That accomplished, she pulled her tote over one shoulder, her carryon over another, and tugged out the handle of her luggage to roll behind her.
No more thinking about Dev. It was time to get a new vibrator. They were much less messy; emotions weren’t a problem, and easier to throw away when she was through with them.
Chapter Two
“Dev just hit on me.” Even on the phone, Sandra Carvatali’s accent may have belonged to the Jersey Shore, but her quick wit and photographic memory made her damn near a MENSA candidate. “Which is just wicked weird, because, like, aren’t you two fucking still?”
“No,” Aerin clipped as she wound her way through the busy SeaTac Airport’s baggage claim with a finger on her blue-tooth earpiece to press it closer and block out noise. “We’re not still fucking.” At least not as of thirteen hours ago.
Ignoring the censuring look from the elderly woman next to her in a kitty sweater and q-tip hair, she searched the turnstile for her suitcase and kept being shouldered out by the press of bodies.
Not that she had any claim over Dev, but Aerin would have thought he’d wait a good twenty-four hours before trying to slip it to someone else. Especially her personal assistant. But didn’t guys only need twenty-four minutes until they were ready again? So what the hell did she know?
“Okay then,” Aerin could almost hear Sandra’s shrug. “Do you want me to put Anthrax in his coffee? Because my second-cousin on my mother’s side, Carmine, he knows a guy and I think he takes American Express.”
Buying illegal chemical weapons with your American Express card? Just what would the receipt say? “No, Sandra, that won’t be necessary.” What if the NSA just heard her assistant say Anthrax? Weren’t they listening to everything nowadays?
Aerin looked left to right and behind her, feeling a weird tingle of hairs at the back of her neck, even though they were schpackled into a tidy and professional updo.
“That ass clown should know better than to test my loyalty, boss. Besides, I’m not into sloppy seconds even if his people wrote the actual book on all the great ways to have sex. I’m too classy for that.”
Aerin pictured her assistant’s up-to-there hair, eyeliner bills, and closet full of leopard print. At least that closet was on the Upper East Side. So, maybe classy wasn’t the apropos descriptive word. But still, the woman was indispensable and very well-paid.
“Though the sentiment is… appreciated. I think. Let’s hold off on any terrorist activity, at least until I get back.”
“All right.” Aerin could also hear Sandra’s eye-roll. “But where I come from, it’s a sign of weakness if you don’t at least slash his tires. You know, show him you care.”
“I don’t care,” Aerin said honestly.
“Oh, that’s different then. How’s Seattle?”
“Gray and rainy.”
“Well, it’s spring. It’s supposed to be nice in the summer.” The click-clack of long fake nails on a keyboard punctuated a pregnant silence. “So… you need me to prepare any documents, call meetings, book hotels, a car, buy bribery gifts, put together PowerPoint presentations, you know, the usual?” The vibration of Sandra’s anxiety reached through the continent between them. “You left without telling me what you’re doing. I’m flying blind, boss, I can’t even link the calendar. I haven’t made an excel chart in weeks. My life has no meaning.”
Aerin laughed at her assistant’s dramatics. “This is more of an informal visit. No worries, just keep your eye on things there. Make sure that Windmark Tech doesn’t fold while I’m away.” Spotting her luggage, Aerin shouldered through the crowd and pounced, dragging the ginormous bag back through the press of pushy assholes while trying to find a spot big enough to turn around in, regain her bearings, and figure out just where the hell she was going.
“Oh that reminds me,” Sandra perked up. “The numbers came in from last year and we’re up two billion instead of the one point five we projected, so we’re close enough in the rankings to that company that shall remain nameless to give Mr. Gates his next prostate exam. Top five, baby!”
“That’s great,” Aerin said, distracted, as she wrestled with her luggage. You’d think you’d pay two thousand dollars for luggage and the goddamned wheels would work even after six months of heavy usage.
