by Sandy James
He was turning her brains to mush.
Focus on your job, Megan.
She pried her gaze away and let it settle on her objective.
Maksim Popov was tall. Probably six-two or more, only a smidgen shorter than Johann. He had long, wavy, black hair tied behind his neck with a thin silver ribbon. His dark beard was neatly trimmed and held a smattering of gray. But his eyes were what held her attention. Dark eyes, more black than brown.
Those eyes that had followed her as she explored Ashley Douglass’s bedroom now swept the ballroom. In an apparent appraisal, they settled on each woman, one by one, before moving on. He finally let his gaze rest on her, and his lips curled into a smile. Her Amazon intuition nudged her again.
“He sees you,” Johann said, wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her up against his side. He almost knocked her off her high heels.
“That’s good. At least he’s easy on the eye.”
Megan tried to put a little distance between them by bumping him with her hip. Not only would his being glued to her make it hard to do her job, but being that close made her crazy. She could smell his cologne. Something light, spicy and horribly masculine. She could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I pictured someone more…demonic,” she said. “You know. Horns. A forked tongue. Some kind of tail. But he’s sexy. No wonder all the girls like him.”
Johann growled and pulled her tighter.
She had no idea what had gotten into him. He’d always seemed to want to put more distance between them, not keep her literally attached at the hip.
“You’ve obviously spent too much time hunting demons,” he said. “You’ve got terrible taste. Stay close to me.”
Megan bumped him with her hip again, hard enough to knock him a few inches sideways. “I will not. I’m supposed to try to find out about this guy.” She took a step to her side, patted her hair, made sure her strapless dress hadn’t slipped too low and started walking.
Fire. I am Fire. Fire. I am Fire.
The chant kept her spine straight, her chin high and her hands from shaking. She was an Amazon and could face any adversary and bring him to his knees.
Such a shame Johann Herrmann wasn’t an adversary. Perhaps then she would know how to handle him.
Planting herself in front of the guest of honor, she waited as his slow, deliberate gaze raked her body from head to toe and back again. Had she been one of the Barbie dolls flanking him, she would have scratched his eyes out for giving another woman such a blatantly sexual appraisal. Not that she cared who Popov liked or didn’t like, but if she was with Johann and he stared at another woman that way, he’d be toast.
The blonde’s lip distorted into a sneer as Max pulled his arm away from her. She retreated several steps but continued to glower at Megan. The other woman shook her head, disengaged herself from the singer, turned and walked away.
Megan had him all to herself.
Shit. Now what do I do?
“Perhaps you would like to dance, dorogoy.” Max inclined his head toward the couples who were slowly working their way to the center of the enormous room which now served as the dance floor.
His Russian accent was exotic, the words sliding from his mouth in a way that made her feel warm and relaxed—like she’d downed a couple good shots of whiskey. She shook her head to clear it but the thick feeling wouldn’t leave.
“Dorogoy?” She threw him what she hoped was a flirtatious glance.
“Ah, a slip of the tongue. Forgive me. Dorogoy is Russian for ‘darling.’ An endearment, but too soon in our relationship, I think. I do not wish to scare you away with my eagerness.” He reached for her hand. She allowed him to brush a kiss across her knuckles.
His voice might be warm, but his lips were as cold as ice. She suppressed a shudder at the reptilian feel of his kiss. “I don’t scare easily.”
“Ah, but you do. I can see it in your eyes. You pretend to be made of steel, but you are frightened of opening up to another person. You are much like a beautiful vixen, ready to run at the hint of someone drawing too near.” His head tilted as he stared intensely into her eyes. “What is your name?”
Funny, but he asked the question as if he already knew the answer. “Megan. Megan Feurer.”
“Ah. German for ‘fire’—a name that suits you well. From the top of your head to your pretty toes.” Reaching out, he pinched a wisp of her loose hair between his fingers. “Hair the color of the fiery streaks of a setting sun.” He smoothed the hair behind her ear.
It took every ounce of her strength not to flinch at the feel of his chilly hand.
“And you, beautiful lady, think I am dangerous.”
God, those dark eyes frightened her.
I am Fire. I fear no man.
But Megan feared Maksim Popov. Worse, he damn well knew it. That predatory gaze seemed to devour her. She wondered if those eyes had seduced Ashley Douglass and the other three girls who’d been abandoned in a self-storage unit like so much trash.
He exuded sexuality. Handsome. Masculine. Feral. Deadly. Those girls must have been easy prey for a creature like this. Did he consume their innocence before he killed them? The Amazon in her vowed to make him pay for his crimes. She owed the dead girls justice because no one else could make Popov answer for the horrors he’d committed.
Yes, she feared him, but she would stand her ground and see this mission through to the bitter end.
Fire. I am Fire.
She offered him an inviting smile. “Then I will embrace danger…on the dance floor.”
Max chuckled and led her to the middle of the throng of dancing couples. He turned to the orchestra as their first song concluded. Lifting his hand, he gave it a dramatic flip and said, “A tango.” At the first strain of music, he pulled her hard against his chest. “Do you dance, Megan Feurer?”
