by Sarah Piper
And loving every red-hot second of it…
But then she retrieved her so-called gift, and all the goodwill their teasing had fostered died in a blink.
She unfolded the black cocktail apron, holding it out by two fingers as if she’d just caught a rat by the tail. “Um. You said you were joking about the bartender thing.”
“Circumstances have changed.”
She shoved the apron back into the bag and tossed it onto the counter. “Fuck off, Prince. I’m not your barmaid.”
He lifted a cashmere shoulder, as if her refusal meant nothing. “You said it yourself, Jacinda. You’ve got no leads on Duchanes. The curse work will take weeks or months—”
“Exactly! I’ve got enough to worry about without having to sling drinks for your rich friends.”
“Sorry, did I give you the impression that you could live here indefinitely? Rent free? Making lists for every little whim and desire, with nary a cent to repay?”
Blood boiled inside, hellfire skittering beneath her skin.
“Fine. Evict me,” she tested, knowing he wouldn’t. He still needed her. She’d made damn sure of that, dangling him on the hook about that curse.
“That’s not an option.” He crowded into her space again, sliding a finger beneath her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice was deceptively soft, power simmering in every word. “Because you’re my prisoner, Jacinda. My property. And while I may be forbidden from killing you, there’s a lot of gray area between your current state of mild discomfort and your death.”
Jaci shivered. She’d lived for years in those gray areas and certainly didn’t need the reminder.
“Make your list,” he said, releasing her and heading for the door. “Keep working on the curse. I’ll let you know when it’s time to start slinging those drinks.”
Chapter Nine
After weeks of private contractor nightmares, zoning snafus, and more bribes and threats than Gabriel had ever dispensed, the renovations on the club formerly known as Bloodbath were nearly complete.
The main level was gorgeous, the epitome of luxury in a palette of deep blacks and rich creams, set up with a mix of cocktail tables and soft leather booths, two fully stocked bars, and a gleaming, multi-level dance floor made of polished black marble.
He’d kept the VIP rooms, redesigning them in the same exquisite colors, with large, tinted windows and a balcony that wrapped around the entire upper level and overlooked the main floor. The wine cellar reminded him of the Prohibition days, the original brickwork tunnels re-excavated and fitted with recessed lighting and new mahogany shelving. And after agreeing to a donation large enough to have an entire medical wing erected in his honor, he’d even managed to secure a regular supply of blood bags from the local hospital to keep his vampire clientele satisfied, especially since he’d be enforcing a strict no-humans-on-the-premises rule.
The whole place was a work of art. One that had even impressed his brothers.
But in all that time, despite all the resources he’d given her, all the bagels, all the witchcraft books, all the bloody special-order teas delivered direct from England, that damnable witch was no closer to locating Duchanes, unraveling the curse, or—worst of all—vanishing from his thoughts. All of them. Waking, sleeping, working, watching television… She’d moved into his head as readily as she’d moved into his building. Into his life.
If she were any other prisoner, she’d be dead by now. But when it came to Jacinda Colburn and her sassy mouth and her moonlight hair, Gabriel seemed to have a bottomless well of second chances.
Besides, it was like he’d told Dorian when they’d first taken her in Bloodbath after the battle.
She really did look good behind the bar.
Sitting on one of his new barstools, he watched her now, brewing up a row of new concoctions, still searching for the perfect signature drink.
She wore tight jeans that hugged every curve and an even tighter black T-shirt that dipped into a V over her breasts, a bar towel draped over one shoulder. Her hair was woven into a complicated series of braids that wrapped around her head like a crown and had him itching to unravel them, one silky lock at a time.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked, not looking up from her cutting board. A pile of cut citrus and fresh mint leaves sat on one side, a whole lemon on the other.
“I was thinking you might need a training manual,” he said. “With popular drink recipes. Just in case you—”
“I don’t need a manual, Prince. I’m an herbalist, a damn good listener, and a witch who’s spent more time than most studying the desires of monsters.” She scored a lemon rind into a perfect spiral and dropped it into a highball glass before her. Milky liquid fizzed and frothed up to the rim, then turned clear. “I know what every man needs—”
“Somehow I doubt—”
“—to drink. Here.” She pushed the concoction across the bar and grinned. “I made this one especially for you. I’m calling it Heart of Thorns.”
Gabriel let out a dry laugh. “Poisonous, no doubt.”
“Well, you know what they say.” She leaned across the bar on her elbows, giving him a cherry-red smirk and a view that made him want to dive over the bar and bury his face in the V of that shirt. In a low, sexy-as-sin voice, she said, “Fuck around and find out, Prince.”
He shifted on the barstool, trying to relieve the pressure of his suddenly tight pants on his suddenly hard cock.
A challenged flashed in those beautiful blue eyes.
He shot her his best death-glare, but he wasn’t about to let the witch—or her mouthwatering curves—scare him off.
Grip firm on the icy glass, he lowered his gaze again. If he was going to die at her hand, he’d be leaving this world with a damn good view of her tits.
“Cheers, then.” He brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.
Icy liquid slid down his throat, carrying the cool flavors of mint and licorice with just a hint of citrus. There were other flavors too—crisp and complex. He was still trying to identify them when the explosion hit.
