Frost

by Taryn Kincaid

  For the first time in a long, long while, she awakened. Fully.

  Great Goddess. Why didn’t Madame Eve text her? She needed that 1Night Stand date. More than ever. And she needed it now.

  If Madame Eve could match her with someone as ferociously, savagely sexual as Maxwell Raines, Dagney would reach the erotic equivalent of Nirvana: That elusive place where all good little succubi went when their inner sex demon shrieked the need to get down to business and stop screwing around.

  Chapter Two

  “You must come in, sir.”

  Max Raines stared at his canvas through narrowed eyes, not quite absorbing the words of his majordomo. Fever clouded his head; his body temperature spiking off the charts. Desperate for release, he stood, legs apart, atop the windswept bluff comprising the only wall-less boundary of his compound in Sleepy Hollow. Below, the green waters of the Hudson boiled. The stark cliffs of the Palisades, fringed with ragged trees, rose with dark majesty from the banks on the other side of the river, to the west and south, jutting into cloud-filled heavens. An ominous gray sky seemed low enough to touch. He couldn’t capture any of it. Not in any way that satisfied him.

  “Damn it. Still not right.” A gust swirled the tails of his paint-spattered linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his biceps, in a manner more suited to the dog days of August than the chill gloom of February.

  “You haven’t eaten in two days. And the wind’s kicking up. Nor’easter brewing.” Bryce Blackburn put more iron insistence into his words this time. “Time to call it a day.”

  Max tore his gaze away from the unacceptable painting at last. Irritated, he tossed his brush, a No. 10 bright, the hog bristles thick with cadmium green, onto the palette. Only the unfinished landscape stood between the predatory beast pacing with increasing agitation inside him and the rest of the world. His muse had deserted him.

  “You picked a fuckin’ fine time to leave me, Lucille.”

  Christ. Channeling Kenny Rogers? Who’s next, Justin Bieber?

  Instead, the hard-driving intro of the Stones’ classic, “Satisfaction,” popped into his head. The unwelcome earworm taunted him. Yeah. He couldn’t get no. That’s for fuckin’ sure.

  Raines dragged a finger around his collar, popping open the top button. If he couldn’t achieve release soon, he’d go mad. Jacking off into his fist gave him insufficient gratification. Human women proved too delicate and fragile, too breakable. Demons glommed onto him, far too needy, attaching themselves with the tenacity of barnacles, draining him of inspiration and clinging long past their expiration dates. He’d learned from bitter experience he could crisp any woman he touched. The infamous Maxwell Raines: a six-foot-six, two hundred twenty-five pound hunka burning love. And now I’m channeling Elvis.

  Odd, all things considered. Usually he exhibited no more of a musical bent than he did humor. And in light of the bland landscape he’d committed to canvas, he had nothing to be whimsical about.

  His heat, his ardor, his raging libido—all of them had to be expelled from his head and his body and poured into his work. But the painting before him remained flat, emotionless, devoid of his usual sensuality and passion, further frustrating him but offering no relief from the devils that plagued him and the sexual beast that howled within.

  Standing patiently beside him, Blackburn shifted from foot to foot, clearly aware of his inner turmoil. The majordomo stamped his boots on the frost-glazed lawn and blew on his knuckles. At least one of them couldn’t get warm enough.

  Without Blackburn, he’d be a total recluse. But the other man had been with him for years, knew his secrets, his needs, served him in every capacity from butler to valet to nanny. More family member than servant. He even acted as manager and art agent, most recently arranging the exhibit at the Night Gallery.

  Now, he held out his employer’s overcoat, a muffler and a pair of leather gloves. Max turned to face him and met the other man’s eyes full on.

  Blackburn whistled, but had the good grace not to recoil. “They’re red.”

  “Can’t cool down.”

  “Not a good sign.” Blackburn removed one of his own gloves and touched Raines’ bare forearm, then drew back as if his fingers had been singed. “Fever again.”

  “Through the fucking stratosphere.” He brushed his hand through his hair.

  “You’re getting worse, Max.”