She shook her head, wondering how in the hell she was going to bluff her way through this. A tango? Shit, she’d probably trip over her own feet in her ridiculous high heels.
“Not unless you count the high school prom,” she replied. “Couldn’t find a date, so I went stag.” Suddenly feeling awkward, she glanced down, hoping she wasn’t stepping on her dress.
He put his index finger under her chin and forced her head up so she would look at him. “A woman as beautiful as you? Such childish boys to not recognize the bounty before their eyes.” His gaze was pulling her into an eddy, into a deep dark hole. “I am no boy, Megan Feurer. I am a man. I will not make that mistake. You shall dance tonight. Just look into my eyes and follow my lead, dorogoy.”
The world seemed to melt away. She couldn’t hear the voices, couldn’t see anything but his face swimming in front of her. The steps suddenly became second nature. Every whirl, every snap of the arms, every tight embrace. She simply kept her attention glued to Max’s hypnotic stare and obeyed his silent commands.
“Good, vixen. Good.”
Were the words were spoken aloud or echoing through her mind?
She was lost to all but Maksim Popov.
* * *
Johann wanted to put his fist through Maksim Popov’s face.
The other couples left the dance floor one by one as all eyes in the enormous room were glued to Megan and Max. The man held Megan like a lover—like he knew every secret of her body.
She clung to him, matching each step, each turn, her gaze never leaving his. Where had she learned to tango? She moved with the grace of a feline, her body seemingly knowing every move Max would make.
After a long pass across the floor, Max stopped and gave her a leer as he pushed the skirt of her dress aside. He slipped his hand inside the long slit across her exposed thigh. Drawing her leg up the side of his body until he cradled her knee against his hip, he leaned his forehead against hers. They appeared to
be lovers in a passionate embrace.
It took every ounce of Johann’s strength not to stomp across that dance floor, grab her by the arm and drag her the hell out of the museum.
But he couldn’t. She was an Amazon, and she was doing her job. He settled for clenching his hands into fists and planning on taking his frustration and anger out on his punching bag when they got back to the condo. Then he remembered he’d left the damn thing in Avalon. At this rate, he’d probably put a fist through something—or someone—before the night was over.
The music came to a merciful end as applause and whistles echoed through the museum. Max bowed to Megan who appeared to be in a daze, swaying gently as if she’d had a few too many shots of tequila.
Something’s wrong.
He’d seen her drunk once—back in Avalon after Sparks died. She’d drank Gina and Sarita under the table. Even then, Megan had maintained total control of her body. Walking back to her cabin from Rebecca’s home, she hadn’t missed a step. Not a one. Hell, she was the only person he’d known who could pass a field sobriety test while she was entirely plastered.
No, something’s definitely wrong.
Damn it, he should have noticed sooner. Instead, he’d let his jealousy run rampant and ignored his job. A few angry strides and he reached her side.
“Megan,” Johann said, grabbing her elbow to help steady her. Her eyes were dead, the sparkle of mischief and life were gone. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Max gave him a soft chuckle that Johann almost took as an invitation to pound the man into a bloody pulp. “Dorogoy,” Max said as he snapped his fingers, “the dance is over. Come to me. The Paramount Theater in Aurora. You shall see my show.”
He walked away, a feral smile on his lips.
If Johann hadn’t seen her dancing with the man, he might have assumed she’d just awakened. Her eyes seemed to suddenly focus, but she sure didn’t know where she was.
“Megan?” He reached out and brushed the back of his knuckles against her flushed cheek.
“Johann? Where are—” She glanced down at her dress. “The party. We’re at the party.”
“You don’t remember?”
Her brows knit. “Yes, I—I met Maksim Popov.”
Johann nodded. “You danced with him.”
“I did? I guess I did.”
“I don’t like this one fucking bit.” He was scowling and tried to soften his expression. Something supernatural had just happened, and it wasn’t her fault. She’d been a victim. By thinking of her that way, he could explain away her being so physically close to Popov. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but this isn’t right. There’s something up with this guy. He’s using some kind of magicks.”
* * *
Megan tried to clear her foggy mind.
Of course there were magicks involved!
She wanted to shout at Johann, but she couldn’t find the energy—as if the rest of the world floated around her in some kind of slow motion.
She remembered the tango as if she’d been outside her own body, watching Max dance with her from a distance. His voice had filled her mind, guiding her feet, twisting her hips and forcing her into a passionate embrace. He’d had his hands all over her. She felt violated. Dirty.
Those dark eyes were still on her, boring through her from across the room.
She reached blindly for Johann. “I want to go home. Now.”
Her Sentinel soothed her with one touch. His fingers brushed over her forearm. “You can’t show him your fear.”
But she was afraid. Fire wasn’t supposed to be frightened. Johann was surely disappointed in her. He had to feel her trembling as if she’d just been dunked in Lake Michigan on a January day.
Fire. I am Fire.
