Lure of the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  He slept like he forgot he shared a bed. His face buried between the pillows, his curls wild and one foot hanging off the side of the mattress, he clung to one pillow and slept like the dead. Like a man up too long in the early hours.

  She could have liked waking up to him more than a few times. Maybe if they’d been in different circumstances. Maybe if he’d just been some guy in the middle levels, or some kind of working-class stiff—

  What the hell?

  Wake up, Naomi, she thought grimly, and resolutely turned away. Quietly, holding her breath, she found his trousers discarded on the floor and couldn’t stop the insistent rush of pride, of heat, pooling low in her belly.

  She’d made him so damn eager for her. Wild for her.

  He’d torn her inside out and left her wanting so much more.

  Her smile faded. Hurriedly she rifled through his pants pockets until she found his key card. Draping the charcoal gray fabric over the back of a chair, she couldn’t stop herself from fingering the hem.

  He’d looked good last night.

  He looked utterly delicious now. The morning sun eased over one leg, trailing bars of light across his firm ass. The sheets, long since tangled in the night, gathered at his waist and did nothing to hide his gorgeously toned body from her study.

  She wanted him again. The ache between her legs wasn’t just the legacy of one hell of a night.

  Shaking her head, she slipped out of the bedroom, eased the panel back into place, and deliberately blocked the view of his temptingly muscled butt. Backing away, she tucked the key card into the back pocket of the jeans she’d taken.

  Yeah, so she was running. So what? They’d made great memories. That was it. It was all over now.

  Her heart thudded in her ribs. Anxiety, she told herself. Now started the fun, the part where she got to be the hound to Joe Carson’s clever fox. With the witch dead—God only knew where the hell his body was, but he was dead at least—Carson was the only damn thing that mattered now.

  She wanted out.

  But she pressed her palm to her chest as she searched for the pretty clutch Andy had given her. She needed her comm. She needed her gun, wherever Phin had put it.

  And she needed enough time to visit Phin’s office for the guest files the Mission didn’t have. Possibly even a map of the place.

  She found the gold purse shoved half into the cushion. In it, she found her comm, her lip gloss, and . . . no. No gun in sight.

  No fucking gun.

  Naomi straightened, mouthing the invectives she didn’t dare say aloud. She raked the living room with a sharp, speculative gaze. The last she remembered, she’d had it in hand. Then she’d gotten shot. They’d run and. . .

  Carefully she touched the shoulder that should have hurt like the very devil danced on it. All she felt was askew bandages and a dull, easily ignorable ache.

  Phin had taken the weapon from her. But done what with it?

  Damn it. She didn’t have time for this.

  She dressed hurriedly, laced up her boots and knew she was only delaying the inevitable as she twisted her hair up into a spiky knot.

  She didn’t want to go back into that room.

  Where Phin Clarke slept naked. Used, muscled, gloriously naked.

  Oh, God.

  Silent as a ghost, she eased back into the bedroom and surveyed the too-tidy space. Resolutely avoiding the bed, she searched for his coat. It wasn’t hanging on the coat rack. Not on a chair, fuck, not even on the floor.

  And along with the missing corpse, she hadn’t seen his coat, either.

  Though it galled the hell out of her, Naomi gave up the search. There was no way she’d let Phin wander off with her gun, but she didn’t have time to look now. She’d get it back.

  Just as soon as she ransacked Phin’s office.

  She turned.

  The sheets rustled. “Mmph.”

  Naomi froze, her heart a rapid staccato in her ears. Throat suddenly dry, she weighed her options. Run like hell?

  Too awkward. And she’d be damned if she tucked her tail between her legs and made him think he had any sort of upper hand.

  Instead she smiled, turning back. “Morning, sunshine.”

  Phin’s back rippled as he pushed up on his elbows, rubbing both hands across his face. The motion sent muscles leaping from shoulder to ass—good God, his ass—to his strong, naked thighs, and it took everything Naomi had not to crawl back into that nice, warm bed and straddle him until they both forgot what time it was.