Without warning, fire seemed to crackle in his mouth.
His head spun, then righted, a pleasant warmth spreading down his throat and across his chest.
The witch’s brew was no ordinary cocktail. It was a fucking experience. A damned good one at that. And it hadn’t killed him—not yet, anyways.
Gabriel took another sip, this one even better than the first. His whole body tingled with a pleasant buzz. Before he could stop himself, he was smiling.
“Told you,” Jacinda said, her laughter like a symphony.
Beautiful. Sassy. Brilliant with the bottle. For fuck’s sake, if he’d had a bartender like Jacinda in Vegas, he could’ve tripled his already impressive profits.
“It’s… decent,” he said evenly, forcing a casual shrug. “I’m sure the hellspawn will love it.”
Her face paled, and something dark flickered behind her eyes, but she kept that smart little grin in place. “Too strong for you? I figured a big bad vampire prince could handle the heat, but if you need me to water it down—”
“I said it’s decent.” He curled his hand protectively around the glass and took another sip, trying to ignore the fissure of guilt in his gut. Her laughter had been here and gone in a flash, and now he missed it. Missed the heat in her eyes when she teased him.
Now, that heat turned to fire.
“Take it or leave it, Prince,” she snapped. “You say we’re not partners? Fine. But I’m not some little apprentice either. I’ll work for you—sure. I’m your prisoner, so it’s not like I can say no, and believe it or not—I actually do regret my role in hurting Dorian and—”
“And in aiding and abetting demons in a planned takeover of the city? Resurrecting grays and turning them loose on innocent humans? Come now, little moonflower. Don’t be modest.”
“—and,” she said, yanking the towel from her shoulder, “I�
�m willing to do what I can to make amends and earn my keep.”
“Then we’re in agreement. You’ll continue working for—”
“You haven’t heard my terms.”
She wiped her hands on the towel, then tossed it onto the bar as if she’d worked a hundred jobs in a hundred places just like this one. Maybe she had, and for a moment, Gabriel wondered what her life was like before she’d gotten mixed up with House Duchanes. Did she have a family? Parents? A mage and witch back home in Buffalo or Cleveland or Los Angeles, wondering what had become of their vivacious young daughter? Some poor sap of a boyfriend waiting for her to return to his bed? To give him a soft, warm place to stick his shriveled excuse for a cock?
Jealousy simmered in his blood.
He finished the drink. Let the warmth of it calm him.
“Well?” she prodded.
Gabriel sighed. He couldn’t believe he was even entertaining this. “Terms, right. Let’s have it, then.”
“You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to be particularly nice. But you will treat me with respect. No more reminding me of all my mistakes, no more reminding me I’m your property. I get it, okay? And another thing—I’m keeping all my tips, which will be substantial, believe me.”
He had no doubt about that.
“Those are your terms, then?” he pushed the empty glass back to her, nodding for another one. “Respect and tips?”
“Yes. Oh!” She grinned, the teasing spark returning to her eyes. “And I drink free. Whenever and whatever I want—on the clock and off. It’s all part of the gig.”
“How do you figure?”
“You want leverage from these people? They need to trust me. So if they’re drinking, I’m drinking. When in Rome, right?”
“This isn’t Rome.”
“You’re right. It’s New York City. Way more cutthroat.” She whipped up two more of Hearts of Thorns, one for each of them, holding her glass up in cheers.
Clinking his glass to hers, Gabriel held her gaze for an eternity, wishing he had a guardian angel on his shoulder, a clear voice of reason in the chaos.
Because right now, only the devil whispered in his ear.
Bloody hell, he needed this witch behind his bar like he needed a stake through the fucking chest. But something compelled him to keep her close. Something that went far deeper than his need to punish her, deeper than his quest to find Duchanes and his need for leverage and his desperation to unravel the curse. Punishment could be meted out swiftly. Leverage could be bought, as could dark witches who unraveled curses—he’d learned that the hard way in his early days as a vampire, in his early desperation to break another sort of curse.
So why hadn’t he ended this charade yet?
You don’t need her, you damned idiot, said the devil in his ear. You want her. So fucking claim her…
He waited for the angel’s reply. It never came.
“Obsidian opens next weekend.” Gabriel sipped his drink, then slid a credit card across the bar, his gaze wandering down the V of that tight T-shirt once more. “Order yourself some suitable things to wear.”
Chapter Ten
Gabriel wanted everything to be perfect.
And as he walked through the main level and took in the sight of his new club, he realized everything was perfect…
Except for the bloody witch.
An hour before Obsidian was set to open, she sauntered through the front doors as if she quite literally owned the place, hair swept into an elegant twist, a glamorous red smile painted to perfection. All heads turned to her at once—his security staff, the other bartenders, the cocktail servers, the VIP attendants.
And of course, Gabriel himself. He couldn’t help it—the pull of her commanding presence was an electromagnetic force that tugged on his entire body.
He gaped at her. His heart thudded. His mouth went as dry as the Nevada desert he’d left behind.
Fuck, little moonflower. What are you doing to me?
