by Larissa Ione
He didn’t wait for a reply. He ended the call, shoved the phone into his pocket, and started toward the building. His friend, Steve Barry, held the door open for him, heading out as Declan headed in.
“Good to see you upright,” he said, sounding way too amused. “Your face plant on the sidewalk is all the buzz.”
Of course it was. “People who work here have been injured having sex, but I’m the topic du jour?”
“It’s a sign.” Steve’s car keys and a string of flash drives and key cards jangled as he twirled them around his finger. As the new guy in the office, he was always taking his work with Hutch in McKay-Taggart’s IT department home with him.
“A sign of what?”
“That you need to have more sex. Get injured properly.” Steve started out the door but paused. “Speaking of getting injured, are we still on for skydiving next month?”
“Yup. I wouldn’t miss watching you piss your pants again for anything.”
Steve swore. “It was Mountain Dew, asshole.”
Declan laughed. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.”
Muttering to himself, Steve took off, and Declan hopped into the elevator. The moment he stepped off on the top floor, Case Taggart and Michael Malone changed course and beelined to him.
Fuck.
“Hey, man,” Case said. “Heard you took a header last night. You okay?”
Declan swore. “For a team of professionals, no one here can keep their damned mouths shut.”
“Avery says we gossip like a bunch of teenage girls,” Liam O’Donnell called out as he walked past, his gaze glued to a stack of papers in his hand.
“That’s just great,” Declan muttered as he pushed between Case and Michael. “And I’m fine. Little dehydrated.”
Case clapped him on the shoulder on the way past. “Glad you’re not dead or too brain damaged.”
“Thanks, man. You’re all heart.” Declan escaped the two, fended off two more well-wishers and hecklers, and finally ended up in Tag’s office.
Which turned out to be even worse. Tag didn’t even say hello. Just launched into a tirade.
“I talked to the doctor,” Tag said from where he sat behind his desk. “You’re not fine.”
“I’m not not fine,” Declan countered as he took a seat opposite his boss. “The doctor said he couldn’t find anything wrong.” Of course, Declan hadn’t asked the doctor if there was anything wrong with the tattoo. He’d given up trying to get an answer to the question “Why the fuck does this thing feel alive?”
“That doesn’t mean there’s not a problem. People don’t collapse on the sidewalk for no reason.”
“Dehydration is a reason.”
Tag threw up his hands in frustration. “Not for collapsing. You only have mild dehydration.”
“So I need to drink more beer. So what?”
Tag mumbled some things under his breath that didn’t sound very complimentary. The words “fucking idiot” came up a lot.
“I’m pulling you off the Argentina job.”
“What?” Declan surged to his feet. “I said I didn’t want to go to D.C.—”
“You’re not taking that job either. I think you should take it easy. Stay close to home. Just for a little while.”
“This is bullshit,” Declan snapped. “I volunteered for the jungle mission because no one else wanted it, and now someone is going to get screwed.”
“You know I’m right, Dec,” Tag said. “And you’d make the same decision if you were in my shoes.”
Yeah, he would. Someone who passed out for no reason—dehydration was a reason—didn’t belong in a godforsaken jungle where medical care was sketchy and where he could jeopardize the mission. As a former Air Force Pararescueman, Declan knew more than most about the serious nature of medical issues in the middle of nowhere.
But dammit, Dec liked challenges. He liked being alone, and he liked not answering to anyone. Making the big calls by himself was what he thrived on and what he’d been doing since he was old enough to think through a problem. The only difference was that now his decisions were less self-destructive.
Mostly.
“Look,” Tag sighed as he tossed a file on the desk at him. “We’re not sidelining you. Just keeping you local.”
Declan picked up the file, wondering what kind of lame assignment he was getting. He groaned as he scanned it. Yep, lame.
“So I’m babysitting.”
Tag snorted. “You’re not babysitting. The client, Suzanne D’Angelo, has a stalker, and she needs a live-in, twenty-four-seven bodyguard for a while.”
