• • •
This time, she’d made an effort, he could tell. Although her clothing was still plain — a dark sleeveless shirt and knee-length skirt — it fit her better. Now he could see the curves of her body, the graceful tracings of her collarbones beneath the thin silver chain she wore around her neck. She’d pulled some of the hair away from her face, although a few loose tendrils still kissed her cheekbones. Silver hoops glinted from beneath the fiery masses of her hair.
She’d insisted on meeting him here at the restaurant rather than allowing him to pick her up at her home. Fair enough; he respected her caution rather than being annoyed by it. Too many times over the years he’d seen young women lose their lives in situations they might have survived, had they only been a little less trusting. Just because he was a demon didn’t mean that he enjoyed seeing innocent blood spilled.
“Chianti?” he asked.
She lowered her menu a fraction of an inch. Samael had the impression she’d been trying to hide behind it. “Well, this is an Italian restaurant.”
He fought back a grin. “I meant, would you like to get a bottle?”
A narrow look from beneath her eyelashes. Like her brows, they were a few shades darker than her hair, deep russet rather than fire-red. Then she said, “Sure, why not? This is sort of a celebration.”
“Celebration?”
“I just got a big commission. I’m a painter.”
“I know.”
For a second she looked at him blankly, and then a light of comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh, right. You found me through my website.”
He nodded. The waitress came over at that point, and he gave her the order for the bottle of wine. After she left, he added, “You’re very good.”
Although the restaurant’s lighting consisted of a few dim sconces on the walls and a votive strategically placed on each table, he thought he saw a faint flush painted across her cheeks. “Thank you.” She placed her hands on the tabletop, fingers laced together. Her nails were cut short, and she wore no rings.
Something about the plain nakedness of her hands aroused him more than any scarlet-painted fingertips or flashing jewelry could have. He imagined those slender, graceful fingers gliding down his body, wrapping around him….
He felt himself stir, and reached for the glass of ice water the waitress had left for him. Maybe Abigor was right. He’d let it go too long this time. The buildup of human hormones must be making him a little crazy.
The waitress came along with the bottle of Chianti, and he allowed himself to be distracted by the ritual cork removal and the requisite tasting of the wine. He’d selected a mid-priced bottle on purpose. He didn’t want Felicia to think he was trying too hard to impress her.
She lifted her own glass and drank a little, then set it back on the table. “So what do you do?”
Human small talk. Luckily he’d engaged in enough of it over the years that he had all the plausible replies down pat. “I work in private security.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“You could say that.”
A tiny frown line appeared between her brows. “‘You could say that’? Either you are or you aren’t.”
Apparently Felicia McGovern hadn’t quite mastered the whole small-talk thing. Samael picked up his wine glass and drank. Not bad. It might even be amusing. “If you want to get technical, I suppose you could say I’m sort of a bounty hunter.”
“A bounty hunter.” For a second she stared at him, and then she shook her head. “You’re kidding, right?”
He shrugged. “Bounty hunter” was close enough. He couldn’t exactly tell her that he spent his time dragging the souls of murderers and rapists down to the pits of Hell.
Actually, it might have been more rewarding if he were paid a bounty on each soul. He had it easy, though. At least he got to live topside.
This version of a human body he wore didn’t require sleep, but it still needed to be fed and showered and all the rest. For that purpose, he had a nice condo off the Miracle Mile. The title was in his name, but he hadn’t bought it. Nor did he ever have to check the balance in his bank account or on his one credit card.
It didn’t do to be greedy — Mammon had had his ass kicked back to guard duty in Hell after he’d tried to buy himself a Lamborghini — but as long Samael behaved himself and didn’t go wild, no one asked any questions.
“No joke,” he said. “There’s more need than you might think. Lots of desperate people out there.”
Her expression sobered. “I guess there are.” Then she seemed to give herself a little shake, and added, “Was that what happened last night?”
