by Michele Hauf
He smelled of man
Aby glided toward the bar, uncharacteristically drawn by the handsome stranger. He was tall, with long legs and cowboy boots. His broad shoulders gave her a shudder, and she wondered at his strength. Strong men always made her look twice.
But there was something about the man…something predatory that put her on guard and called to her womanhood. She got a new scent. It was dark, malevolent.
Was he human?
He filled the air around her, and went beyond it, as if his aura could not be contained. And Aby was powerless to resist him.
She had no idea who he was, but she’d find out. She only hoped her curiosity didn’t kill the cat….
Books by Michele Hauf
Silhouette Nocturne
* From the Dark #3
Familiar Stranger #21
* Kiss Me Deadly #24
* His Forgotten Forever #44
Winter Kissed #52
“A Kiss of Frost”
* The Devil To Pay #55
** The Highwayman #68
LUNA Books
Seraphim
Gossamyr
Rhiana
MICHELE HAUF
has been writing for over a decade and has published historical, fantasy and paranormal romances. A good strong heroine, action and adventure and a touch of romance make for her favorite kind of story. (And if it’s set in France, all the better.) She lives with her family in Minnesota, and loves the four seasons, even if one of them lasts six months and can be colder than a deep freeze. You can find out more about her at www.michelehauf.com.
MICHELE HAUF
The HIGHWAYMAN
Dear Reader,
One of the sexiest images to me is the lone highwayman waiting alongside the road for an oncoming carriage, anticipating the riches he can steal with a flash of his pistol or a seductive smile. But he’s selfless, robbing from the rich and giving to those in need, getting by on only what he needs to survive. My hero is all that, and he’s also immortal, has a nasty demon riding on his back, and hasn’t slept or eaten in over 250 years. Hey, I take pride in torturing my menfolk.
If you’ve been following the BEWITCHING THE DARK series, you’ll notice that this new series, WICKED GAMES, is set in the same paranormal world. I’m moving beyond the battle between the vampires and witches (took care of that in The Devil To Pay) and am exploring more of those men and women who live, dream, breathe, seduce and play in a world that continues to fascinate me, and that I hope will fascinate you, as well.
Michele
This one’s for Tara Gavin, my editor, because
sometimes I want my men to have lace dripping
from their sleeves and she says, “Absolutely not.”
One of these days, when you’re not looking, I will
sneak some lace onto my hero’s sleeve or collar.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Prologue
C hased by a shadow? Impossible.
But as Jeffrey Raymond scrambled across the tarmac, a dark figment followed. Black and vapory, like a floating shadow.
He glanced over his shoulder. Was it getting darker? More solid?
Slapping his palm to the brick wall, he swung around the corner, only to find a dead end.
He raced as far as he could down the alley, then swung about to face the menace.
No longer a shadow, it had changed into a menacing figure, humanlike and hulking. At the end of the alleyway, the figure stood taller than he by a head, dressed in a long black duster coat. His arms were arced as if prepared to draw six-shooters from hip holsters. Moonlight glinted on a silver ring at his thumb. Mist from a nearby sewer fogged about his legs.
He looked like something out of a summer blockbuster movie—but Jeffrey wasn’t choking down the popcorn.
Moments earlier he’d thought a shadow pursued him. Slinking along the brick walls, traipsing across the alleys, Jeffrey had fled the dark sensation of being watched.
Of knowing he would not survive this night.
Now there was nowhere to run.
Stumbling, he slammed a shoulder against a rough brick wall. Escape was up the side of a three-story building. He spied an iron ladder a mere leap from his grasp, but running had exhausted him. This mortal shell he’d nabbed earlier wasn’t in any condition to run a marathon.
The Highwayman approached slowly, silent upon the fog.
Yes, he knew this man was the one whispered about amongst his kin. The hunter who stalked the night, brandishing a razored whip against demons, vampires, werewolves, any and all paranormals.
The Highwayman didn’t look so imposing. He could take him.
If he hadn’t had that seventh Kamikaze while attempting to seduce the blonde at the bar. Misery was his demonic forte, not seduction. But a dude needed to indulge in the mortal pleasure of sex once in a while—which was why he’d stolen this mortal body.
Mist swirled at the Highwayman’s boots as he narrowed their distance. Jeffrey hadn’t seen him move, yet now the man held something in his right hand.
The whip?
“Hey, dude,” Jeffrey tried, hating that his voice trembled. “Let’s talk about this. I think you got the wrong guy.”
The whip cracked the tarmac. The noise sliced down Jeffrey’s spine. He flinched, then realized he hadn’t been touched. What were those red glowing things along the braided whip?
He wished to hell he could smoke on out of here. But when panicked, he couldn’t shift shapes, and escaping the mortal shell was a bitch. Damn those Kamikazes!
“I never make a mistake,” the Highwayman hissed ominously. “You’re a misery demon and your head is mine.”