Declan looked up from the file. “It says she’s never gone to the police.”
“She doesn’t think they’ll believe her.”
There were red flags all over that shit. “Do you believe her?”
“Doesn’t matter. Even if all she wants is a bodyguard to protect her from house flies, as long as she’s willing to pay the premium for a single agent, twenty-four-seven, she gets a human flyswatter.” He leaned back in his chair. “But for the record, I have no reason to think she’s lying to make an ex jealous or some crap.”
Declan had been in that situation once. The chick had claimed to have a stalker, but she’d treated him like a male escort until he confronted her. She’d confessed that she only wanted to make her ex jealous, and when he’d asked why she hadn’t just hired a male escort instead of a professional bodyguard, she’d claimed to feel “squicky” about hiring someone who dated women for money. And yet, she had been trying to manipulate her ex with a lie.
Funny, he’d found that to be far more “squicky.”
He sighed, resigned to babysitting. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Pack for a month, all scenarios from jeans and a T-shirt casual to ballroom dancing.” Tag glanced at his watch. “If you get out of my office in the next ten minutes, you can catch Charlie and she can set up your expense account for this assignment before she leaves for lunch.”
Fuck. “How long is the job?”
“It’s open-ended. Normally I like to get a time frame from clients, but she’s from a very wealthy, powerful family and she’s paying extra to have only one person as her guard, so...” He shrugged. “Oh, and I should tell you that she asked for you specifically.”
He frowned and scanned her name and info again. Didn’t recognize any of it. Well, he knew the D’Angelo name. Who didn’t? The reclusive family and their massive wealth were the subject of a lot of crackpot conspiracy theories. According to a lot of the weirder rags, the D’Angelos had their fingers in government politics around the world, they might be aliens, and it was entirely possible that they were immortal.
People were crazy.
“Why me?”
“I don’t know.” He spun his laptop around and pushed a button to start a video from the office security cameras. “This is her.”
Instant recognition.
Declan inhaled slowly, as if he could take in the warm brown sugar scent he’d associated with the wavy-haired beauty since the first time he’d bumped into her.
“She’s a regular at Top and the coffee shop down the street. She seems to know Jules pretty well. I’ve seen them talking a lot at the restaurant.”
“How well do you know her?”
“The most intimate thing I know about her is that she likes iced coconut milk mocha macchiatos. Venti. Double shot. And scones. She can eat like, five of them. She can’t weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
Oh, and she smelled edible. Very, very edible.
Tag’s eyebrows climbed. “That’s a lotta detail to say she likes frou-frou coffee and eats like a horse. Or like Boomer.”
“I notice shit,” Declan said, daring Tag to claim otherwise. Dec had an eye for detail and a brain that recorded and filed away minutiae with the efficiency of a computer, and Tag knew it. It was why he’d hired him. Well, that and the fact that Dec had a military background and was no slouch in a fight.
&nb
sp; But there was no way Declan was going to admit that, in this case, Tag’s suspicious instincts were on point. Declan had intentionally memorized everything about Suzanne, from her mane of thick, dark curls she’d worn in a ponytail twice, pulled back in barrettes once, and left loose to swing around her shoulders about a million times, to her curvy, toned physique and bed-me-baby brown eyes.
“So?” Tag drawled. “You on board?”
Watching over a rich heiress was never going to give him the satisfaction he’d probably find in Argentina, and it would most likely be a thousand times more frustrating. But if he didn’t take the job, Tag would put him on some super-boring administrative detail until he was sure Declan wouldn’t keel over in the middle of a jungle.
“Yeah,” he groused. “I’ll do it. But there had better be a stalker.”
Tag grinned. “If it’ll make you feel any better, just think of it this way. Dallas this time of year might as well be the jungle.”
Somehow, that did not make Declan feel better.
At all.
* * * *
Suzanne was running late. As usual.
