Touch of Darkness Read Online Free

waist, a glorious flare of hips, and great legs. Long, muscular, great, great, great legs. All of that was packed into about five feet five inches of dynamic action.
    Cover all that with a nun's habit, leave nothing but her face peeking out, and no man would even notice her—except for him.
    So, of course, Duncan promptly contradicted Ru-rik's wistful thinking with, " 'Tis her lips. . . . She makes a man think of sins performed sinfully, slowly, and often."
    That perfectly described Tasya and her lips and the sex. . . . "She's a distraction."
    "Aye, that she is," Duncan fervently agreed. "But she doesna' use her wiles for evil, Rurik. She'd na' do anything behind yer back."
    Rurik had been unfair about her character. Probably. And for his own reasons. But when Tasya Hun-nicutt observed the dig, it wasn't her passion for him that made her blue eyes grow gray and intense. He would swear she had more on her mind than making sure she got good photos and wrote the inside story. "She knows too much about the site."
    "Ye mean, she knows as much as ye do," Duncan said shrewdly.
    God forbid. Rurik stared at the oncoming island.
    "She is a reporter, and her employer does fund the dig, so maybe it's her job to know too much." Duncan clapped his hand on Rurik's shoulder. "If ye ask me, ye should just harpoon the Hunni and stop sulking."
    Rurik whipped his head around and glared.
    "It's not like the rest of us are getting any. Ye're the only one with any chance at all. Now, if ye'll excuse me, Cap'n MacLean'll be wanting my assistance bringing the ferry in." Duncan headed for the bridge, grinning.
    Rurik faced the island, but he saw Tasya—and his destiny.
    The Isle of Roi was shaped like a bony forearm, with the elbow end elevated out of the water. The t omb was on the high side, not far from the cliffs and a hundred-foot drop into the sea.
    As the ferry closed on the island, he could see more detail—the blush of summer grass, the few trees, bent and blasted by wind, the white sand beaches beneath the cliffs. The place was a haven for seabrrds; they wheeled through the air, crying of long migrations and short summers, and a single golden eagle flew high above them all, hunting . . . always hunting.
    Rurik followed its arc, his soul desperate to take flight, to soar on an updraft until he reached the sun, then tuck his wings close to his body and plunge toward the ocean, the wind so strong it filled his lungs, the exhilaration sharp, keen, fresh.
    With very little trouble, he could convince himself it was necessary. If he would just let himself, he could change his form, become a giant hunting bird. He had powers that no mere man should have, given to him by a pact made long ago between the first Konstantine and the devil.
    Rurik's father said the change brought them closer to evil, but Rurik would use it for good.
    That's what he'd told himself five years ago . . . and a good man had died.
    No matter how much he longed for the joys of flight, since then Rurik had never turned.
    Yet the power wasn't something he could lose. It was a hunger that grew every day, a craving in his gut he could barely curb—and that made it all the more dangerous.
    Now, more than ever, his hawk vision seemed the best way to watch over his vital project, his long talons and swift dives combined with the element of surprise the likeliest defense.
    Most important, he could tell himself the Varinskis had found him. . . . They had, after all, found Jasha, and it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down, too. Tracking was what the Varinskis did best—or so his father said.
    But it was what his mother had said that truly haunted him ... he shuddered as he remembered.
    He'd gone home to the Cascade Mountains in Washington for the annual Wilder family Fourth of July celebration, his first break since he'd begun work on the dig.
    That night, after fireworks were over, the guests had departed, and the bonfire had burned low, this powerful vision had