  Raines acknowledged the other man’s statement by packing up the art supplies. He hoisted the easel onto his shoulder. “Mind carrying my coat?”

  “I’d carry you if I thought that would help.” Though no 90-pound weakling himself, no one would mistake Blackburn for The Incredible Hulk either. The smaller, slighter man eyed his employer up and down, craning his head to do so. Raines had at least half a foot on him and a lot of muscular poundage. “But I doubt I could without my knees buckling.” He stuffed Raines’ gloves in a jacket pocket. “There’s still some decent light in the studio…if you must keep at it.”

  Max snorted but didn’t reply.

  “The painting’s not helping?”

  “Not going well.” He shifted the easel to a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

  Blackburn opened his mouth then shut it again. But they knew each other too well. He considered his assistant a friend.

  “Spit it out, man.”

  The majordomo frowned. “You realize the paintings are getting darker and darker? More—”

  “Demonic?”

  “I was going to say sexual.”

  “Same thing in my case, isn’t it?”

  His works filled the studio and entire top floor of his large Tudor mansion. He rarely exhibited, but every once in awhile he sold a piece to a private collector. Blackburn handled the deals. What the hell. He didn’t need the money, but it never hurt to unclutter.

  They walked the rest of the way to the house in silence. Viewed from the bluff, the estate appeared more imposing, if possible, than it did from the front. Behind iron gates and a high stone wall the main entrance didn’t beckon visitors. Just as well, since intruders were the last thing Raines wanted or needed.

  “You can’t go on this way, Mr. Raines,” Blackburn said, as they entered the glass-enclosed studio attached to the main house.

  “Back to ‘Mr. Raines’ now is it?”

  “You need to eat something. Can I coax you into the dining room?”

  Max looked at the troublesome painting, at the dwindling light. “Let me get cleaned up first. Gimme ten.”

  After Blackburn left, he tossed his brushes into a jar of turpentine, stripped off his paint-splattered clothes, and dumped them on a drop cloth. Then he climbed the wrought-iron staircase that spiraled from the studio to the master suite. Standing beneath the shower, as cold as he could get it, he waited for the frigid water to slice over his skin, controlling the burn. Making a trip into the mountains wouldn’t help. The new Queen of the Succubi wanted him too badly, although she hid it better than had her deceased predecessor, a fountain of pure evil. Still, he doubted he’d return from a run to Demon Hall.

  By the time he slid into his seat at the head of the long, formal dining table, he’d managed to clamp a lid on the furnace broiling within. Not that he considered himself human, even on the best of days. But the shower had brought his temperature down. He glanced at his reflection in the back of a soup spoon.

  “Your eyes are lighter,” Blackburn confirmed. “Almost normal.”

  “Yeah, if normal is the color of dirty snow. Or ash.”

  “Opaline gray.”

  “As a matter of fact, I could use a new tube of Opaline gray, if you’re ordering. Also, Mars black. I’ll get you a list.” Raines dipped his spoon into the bowl of chilled gazpacho Blackburn had served, but looked up when the majordomo remained silent. “What?” His razor-thin patience wouldn’t tolerate social diplomacy today.

  Blackburn cleared his throat. “You could use a woman, sir, is what you could use.”

  “Yeah. Don’t go there. You
know the drill. Unless you want to sweep Opaline gray ashes off the sheets?” His stomach grumbled and he turned to the cold, delicately spiced mélange of tomatoes and peppers with gusto.

  When the silver utensil clattered against the delicate china, Blackburn sighed and whisked the empty bowl away. He returned a few minutes later with a crystal goblet filled with ice and ringed with an artistic array of shrimp and lemon wedges.

  “I sense a theme.” Raines speared a jumbo shrimp on a tiny cocktail fork and squirted it with lemon.

  “I didn’t think hot and sizzling would be your preference.”

  “What’s next on the menu? Cold cuts? Frozen daiquiri?”

  Blackburn ignored the remark. “Your show at the Night Gallery is a spectacular hit. Why haven’t you asked me about it?”

  He shrugged. “Once I’m done, I’m done. I leave it on the canvas. You know that.”

  “You can pretend a lot of things with me, but you can’t fake indifference about your art. I know you care.”