But this time it wasn’t her fault. She bounced impatiently on her toes and glanced at her watch. She was taking possession of the angel house tonight, which would give her just eighteen hours to inspect the layout, learn how all the security features worked, and basically make the place look like she actually lived there.
Instead, here she was wasting time in Sheoul-gra, gathered with her fellow Memitim as they waited for Azagoth to finish talking. Yes, what their father was planning was important, but she had a job to do.
“Tomorrow we will welcome the first group of Memitim children. We’re bringing in the oldest ones first. Cipher and his team will assign each one to a mentor, and those mentors will help settle them in. If you volunteered, you’ll need to see...”
Azagoth droned on, but she really needed to get out of there. She checked her watch again. Shit.
“Suzanne?” Her father’s soft voice, deceptively quiet, called out with so much authority that everything, including the insects and birds, went silent. “Am I boring you?”
“Of course not,” she said hastily. “I, ah...” She trailed off as her sister Temperance materialized on the landing pad a few yards away, her clothing stained with blood, her face swollen, one leg twisted at an impossible angle.
Before Suzanne could react, before anyone could react, Azagoth moved in a bolt of lightning, sweeping her into his arms as she collapsed.
“It’s Meera,” she moaned. “She’s...dead. Her Primori too. I-I tried to help, but there were so many of them... I’m sorry...so sorry...” She sagged against Azagoth’s broad chest, her broken body going limp. The only sound breaking the oppressive silence was the rattle of her struggling, shallow breaths.
Suzanne stood there, stunned and overwhelmed, unable to process this. Meera had been an amazing warrior with no Primori losses on her record. She’d been crass, brash, and horny as a succubus. She used to say that her pent-up sexual energy made her a killing machine. At over twelve hundred years old, Meera was sure she was due for Ascension, and she couldn’t wait. The first thing she’d do, she’d tell anyone who listened, was lose her virginity. The second thing would be to lose it again, just to be sure.
She’d been so full of life.
How could she be dead?
Suzanne blinked back tears as she watched Azagoth cradle Temperance close, eyes closed, his forehead resting against hers. Suzanne didn’t know her father well, had only known him for a couple of years, but she knew he wasn’t one to show emotion. Well, he showed his anger pretty freely, but nothing else.
For the first time, she saw him. Saw the angel he’d been before he voluntarily lost his wings to create the demon prison known as Sheoul-gra. Evil had darkened his soul, but Lilliana, his angel mate, had brought him from the brink, smoothing his rough edges and soothing the beast within. It was thanks to Lilliana, Suz was sure, that any of them were able to witness the raw grief in his expression and the tenderness in the way he held his daughter.
As the shock wore off in the crowd, a low buzz rose up, and then Darien, their resident healer, shoved his way to the front and jogged over to Azagoth.
“Father,” he said in a gentle but trembling voice one might use while attempting to take away a steak from a hellhound, “I’ll take her.”
Nodding numbly, Azagoth handed her over, and as Darien took off for his little clinic, Azagoth turned back to the group.
“We’ll finish this later.” He strode toward his mansion, a shadowy cloak surrounding him like a shroud.
Hawkyn appeared at Suzanne’s side, joined by a dark-haired half-brother, Journey. “Damn,” Hawk breathed. “I can’t believe it. I thought Meera was invincible.”
Suzanne swallowed tightly. “Me too.”
Journey fidgeted with one of the plugs in his earlobes. “She was so close to Ascension. I didn’t know her well, but she was always cool to me.”
Meera was always just...cool. About everything. But she’d grown antsy lately, tired of the restrictive rules on Memitim, wanting to experience all the things they were forbidden to do. Now she’d never experience them.
“Hawk?”
“Yeah?”
Suzanne dashed away a tear. “How does the Council know if we’ve broken rules or done something bad?”
“Why?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I swear.”
