Room Service

by Amy Garvey

  The memory washed over her in a warm rush, and she reached for her drink to hide the color on her cheeks. Josie didn’t miss it, though—she leaned over and whispered, “Penny for your thoughts. No, wait. Make that a whole dollar.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Olivia teased her.

  “Actually, screw that,” Josie said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with a pleased smirk. “I have my own thoughts, don’t I?”

  Olivia nearly spit her drink all over the bar. She certainly did. Josie and Gus had become inseparable.

  He was working on a history of the hotel, it turned out. “A history of the hotel, but also of the city, as it changed, and really the world,” he’d said a few days after Thanksgiving, scribbling in a spiral-bound notebook as he talked to her over coffee in her office. “I want to trace societal trends and world events through the guests that stayed here, through the hotel’s changing amenities and traditions.”

  Okay. She wasn’t really sure how he was going to do all of that, but she was more than happy to spend her lunch hour with him every few days, pulling out stories she hadn’t told or even thought about in years. Roseanne and Josie had helped him cull through dusty boxes of old records, Josie swearing all the while that every once in a while a good bonfire wouldn’t have hurt.

  But she was happy to help Gus, and happy for him. “I think he was worried that he didn’t have another book in him,” she’d told Olivia one day when they’d escaped the hotel to treat themselves to manicures and lunch downtown. “And it was right there under his nose the whole time.”

  Not unlike Josie’s feelings for Gus, Olivia thought privately. She’d been so cynical about men in general, about the possibility of love, that she’d never even considered looking at a truly nice guy until he was right in front of her.

  “Bloody hell, this is embarrassing,” Rhys muttered, slouching over the bar, a pint of Guinness untouched in front of him. “Look at me up there. I’m a complete git on telly.”

  He was anything but, Olivia thought, reaching over to touch his hand. On the screen, he was even more arresting, especially when the cameras were trained on him while he cooked, all concentration and focus, his eyes narrowed as he seared a piece of meat or chopped an onion with surgical precision. Her heart squeezed as she watched him on the TV, lining up with the other two finalists to face the judges. The intensity in his eyes was impressive—she would have hated to be one of the contestants trying to win against him.

  Gus looked up from the notebook he was carrying around night and day now, blinking in the dim light of the bar. “Is this it? Is this the end?”

  “I’ll let you know, sweetie,” Josie told him, shaking her head. “It’s going to be a long couple of months until this book is done.”

  Rhys grinned, and leaned over to whisper in Olivia’s ear, “I don’t think she minds a bit, do you?”

  Olivia grinned right back and shook her head. “Not at all.”

  “Shh, they’re going to announce who won,” Roseanne barked from the other end of the bar, and all eyes turned to the screen.

  “The dessert was the finishing touch,” one of the judges was saying. “Showcasing all those American flavors with the pecans and the peaches, you really pulled out a showstopper for the finale.”

  The camera panned to Rhys’s reaction, and Olivia’s heart raced. Silly, she thought. I know he wins. But he looked so strangely vulnerable as he waited. His jaw was set in determination, as if he was sure to win by sheer will power alone, but the tension of the competition showed in his tired, uncertain eyes.

  “After much deliberation,” Paula Chase said slowly, “we’d like to announce that Fork in the Road has a winner. And the winner is…Rhys Spencer.”

  The bar exploded in applause and rowdy cheers of congratulations, and Rhys sketched a bow, grinning like a fool all the while. Olivia pushed up over the bar to throw her arms around him. “Congratulations,” she whispered.

  “You already knew I won, silly girl,” he whispered back.

  “So I just like to touch you,” she said with a laugh, and kissed him hard.

  “Tell us, Rhys Spencer, are you going to Disneyworld?” Tommy asked, chortling at his own joke as he held a fake microphone up to Rhys’s mouth.

  Rhys blinked in confusion. “Going where now?”

  Olivia snorted, and waved Tommy away. “Leave the poor Brit alone,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “How does it feel to win such a huge prize,” Josie asked, beaming at Rhys from the circle of Gus’s arm.

  “Good,” Rhys admitted. He took Olivia’s hand and kissed it gently. “But I’d already won something better.”

  Damn the stupid blushing, she thought, smiling at Rhys. One day it would stop. Until then she was just going to have to get used it.

  Rhys came out from behind the bar, shaking hands and accepting congratulations along the way. When he reached her, he swooped her in a bear hug that aroused another round of applause. He set her down just as Declan poked his head into the bar from his post at the front door.

  “Um, Olivia?” he said, his eyes scanning the noisy crowd. “I hate to tell you this, but the nameplate outside? Just fell down again.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes as Rhys burst into laughter. Well, she couldn’t win them all.

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  “D o not be fooled by her outward appearance. Yes, she is short of stature and tiny, but she is an asp waiting to strike.”