There. A break in the crowd. She’d reach it and then she could breathe. Now where could she smoke? That was the question. Using her sharp elbows, she made her way to the edge of the crowd.
“The internal audit turned up some surprising reports,” Sandra droned on. “You were right about those second quarter losses. They were regained in the fourth with no…”
To say that at the sight of the moody prince in front of her Sandra’s voice faded into the background would have been one hell of an understatement. It was more like everything just… vanished. The crowds. The walls of windows with their spectacular display of thunderclouds. The drone of planes taking off and landing. The announcements of the loud speakers. It all disappeared.
When Aerin stepped into the circle of empty floor around the tall, impeccably dressed man, it was as though within that precise circumference a Bermuda triangle effect took hold.
Heh. What would they call this one, the SeaTac circle? What was next? The Montpellier Square? The El Paso dodecahedron? Nah, those were three dimensional, so probably not.
Blinking rapidly, Aerin shut her ridiculous thought digression down. Her brain tended to haywire a bit when the vibrations overwhelmed her. And his were off the charts.
Power.
It was what kept the people at bay. They didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t even stare or particularly seem disrupted. They merely packed themselves tighter into their own space to avoid his.
Who could blame them, really? The sheer force of his presence rolled off him in ultrasonic waves, equally in all directions. Hence, the circle. And he stood in the middle of it like the tall, straight leg of a geometric compass.
The perfect center to a perfect circle.
His liquid-blue eyes pinned her with a look of mild intrigue that quickly heated into astonishment as words that had never been part of her MIT educated vocabulary filtered through as her brain tried to process him.
Regal. Elegant. Dark. Lethal. Exotic. Ancient.
Ancient? Really? Couldn’t be. He only looked like…thirty-five…ish.
But his eyes. His pale, lovely blue eyes held secrets darker than the underworld. Stories that began with “Once upon a time,” could pour from sensuous lips like his and she would believe every fairytale to be the God’s honest truth. Because he’d been there. He’d seen it all.
Though, judging by his appearance, the only role he could play was that of the villain.
God. She could slice her finger on those cheekbones.
“Those will kill you, you know.” His British accent melted from that mouth like dark wine and darker transgressions.
“What?” Aerin looked down, shocked to see the pack of her cigarettes clenched in her hand. When had she reached for them? When had she hung up her phone?
His tone had been a bit ironic, as though maybe she wouldn’t have the time to wait for smoking to finish her off. Like maybe Death was coming for her sooner rather than later.
“Oh,” she breathed, fighting a shiver. “You—don’t happen to have a light, do you?”
“But, of course.” With one hand he unbuttoned his suit coat, and long fingers disappeared into the pocket of his vest, from which a gold watch chain gleamed. “It’s the very least I can do.” He nodded toward the exit a few yards away. “Shall we?”
“Don’t you have luggage?”
“I posted my things overnight to my destination.” A solid gold lighter appeared in his glove. His black Armani leather glove. Nice.
Aerin couldn’t decide why every molecule of her body told her that following this man anywhere could be the last bad decision she ever made. In the end, addiction and attraction won out over common sense. It was just
a smoke. What could go wrong? They were in a crowded place with Homeland Security agents on hand for Chrissakes.
Besides, he didn’t look like the kind of man who got blood on his own hands—er—gloves. And he was lonely. He was so goddamned lonely it sang through the air with an intensity that would bring her to tears if she was the crying sort. It was an isolated desolation that couldn’t be contained in a mere lifetime.
God. Maybe she was losing it. He was perfectly collected. Besides, someone that handsome, rich, and powerful would never want for company.
“Let me,” his voice carried a gentle, almost apologetic note as he very deliberately pulled the fingers of his gloves from his hands and put them in his coat pocket before reaching for the handle of her luggage.
Aerin flashed him her most brilliant smile and warmed at the flare of heat in the otherwise solemn depths of his eyes. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Not yet.” His returning smile was genuine, but held a hint of… of what? Regret? Sadness?
