"Sacrifice? What sacrifice?" He smiled, a gentle, passive smile, brushing her hair off her face. "Am I really so horrible to look at? Women usually respond well to me."
His lips touched her, barely there, then gone again. His hands stroked her hair, and Marley shifted uneasily. It felt like his fingers were also sliding up her thighs, even though they were clearly buried in her hair, holding her head. Yet she felt it again, a soft caress across the front of her panties, and her body responded positively, sending forth a welcoming warmth.
Horrified, she shoved at the hands that weren't there, trying to knock the sensation of the touch off her legs, her thighs, her sex.
"It's not so different then, is it?" he said. "You can have with me what you have with Damien du Bourg."
Marley wrenched herself back, rubbing at her temples, her arms, crossing her legs tightly. "Stop it!"
Visions leaped into her head, clear and sunny. Flashes of her in front of a large Dutch Colonial, planting fat, lush geraniums, three small kids playing in the yard. "Mommy, watch me!" the little girl called, before attempting a wobbly cartwheel. Marley felt the joy in her heart in the scene, smelled the freshly cut grass, knew the pride and love for the children, her children. Then she saw Lizzie, sitting on the porch of a tiny bungalow, her hair shorter, cheeks fuller, a little girl in her lap, a kind-looking older man leaning over and kissing Lizzie on the head. "How are my girls?" he asked, and Lizzie smiled, a happy, sane smile. Tears popped into Marley's eyes, seeing her sister so content, and she raised her hand, thinking she could touch her, when she disappeared, and in her place, Marley saw Damien in front of Rosa de Montana. The house had been painted, the yard cleaned up, and there was a petite and very pretty Hispanic woman on his arm, both smiling as they watched two rough-and-tumble little boys run pell-mell down the path toward a playset.
Marley felt invisible arms wrap around her, holding her, stroking and soothing, as she watched the man she loved have everything he wanted, her sister well taken care of, happy. "No," she said, but it was a whisper, lacking in fire and strength. "They can both have that with me."
"No," Alex said, his voice soft and sad. "No, they can't, and you know that, Marley. They can only have it if you let them go, if you take what I offer. Don't you see how happy everyone is? That's within your power to give."
She didn't know how he did that, holding her, the very weight of his arms around her, yet he stood five feet away. And she hated that it felt comforting to have that feeling there, like a deep-seated relief to give up all her responsibilities, to let herself have happiness. Rubbing her temples, she saw Sebastian, a boy of ten, playing basketball with Rachel's children, looking happy and well-adjusted. Watched Lizzie painting on a large canvas, her baby on her back in a pack, Marley had forgotten that once upon a time, in obliterated childhood dreams, Lizzie had wanted to be an artist.
And she saw herself, in bed with Alex, snuggled up together, laughing, their children bouncing at the bottom of the four-poster bed. They leaped off one by one, a girl, two boys, all with auburn hair, so real, so alive as they ran out of the bedroom door, and Marley saw herself reaching for Alex, saw herself whispering to him, stroking his chest, below his waist, felt her arousal, her desire for him, felt how she would never get tired of him, would never stop wanting him, would always be grateful for what he'd given her…
Marley snapped her head up, stared at the real Alex, heart beating wildly, fingers and feet ice cold. "You're very cruel."
"Why? Because I show you what you want, what I'm willing to give you?"
Because he tempted her, even when she knew it was wrong. "Where is God in that pretty picture you paint?"
Alex shook his head. "He isn't there. There is only you, me, and bliss."
The tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought an overwhelming wave of sorrow, an ache that threatened to swallow her. "I… I…" His touch was there again, like twelve hands touching her, holding, invading her in places he had no right to go. "I need to leave." It was a trick, all just a horrible manipulation, she knew that, and she needed to get away from him.
"Okay," he said soothingly. "Why don't you go to the house, talk to your sister, take some time to think. Put these on before you go."
Marley felt fabric brush against her and when she looked down, she was wearing jeans over her thong, Damien's T-shirt gone, replaced with a cute pink short-sleeved pointelle sweater. She reached up, felt her hair brushed and tidied into a bun.
"I'll find you when you're ready to talk," he said.
He didn't seem to require or expect anything else from her, so Marley backed out of the room, tripping over the door strip before she recovered herself, and slamming the door shut behind her.
She sucked in deep breaths and wiped her clammy forehead.
As she stumbled down the steps and headed toward the big house, she started to pray.
For her sister.
And for strength.
Chapter Nineteen
Damien made sure Marley went into the house before he jogged up the steps of the garçonnier and opened the door.
"What do you want with her?" he asked Rosa's father, without preamble.
Alex, who Damien knew was really the demon Azazel, turned from the window and lifted an eyebrow. "With who?"
"Marley."
"None of your damn business."
Damien wasn't that stupid. He had seen the look on Marley's face, had seen her wearing clothes he'd never seen before, remembered what Rosa had said about his need to be punished. The father was going to use Marley to punish him, and if he succeeded, it would be a brutal one.
He couldn't live with himself if this demon hurt Marley. But the very worst punishment would be that he would live, on and on and on, forever with his guilt and self-loathing, and Alex knew that.
"If this is about me, do whatever you need to do to me, just leave Marley out of it. She's innocent in all of this. Leave her alone and you can do whatever you want to me. Kill me, steal my soul, make me a mindless slave, give me to Rosa as a sex servant, just please, let her go."
"Well, that was very dramatic. Are we in an opera?" Alex rolled his eyes. "Though I imagine Rosa would have liked to have heard that bit about the sex servant offer. She has an adolescent crush on you and always has."
Damien fought anger. He didn't like Alex on principle, but he also didn't like the way he stood, his posture arrogant yet effeminate. He reminded Damien of his drawing master in the late eighteenth century. Alex was a prig, just like Master Colbert. He just couldn't bring himself to fear this man.