He began to wrap the holder around her hair. Why did it feel so good to have a man’s hands in her hair? Or was it just Jarvis?
He finished the bun and dropped his hands. “All set. Feel better?”
Reina touched her hair and was surprised to feel a complicated looping and twisting of her hair. She shook her head, and the updo stayed in. She smiled and realized she did indeed feel better. “Yeah, I do.” Was it because of the hair? Or because he had spent the last five minutes giving her some seriously wonderful TLC?
He nodded with a smile of smug self-satisfaction. “Women always derive a lot of their self-confidence by how they feel about themselves physically. Hair’s a big one.” He tapped his temple. “The best partners learn what gets their teammates in a fighting state of mind. The hair seemed to be a good strategy for you.” He tucked a stray tendril behind her ear, giving her hair the scrutinizing inspection an artist might give his masterpiece. “I hate to give Angelica credit for anything, but…” He shrugged and dropped his hand. “Seemed to work. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Keep it in mind? Did that mean he was going to do it again? Her stomach did a little jump of excitement. She got stressed all the time. Maybe he should take up residence in her hair and—
Hello! What was she doing thinking it was sexy that he not only knew how to do a woman’s hair, but actually admitted it? She had no time for sexy, especially when it came to Jarvis. The man could destroy entire forests simply by breathing, and he’d literally brought her to her knees when she’d been burned by the earth he’d contaminated. As an added bonus, he wanted her to go against Death, when she couldn’t afford to piss him off.
And on top of it all, the man was going to explode, sooner rather than later.
That was way more than three strikes.
No more sexy thinking about him. Business partners only.
Jarvis brushed a fleck of dirt off her shoulder, as if he couldn’t quite keep himself from touching her. “First stop, the Castle of Extreme Opulence.”
“Oh, no, let’s take care of my things first.” If she helped him and got caught by Death before she’d saved her sister, it would jeopardize everything. See? She was thinking clearly again. Go her.
But Jarvis shook his head. “We can’t meet with my investor until nightfall, so let’s go find my brother and clear my shit up.” He fisted his hand, the one with the black tangle on his palm. “I’d hate to explode before we had a chance to take care of your sister.”
She bit her lip. “You think you could go soon?”
“Anytime, babe. I’ve never been down this road before.” He turned and headed toward the truck. “Cameron might be able to give me more time.”
She watched him stride across the clearing. “You want more time?”
“Hell, yeah. I’m free man now, sweetheart, and I want to enjoy it.” He reached the Escalade and opened her door. “Your chariot, my dear.”
Oh, come on! Like it wasn’t bad enough that she liked him and he was going to explode, but he actually wanted to live, too? She couldn’t handle that pressure. Not again.
This would never work. She was already under so much stress she couldn’t even put her own hair up in a bun, and apparently she’d lost all ability to powder anyone, let alone Augustus. If she started worrying about Jarvis dying, then what? She’d be so freaked she’d be useless to anyone, especially Natalie. “This won’t work. I can’t team up with you. I can’t.”
“Let’s go.” Completely ignoring her protest, he left the car door open and strode around the truck to the other side. His body was so well-muscled, and he moved swiftly and efficiently, a man who was used to precise execution in everything he did. He was fast, dangerous, and smart, everything she needed to accomplish the impossible.
She couldn’t afford to find someone else to help her. She needed him, and she needed him now. How come her only chance to save her sister was also the biggest threat to doing just that?
Chapter 9
Death was two steps inside the door to the Dungeon of Temporary Situs when he heard the mournful sound of the harp reverberating through the cement walls. Holy hell and high water. The Guardian of Love was playing his harp again!
He barreled down the circular stairs, nearly skidding out on the first turn when the top stone twisted under his foot. Damn rotting dungeon! The terms of the purchase and sale from the Grim Reaper had banned Death from structurally altering the classic dungeon in any way that made it less depressing, scary, and miserable.