Maybe she was seeing things.
Aerin surreptitiously studied his side profile as they walked to the door in companionable silence. He was what her PR manager would call a “tall glass of water.” Six-foot-four, at least, maybe taller. And on the thin side of well-built and the sickly side of pale, but he made it work for him. More gothic vampire than cancer patient. This was Seattle, after all. And he was obviously from the UK, which was a notoriously pale area of the world.
Harsh overhead lighting bounced off the silver strands in his otherwise ebony hair in a decidedly romantic way. Aerin couldn’t tell how long his pony-tail was, as the turned-up collar of his black wool overcoat hid most of it.
God he was beautiful. Like, runway model beautiful. Like, arc angel beautiful. Like every-woman-glared-at-her-with-more-dislike-than-usual-as-he-held-the-door-for-her beautiful. He was someone you chance upon on the Scottish moors in a Bronte novel, not at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport baggage claim terminal.
They faced each other beneath the awning, and she couldn’t help but notice how his wide shoulders and perfect posture contrasted with those dwindling number of souls who hunched against the moist cold, protecting the orange glow of their cigarettes.
He declined her offer of one, so she pulled it from her own pack, transferred it to her left hand and extended her right. “I’m Aerin, by the way, Aerin Doe.”
Liquid eyes flicked to her hand for the most imperceptible moment of pause before he opened the hinge on his antique lighter and flicked the wheel in one fluid movement. Offering it at a respectful distance, he allowed her the dignity of lowering her unshaken hand to light up. Someone less observant would have missed the calculation in that maneuver.
But observant was her middle name.
“Julian Roarke,” he murmured.
Of course his name was Julian. Someone with that face, with those eyes, could never be named “Brian” or “Dale.” It would have to be Julian or Sebastian or Vlad fucking Tepes.
A breeze threatened the flame, and Julian brought his palm up to cup it against the wind as he watched her draw on her cigarette with unprecedented interest. Aerin could feel the heat from his hand almost as tangibly as if he’d cupped her cheek. The sensation affected her in such a way she jerked back.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Doe,” he said as though he hadn’t noticed. “Is that dough as in pastry, or doe as in female deer?”
Aerin expelled a white stream politely through the side of her mouth and relished how his courteous conversation belied the white-hot sexual vibrations emanating from him. It was as though he wanted to know her, but didn’t want her to know that he wanted to fuck her.
It was bloody weird, and she liked it.
“Doe as in person of unknown origin,” she admitted.
“Ah,” he nodded tactfully. “I see.” His smooth expression said that he really did see, that he knew. Speaking of weird.
“Do you live in Seattle, Mr. Roarke, or are you visiting?” she asked with real curiosity.
“Julian, if you please. May I call you Aerin?”
“Sure.” With a voice like that, he could call her any damn thing he wanted.
“I’m in town for a summit, of sorts, with a few of my colleagues,” he said.
“Oh?” Aerin prodded.
“We’re all here at the behest of our…boss.”
“Who’s your boss, maybe I’ve heard of him?”
“You undoubtedly have done, but I’m afraid I cannot say.”
“That so?” Aerin flicked ash to the pavement. “I was curious before, now I’m intrigued. Let me guess, the Mafia?”
His silent smile caused the finest of lines to branch in his otherwise flawless skin as he shook his head.
“International drug cartel? Private security? Fashion Police? Interpol?” she joked. “The Vatican?”
A dark eyebrow twitched.
Her stomach twisted. “Oh God, don’t tell me I’ve been flirting with a really well-dressed priest.”
Julian’s dark sound of amusement washed her in goose bumps. “Not quite.”
“Good thing you’re not vague,” she snarked with a good-natured laugh. “These colleagues of yours. You in charge, or what?” Aerin had been in business a long time, and men such as Julian Roarke were never just middle management.