  He chewed slowly, swallowed, took a sip of ice water. Curiosity grabbed him by the throat. “The paintings have been well-received?”

  “To put it mildly. You’re a sensation. Dagney Night wants to throw a party at the gallery in your honor. Introduce you to the public. She’s dying to meet you.”

  “Absolutely not. Out of the fuckin’ quest—” He froze, the shrimp fork poised over a pool of cocktail sauce. “Dagney Night?”

  “You know her?”

  “By reputation.”

  One of three demonic succubi sisters, all Triple-A rated, Super 10 Class. Not as sweet as the youngest, or badass as the eldest. Somewhere in the middle of the demonic spectrum. But she’d been around the block and knew the score. Could she handle him?

  He drummed his fingers on the top of the tablecloth and clamped his mouth shut, grinding his back teeth until his jaw went rigid. Along with another part of his anatomy.

  “Set it up.” He bit the words out, short and clipped. “Private party. Contact Madame Eve. Get me a 1Night Stand with Dagney Night.”

  A rare grin split Blackburn’s face. He took a bottle from the sideboard. “You’ll want to bring this with you, sir.”

  Raines scrutinized the label with disgust, his lower lip curling. “What the hell is it?”

  “It’s ice wine. An upstate Riesling. Sweet but tart, Ms. Night’s favorite. Her assistant, Julian Graves, let that drop when we were arranging the exhibit.”

  “You think I’m going to need to get a woman drunk?” He nearly laughed. An unfamiliar buzz of anticipation shot through him. Hell. It had been a fuckin’ long time.

  The paintings had spoken for him for years. He might be out of practice. But he was a fire-sex demon, after all.

  Seduction, one way or another, was what he did.

  Chapter Three

  Inside the Night Gallery, splashy red hearts and frilly doilies decorated the ceiling, windows and the refreshment tables set up for the “Lose Your Heart to Art” party. Visitors with drinks and canapés in hand moved from one exhibition room to the next, agog, atwitter, and aroused. Couples did not stay very long. Singletons hooked up with someone they met while strolling from piece to piece and left quickly, arms entwined with their newfound friend. Julian Graves rang up sale after sale, as patrons thronged throughout the evening.

  And still an air of vague disappointment filled Dagney. She’d been in a state of semi-heat for nearly a week now, ever since she’d first viewed the Maxwell Raines paintings being mounted on her walls. Madame Eve had come through, fixing her up with a 1Night Stand with the elusive, reclusive artist, although the cryptic French woman had not precisely advised when or where the date would be. Even Julian and Bryce Blackburn, Raines’ agent, had been in on the high-level negotiations, working together to try to secure Raines’ agreement to attend the gallery party.

  But a few minutes before midnight, with the crowd thinning out, he had failed to put in appearance.

  “Awesome!” Julian waved a sheaf of receipts under her nose. “We’ll have to hire a van tomorrow to get everything delivered.”

  Dagney sighed. Valentine’s Day. Not a day to be hiring vans and delivering merchandise, unless you were a florist or chocolatier. She’d hoped she and Raines would link up tonight, hit it off, and she’d have an actual date for the most romantic holiday of the year. Something about the artist resonated with her, in a way that no other males did.

  But once again, apparently not to be. If Dagney had to resort to making a booty call to Randy McNeer tomorrow when she’d brushed him off like jacket lint, she might as well flush any remaining self-esteem.

  “The walls will be bare after tonight.” Julian nudged her in the side to recapture her attention. “Can you ask that guy Raines if he’s got anything more for us? We could sell four times as much.”

  “They’re not hotcakes, Jules.”

  “Tell that to the patrons. We still have rent to pay. And if he can paint it, they will come.”

  “I’ll forget you even said that.”

  “You need to talk to him, Dag.”

  “Maybe I could if he were here.”

  He bit his lower lip. “Tried, Dag. Really. So did Bryce Blackburn.”

  “I know, Jules.” She mustered a smile. “The night’s been a brilliant success.”

