But he needed to find Maya, so he’d have to go—
“Don’t screw with me, Armand!” A woman’s voice, hard, ice cold. Maya.
He turned, found her leaning over the bar, her hand wrapped around the bartender’s throat.
“I want to know who went after Sean, and I want to know now.” He saw her fingernails stretch into claws, and he watched as those claws sank into the man’s neck.
“I-I d-don’t k-know.” The guy looked like he might faint at any moment. Definitely human. Vamps were always so pale it looked like they might faint. But this guy, he’d looked pretty normal until Maya clawed him.
“Find out!” She threw him against a wall of drinks.
Adam stalked toward her, reached her side just as she spun around, claws up.
He stilled.
She glared at him. “What the hell do you want?” She snarled, and he could see the faint edge of her fangs gleaming behind her plump lips.
It was his first time to get a good look at her face. He’d seen her from a distance before, judged her to be pretty, hadn’t bothered to think much beyond that.
He blinked as he stared at her. Damn, the woman looked like some kind of fallen angel.
Her thick black hair framed her perfect, heart-shaped face. Her cheeks were high, glass sharp. Her nose was small, straight. Her eyes were wide and currently the black of a vampire in hunting mode. And her lips, well, she might have the face of an angel, but she had lips made for sin.
Adam felt his cock stir, for a vampire.
He shuddered in revulsion.
Oh, hell, no. The woman was so not his type.
Her scent surrounded him. Not the rancid, rotting stench of death he’d smelled around others of her kind. But a light, fragrant scent, almost like flowers.
What in the hell? How could she—
Maya growled and shoved him away from her, muttering something under her breath about idiots with death wishes.
Then she walked away from him.
For a moment, he just studied her. Maya wasn’t exactly his idea of an uber-vamp. She was small, too damn small for his taste. The woman was barely five foot seven. Her body was slender, with almost boyish hips. Her legs were encased in an old, faded pair of jeans, and the black T-shirt she wore clung tightly to her frame.
He liked women with more meat on their bones. Liked a woman with curves. A woman with round, lush hips that he could hold while he thrust deep into her.
But, well, he wasn’t interested in screwing Maya. Not with her too-thin body. Her too-pale skin. No, he didn’t want to screw her.
He just planned to use her.
Adam took two quick strides forward, grabbed her arm and swung her back toward him.
The eyes that had relaxed to a bright blue shade instantly flashed black. Vamps’ eyes always changed to black when they fought or when they fucked.
Sometimes folks made the mistake of confusing vamps with demons, because a demon’s eyes, well, they could go black, too. Actually, Adam knew that a demon’s eyes were always black, and for the demons, every damn part of their eyes went black. Even the sclera. With the vamps, just the iris changed.
Usually demons were smart enough to hide the true color of their eyes. But the vamps, they didn’t seem to give a flying shit who saw the change. But if a human happened to see the eye shift, it was generally too late for the poor bastard, anyway, because by then, he was prey.
Gazing into Maya’s relentless black eyes, Adam had a true inkling of just how those sad poor bastards must have felt.
A growl rumbled in her throat, then she snarled, “Slick, you’re screwing with the wrong woman tonight.”
No, she was the right woman. Whether he liked the fact or not.
So he clenched his teeth, swallowed his pride, and in the midst of hell, admitted, “I need your help.”
And try DANGEROUS GAMES by Charlotte Mede, available now from Brava….
The Thursday evening salons hosted by Mrs. Hampton had become one of the most coveted invitations in London society, each guest scrutinized by the hostess herself to ensure lively, engaging, and informed debate on the most compelling issues of the day. And while her townhouse in Mayfair was a modest affair, the company was always of the highest order, along with generous servings of food and drink to satisfy the most discerning guests.
Tonight, the room heaved with conversation, the latest rebellion in India taking center stage, while off to the wings, breathless discussion percolated about the arrival in London of the Koh-I-Noor, the world’s largest diamond—destined to be presented to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert upon the opening of the Great Exhibition in under one month’s time. Conceived by the Prince, the historic occasion would be held in Hyde Park in the spectacularly constructed Crystal Palace, designed to showcase England’s and the world’s advances in science and industry.
“Not at all, not at all, my dear Mrs. Hampton,” Seabourne finally replied, clasping his hands behind his back and away from the tap of her ivory fan. “Your questions are diverting as always but never more so than the woman who poses them.”
Lilly inclined her head towards him, raising her low voice slightly to compete with the surging exchanges going on around them. “Well thank you, sir. But you must hasten to answer my question as the buffet will be served quite soon.”
John Sydons, the former publisher of the Guardian, guffawed, his muttonchops bristling. “And we shouldn’t want that, Seabourne. I just saw a spectacular Nesselrode pudding float by along with a platter of oysters swimming in cream. So let’s move along. Respond to the lady’s query—has the situation settled somewhat this past month?”
Seabourne nodded portentously, the horizontal lines on his forehead deepening. “The political expansion of the British East India Company at the perceived expense of native princes and the Mughal court has aroused Hindu and Muslim animosity alike, a complex situation overall which I do not think will be resolved without a Parliamentary solution.”
“A tinderbox is what it is,” murmured Lilly.
“Indeed,” seconded the man across from her, Lord Falmouth, Member of Parliament. Small and wiry, he barely filled out his impeccably tailored waistcoat and jacket. “It didn’t help that our colonial government, in its boundless wisdom, furnished the Indian soldiers with cartridges coated with grease made from the fat of cows and of pigs. Ignorance and incompetence in one fell stroke. Amazing.”