  She gritted her teeth through her smile.

  His eyes were hazy as he rolled over, one hand idly pulling the sheets across his lap. “Morning,” he replied. The slow, lazy way his smile reached from his mouth to his eyes tugged on bits of her she’d thought long since too exhausted to melt now.

  She was wrong.

  And he was a hell of a lot sharper in the morning that she’d thought possible. Phin’s smile faded as he took in her body. Her very clothed body. “Headed somewhere?”

  “Breakfast,” Naomi lied easily. She slid two fingers into her back pocket, securing Phin’s key card as she added, “I was hoping you’d sleep long enough for me to get back.” She raised a fine, dangerously eloquent eyebrow. “You know . . . bring you something sticky and sweet.”

  His eyes gleamed. “And then we’d eat breakfast?”

  God damn it, she really liked this man. Naomi laughed, even as she fought not to run the hell away.

  Jump his bones.

  Something. Anything but stand here and lie.

  His smile faded, warm eyes easing to something soft and melty and kind. Velvet. “Naomi—”

  “Did you put away all my clothes?” she asked. Too quickly, but it was better to tear off the Band-Aid than sit and wait for him to ask.

  He sat up, one hand braced over the impressive morning erection the sheet wasn’t hiding very well.

  God, his chest was worth staring at. Forever.

  “Your what?” Muffling a yawn, he covered his mouth with his free hand and took a moment to glue her question together. He shook his head as if to clear it, but admitted, “They were all over, so I just put them away while you were . . .” He hesitated. “Getting bandaged,” he finished lamely.

  “And there was . . .” Jesus, was there any safe way to ask this? “There was enough room in the wardrobe?”

  His lips twitched. “Plenty. You’re probably the only guest in the history of Timeless to pack as light as you do.”

  Relief punched a hole somewhere beside growing panic.

  Where. The fuck. Was the body?

  But his gaze turned serious as he swung his bare feet over the side of the mattress. “Naomi, we need to talk.”

  Oh. Shit.

  Before she could say anything, do anything, he smiled again, and it was as if the fight just pooled out of her. How the hell did he do that?

  “It’s not what you think.” He chuckled. “You don’t have to look so . . . braced.”

  She settled for a noncommittal sound, settling her hands on her hips. This, she figured, was where he pulled the white knight bullshit. Wrong time, too busy for a steady relationship, whatever.

  Naomi resisted the urge to check her watch.

  Even as something black and aching opened up in her chest.

  Phin didn’t stand. Instead, bracing his elbows on his very bare knees, he pressed his palms together and studied her over his fingers. “You’re a missionary.” It wasn’t a question.

  The floor dipped out from under her feet.

  Somehow, as Naomi stared at Phin’s now-serious appraisal, she locked her knees. Managed not to buckle, managed to remain upright and even casual as she tilted her head, that eyebrow raised again. “Am I?”

  “I saw your tattoo.”

  Oh, Jesus. Of course he had. The room practically reeked of sex—as if her body needed any more reminders of the mind-blowing feel of his cock deep and hard inside her—and she was stupid enough to hope he’d missed the damn tattoo
in the dark.

  Fuck.

  Her shoulders straightened. She knew her face closed down, could feel her expression sharpening, but it was all she could do to sound nonchalant around the sudden tightness in her throat. “And?”

  He took a deep breath. “Is the Church looking for witches in Timeless?”

  Shitfuck. “Let me ask you this,” she said carefully. “Is there any way that you’d tell me the truth if I asked you if Timeless was harboring witches?”

  Phin looked her square in the eye, his own hard. Steady. “I would,” he said, so seriously that it took her a moment. Longer than it should have. When it finally made it through to her sex-addled, shell-shocked brain, she nearly fell over from relief.

  Instead she sank to the chair behind her, laughter spilling from her chest. “Oh, God. Fuck, Phin.”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “You would!” It snapped out, half a curse, half a laugh. “Jesus Christ, you would, wouldn’t you? What are you going to tell me, that you’re keeping a secret coven of witches out to kill your own guests?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No.”

