by Calista Fox
Also From Calista Fox
Excerpt: Craving You
Fake dating isn’t his thing. But this particular hookup is too hot for Tague Mason to resist: A striking redhead name L.L. Branson, who is the direct opposite of everything his high-society family expects him to bring to a prestigious corporate affair—and everything that makes him burn. For one woman, only.
L.L. knows she’s not Tague’s type, given his prestigious family name—and her secret grand ambition of turning the adult toys she designs for a discriminating clientele into a global operation. But one touch…one kiss…and the smoldering begins.
Their cravings for each other intensify with every searing encounter. But Tague has plans of his own…and they don’t involve falling in love.
Chapter One
“Is setting me up on a blind date your idea of a morbid joke?” Tague Mason asked as his wide strides carried him swiftly along Manhattan’s Sixth Avenue. He stealthily wove through the early morning foot traffic as his friend, Chip McAllister, dodged oncoming pedestrians in an attempt to keep pace. “Or is this L.L. Branson you want me to meet related or befriended to an out-of-your-league prospect and you can’t seal the deal without a wingman?”
“Please,” Chip scoffed, his breath a white puff of frigid December air. “I don’t need your help to score babes.” He bristled a moment, then conceded, “Well, yeah, okay. Sometimes I do.”
Tague gave a half-snort. “If only you’d put this much effort into catapulting yourself from associate to partner before you’re thirty.”
“I’m not on the overachiever’s accelerated timeframe. I’ll leave that to you.”
Both men worked at the premier law firm Mason, Hoffman & Stein, founded by Tague’s late grandfather, Alexander Mason. Tague was a high-powered, international corporate attorney who’d spent the majority of the past two years on a copyright infringement case for a large media conglomerate in Tokyo.
Chip was primarily a divorce lawyer, but consulted on various other cases when necessary.
They were both twenty-eight. Both Harvard Law graduates. Both from wealthy families.
That was where the similarities ended.
Chip McAllister was five-ten with light-brown hair, hazel eyes and an every-girl’s-best-friend air that caused women to flock to him in droves. Unfortunately, the vast majority of those women didn’t end up fucking him, but cried on his shoulder about some other guy—ex-lover or wanna-be lover.
He never seemed to mind—too much. Chip was good-natured and always lent a sympathetic ear.
Tague was still single as well, but that was currently more by his design than anything else. His ambition and laser-focus on his goals, combined with his six-foot-four-inch stature, powerful build, dark eyes and even darker hair, had him exuding a raw intensity that typically made women take two steps back and regard him from a safer distance.
Sparking curiosity was never a problem for Tague. Batted eyelashes, lingering gazes, suggestive smiles... He was all too familiar with every flirtatious gesture and feminine wiles employed by womankind. But even the most brazen of those who approached him oftentimes found him a bit too potent. Too commanding. Too in charge of every facet of his life, including a chance meeting, a one-night stand, a two-week sexfest. Whatever.
Even as Tague made his way toward his office building—on the opposite side of the street, because Chip was adamant about the coffee-shop stop before they headed into the firm—he knew exactly how this spur-of-the-moment arrangement his colleague had set up would go.
The woman would be attractive. Very much so. She’d be intelligent, and Tague would appreciate that. But she wouldn’t comprehend the fact that his work meant everything to him. Or that he was meticulous, cautious even, when it came to his personal acquaintances because he’d been burned before.
Badly.
“You realize I’m only in Manhattan for a brief period,” he told Chip.
“A social engagement or two while you’re here won’t kill you. In fact, it might help to improve that surly disposition. All work and no dating makes Tague a very grumpy boy.”
“Grumpy scares the shit out of opposing counsel,” he said with the same hard stare that had caused many a lawyer to forget their own defense.
“Give me a chance here,” Chip urged. “I think you’ll be amenable to my selection.”
Tague doubted it.
Just like the ebb and flow of the bustling city, the steam rising from manholes, the screeching of brakes and the endless honking of car horns, every nuance of his romantic life held the potential to be predictable because he was a Mason. Scripted, if anyone other than Tague had a say in the matter. Unfortunately, two extremely prominent people once had. His parents.
When it came to Harper and June Mason, predictable meant Tague “ought” to date women within the family’s high-society circle who had no grander aspiration than trophy wife. Polite ladies who lunch. Genteel sorts who spoke softly, agreed with anything he said and didn’t make waves in private. And especially not in public.
Bor-ing.
Tague wanted siren-red vivaciousness. Not everything-should-be-beige pretentiousness.
And he’d learned the hard way that the only one who could control his destiny was himself. To allow someone else even the slightest bit of influence over him... That could prove—had proved—detrimental.
Never. Again.
Even nine years after his ill-fated relationship with Renee Redmond, the only woman Tague had ever fallen in love with, thoughts of the massive destruction his parents tended to incite with the force of an F5 hurricane did nothing more than evoke the desire to punch something. Or someone.
Chip was damn lucky Tague cut him slack for hijacking his morning to make this spontaneous introduction. Were it anyone else butting into his life in this manner, they likely would have been left sprawled on the floor as Tague stalked off.