“Dude, no, I like my head!”
“Then why don’t you use it to manifest peace and acceptance?”
“Peace? That’s just wrong, dude. That’s not my thing. Hey, why don’t you send me back to where I came from?”
“The demonic realm? What’s to prevent you from returning?”
“I wouldn’t.” A lie. He was desperate. “You want to send me away?”
“I want you off this earth.”
The whip soughed in the air. The glowing red sigils entranced him. Ah. Demon binding sigils.
Damn.
Razors stung Jeffrey’s neck. The first slice burned across his Adam’s apple. He enjoyed wearing mortal flesh, but when it experienced pain, man, it really knocked him off his game.
A cry for mercy spurt out on a gush of blood. Before risking entrapment inside the mortal shell, the demon disconnected from flesh and blood. The mortal shell known as Jeffrey Raymond collapsed, left to be found comatose hours or days later by druggies or garbage men.
The misery demon formed, red flesh and muscles, stretched torso and clawed appendages. But in the moments after detaching from the mortal shell, the demon was always disoriented.
The Highwayman’s whip found its target.
A sulfurous cloud spilled from the demon’s severed head, surrounding the body and buzzing like a plague of insects. Within moments the entire demon dissipated into a pile of dust on the ground before the Highwayman’s boots.
A slash of the whip over his head co
iled it many times over, then the Highwayman fit it on the holster at his hip. The binding sigils ceased to glow.
Leaving the alleyway, he strode across the street where he’d parked his black ’68 Shelby Mustang.
Once behind the wheel, he cranked the tunes and took off in a rumbling peel. On to the next town. The highway was his home, his lover, his destination.
One of these days it would lead him to salvation.
Chapter 1
A charity show wasn’t the strangest event Max had ever crashed. He’d been everywhere, seen everything. It took a lot to impress, disturb or even surprise him. A man who had lived over two centuries didn’t miss much.
There were days he wished to miss more.
A twenty-story skyscraper jutted up from downtown Minneapolis, three blocks from the bustling City Center mall. The blue-windowed steel spire was nestled between a white stucco building and a multilevel parking ramp.
This was where he’d followed the limo that had picked up the familiar. He spied only a flash of green dress as she stepped out from the limo’s backseat and took the hand of a beefy bouncer to be led inside.
Green. Max loved when women adorned themselves with green. It reminded him of wild French meadows and freedom. Few could wear the color as well as this woman. And if she wore spike heels and had bright, sexy eyes, then he was a goner.
Rare was the woman who could truly leave Maximilien Fitzroy speechless.
This one wouldn’t have a chance to render him silent. He wasn’t here to socialize. He had found the familiar. Now he would convince her to do a job for him.
And then he’d kill her.
The majority of guests filing into the building wore tuxedoes and fancy dresses. Checking his black duster coat and cowboy boots, complete with spurs, Max gave a tug to his black denim jeans and pulled the coat over his hip to conceal the whip he never forgot.
The delivery door was set into the shadows. Striding down the alleyway, Max released hold on his mortal shape and shifted to shadow form. He could shadow for five minutes and still maintain complete control over the demon. Any longer than that and he was headed for a dream walk.
He glided inside the building, following delivery of a massive arrangement of red roses.
Once inside, he clung to shadows in the crevice where floor met wall, until he made the elevator. Inside and alone, he reneged control over the shadow.
Later, he’d have to appease the shadow by allowing it to peer into the dreams of unsuspecting mortals.
Hell, it wasn’t all for the demon. Shadowing sublimated Max’s basic needs by allowing him to experience them vicariously. It was all he had. He rarely missed a night of dream walking.
At the twentieth floor, the elevator dinged. Max stepped out before two goateed bouncers dressed in tuxedoes and brandishing discerning stares. He wasn’t questioned; he’d obviously made it in at ground level.
Never comfortable in crowds, he eased himself into the mixture of bodies, both mortal and, he suspected, paranormal. His attire was lacking, but now he noticed some artsy sorts who wore a range from wildly colored hair to Day-Glo glasses, Earth shoes and military camouflage pants.
More than a few feminine necks and wrists sported sparkling jewels.
I do love the shiny stuff.
The placard on an artist’s easel announced the Charity Auction for the Northern Wolf Sanctuary featuring local celebrities, The Fallen and Johnny Lang.
Max strode through a long hall clattering with heightened conversation and clinking crystal goblets. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east wall, providing a brilliant view of the half moon. The west side was lined with mirrors, which gave the eerie effect of looking skyward at distorted multiple moons.
He wasn’t interested in the art hung before the mirrors by braided silver cables. The pieces were apparently being auctioned off. But as he passed the paintings, he smirked and stepped closer to study a six-foot-tall piece.
“Cheesecake?” he muttered. The entire row boasted cheesecake paintings of scantily clad pinup girls.