At the time, Death hadn’t really cared. All he’d wanted was his own business, and Lord Grim (as he’d insisted on being called) had worked the death business into such a hole that it was available for a bargain price. Death had leveraged his ass off to get it and had agreed to any terms that would lower the price to within his range.
But three hundred years later, the crumbling stone steps were treacherous as hell in dress shoes. But if he made any improvements, the son of a bitch could take the entire business back for the original purchase price. Given that it was now worth about three hundred billion dollars more than when he’d bought it, Death wasn’t all that high on that idea.
The harp drifted up louder and more mournful. “Cameron! Stop it!” Death reached the last cell on the right and raced inside.
The Guardian of Love had his head inside the strings of the harp, and he was sawing at his throat with the strings, trying to decapitate himself.
“Hey!” Death jammed his knee into Cameron’s back, yanked the harp off his head, then headlocked lover boy onto the handwoven Oriental carpet he’d had brought in for his new guest (Lord Grim had forgotten to ban decor). “Did I not make myself clear that you could not play that harp?”
Cam was struggling, trying to get to the instrument. “I love my harp. She calls to the essence of my soul.”
“It turns you into a blubbering suicidal embarrassment to love.” Death tossed the harp into the hallway and slammed the door shut. “You’re like a woman and chocolate. Get some self-control, man.”
The bright yellow tulips he’d brought down yesterday had opened. The two humming birds he’d imported were happily dive bombing the feeder, their buzzing filling the air. The waterfall was bubbling cheerfully over the stones, and little blue fish were swimming merrily around, occasionally leaping out of the water for the sheer joy of it. “How are you not in a good mood? I did a brilliant job creating an oasis of peace and harmony.”
He was delighted he’d had the foresight to lock Cam up instead of succumbing to his whiny requests to sleep in the guest wing last night. After yesterday’s trip back to the homestead to retrieve Cameron before he succeeded on his mission to die at his home, Death wasn’t taking any more chances with his most precious commodity.
Cameron sank into the luxurious armchair and pressed his forehead to his hands. The tux Death had given him was wrinkled, and he clearly hadn’t bothered to use the monogrammed gold razor that was still sitting on its silken towel next to the rusted spigot oozing brown water. “I can’t do this. I just want to go home and—”
“Kill yourself?” Unacceptable. He would not let love vanish from this realm just because the Guardian was some manic depressive sap who couldn’t see goodness if it had breasts and belly danced on his face for hours. Death pulled out the ottoman and straddled it. He leaned forward, invading Cameron’s personal space. “Hey!” He kept his voice sharp. “What do you want most in the world?”
Cameron sniffled, like a freaking pansy. “To die.”
Death smacked Cameron on the side of his head.
“Ow!” Cameron looked up with a scowl. “Don’t hit me.”
“What else do you want?”
Cameron narrowed his eyes. “Nothing—”
Death smacked him again, and this time Cameron nearly fell off the chair. “World peace, you dimwit. World peace!”
“Oh. Right.” Cameron rubbed the side of his head and sat back up. “I forgot.”
“Well, remember it, bec
ause you’re going to make it happen. You’re about to change the world as it exists. Remember?”
Cameron sniffled. “That thing this weekend?”
“That thing this weekend is going to make us both billions of dollars, give you a purpose in life, and create world peace.” Or close enough on that last one. “Where’s your excitement? You were all fired up about this last night.”
“I just feel a little weepy today.” Cameron plucked the silk handkerchief from his tux pocket and blew his nose like a girly girl.
“Cameron.” Death yanked the handkerchief away and shoved it back in the sap’s pocket. “Men don’t cry. End of story.” Death pounded his fist against his chest. “We hold all our emotions deep inside, even love.”
“Prentiss! Where are you?” A desperate male voice rang through the dungeons. “I need help!”
Death ground his jaw. A visit from the amoral, womanizing, black magic witch who abandoned him for over three hundred years was not what he was in the mood for right now. “I’m in a business meeting, Napoleon. Make an appointment.”
“Your real name is Prentiss?” The Guardian of Love started to laugh. “That’s even less manly than Cameron.”