  Christopher St. John settled more firmly in his seat, disregarding the agent of the Crown who shared the box with him. His eyes were riveted to the crimson-clad woman who sat across the theater expanse. Having spent his entire life living amongst the dregs of society, he knew affinity when he saw it.

  Wearing a dress that gave the impression of warmth and bearing the coloring of hot-blooded Spanish sirens, Lady Winter was nevertheless as icy as her title. And his assignment was to warm her up, ingratiate himself into her life, and then learn enough about her to see her hanged in his place.

  A distasteful business, that. But a fair trade in his estimation. He was a pirate and thief by trade, she a bloodthirsty and greedy vixen.

  “She has at least a dozen men working for her,” Viscount Sedgewick said. “Some watch the wharves, others roam the countryside. Her interest in the agency is obvious and deadly. With your reputation for mayhem, you two are very much alike. We cannot see how she could resist any offer of assistance on your part.”

  Christopher sighed; the prospect of sharing his bed with the beautiful Wintry Widow was vastly unappealing. He knew her kind, too concerned over their appearance to enjoy an abandoned tumble. Her livelihood was contingent upon her ability to attract wealthy suitors. She would not wish to become sweaty or tax herself overmuch. It could ruin her hair.

  Yawning, he asked, “May I depart now, my lord?”

  Sedgewick shook his head. “You must begin immediately, or you will forfeit this opportunity.”

  It took great effort on Christopher’s part to bite back his retort. The agency would learn soon enough that he danced to no one’s tune but his own. “Leave the details to me. You wish me to pursue both personal and professional relations with Lady Winter, and I shall.”

  Christopher stood and casually adjusted his coat. “However, she is a woman who seeks the secure financial prospects of marriage, which makes it impossible for a bachelor such as myself to woo her first and then progress from the bed outward. We will instead have to start with business and seal our association with sex. It is how these things are done.”

  “You are a frightening individual,” Sedgewick said dryly.

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder as he pushed the black curtain aside. “It would be wise of you to remember that.”

  The sensation of being studied with predatory intent caused the hair at Maria’s nape to rise. Turning her head, she studied every box acros
s from her but saw nothing untoward. Still, her instincts were what kept her alive, and she trusted them implicitly.

  Someone’s interest was more than mere curiosity.

  The low tone of men’s voices in the gallery behind her drew her attention away from the fruitless visual search. Most would hear nothing over the rabble in the pit below and the carrying notes of the singer, but she was a hunter, her senses fine-tuned.

  “The Wintry Widow’s box.”

  “Ah…” a man murmured knowingly. “Worth the risk for a few hours in that fancy piece. She is incomparable, a goddess amongst women.”

  Maria snorted. A curse, that.

  Suddenly eager to be productive in some manner, Maria rose to her feet. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out to the gallery. The two footmen who stood on either side to keep the ambitiously amorous away snapped to attention. “My carriage,” she said to one. He hurried away.

  Then she was bumped none too gently from behind, and as she stumbled, was caught close to a hard body.

  “I beg your pardon,” murmured a deliciously raspy voice so close to her ear she felt the vibration of it.

  The sound stilled her, caught her breath and held it. She stood unmoving, her senses flaring to awareness far more acute than usual. One after another, impressions bombarded her—a hard chest at her back, a firm arm wrapped beneath her breasts, a hand at her waist, and the rich scent of bergamot mixed with virile male. He did not release her; instead his grip upon her person tightened.

  “Unhand me,” she said, her voice low and filled with command.

  “When I am ready to, I will.”

  His ungloved hand lifted to cup her throat, his touch heating the rubies that circled her neck until they burned. Calloused fingertips touched her pulse, stroking it, making it race. He moved with utter confidence, no hesitation, as if he possessed the right to fondle her whenever and wherever he chose, even in this public venue. Yet he was undeniably gentle. Despite the possession of his hold, she could writhe free if she chose, but a sudden weakness in her limbs prevented her from moving.

  Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed hard. Then he looked away.

  She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.

  Again.

  Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, allowing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”

  “I cannot say the same.”

  “Frightened?” he queried.

  “Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”

  “Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”—he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed—“and mine.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am what you need.”

  Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could collect them. “I have everything I require.”

  As he released her, her captor allowed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, gooseflesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.

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  “T here’s blood everywhere.”

  Kyle Treharne leaned into the passenger side of the verturned car, the driver’s side so badly damaged no one could get through the crumpled metal to extract themselves. Not even the female whose fear he could smell. Her fear and panic …and something else. Something he couldn’t quite name.

  “Do you see anybody?” his boss asked. Kyle readjusted the earplug to hear the man better. The sheriff’s voice was so low, it was often hard to make out exactly what he’d said.

  “Nope. I don’t see anyone. No bodies, but …” He sniffed the air and looked down. “Blood trail.”

  “Follow it. Let me know what you find. I’ll send out the EMS guys.”

  “You got it.” Kyle disconnected and followed the trail of blood heading straight toward the beach. He moved fast, worried the woman might be bleeding to death, but also concerned that this human female would see something he’d never be able to explain.