  “Then I think,” Naomi replied, ignoring the raw ache clawing at her belly, “that it’s safe to say the Church doesn’t think you’re harboring witches.”

  Which, she knew even as she refused to say it, didn’t mean that witches weren’t taking advantage of the Clarkes. That wasn’t something she was going to mire Phin and his family down in.

  The witch was dead. She’d seen no other signs. Now it was just her and Carson.

  Totally different story.

  “Then why are you here?” Phin asked. He linked his fingers, watching her with such intensity that her humor faded. Eased into relief so pronounced that she thought she’d choke on it. Pressing a hand to her chest, she tried again for tact.

  She was fucking bad at tact.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” she began, and threw up a warding hand as he stood, sheet draping dangerously low on his hips. She jerked her eyes to his. “No, stop. Don’t take a step, or I swear to God, I’m not going to be held responsible for what I do.”

  He hesitated. But his eyes—those warm velvet eyes—crinkled. “Noted.”

  “And hike up the sheet,” she added waspishly. When he did, muscles moving like liquid steel under his tanned skin, she took a deep breath and reached for just enough truth to give credence to the lies. “The Church sent me here because I needed a break. We do that sometimes,” she added dryly. “Vacations. I’m not big on . . . you know. Yoga and stuff.”

  “I noticed,” he murmured.

  She ignored that. “But I wanted time away. The Church thought I’d be more than safe up here—no one’s even supposed to know I’m here.” Lies, lies, and enough truth to fake the rest.

  God, she hated it.

  “And last night?”

  Naomi touched the bandage under her hastily donned red sweater. “Someone must have recognized me. We’re never really alone, you know. Even on vacation, we have partners.”

  Phin nodded once. “Miles.”

  She frowned. “You have a good memory for a hell of a shock.” Then she saw his knuckles, white with strain. Naomi hesitated.

  What could she do? Comfort him?

  No. She’d be gone soon. And all he’d be left with would be bullets and blood.

  And lies.

  “Yes,” she added before he could reply. “Whoever shot at me”—at you, she corrected silently—“must have recognized me. I’m sure the Mission caught him.”

  “Him?”

  “Or her,” Naomi added smoothly.

  Phin looked down at the floor. His jaw shifted, shoulders twitching as if he argued with himself about something. About her.

  Hell, she didn’t know. Naomi rose to her feet, forced herself not to get closer, then stilled as he jerked his head up, meeting her eyes directly. “So the Church isn’t investigating my home?”

  She blew out a deep breath. In this, at least, she didn’t have to lie. “No,” she said softly. Just a shitfucker of a rogue agent who decided to sneak his way inside.

  Even she couldn’t think of a better place to lie low.

  Phin moved so suddenly that Naomi froze between flight and fight. He grabbed her waist in his large hands, hauling her against his chest. The sheet caught between them, dipping dangerously low, but all she felt against her palms was warm, achingly familiar skin and the slow, steady beat of his heart. “Don’t ever,” he said, his eyes filling her field of vision. So serious.

  So heartrendingly stern.

  She licked her lower lip. “What?”

  His lips moved, a tic hard at his jaw. Then, as if shaking away the words he didn’t know how to say, he let go of her waist to slide his fingers through her hair. “Hell with it,” he muttered, and crushed his mouth to hers.

  The tender ache of her well-used body fled beneath a liquid pool of need, of wanting so tight and sharp and driven that it washed away everything else but him. His lips claimed, possessed. Took from her every fucking thing she never wanted to give—her capitulation, her craving. Her silent confession.

  How badly she wanted more.

  He took all that and gave her back all the things she didn’t want. Couldn’t force herself to name.

  And still she drove her tongue into the wild heat of his mouth, rasped against his, her fingers digging into the sculpted planes of his pectorals. His heart slammed into her palm. His groan wrenched from him, his erection pulsing hard and thick against her abdomen, and she thought, What the fuck are you doing, West?

  Dangerous. So desperately dangerous.