“Shut up.” Death sighed with resignation as the door to the prison cell turned a pale gray, and then the world-renowned assassin walked in.
Then he took one look at his grandpa, and he sat up. “What happened?” Napoleon was always meticulously adorned, but his suit was so wrinkled it looked like he’d been wearing it for a month. His usually pristine black hair was jagging past his ears, messed up, and shaggy. The laces were missing from his right shoe, and he smelled like he’d slept in a sewer.
Napoleon sagged against the door, as if he was too exhausted to stand any longer. “I’ve lost her.”
“Her?”
“Angelica. Your grandmother. My wife. My true love. I’ve lost her.”
“Oh. That.” Disgusted, Death sat back down and returned his attention to Cameron. “So, let’s go over the plans for this weekend—”
“Did you not hear me?” Napoleon strode across the room, grabbed the beanbag chair from the corner, and plunked it down between the two men. “My truest, most wonderful sprite has been plucked from my loving arms.”
“I’m the Guardian of Love.” Cameron sat up. “I am very insightful when it comes to that emotion. This woman. You love her.”
“Oh, yes.” Napoleon whipped out his BlackBerry. “Let me show you pictures.”
Death snatched the phone away from his grandfather. “When you walked out on Gram three hundred years ago, you lost the right to love her. If she’s locked you out of the Den, then that’s your own problem.” He still couldn’t look at his grandfather without remembering how the narcissistic bastard had walked out on him and Gram. With Death’s parents long dead due to one of Napoleon’s experiments, the old man had been the only father he knew, and the son of a bitch had taken off.
“I want to see the pictures of his true love.” Cam plucked the phone out Death’s hand. “This man is clearly experiencing love. Let it blossom.”
“He only loves her because he can’t have her,” Death snorted.
“Oh… I understand now.” Cameron slumped back in his chair and let the phone slither away. “This is an example of the miserable, hopeless, destructive side of love. Did I tell you what happened to my father after my mother died? It was a dark night, years after my brother had vanished. I—”
“Stop!” Each time Cameron told that story of how his father killed himself after his woman had died because he loved her too much to live without her, the grief nearly did Cameron in. Cameron had been perseverating for a century on how love had stolen his family, and he’d lost the will to do his job.
But not for long.
Death was going to clean this mess right up.
“Angelica didn’t lock me out of the Den,” Nappy sighed. “Augustus has her. He’s using her as bait to keep me from my duties.”
“Augustus has Gram? Why didn’t I know about this?” But he knew why. He’d been 24/7 on suicide watch with Cameron for the last two weeks while he’d tried to find a way to resurrect his will to live. “Go get her back. Now.”
“I can’t find her!” Tears began sliding down the old man’s face.
Cameron plucked Death’s handkerchief out of his tux pocket and handed it to Nappy. “I thought you said men don’t cry.” Cameron shot an accusing look at Death.
“Real men don’t. Napoleon is a spineless, amoral bastard.” Gram could hold her own against Augustus, but being locked up had to be chafing at her. He was going to have to get her back.
Nappy blew his nose into Death’s handkerchief. “I’m a real man,” he announced. “I’ve assassinated over one million people with black magic. How is that not manly?”
Cameron raised his brows at Death. “Yeah, how is that not manly? I think that’s manly.” His eyes began to glisten and he began weeping into Death’s handkerchief. “Life is hard, and it’s okay to let that pain fill us.”
“Both of you, pull yourselves together!” Death strode across the cell to the well-stocked bar. He grabbed a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon and three crystal tumblers. He slammed them down in front of the wusses, filled them straight up, and handed them out. “Drink.”
Cameron took a sip, then wrinkled his nose. “I think I just blew up my throat.”
Napoleon tossed the glass over his shoulder and didn’t flinch when it shattered against the cement wall of the dungeon. “You have any Chardonnay? I would love a glass.”
Cameron set his glass down. “Oh, how about a white wine spritzer? That would be great. Prentiss? Do we have any?”