“For the record,” he told his friend, “I do date.”
“Sure you do.” Chip gave a semi-eyeball roll. Again, something only he could get away with, because they’d been through thick and thin during their years at Harvard. “You’ve been overseas all this time.”
“I can ask a woman out when I’m in Tokyo. I am fluent in Japanese,” Tague retorted.
“And what do you do on these imaginary dates?” his colleague pressed, undeterred—and, apparently, unconvinced.
“I happen to like sushi.”
“You happen to like solitude. A bit too much. That’s why I’m helping you out this time.”
Chip gestured for him to veer to the left, into the crowded coffee house.
Tague jerked open the glass-and-metal door. The truth was, he’d only gone out for cocktails a handful of times over the past couple of years. No need to add fuel to Chip’s fire, though, so he didn’t mention his near non-existent dating activities. Tague was also still smarting over his split from Renee—a topic he avoided entirely with his friend.
Again evading thoughts of her, he asked, “What, exactly, is the purpose of this impromptu meet-and-greet?”
Granted, he was giving his best friend the benefit of the doubt, but shit. Tague knew there was no point in wasting fifteen minutes that could be better spent further prepping for a debrief he was scheduled to present this morning.
“The firm party Friday night,” Chip said. Reminded him, really. “Unless you pick up a date in five days, you’ll be the only junior partner there sans arm candy.”
Tague shot him a dour look. “That is not a term I’ve ever heard you use. You don’t subscribe to the arm candy theory as a means to spring-boarding one’s career any more than I do. My success in Tokyo speaks for itself.”
“There’s an image that’s necessary for the promotion to equity-partner you’re vying for—an image you have yet to cultivate, being the rebel of the Mason family.”
“To hell with the image,” Tague agitatedly muttered. “Look, this is ridiculous. Totally unwarranted. I don’t care if I’m the only on
e at the party without a date. I don’t need a date. I’ve put my name on the map by laying the groundwork to establish operations in Japan. I’ll do it time and time again, with or without a gorgeous wo—”
“Hi.”
Said gorgeous woman suddenly appeared before him, flashing a vibrant smile that revealed perfectly straight, pearly white teeth and a seductive dimple in her left cheek that rendered Tague speechless.
Something that never happened.
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Excerpt: Royal Obsession
He’s an extraordinary ruler. But he’s no ordinary royal…
Of demon descent, Damien is powerful, formidable—and immortal. As king of the land he’s conquered, he now fights to maintain peace between the paranormal and the humans. Yet one fatal encounter causes the two worlds to collide and Damien finds himself facing the object of his secret obsession, mortal Jade Deville.
Enraged by broken human-demon treaties, Jade confronts Damien, knowing the danger she puts herself in by doing so. Yet she’s determined to protect her kind. Never in her wildest imagination, however, could she have fathomed the demon king to be so commanding in presence, so intensely intimidating, so…hot. Their attraction is instantaneous, fiery—and potentially deadly. Damien tries to stay away. But Jade is surrounded by danger, targeted by a sinister force…and not exactly everything she appears to be. An epic battle looms on the horizon that will test their skills, their loyalty and their love. And that’s only the start...
Note: This book was previously published with the title, The Demon King.
Chapter 1
Not all humans are good.
Not all demons are evil.
Jade Deville had heard those words uttered by her mother on more than one occasion. Never publicly, of course, for that would incite much controversy. Yet she would whisper in the darkness of Jade’s bedroom when, as a young girl, Jade asked about the various species so that she might better understand the dangerous creatures that ruled the world in which she lived.
Now twenty-six years old, Jade still had a difficult time understanding her mother’s stance. History books and the sparse remainder of humans across the continents following the decade-long world war that started in 2019 proved the demonic community was as deadly as terrorist attacks, bio-weaponry and nuclear bombs—the latter of which had been destroyed by the demons before combat had even ensued, effectively wiping out a large-scale defense.
Despite her mother’s empathy that had never fully been explained, Jade could not muster an ounce of compassion for the damned. After all, werewolves had viciously mauled her parents when she was just eleven, killing them both.
As she left her cottage on the banks of the narrow river that snaked its way along the outskirts of the village of Ryleigh, in northeastern Maine, she zipped her black leather jacket against the nip of the crisp autumn evening. And the biting sentiment lingering in the back of her mind, tonight more taunting than ever.
Plump snowflakes glistened in the silvery rays of moonlight that penetrated the spindle-fingered cloud cover overhead and the dense forest of skyscraping trees. Jade wove her way along the worn path that led to the heart of the village. The ground was hard beneath her feet, frozen, with a light dusting of white that would likely turn into a foot of fresh powder by the time she returned home.
If she returned home. One could never be too sure in this day and age, and Jade in particular.
Something watched her. She sensed its presence. Felt its gaze on her. This wasn’t the first time, and she was certain what followed her was not human. There were no snapping of twigs beneath its feet. No scent wafting on a stiff breeze. And she didn’t hear the slightest hint of breathing or see a puff of frosty air—as was the case with her, a human.