  Wrenching away, gasping for breath, she pulled back out of his reach and held up both hands as the sheet pooled slowly to the floor at his bare feet.

  Gloriously, unabashedly naked, Phin watched her with eyes that glittered as hot as the liquid heat between her legs. Hungry. Demanding.

  Naomi forced a laugh. “Food,” she said emphatically. “Or I swear, I’m going to die on you, and you’ll seriously regret it.”

  She didn’t have to feel his heartbeat to know how strongly that kiss affected him, too. Color rode high on his cheeks, and his cock thrust magnificent and hard from the thatch of dark hair she was trying too damn hard not to stare at.

  Naomi knew full well what Phin Clarke could do for her.

  And she knew exactly what she was going to do to him.

  Betrayal.

  The poor, deluded bastard.

  She fled with his laughter still drifting huskily behind her.

  He’d get over it, she thought as she retreated. In the sitting room, Naomi moved Phin’s key card into her front pocket, shook out her hair, and knew she’d need a shower before long. The things they’d done, the things Phin had done to her . . . Her breath shuddered out. The man had some hands. Gifted, clever, fearless hands.

  A good, bright memory for when she got the hell out.

  She crossed the room on soundless feet and waited impatiently for the elevator to respond to the call signal. When it slid open, silent and quick, she made her escape. It was the work of moments to fix the mess Phin had once more made of her hair as the lift glided down.

  She wasn’t sure what time it was. The elevators opened to muted quiet, a hush so thick that it wrapped like a blanket of silence around her ears. She studied the garden with its shedding trees and slowly wilting foliage.

  She needed to get to the staff floor.

  The staff floors were keyed in to the staff. Ergo.

  Naomi fished Phin’s card from her pocket and scanned it. The elevator doors slid closed again. Too easy.

  Too trusting.

  When they opened, Naomi hesitated, checking the digital floor readout. It said she was in the right place, but the hallway looked like any of the others she’d seen. Nice carpet, the same pattern as everywhere else. Nice wallpaper, professional and clean.

  Good lighting. Naomi frowned at the sconces lining the wall. She didn’t see any cameras, but sh
e didn’t think it meant anything. Not at this point.

  Phin didn’t strike her as stupid. Well, not anymore.

  And this late into the game, any cameras that caught her wouldn’t matter. The hotel’s security would be five steps behind her and answering to the Church by the time they figured out anything was wrong.

  Not her problem.

  The carpet dampened any noise her footfalls might have made, and she hurried down the hall with her ears straining for any signs of life. Everything was so quiet. The first door she found was narrow, marked clearly with a brass nameplate.

  Maintenance. No, not there.

  She passed more like it, each named for the necessary tasks. Organized to the extreme.

  Finally, just as she was about to give up and try the next floor, she found it. Three doors, two on one side and a third on the other, each labeled with the same brass plates. She eyed each. All three Clarkes had their own offices.

  Which was likely to hold files?

  Remembering Phin’s neatly hung shirt and arranged shoes, she shook her head. His office, like the others, boasted a thumb lock.

  Wordlessly, she grabbed her comm unit and dialed in to Jonas’s direct line. She clipped the mic to her ear and waited.

  “Naomi! Man, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

  “Ugh.” Jonas had always been a morning person. “I need to get past a fingerprint lock,” she said, deliberately ignoring his jovial greeting. “If I hook you in, can you override it?”

  “Does it rain all the time in the shattered Northwest?” Jonas replied, and she heard the clattering echo of his fingers flying over computer keys. “First, though, how are you?”

  Used. “Bullet crease, but that’s it. I’m going to have to answer some questions today, so the sooner you hurry this up . . . ?”

  “All right, all right,” Jonas replied, relief clear over the line. “I’m just— You know.”

  She knew. Her mouth twisted.

  “Now, there’s a short panel in the side of your unit. Slide it off.”

  Naomi’s fingers struggled with the tiny piece. When it cracked open, a pronged bit of metal fell into her palm. “Okay?”