Kiss at Your Own Risk

by Stephanie Rowe

  Panic shot through her, then she immediately halted it. Get real, Angie. What were the odds it was Smutty? Last she’d heard, he was running around in the North Pole trying to kill Santa. “Well, that’s great. Right up your alley, isn’t it? World renowned black magic assassin and all that.”

  It was one thing to be a great hit man. It was something else to be able to kill people and leave absolutely no trace of the target. One snap of Napoleon’s powerful fingers, and he could make it seem like his victim had never even existed. It made him highly sought after and very, very expensive.

  And yes, she’d tracked him a bit once he’d gone off with his blow-up dolls. She’d once been naive enough to be impressed with his career, until she realized he was a brutal mercenary. No morals. Just money. Prentiss at least was fulfilling the important role of soul management. It wasn’t like creation could exist without him, even if he was abusing it somewhat. Napoleon on the other hand? Money grubbing fornicating bastard.

  “It is up my alley,” Napoleon agreed, taking another sip. “The Triumvirate has already made arrangements to have it killed, but a few members don’t expect success. They’ve paid me to come and assess the situation, and then to take action if the first plan doesn’t work.” He smiled. “You can’t imagine how much they paid me just to come take a look.”

  She blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re here to offer me spousal support? Fifty percent of your earnings? That’s fantastic. And to think I thought you were a selfish bastard who took off on his own wife and left her with nothing. So sorry to have misjudged you.”

  Napoleon ignored her barb. “Imagine my surprise,” he continued, “when I located the target in question and saw that he was loaded to the horns with my wife’s smut.”

  Angelica felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s impossible.” Oh, yeah, excellent comeback. Sure to bowl him over with that one.

  Napoleon walked over to the buffet and set his cup down. “I’m not sure what you did with the first waste receptacle I created for you, but there’s a serious amount of tarnish on the new one.”

  Try three hundred years’ worth. She’d cleansed her life of anything having to do with Napoleon, including taking all the smut from the homeless waif he’d rotted up and dumping it all onto Charles. The girl had become one of Angelica’s first projects, to try to help rehab her from the damage Nappy had done to her emotionally, and as a woman. But Angelica had been very, very careful about how she’d managed it. She was the queen of safeguards. “Smutty can’t be killed,” she said. “I’ve made him immortal.”

  Napoleon appropriated a lace napkin and tapped it over his mouth. “We both know nothing is truly immortal. I’ll be able to kill him. You know I will.”

  Angelica clutched the phone-goo-towel more tightly. Of course Napoleon could kill Smutty. It might take him some time, but there was a reason he was the best assassin in existence. He’d even usurped the vampire triplets who’d been so effective with their three-pronged assault on the mind, the body, and the spirit. “You’re wrong.”

  Hoorah for the completely convincing denial. Not.

  “Am I?” He crumpled the beautiful lace treasure and tossed it onto the floor, and then sauntered toward her. “And what do you suppose will happen if I kill your garbage disposal?”

  She knew exactly what would happen. The three hundred years of backlash that had turned Smutty from a good looking, debonair fairy prince into a grotesque, humpback den of iniquity, brutality, horrible body odor, and lethal dementia would come flying back and hit her right smack in the face.

  She’d be insane before she had a chance to get rid of it, and she knew from the look on Napoleon’s face that he was well aware of that fact.

  Smutty’s death would be her own epitaph, as well as the death of all the boys and girls in her care, because the minute the spoilage took over her mind and body, it would be a kill ’em all fiesta until all that was left was blood, carnage, and hell.

  Napoleon eased to halt less than a foot away, completely invading her personal space. “I want something from you, babe, and you’re going to give it me. Or your smut monster dies.”

  She raised her chin, refusing to take a step back and relinquish her territory. To think there was a day when she’d thought manly, controlling men were hot. She folded her arms over her chest, and her heart started to pound. “What do you want from me? My true love? Because you burned that bridge a long time ago.”

  He trailed his finger over her cheek, exactly like he used to do. “I don’t care about your love.”