  “It really has, you know. Totally smokin’. Raines’ work even blew the New York Times critic away.” He leaned closer to whisper into her ear. “I saw him rubbing his dick when he went to get his coat. He nearly jumped one of the caterers. I guarantee you he’ll whack off a couple of times before he files his review. So he should be in a pretty mellow mood when he does.” He stuffed the stack of checks into a bank bag. “I’m gonna lock these up and take off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As Julian headed for the gallery office, her younger sister, Lily, sidled to her side, dragging her lover, Campbell Jones, by the hand. The last remaining guests. The handsome architect wore a slightly pained, can’t we leave yet, expression and looked more than a little hot under the collar. Lily wrapped an arm around his waist, sliding a bare leg up and down his calf. Looking at the pair, Dagney had no doubt Valentine’s Day would arrive early for them.

  “What’s wrong, Dag?”

  “That obvious?”

  “Only to your baby sister, who wonders why you’ve got that pensive look when the party’s such a smash. The exhibit’s fabulous. Right, Camp?”

  “Not exactly the word I would have chosen.” A sexy wink accompanied the dry words.

  Lily glanced at him with amusement. “And your word would be?”

  “Hot. Unbelievably hot.”

  She laughed, wiggling against him. Most of the lights in the gallery went out. Julian must have flicked them off when he left.

  “Go get the car, Camp,” she said. “I need two more seconds with my sister. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Yeah. Right. Like I’m letting go of your hand in here.”

  “My man speaks. Or growls, I should say. Which kinda turns me on more than I already am.” She hugged her mate closer. “So what’s the matter, sis?”

  Dagney shrugged. “I was hoping the artist might show. Madame Eve set me up on a one-night stand with him.”

  “Yeah?” Lily beamed at her then exchanged a telling glance with Campbell. Madame Eve had reunited them after ten years apart. The reminder of their 1Night Stand date seemed to increase their impatient desire to make their getaway.

  “We’ve really got to go. Talk tomorrow?”

  “Sure, sis. Not certain what more I’ll have to talk about, though.”

  “No?” Lily looked toward the door, as Campbell held out her coat and she slipped into it. She raised both her eyebrows, her eyes widening. “I have a feeling you will.”

  Dagney followed her sister’s glance, and her heart flipped like a gymnast unable to nail a vault. Darkness swathed the gallery with the exception of the lights above or below each of the paintings. The large man emerging from the sha
dows held her rapt. Waves of pure, unadulterated lust smacked her with such force she didn’t even see Lily and Campbell leave. The blast of raw desire crumpled her to the floor. Her gaze remained riveted on the tall hunk of ferocious male stalking toward her, radiating undiluted carnality. He set something carefully on the floor and grasped her by the elbows, his touch surprisingly gentle when he lifted her to her feet.

  “I’m Maxwell Raines.”

  Yeah. No kidding. Who else could a guy so hot, so studly, possibly be?

  She told herself not to swoon. Ordered herself not to swoon. But, Goddess, that rumbling voice. More potent than a train barreling over the tracks. And he smelled so good. Sinfully masculine. A bit of musk, a bite of pine, an essence of dark, smoky nights. Sexy scents. Reminiscent of tangled satin sheets that had been given a good work-out.

  Her legs turned to rubber, and she doubted they’d support her on their own. She’d be mortified if he’d have to scrape her puddled body up again. But he hadn’t yet relaxed his grip. Could she bullshit her way through the meeting without collapsing? “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’m never late.”

  “Well, the party’s over, Mr. Raines.” She waved a hand around the empty room.

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  “You’re big on perspective, are you?”

  “I’m a painter.” A brief shrug accompanied his blunt words. “Obvious connection.”

  “Right. But as you can see, everyone’s left.”

  “You haven’t.” He gazed down at her, a black brow flaring. “And you’re what I’m here for.”

  Oh. Goddess. She would absolutely, positively lose it.

  Such brilliant, blinding focus. She reached within to find her voice. “You enjoy making an entrance, do you?”

  “No. I despise going out in public. I rarely do. This is one of the reasons why.”

  “Because women faint at your feet?”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “Ego much?”

  He shook his head. “It is what it is.”