“We all have our roles,” he conceded. “Nicholas is in acquisitions, mergers, and hostile takeovers. And Drustan… he makes cuts where need be. Spends most of his time on the front lines, as it were. And Killian, he’s mostly in weights and measurements. Product distribution. Getting everyone where they ultimately need to be.”
“And you?” At this point, her relentlessness shut down most men. Not Julian Roarke, he seemed even more amused by her.
“I’m often more of a silent partner, called in only when my expertise is needed.”
“Which is…” She rolled her hand in an impatient gesture.
“My specialties are microbiology and bio-chemistry. Though I have been known to dabble in agriculture and the… population density management of certain carbon-based organic colonies.”
Aerin grinned. “Cool, I’m in IT.” It wasn’t hubris to admit that it was hard to find men who could keep up with her intellectually. It seemed that Julian Roarke could not just do that, but also challenge her. Which was so rare.
And so unbelievably sexy.
His smooth, cool façade warmed another notch, a pale fire glowing bright in his eyes. “So, Aerin Doe, you’ve been flirting with me?”
“I think I was working my way up to being less subtle.” She gave him a look from beneath her lashes, and if she wasn’t imagining it, a tinge of color dotted his cheeks.
“What brings you to Seattle?” he dodged the subject. “Business or pleasure?”
The way he said pleasure caused odd warmth to bloom in the region of her panties.
Down girl, she thought.
“I’m still trying to figure it out. I think I have to be on a ferry in the morning.” Somehow, she hadn’t gone west enough. And someone with her own voice was calling her across the Puget Sound.
“Are you hungry?” she asked him. “Can I buy you dinner?” And then have you for dessert?
His brows drew together and his expression turned stormy, as though she’d just asked him to lick the ashtray. “I would rather die than allow a lady to pay for my meal.”
She shrugged. “Okay… You haven’t caught up to the twenty-first century, but I can deal. I’ll let you buy me dinner.”
“There isn’t time,” he whispered with a look of such profound regret, Aerin suddenly felt desperate not to let go of him. What the fuck? Desperate wasn’t a word that had ever been in her repertoire before.
“Drinks?” she offered. They could exchange info, and maybe meet up later.
“You’re not intimidated by me, are you?” It was a question in the form of a statement and it intrigued Aerin to no end.
“I could a
sk you the same thing, Julian Roarke. Are you intimidated by me?”
“You terrify me.” The statement was full of truth. And sex.
She put her cigarette out. “I promise to be gentle…the first time.” She threw him her most suggestive look.
That sadness was back. That reluctant, ancient loneliness. A yearning…one that went beyond sex, beyond emotion, into a realm she didn’t quite understand blasted at her from him, and she had to fight not to take a step back.
“There is something I must do Aerin,” he murmured by way of rejection. “I truly wish we’d met under different circumstances.”
Aerin had learned to cover her feelings long ago, and it took every last modicum of strength she had to pull her shit together and keep her face as cool and smooth as his. “Yes, well. C’est la vie. Thank you for the light, Julian. And good luck with your summit.”
She reached for the handle to her suitcase that rested between them, hoping to escape before she really embarrassed herself.
“Aerin, wait…” He reached out, but his hand paused half-way, suspended there as though held by a marionette string. “Meeting you really was an unexpected pleasure… as brief as our time has been.”
Then ask for my number, you ass.
“You too. Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday,” she hinted.
“Perhaps.” Though his face said not bloody likely.
They both had shit to do, she guessed, and slid her fingers into his big hand for a goodbye shake.
His entire body jolted at the contact, as though her fingers were an electricity conductor. He closed his eyes as though savoring the moment and when he opened them, his nostrils flared with a raw, almost animal hunger.
Okay…weird.
Aerin went to pull back, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t let her. But he released her hand, finger by finger, and extracted his grip as though fighting some kind of adhesive.
A phone in his pocket rang, and Aerin was glad it broke the moment’s intensity.
Which Witch is Which? (The Witches of Port Townsend) Page 18