He exhaled slowly, as if trying to decide how much to tell her. “Memitim aren’t watched. Not usually, anyway. If the Council finds out about something we did, it’s probably because one of our brothers or sisters ratted us out.” That last part came out on a growl because being ratted out was exactly what had happened to Hawk recently. “We’re also expected to confess our sins before the Council when we Ascend. Why do you ask?”
Because Suz didn’t want to end up like Meera, dead before she’d experienced life.
“I just remember Meera being tempted to break rules, but she was paranoid about being watched. I figured that since you’re now part of the Council you’d know if her paranoia was justified.” She shook her head. “I hate that Meera died just as some of the restrictions have been loosened.”
Some, but not all. And those some were thanks to Azagoth’s recent demands and Hawkyn’s influence as the liaison between the earthbound Memitim and the Council.
Hawkyn eyed her skeptically. “Don’t do anything dumb, sis.”
“Moi?” She batted her eyes at him in mock innocence. “Never.”
“I mean it. You’re setting yourself up for a lot of temptation by moving your Primori under the same roof with you.”
“She’s what?” Journey asked.
She waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing, guys. Just doing my job.”
“Suzanne,” Hawkyn said in a low voice that dripped with warning. “Be careful. I’ll be checking on you.”
“Ugh.” His kid wasn’t just going to hate life; it was going to spend its childhood looking over its shoulder for its helicopter dad. “Why couldn’t you have Ascended like a normal Memitim does when their time here is up?”
She was kidding, and Hawk knew it. Ascension was the goal of every Memitim, but it came at a cost; after you got your wings, you weren’t allowed to see your earthbound siblings until they Ascended as well. So no, she was glad Hawkyn had been elevated to a liaison position instead, not quite a fully feathered angel, but no longer earthbound, either.
“Because they knew someone needed to keep an eye on you, you pain in the ass.” He was joking too, but she had to admit she really was a pain in the ass. “You need to listen to me. Stay away from Declan.”
On that, he wasn’t kidding.
And she wasn’t going to listen.
Chapter Three
Suzanne D’Angelo’s mansion was exactly what Declan expected after researching the extensive holdings of the massive D’Angelo
family. The place was obnoxiously huge, with well-kept landscaping visible between the sections of iron fencing and brick walls. Acres of lush lawn extended all around it, and he’d bet his left nut that there’d be a guest house and pool in the back. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised to see a helipad either.
It looked like every rich person’s house looked. His grandfather’s house. His father’s house. Not that he’d seen his old man’s place often. One couldn’t have his illegitimate, inconvenient son over unless the wife and legitimate kids were gone, after all.
Declan stopped his Rover just short of the gate, his gut churning, his hands not as steady as he’d like. Jesus. He’d been away from this kind of life for thirteen years and he still couldn’t shake the bad memories or the feelings of shame and inadequacy that came over him when he found himself in the presence of great wealth. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of not being a billionaire and living in a mansion. No, what took root in the pit of his belly was rejection. Humiliation. The feeling of being told you were nothing if you didn’t have money, breeding, and an Ivy League education.
Logically, Declan knew he wasn’t nothing. He’d been through one of the toughest, most demanding military training programs in the country. He’d saved lives. He was determined, resourceful, and capable. He was more than ready to handle anything from a plane crash to a catastrophic natural disaster. He’d like to see any of those Ivy League fucks survive a zombie apocalypse. Or even a day in a jungle.
So no, Dec wasn’t nothing. But childhood memories were a bitch, so etched in the soul that they were impossible to scour away even with better memories.
This job was going to suck.
He looked beyond the gate, wondering if Ms. D’Angelo had dogs. He liked dogs. But he hadn’t liked his father’s Dobermans, who he’d sicced on Declan once. Dec had been twelve, alone on Thanksgiving because his mother had been attending some political event, his maternal grandparents couldn’t be bothered to fly their illegitimate grandson out to the Hamptons, and all he’d wanted was to see how his father’s family celebrated. He’d never found out, because the dogs had been set on him before he’d gone halfway across the yard.