long time, clinging to the feeling of normalcy. The minute she closed her door it was gone, leaving her with a throbbing in her arm and between her legs, and a desperate need to know what in hell happened to her.