He knew he should have been relieved that she’d given him such an easy out for his behavior, and one he’d already thought of himself. For some reason, though, he found himself wishing he hadn’t backed himself into a corner where he’d have to lie to her.
As he looked down into her earnest face, he realized he’d made a misstep. He knew she was interested, or she would never have returned his phone call. But he had a suspicion she would have been even more interested if he hadn’t played hard to get and left her to her own devices back at the speed-dating party.
Still, he didn’t see any way to avoid lying without making himself look like an even bigger ass. “Yes. I was on call, so….” He trailed off and hoped she wouldn’t ask him why she hadn’t heard a phone go off or seen him take a text message.
If she harbored any lingering suspicions, though, she didn’t give any sign of them. “It must be hard to not be able to call your time your own.”
“Sometimes.” Was that a glimmer of sympathy he saw in her eyes? Probably just a trick of the lighting. He’d never been one to evoke sympathy in others. “All jobs have their downsides.”
“I suppose so.” She took a few sips of Chianti. “Although since I get paid to do what I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a kid, I don’t have to deal with that sort of thing.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I know.”
A silence then, one that was fortunately broken by the arrival of their server. He ordered osso bucco, while Felicia opted for eggplant parmesan.
“Vegetarian?” he asked, after the waitress had left.
She shook her head. “No. I just like eggplant, and I hadn’t had it for awhile.” This time the twinkle in her eyes was obvious. “Don’t worry — you’re not going to get a lecture about ordering veal.”
As a matter of fact, all demons liked veal and lamb, but Samael guessed he’d be better off not bringing up that particular tidbit. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he replied, thinking of the brunette he’d picked up at Griffith Observatory all those years ago. She’d been virulently vegetarian, anti-war, and a wildcat in the sack. What year had that been? Seventy-three? Seventy-four?
He supposed it really didn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things.
Felicia said, “Ex-girlfriend an activist?”
“What?”
She smiled. She had the smallest hint of a dimple at the right corner of her mouth. Samael wondered what it would be like to kiss it.
“You had that look in your eyes — the one guys tend to get when they’re thinking about a previous relationship.”
If she could read him that easily, then he needed to watch himself. He wasn’t used to someone who paid that much attention to his expressions.
“I might have been on the receiving end of the ‘meat is murder’ lecture once or twice,” he admitted.
She raised her glass to him, as if in salute. “Then we have something in common. My college boyfriend tried to convert me to the cause and then dumped me because I wouldn’t give up In N Out burgers.”
“Woman after my own heart,” Samael said, then wished he could have ripped out his tongue and stomped on it. A first date was a bit early to be talking about hearts. Actually, for him, any time in a relationship was too early to bring up hearts and flowers and riding off into the sunset together.
&nb
sp; The dimple reappeared. “At least I won’t have to worry about you chiding me for ordering a steak or something the next time — ” And then she broke off, a look of dismay on her face.
It was one that Samael recognized right away, since he had a feeling he’d worn pretty much the same expression just a few seconds earlier. Good to know that demons weren’t the only ones who felt a need to tiptoe around discussions regarding the future of a relationship.
He said, “Ma’am, I’d be honored to buy you that steak,” and was rewarded with that sunrise smile again.
“Done — as long as you don’t call me ‘ma’am’ ever again.” She grimaced. “I’ve gotten that once or twice from the bagboys at the supermarket, and it’s not fun.”
“Guess my cowboy impression didn’t work for you, then.”
“Oh, is that what that was supposed to be?”
He grinned back at her, even as he wondered at himself. Banter wasn’t his usual forte. Whether through instinct or pure dumb luck, he’d always found himself pursuing women who were far more interested in the physical rather than the mental side of things. Not that he didn’t want to get physical with Felicia — preferably in the near future.
“Good thing I didn’t go into acting,” he replied equably.
“Oh, you probably could have made a go of it, with your looks.” Then she paused, looking a bit crestfallen. “Um…that was crass, wasn’t it?”