She suspected what tracked her was a wraith from the Demon King’s army. They were the most difficult to spot with their black cloaks blending into the inky night as they floated weightlessly over the land, making nary a sound. Yet they left a chill along the nape, if one paid close enough attention. Jade always did.
Although she was unable to see her pursuer, she had the right to demand the creature reveal itself. By royal decree, she was allowed to confront whatever threatened her.
The Demon King Damien—who’d commanded the outbreak of war when he rose to power thirty-five years ago—had surprisingly, upon his victory, issued several edicts in favor of the defeated and in the name of peacekeeping in the new world. One of which proclaimed no demon within his coalition could stalk, hunt or harm a human, unless said human was a slayer or witch who made the initial predatory move. A rare occurrence because both were in limited quantities these days.
In fact, Ryleigh was extremely fortunate to have two of their own slayers, who served as magistrates. Most towns shared a slayer amongst a hundred or so other settlements. Not great odds against those rogue demons who defied the law, nor an assurance of safety in the grand scheme of things.
Jade’s community was well protected for a reason. Regardless of the sanctions governing immortal interactions with mortals that might suggest it wasn’t necessary to have a duo of slayers in such a remote, lightly human-populated area, the village sat in the shadow of the demon ruler’s vast legion of allies.
The kingdom sprawled along the ridge of a portion of the New Brunswick border. Many of the vampires, shapeshifters and other unholy beings made residence within and outside the castle walls. Dark and foreboding as it rose above the pines, the castle lent a menacing and perilous presence to the region.
King Damien was the most revered of warlords. Given his massive federation and that he oversaw a large geographical expanse—that being all of North and Central America—he possessed the power to reign over the three stewards he’d appointed, each acting as the king’s representative for their designated territory.
As part of his regulations that kept the otherworldly immortals from preying on humans, the king had also declared no more than two preternatural beings at a time may roam close to or enter a village, the perimeter of which—in Ryleigh’s case—the slayers patrolled.
That particular pact might not have been broken this evening, but the no stalking restriction had clearly been violated by whatever tailed Jade.
A shiver chased down her spine and it wasn’t from the frigid gust whistling in a shrill tone through the trees. It was from the wraith.
Agitating her further was that she couldn’t discern in which direction the danger came or how to counteract it. Although she possessed above-average fighting skills, thanks to her father, she’d be no match for a ghost—the very reason she didn’t call out the hunter.
Quickening her steps, she reached the village proper, dimly lit by lampposts topped with torches enclosed in glass-and-iron lanterns. There was little activity on the cracked and brittle sidewalks or the pothole-invested streets, which had accumulated so much dirt over the years from lack of use, it was difficult to believe asphalt lay beneath the uneven soil.
Jade made her way to the tavern at the end of the block. She took one more look around her, pausing just outside the lively establishment, listening intently for any sign of what followed her. Not a peep, save for the hint of noise that breached the tavern walls and the chiming of the bell in its tower in the village square, signaling she was right on time for work at seven o’clock.
She shoved open the door and crossed the scuffed hardwood floor.
“Hey, Jade,” a few of the villagers greeted her.
“’Evening, everyone,” she said as she passed by, peeling off her jacket and shaking the snowflakes from it before hanging the garment on a hook in the far corner.
The tavern was as faintly lit as the streets. Candles on the long wooden tables and sconces hanging on the stone walls provided the only illumination, with the exception of the occasional lighting of a twig or dried needles set against a flame when a patron splurged on a hand-rolled cigarette.
Electricity, among other things, was not a commod
ity in this part of the country. Rumor had it, the humans on the West Coast had struck a bargain with their steward years ago and he had permitted them to restore limited power lines within larger communities. Apparently, the technique employed was circa late-nineteenth century, when electricity first made its way into homes in America.
Since Jade had never lived in a world with energy, she didn’t miss it. She could prepare meals over a fire and read by candlelight.
Modern amenities, it seemed, were of little use to the demon population, and that meant no manufacturing plants or advanced technology. Although, one major concession the king had made for easterners was mass purification of water.
Desalination procedures using condensers fueled by fire that boiled the liquid and pumped steam through salvaged pipes created condensation that turned into drinkable water. This made it possible to stock icehouses with sterilized cubes, as well as blocks cut from frozen lakes, useful for packing metal replicas of refrigerators.
Another allowance was human transportation by way of the occasional steam locomotive following the restoration of a main coast-to-coast railroad, which also provided importing and trading capabilities amongst territories. The demons themselves preferred their own two feet—or four legs, in the case of the animal shifters—or the gleaming black Arabians they were prone to breed.
Starting her shift, Jade tended to the small hearth to add more warmth to the room, then joined the tavern owner and her lifelong friend, Michael Hadley, as he served beers to the regulars gathered at the bar. The wooden surface was deeply scarred, but nobody seemed to mind. One simply had to be cautious of where they set their mug, so as to not perch it precariously in a groove.
“Damn cold out there, isn’t it?” Michael asked. He was easy on the eyes, with rugged looks, a head of tousled, russet-colored hair and a tall, muscular build.