  Kyle pushed through the trees until he hit the beach. As he’d hoped, none of the town’s people or resort visitors were hanging around; the beach was thankfully deserted in the middle of this hot August day. He followed the blood, cutting in a small arc across the sand, the trail leading back into the woods about twenty feet from where he’d entered.

  He’d barely gone five feet when a bright flash of light and the missing woman’s scent hit him hard, seconds before she hit him hard. He should have been faster. Normally, he would have been. That scent of hers, though, threw him off balance completely; and he couldn’t snap out of it quick enough to avoid the woman slamming right into him.

  Her body hit his so hard that had he been completely human, she might have killed him.

  But Kyle wasn’t human. He’d been born different, like nearly everyone else in his small town. They might not all be the same breed, but they were all the same kind.

  Still, his less-than-human nature didn’t mean he couldn’t experience pain. At the moment, as he landed flat on his back with the woman on top of him, he felt lots and lots of pain.

  Yet the pain faded away when the woman moved, her small body brushing against his. She moaned and Kyle reached around to gently grip her shoulders.

  “Hey, darlin’. You all right?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she slapped her hand over his face, squashing his nose. Putting all her weight on that hand, she pushed herself up.

  Between her fingers, he could see the confusion in her eyes as she looked around. Blood from a deep gash on her forehead matted her dark brown hair and covered part of her face. Bloodshot, slightly almond-shaped brown eyes searched the area. For what, Kyle had no idea. A cut slashed her top lip; and although it no longer bled, it had started to turn the area around it black and blue.

  Damn, little girl is cute.

  “Uh…” He tapped her arm. “Could you move your hand, sweetheart?” The question came out like he had the worst cold in the universe. “I can’t really breathe.”

  She didn’t even look at him, instead staring off into the forest. “Dammit. It’s gone.” Putting more pressure on his poor nose, the woman levered herself up and off him. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” She stumbled toward the forest, and Kyle quickly got to his feet. “This isn’t my fault. It’s not.”

  Poor thing, completely delirious from all that blood loss and muttering to herself like a mental patient.

  Then she stopped walking. Abruptly. Almost as if she’d walked into a wall. “Damn,” she said again.

  Knowing he had to get her to the hospital before she died, Kyle put his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her so he’d be visible. “It’s all right, darlin’. Let’s get you out of here, okay?” He slipped one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, scooping her up in his arms.

  Hmm. She feels nice there.

  Kyle smiled down at her and, for a moment, she looked at him with complete confusion.

  Then the crazy woman started swinging and kicking, trying to get out of his arms. Although she had no skills—she did little more than flail wildly—he couldn’t believe her strength after all the blood she’d lost. He quickly realized someone else had caught on to her scent, too, and was heading right for them.

  Kyle gripped the fighting woman around the waist, dragging her back against him with one arm. Ignoring how much her tiny fists and feet were hurting, he turned
his body so she faced the opposite direction; with his free hand, he swung up and back, slamming his fist into the muzzle of the orange-and black-striped Yankee bastard hell-bent on getting his tiger paws onto the woman in Kyle’s arms. Tiger males only had to get one whiff of a female, and they were on them like white on rice. The fact that this woman was a full human and an outsider didn’t seem to matter to some idiots.

  A surprised yelp and the Yankee cat flipped back into the woods. Kyle rolled his eyes. He loved his town but, Lord knew, he didn’t like the Yankees who often came to call. All of them were rude, pretentious, and damn annoying.

  Kyle walked off with the woman, still trapped in his arm, until she started slapping him.

  “Hands off! Hands off! Let me go!” After all that blood loss, she seemed completely lucid and quite insane.

  Even worse…he’d recognize that accent anywhere. A Yankee. A damn Yankee.

  Kyle dropped her on her cute butt, and she slammed into the sand hard.

  After a moment of stunned silence, she suddenly glared up at him with those big brown eyes…and just like that, Kyle Treharne knew he was in the biggest trouble of his life.

  No, no. That was not a normal-sized human being. Not by a long shot. Her Coven had warned her, “They grow ’em big in the South, sweetie,” but she had no idea they grew this big.

  Nor this gorgeous. She’d never seen hair that black before. Not brown. Black. But when the sunlight hit it in the right way, she could see other colors under the black. Light shades of red and yellow and brown. Then there were his eyes. Light, light gold eyes flickered over her face, taking in every detail. His nose, blunt at the tip; his lips full and quite lickable.

  “You gonna calm down now, darlin’? Or should I drop you on that pretty ass again?”

  Emma Lucchesi—worshipper of the Dark Mothers, power elemental of the Coven of the Darkest Night, ninth-level Master of the Dream Realm, and Long Island accountant for the law offices of Bruce, MacArthur, & Markowitz—didn’t know what to say to that. What to say to him. Mostly because she couldn’t stop staring at the man standing over her.