“The name is Death.” He grabbed a bottle, popped the cork, and filled two wineglasses. He shoved the girly drink at them. “Here. No spritzer. Deal with it.” There were limits to what he could permit to be imbibed in his presence.
“Oh, delicious.” Cameron inhaled it. “I love this vineyard.”
“I do as well.” Nappy was still sniffling as he took a long drink of the wine.
Death chugged his glass of man-juice and refilled the bourbon. “I already have an assassin after Augustus. He should be taken care of shortly. You just go find Gram and rescue her. Surely you can manage that?”
Nappy shook his head. “I have no idea where she is. I am at a great loss.”
“I can bring lovers together.” Cameron crossed his legs and swung his foot. No socks with dress shoes? The boy needed work. “It’s what I do.”
“I don’t know if she loves me,” Napoleon sighed. “Prentiss is right. I did fail to honor her as she deserved.”
“Love is so destructive.” Cameron sank back into his chair. “I don’t know why people think love is so great. It’s a recipe for heartache and—”
A light knock interrupted Cameron’s soliloquy. Before Death could refuse entry, the locked door opened and a thirty-something ponytailed brunette in jeans, Keds, and a fitted T-shirt slipped inside. She had flour on her cheek, white paste in her hair, a blueberry stain on her toe, and she was carrying a large silver tray of what appeared to be pastries.
She had a pert little nose, a spattering of freckles, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. Fascinating. He’d forgotten what color a woman’s lips actually were. Sort of a dark rose, with a hint of violet, and—
She set the tray down on the coffee table, and the clank of the silver hitting the wood jerked Death back into consciousness. She’d infiltrated the cell before he’d reacted. What kind of devil spy was she? “Identify yourself.”
The intruder gave a cheerful smile. “My name’s Anna Gusman. I’m your new pastry chef.”
Ah… well, that explained the utter disarray of her appearances. Chefs were allowed the liberty of their own style in concession to their artistry. “Where’s Vladimir?”
“Apparently, he eloped with the dish girl.”
Ah. That explained the incredible array in his office earlier. It had been far o
utside the scope of Vladimir’s talents. “Did you make the scones this morning?”
She brightened. “I did. Did you enjoy them?”
“Did I enjoy them?” he echoed in disbelief. No one ever questioned Death, and she should know it. Clearly, she hadn’t been briefed on Castle etiquette.
“I apologize for my grandson’s rudeness.” Napoleon took Anna’s hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. “My name is Napoleon. I’m a world famous black magic witch specializing in assassinations for hire, and I’m extremely virile.”
Anna plucked her hand out of the old man’s. “Nice to meet you, Napoleon.”
“Back off, old man,” Death growled. “You’re pining over your wife, remember?”
“Ah, I am married, to a lovely woman who hates me.” Napoleon bowed his head. “My grandson, however, is not, although he is apparently quite virile as well. I assume from your appearance that you are one of the rare women who work here who isn’t planning to have sex with him?”
“Sex with—” Anna’s gaze flicked to Death, and he had a sudden vision of getting in a naked food fight with her. She would laugh if he got pancake mix in her hair. He knew she would. She would laugh, and it would be this magical, lighthearted sound, not the calculating practiced laugh of all the HoneyPots—
“My fiancé wouldn’t be so happy with me dallying with the boss.”
Fiancé? “Unaccepta—”
“What are these?” Cam leaned over to peer at the tray.
“Lemon tortes.” She picked up a croissant and tapped it against Death’s staff. “And one special croissant I created this morning just for you. I think you’ll like it.”
“For me?” Death caught a whiff of that buttery decadence, and his mouth started watering. He took the dessert, and his fingers brushed against hers. He waited for her sharp intake of breath, the sudden flush to her cheeks, the delight in her eyes, but got nothing.
Instead, her watch beeped, and she glanced at it. “Gotta go. More buns in the oven. Nice to meet you all.” Then she turned and jogged out of the room, flipping the door shut on her way.
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