The mantra did no good. For the first time in her life, she was terrified and couldn’t bluff her way out of it. Bravado wouldn’t work anymore.
His hand folded over hers, and he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Don’t feed him your fear. You’re an Amazon, Megan. You’re Fire.”
She tried to listen to him, to let him take away the icy shards of fear piercing her like knives. “I’m Fire.”
“C’mon,” he said as he led her back to the dance floor. “Come dance with me.”
Megan followed, feeling safe as long as his hand was wrapped so tightly around hers. Finding a place in the crowd of couples, he pulled her into his arms.
She felt awkward for a moment, but then the shyness faded away. Perhaps it was the feel of those arms wrapped snugly around her or the smell of that wonderful cologne or the warmth radiating from his body, but she found comfort in the dance.
As Johann tugged her closer, she reached her arm around his neck as he cradled her other hand against his chest. “Are we allowed to do this? Rhiannon wouldn’t approve.”
“I don’t give a damn what Rhiannon thinks. Dance with me. Show Popov you don’t scare that easily.”
She forgot about Maksim Popov. She forgot about Rhiannon. She forgot her own name. The world had shrunk to the two of them, to the feel of his embrace, to the safety she found in his arms.
The music became nothing more than a buzz in her ears as she lifted her eyes to meet his. The man was too handsome for words to do justice. There were no proper terms to describe the vivid blue of his eyes or the sharpness of his features. It was like she was seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time.
How corny was that? She knew his face well. She’d broken his nose the last time they’d sparred in the sand pit at Avalon. Artair had to smush the thing back in place while Johann had glared at her, hands on his hips, blood trickling from each nostril. She’d felt a bit guilty when she heard the bone crack back into position. At least she’d felt bad until the infuriating man had crooked his finger at her, inviting her back into the sand pit. Then he’d thrown her on her ass.
She’d always loved fighting him more than fighting the other Amazons—more than fighting with Artair. Johann offered her the biggest challenge, and he never held back. Swords. Daggers. Martial arts. They were evenly matched and neither could ever claim the most victories. Rebecca might love her bow and arrows, but Megan liked to get her hands dirty—especially with Johann. When they fought, it was like foreplay.
Now, his warm hand—the one that had split her lip on more than one occasion—splayed between her bare shoulder blades, burning her skin. Johann rested his chin against her temple. “Feeling stronger?”
Stronger? She could take on every damn demon in the whole damn world and kick their asses single-handedly.
He gave her warmth. He gave her strength. And he made her want things she knew she couldn’t have.
“Megan?” he whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending heat racing through her that pooled between her legs. Need consumed her. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted another man.
She couldn’t find her voice. If she did, she’d blurt out the desire coursing through her. She wanted to wrap herself around him. She wanted to run her fingers over every inch of that gorgeous body and through that surfer-boy blond hair. She wanted those hands that had tossed her around in Avalon to touch her with passion. With love. If she opened her mouth, she’d make a fool of herself. Emotions she’d never expected to feel for any man were drowning her.
“Damn it,” Megan muttered when she caught the first whiff of smoke.
Had anyone noticed? No one seemed to react to her outburst. No one except her Sentinel.
Johann was already pulling her hand away from his neck. “Shit. I was afraid you’d lose it. Rein it in and I’ll get us out of here.”
He might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water in her face. Need was replaced with anger. The smoky odor increased, and she knew he was right. She was out of control, but he didn’t have to be an asshole and point it ou
t so bluntly.
He’d dragged her all the way to the street by the time the sparks really started to fly. She put her palm over the crown of her head as the flashes shot out between her fingers.
What color were the pyrotechnics this time? As emotional as she was, they were probably a brilliant shade of red. At least they would match her dress.
“You need to get yourself under control,” he scolded. “As soon as we stop Popov, I’m taking you back to Avalon. You need more training and a hell of a lot more discipline.”
“Stop scolding me, Joeman.”
Those handsome features were now locked in a scowl. “You need scolding. You’re out of control.”
“Quit saying that. I’m fine.” More sparks spurted through her fingers, and her hands were getting so warm, she wasn’t sure she should take them off her head. So much for being fine. Flames would probably erupt from her palms. What if she shape-shifted on the street?
“Where’s your car?”
“Parking garage.” She inclined her head toward the attached structure. “Third floor, section D.”
Johann grabbed her elbow. Megan stumbled to keep up with him as they headed toward the garage. By the time they reached her Mercedes, she’d found enough calm to cool her palms. She didn’t smell smoke any longer, so she hoped the fireworks had subsided as well. He stopped at the passenger side.
“Give me the key,” he ordered.
His command fired her up again. “You’re not driving my car, Joeman.”
“The hell I’m not.”
Fire shot from her left palm. The flames landed on the concrete and fizzled out. He scoffed and held out his hand in a silent command.
“Fine.” She reached into her bodice and pulled the key to the Mercedes from where it had rested between her breasts. She refused to lay it politely in his hand, tossing it to him.