Not only had she ignored his demands to call for an escort before leaving the apartment, but when it came to wardrobe choices, apparently he and his witch had wildly different ideas about the definition of “suitable.”
Spiked silver heels gave her five inches of new height and all the confidence to match. Her black leather pants looked as if they’d been painted on, and her top was little more than a few studded leather straps strategically positioned to cover all but the most sensitive areas. The elegant slope of her neck and the bare curves of her shoulders shone with some sort of silver powder, her skin luminescent in the dim light.
He was about to ask her who the fuck gave her permission to wrap two seatbelts around her chest and call it a shirt when her low whistle of appreciation cut him off.
“Wow, Prince. You clean up well.” That gorgeous red smile stretched wide as she took in his appearance—bespoke black suit, a dress shirt and silk tie the color of pale butter, silver cufflinks.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Gabriel had thought it the height of elegance. But now, next to the witch’s way-too-sexy leather ensemble, he felt old and stodgy.
And thanks to the sudden bulge of his cock, the fitted suit pants were quickly becoming a fucking nuisance.
He turned away from her and took several deep, slow breaths, trying very hard not to imagine tying her to his bed with those studded straps…
“Something wrong, Prince?” she asked.
“You aren’t supposed to leave your apartment without an escort,” he barked out over his shoulder.
That was it. All the words he could force from his useless mouth.
Undeterred—or perhaps just accustomed to his foul moods by now—the witch walked around to the other side, where she could look into his eyes once again.
Her own gaze sparkled with mischief. “And yet I made it all the way here on my own, an entire half-block away, in heels mind you, without getting into any trouble at all. I probably deserve a raise.”
Annoyance simmered in his gut, but as much as he tried to stoke it into a proper rage, he just couldn’t. She was too fucking beautiful, and her bubbly, upbeat demeanor was warming him in all the wrong ways.
“Listen, Prince.” She stretched up and reached for his tie, loosening and re-knotting it, then smoothing her hand down the front of his chest. He was grateful for the low lighting; the gesture only made his below-the-belt situation worse. “This place is going to be hugely popular,” she continued, “which means you’re about to get real busy. If you think you’ll have time to babysit me twenty-four seven, by all means, continue your incessant stalking. But—”
“Stalking?” Gabriel scoffed. “I’m merely… looking after my investment.”
“Investment, right.” Jacinda laughed, the music of it drawing out his smile and melting another layer of ice from around his heart. “Well, I suppose that’s a step up from property.”
He leaned in close, whispering into her hair. “And two from prisoner.”
She smelled like lavender tonight, a hint of spring flowers floating just above the dark-earth scent he’d come to know.
To crave.
“Hey, I’ll take the wins where I can get ’em.” Still grinning, she glanced around at the main level, letting out a soft sigh of wonder. It was the first time she’d seen the space with all the finishing touches in place, and now, Gabriel tried to view it through her eyes.
It was dark, yet inviting, with hidden recessed lighting that made the entire space look as if it were cast in moonlight. Massive obsidian mirrors hung on muted black walls, offset by panels of rich, wine-colored velvet. The club managed to look edgy and elegant at the same time, giving off a sleek, mysterious vibe that lacked pretension while still suggesting an air of exclusivity.
It was exactly as Gabriel had envisioned.
For some inexplicable reason, her approval meant a lot to him.
“So, you ready for this?” Jacinda turned back to him, sharing another bright smile. “The big reveal!”
&nbs
p; In that moment, she seemed so purely happy, Gabriel was overcome with the ridiculous notion that Obsidian hadn’t just been his own dream, but hers as well. A thing they’d created together. A thing they would now celebrate, sharing in each other’s joy.
He closed his eyes, quickly dismissing the sentimental thoughts. For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t even started drinking yet. What spell was she casting on him now?
“I’m ready,” he said, meeting her eyes once more. “Are you?”
She glanced over at the bar, where all the liquor and ingredients she’d requested awaited her magic touch. “The question is, Prince… Are they ready for me?”
Another laugh, another shimmer in her eyes, a loose curl falling free and skating across her shoulder.
“Jacinda.” He reached for that evocative curl, gently brushing it behind her shoulder, her skin like warm silk.
She shivered at his touch.
He stared at her mouth.
He wanted to tell her she looked good. Stunning, actually. That every supernatural beast who walked through those doors tonight would love her, would love the drinks she concocted, would return again and again just to watch her work her magic behind the bar.
He wanted to tell her the truth—that for the first time since he’d dragged her into his vicious world, he was bloody glad she was here.
But he’d already been too open, too vulnerable. Too fucking close. And the ghosts of his past, however ancient, still whispered in his ear, their icy claws still scraping against his heart.
So in the end, Gabriel fell back on the words he knew would douse the heat between them, would shut that door and bolt it tight before she kicked it open for good.
“Don’t disappoint me tonight, witch.”
Chapter Eleven
“The vampires certainly love her,” Gabriel grumbled. “As do the Rogozin hellspawn.”
From the center of the leather alcove where the Redthorne royals currently held court, Dorian raised his glass of scotch and smiled. “Congratulations, brother. Seems you were finally right about something.”