“Better than Mondrian,” he muttered, recalling an art event in the early twentieth century that had confused and bored him. But it had introduced him to absinthe—one of few pleasures he could yet imbibe.
Max strode through the tightly packed room where guests chattered and cooed at one another. There were many tall model sorts, and he matched a couple of emaciated posers to their nudie paintings as he passed through the clutch.
The women cast him lingering glances. One siliconed blonde in barely-there strips of black leather approached him. Diamonds glittered at her neck and ears. Her red lips smiled coyly, while her brown eyes touched him from boots to belt—and there she stopped.
“See something you like?” Max asked.
“Oh, yes.”
He slid a hand along her cheek, touching her hair, lightly brushing her ear, then returned that hand to his pocket. “Sorry, not into blondes.”
Her smile dropped to a pout and she brushed rudely past him.
Max could only shake his head. A dalliance with a gorgeous woman mostly proved frustrating. Much as he enjoyed indulging, he didn’t have the patience for self-denial tonight. He was here on business.
Focusing, he headed for the ballroom ahead. The glass ceiling soared high and white marble walls and windows glittered. Chandeliers threatened to dribble a rain of crystal droplets, and the funky blue lighting cooled the complexions of all.
The chrome bar inside the ballroom drew him.
“You have absinthe?” Max asked. The liquor had only recently been legalized in the United States.
The bartender nodded. Max laid a twenty on the bar. That would buy him a sip of the overpriced Green Faery.
Scanning the room, his eyes fell upon a woman whose green dress spilled in loose curves to the top of her shapely derriere. Her entire back was exposed, revealing sexy, sinuous skin. From her hips, the green fabric greedily clung to long legs, which ended in black spike heels. Black ribbons, tied about her ankles, begged to be bitten and tugged from their bows.
The line of her body curved and sashayed as she prowled the center of the ballroom, her arms swaying, as if choreographed, to attract all eyes. Short tufted hair emphasized her slender neck.
“Red,” Max whispered. Now, redheads he liked.
Not a single jewel or bauble detracted his eye from her soft skin and sleek body. Just as well.
Sucking in a breath, he whistled lowly. Spike heels and a sexy, body-clinging dress. And to top it off, she was a redhead. This wasn’t going to be easy on his fickle libido, or his itchy fingers. Max never mixed business with pleasure.
Come to think of it, he would if he could, but pleasure was an elusive beast he sought to capture.
The air-conditioning was overkill. Aby shivered and rubbed a palm up her bare arm. She’d dressed to the nines tonight, green silk dress with a low-cut back. Stilettos held her ankles in bondage with crisscrossing black ribbon.
The artist whose prints they were auctioning off later, Wesley Aims, was a friend, and this was his first big showing in an art world that normally sneered at pinup paintings.
The charity auction should give him entrance to further showings. Or so he and Severo hoped.
She sought Severo to cozy up to and draw some of his natural male heat over her chilled skin. He’d been out of eyesight since the bigwig in the Armani suit had taken him aside to discuss Severo’s investments. His passion was buying land and transforming it into a natural wolf preserve, so she couldn’t fault his inattention. Any chance he found to buy land before the vampires could sink their teeth into it, he jumped.
In her peripheral vision, Aby sighted Ian Grim, a centuries-old witch whom she’d been working with exclusively. She tolerated him, but lately he’d been flirting with her before they got down to business. The man gave her stronger shivers than the air-conditioning, and they weren’t the sexy kind of shivers.
A step outside into the sweltering July eveni
ng appealed to her, but the charity show was on the twentieth floor. And the band was supposed to take the stage soon.
She’d not listened to The Fallen previously, but the lead singer was attractive, and—despite Severo’s reservations about hiring a longtooth—a vampire. They’d had some success years ago, but now only played local events.
Aby roamed her gaze across the room. If she didn’t leave or at least go sit by the bar, someone would whisk her into another dance. She liked dancing, but the men’s hands tended to roam her bare back with an ease that put her off. Hell, the illicit touches put up the tiny hairs at the base of her neck.
She liked to dress sexy, but she was always a little confused how to handle blatant flirtation.
A flash of blue at the bar wafted the bittersweet-orange scent of Curaçao across the room toward her ultrasensitive nose.
Her world was navigated by scent. She never made a move without first assessing the atmosphere. It usually took her but moments to acclimate to new smells, else she’d be dizzy from a melee of odors.
A new smell, beyond the alcohol-laced colognes and grooming products and cigarette smoke, tickled her nose.
Aby smiled at a passing couple, then tilted her head to eye the bar. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she took in the tall man who also scanned the room.
Though the ballroom was filled with eclectic clothing and hair, even the latest haute couture, the man, wearing a long, black duster coat, stood apart. Not here for the art or to save an abused captive wolf, she suspected. Possibly to hunt out a missing girlfriend? Or maybe he was a friend of one of the bartenders.