“The first sacred to Hindus and the second anathema to Muslims.” Lilly splayed her fan in barely concealed annoyance. “We have an ineffectual and insensitive Governor and of course, an historic series of blunders, beginning with the Kabul massacre, that slaughter in the mountain passes of Afghanistan. I have heard it said that of the sixteen thousand who set out on retreat, only one man survived to arrive in Jalalabad.”
“It was actually believed that the Afghans let him live so he could tell the grisly story—such a severe blow and bitter humiliation to British pride.” Lord Falmouth jutted out his rather weak chin. “Reports from the forty-fourth English Regiment are dismal. The troops kept on through the passes but without food, mangled and disoriented; they are reported to have knocked down their officers with the butts of their muskets. St. Martin is one of the few to have survived, if survive is the word one would choose to use.”
“He’s quite the loose cannon, or so one hears from the Foreign Office,” added Seabourne. “Has publicly resigned his post, whatever it was, something to do with statecraft, certainly.”
“You mean spycraft, surely,” Lord Falmouth corrected.
“A shadowy figure one would assume and now one not to be trusted, given his precarious mental state,” continued Seabourne. “The trauma and so on.”
“My goodness. How clandestine and mysterious,” said Lilly, frowning, only vaguely familiar with the St. Martin name. “One never knows what resentments these types of horrific experiences may nurture. I infer from your comments that loyalty is at question for these individuals who find th
emselves one moment at the service of their country and at the next entirely disengaged or worse. And what of his family? The St. Martin’s do have a seat in the House of Lords, if I’m not mistaken.”
“The parents passed away some years ago and his older brother died of smallpox soon after, if I recall correctly. However, St. Martin has never taken up his place in Parliament, having instead disappeared for years to the farthest reaches of the globe. In her majesty’s service, one presumes. Although one can presume no longer with his resignation.”
And be sure to catch DEMON CAN’T HELP IT, Kathy Love’s newest book, coming next month!
Jo breathed in slowly through her nose. What had she just agreed to? Seeing this man every day? She pulled in another slow, even breath, telling herself to shake off her reaction to this man’s proximity.
Sure, he was attractive. And he had—a presence. But she wasn’t some teenage girl who would fall to pieces under a cute boy’s attention. Not that cute was a strong enough word for what Maksim was. He was—unnerving. To say the least.
But she wasn’t interested in him. She decided that quite definitely over the past two days. Of course that decision was made when he wasn’t in her presence.
But either way, she should have more control than this. Apparently should and could were two very different things. And she couldn’t seem to stop her reaction to him. Her heart raced and her body tingled, both hot and cold in all the most inappropriate places.
“So every morning?” he said, his voice rumbling right next to her, firing up the heat inside her. “Does that work for you?”
She cleared her throat, struggling to calm her body.
“Yes—that’s great,” she managed to say, surprising even herself with the airiness of her tone. “I’ll schedule you from eight a.m. to—” she glanced at the clock on the lower right-hand of the computer screen, “noon?”
That was a good amount of time, getting Cherise through the rowdy mornings and lunch, and giving him the go ahead to leave now. She needed him out of her space.
If her body wasn’t going to go along with her mind, then avoidance was clearly her best strategy. And she had done well with that tactic—although she’d told herself that wasn’t what she was doing.
“Noon is fine,” he said, still not moving. Not even straightening away from the computer. And her.
“Good,” she poised her fingers over the keys and began typing in his hours. “Then I think we are all settled. You can take off now if you like.”
When he didn’t move, she added, “You can go get some lunch. You must be hungry.” She flashed him a quick smile without really looking at him.
This time he did stand, but he didn’t move away. Instead he leaned against her desk, the old piece of furniture creaking at his tall, muscular weight.
“You must be hungry too. Would you like to join me?”
She blinked, for a moment not comprehending his words, her mind too focused on the muscles of his thighs so near her. The flex of more muscles in his shoulders and arms as he crossed them over his chest.
She forced herself to look back at the computer screen.
“I—I don’t think so,” she said. “I have a lot to do here.”
“But surely you allow yourself even a half an hour for lunch break.”
She continued typing, fairly certain whatever she was writing was gibberish. “I brought a lunch with me, actually.” Which was true. Not that she was hungry at the moment. She was too—edgy.
“Come on,” he said in a low voice that was enticing, coaxing. “Come celebrate your first regular volunteer.”
She couldn’t help looking at him. He was smiling, the curl of his lips, his white, even teeth, the sexily pleading glimmer in his pale green eyes.
God, he was so beautiful.
And dangerous.
Jo shook her head. “I really can’t.”
He studied her for a moment. “Can’t or won’t. What’s a matter, Josephine? Do I make you nervous?”
Jo’s breath left her for a moment at the accented rhythm of her full name crossing his lips. But the breath-stealing moment left as quickly as it came, followed by irritation. At him and at herself.
She wasn’t attracted to this man—not beyond a basic physical attraction. And that could be controlled. It could.
“You don’t make me nervous,” she said firmly.
“Then why not join me for lunch?”
“Because,” she said slowly, “I have a lot of work to do.”
Maksim crossed his arms tighter, and lifted one of his eloquent eyebrows, which informed her that he didn’t believe her for a moment.
“I don’t think that’s why you won’t come. I think you are uncomfortable with me. Maybe because you are attracted to me.” Again the eyebrow lifted—this time in questioning challenge.
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It’s Hotter in Hawaii Page 25