“Only if you think giving people compliments is crass.” Some men might have been offended by the implication that a lack of acting ability could be compensated for by good looks. But Samael wasn’t a man, and he didn’t offend easily. “It probably depends on the compliment. Or the person giving it.”
He watched that dimple flicker in and out of existence next to her mouth and wished the waitress would hurry up with the food already. The osso bucco sounded wonderful, but he had a feeling dessert was going to be even better.
• • •
She wanted him to go home with her. The realization struck Felicia with an almost physical force as she watched him break up the last bit of bread with his long, strong fingers. What would it feel like to have those hands moving up and down her body, touching her…exploring her?
Heat pooled in her lower belly, and she wadded up the napkin in her lap, then smoothed it out once again, hoping those simple actions would help to distract her from the waves of need that had begun to pulse through her. This was ridiculous. She’d never allowed herself to be ruled by her hormones before, so what the hell was it about Sam that made her want to toss aside every scruple about casual sex she’d ever had?
Well, technically, this is our second date. She had to repress a nervous laugh. Amazing, the rationalizations the human mind could come up with when it really, really wanted something. And she knew she wanted Sam. What difference did it make whether she slept with him on her “second” date or her tenth? They were both adults, right?
Although she made an effort to take the bill, he neatly snatched it away from her and handed it and a platinum Visa to the waitress without even bothering to look at the total. Bounty hunting must pay pretty well.
She didn’t have much time to gather her thoughts; the waitress returned with amazing speed, considering her slowness in bringing the actual food. Felicia found herself standing outside the restaurant, valet ticket clutched in her hand, before she had time to collect her thoughts.
If Sam was experiencing the same diffidence, he didn’t show much sign of it. The warm night wind ruffled his unruly black hair as he handed his own ticket to the valet.
“Thank you for dinner,” she blurted, even as the second valet station attendant turned to her, an expectant look on his face.
“You’re welcome.” A brief smile. “I think he wants your ticket.”
“Oh.” She shoved the card into the valet’s hand and waited for him to depart. Then she took a breath. “Did you — that is, I was thinking we could go back to my place. It’s not too far. For a nightcap, I mean.” Oh, God, if he didn’t already think I was an idiot for that remark about his looks, he’ll sure think it now…
The smile broadened. “Sure. What’ve you got?”
Good question. She wasn’t much of a drinker. She thought she had a bottle of cognac someone had given her a few years ago at one of Lauren’s Christmas parties. It had never even been opened. “You like cognac?”
It must have been the sodium-vapor street lights that made it look as if a reddish gleam came and went in his eyes. “Love it.”
Through some miracle the valet brought her car around first, closely followed by a big truck that must belong to Sam. She gave him her address and some quick directions. He nodded, then climbed into his truck and waited while she slid into the driver’s seat of her Volvo.
Concentrating on fastening her seat belt and checking her mirrors helped keep her occupied for a minute or so. But once she was headed east on Third Street, the misgivings came back full force. What had possessed her to invite Sam back to her loft? All right, so she hadn’t been laid in — well, if she stopped to count the months it would be too depressing, but it had been long enough. And fingers and vibrators could only get a girl so far.
She bit her lip and turned on her signal as she slowed to take the turn into her parking garage. It was part of the reason she’d purchased the loft here and not another, larger one a few blocks away. Street parking in L.A. was a nightmare; at least here she was guaranteed her own spot, as well as a couple of floating ones that were available to guests. The lights of Sam’s Silverado flashed in her rearview mirror as he started down the ramp into the garage behind her.
The visitor spots were located near the stairwell, so she went ahead and parked in her space and headed over to meet Sam. He climbed out of the truck and clicked the remote for the alarm. His gaze slid past her to the stairs. “No elevator?”
“What do you think this is, the Ritz?” She reached past him and opened the door to the stairwell. “We do have an elevator, but it’s small, and I don’t like to use it, since it was put it in for people who actually need it. Desmond, on the second floor, is in a wheelchair, and Rosa, who shares the top floor with me, has fibromyalgia and can’t use the stairs. So you get to work off that veal.”
Even as the words left her lips she worried that her tone might have been too tart, but he gave her another easy grin and started up the steps. Although technically she should have led the way since she was the one who knew where they were going, she didn’t argue. By following him, she got to watch his delectable ass in that fine-fitting pair of jeans going up five flights of stairs.
After they’d visited her once, people never bothered to ask Felicia how she got her exercise. But Sam didn’t seem winded at all. He stepped aside as he entered the short hallway that separated her loft from Rosa’s.
Felicia moved past him and unlocked her door. “Here we are.”
“Nice place,” he commented, after she flicked on the lights.
Thank God she’d taken that fifteen minutes to tidy up the loft before she left to meet him at the restaurant. She didn’t think her home would win any awards from Architectural Digest, but she’d tried to keep the furnishings to a minimum — clean, simple pieces that didn’t fight with the good bones of the building or the spectacular view out the windows. Since it was a true loft, the whole space was one enormous room, except for the bathroom, which was located at the end of a short, closet-lined hallway.
“Thanks,” she said, keeping her tone casual. Now wasn’t the time to tell him how proud she was of her home, of how it was tangible evidence of the success she’d worked so hard to achieve. Better to accept the compliment and move on.
She found the cognac shoved toward the back on the top shelf of her pantry. Since it hadn’t been opened, she had to struggle with uncorking it, shielding her inexpert wielding of the corkscrew from Sam as best she could. She didn’t own anything like brandy snifters or even cordial glasses; instead, she brought out two tumblers and pou
red a scant inch into the bottom of each one.
If Sam was surprised by the unconventional glassware, he didn’t show it. He lifted the tumbler toward her. “Salut.”
That seemed safe enough. “Salut.” The cognac burned its way down her throat, and she tried not to cough. Damn. Did people actually like this stuff?
Sam, did, apparently. He took two sips to her one before setting his glass down on the counter. “Saving it for emergencies?”
“What?”
He pointed at the abandoned corkscrew on the granite countertop. “I could’ve helped you with that.”
No doubt. She had the feeling he’d opened a lot more bottles in his time than she had. But she’d wanted to do it herself, had wanted to prove…what, exactly? That she wasn’t a complete klutz with a corkscrew?
“It’s all right.”
“Yes, it is.” He lifted his glass from its resting place on the countertop and took another swallow of cognac. “I’m guessing it had to be a gift…a gift from someone who doesn’t know you very well.”
She couldn’t argue with that. The cognac hadn’t come from Lauren, but from another one of her clients. Oh, well. As they say, it was the thought that counted.
“Perceptive,” she admitted, then made herself swallow one more sip of the fiery liquid. It didn’t taste quite as revolting the second time around. “I guess it helps to be a good judge of character when you’re a bounty hunter.”
“You could say that.” He put the glass, now empty, on the counter and came toward her. Before she could stop him, he’d plucked her own glass from her fingers and set it next to its mate. “You really don’t have to force yourself to drink that.”
“I wasn’t forcing myself, I — ”
And then her words were smothered, because he had bent his head to place his mouth on hers. His arms went around her. They were just as strong as she’d imagined, and he tasted of cognac and heat and the warm fall night outside.
Molten rivers of desire sprang to life deep within her. This was why she’d asked him here in the first place — she knew for once she wouldn’t try to fight this overwhelming attraction. She opened her mouth to his, tasted him again, felt his tongue meet hers. Her hands moved up his arms and pulled at his leather jacket. He shrugged out of it at once, flinging the unwanted garment to the floor. Underneath he wore a plain olive green T-shirt. His muscles were hard beneath her searching fingers, his flesh almost unbelievably warm.
Playing With Fire Page 3