  The words were like a sledgehammer to her gut. Of course he didn’t care about her love. Why had she even let herself think it? Because despite three hundred years of self-training, she apparently still sucked at protecting her heart from him. She smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

  She could handle this. Negotiate the deal and get him out of her life for good. As long as she kept this all business, she could survive intact. It would be a test. She loved tests. Made her stronger. Imagine the example she’d set for her girls? In fact, she didn’t even need to out-negotiate him. All she had to do was keep him at bay until she could find Smutty and hide him. She could do that, right? Yeah, right. Girl power! “I can’t imagine what I have that you want.”

  He caught a lock of her hair and tangled his fingers in it. “It seems that my ugly duckling has blossomed. Word of your allure and sexual talents has reached me even across the globe.”

  “You want lessons?” Oh, wow. She brightened and pulled her hair out of his grasp. “You want to stay at the Den for a while? I could totally whip you into shape.” God, she knew she’d been a good girl! The universe delivering Napoleon to her for sensitivity training? Torturing him without recourse? “That’s a great idea. I’ve got some empty beds in the Hair and Makeup area and—”

  “No.” He cupped the back of her neck and yanked her close. His chest was so broad, and he was so near that she had to crane her neck to look up at him, to meet his gaze. “I don’t want lessons.”

  She caught the scent of sulfur and burning cinnamon, and her knees began to tremble at the familiar smell of death and sweetness, of taint and spice, of man and demon. “So, what do you want?”

  Then she saw the look in his eyes. The arrogance. The gleam of anticipation.

  Oh, man. This was not going to be good.

  “I want the one thing you wouldn’t give me before.”

  She swallowed and braced her hands on his chest, trying to keep distance between them. “What’s that?”

  He fisted the back of her hair and anchored her head still. “Total and complete surrender.”

  She grabbed his wrist and tried to pry his hand off, but his grip was unyielding. “No chance. I’m not the woman I used to be. I have my career and—”

  “I don’t give a shit about your career.” His gaze went to her mouth, and suddenly she knew what he wanted.

  The one thing that would break her soul forever if she gave it to him. The single area where she had no defenses. The sole vulnerability that would turn her back into the sniveling, weak, desperate woman she used to be, the one she’d spent three hundred years leaving behind, the cycle of self-destruction she’d worked so hard to protect her girls and boys from getting sucked into.

  All her dreams. All her hopes. All that she’d accomplished. By all that’s powerful and womanly, please let me be wrong.

  But he smiled, and she knew she was right.

  “All I want, my love, is the total and complete surrender of your body.” He thumbed her lower lip with his free hand. “Your body has always belonged to me, and I’m here to take it back.”

  ***

  Weird. Blaine had never realized that asphalt streets could actually move back and forth—

  Trinity punched him in the left side. “Stop!”

  Blaine halted the bike so fast that Trinity slammed into his back. “What’s wrong?”

  She peeled her face out of his jacket. “Oh, I d
on’t know. Maybe the fact you’re headed straight for the edge of the bridge?”

  Blaine squinted and realized that the undulating asphalt was actually the Charles River. “Damn. That’s confusing.” It wove out of focus again.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fantastic.” He sat back on the bike for a sec. He could feel all the black magic he’d taken off Augustus riding his cells, clinging to his soul. He looked down at his hand and saw a charcoal-colored gelatinous substance bleeding from his palm. Huh. That probably wasn’t a good sign.

  On the plus side, with this much garbage in his body, Augustus would be worshipping the carpet for a least a few hours. Bought ’em time. On the negative, he kinda felt the same as when the witch had tied him down and let a couple of hundred cranky water moccasins have their way with him.

  Hadn’t been his best day, and it had taken a week to recover.

  Didn’t have a week right now.

  “All right. Let’s go.” He went for the handlebars and missed. Took the thing on the jaw instead. Damn things were moving all over the place.

  Trinity leaned over his shoulder, and he tensed. The witch always hit him when he was down.

  “What can I do to help you?” Her breath was warm on his neck.

  He scowled, trying to concentrate. Had she really just offered to help? That made no sense. She was clearly trying to determine how weak he was so she could figure out where to launch her attack. “I told you. I’m fine.”

  “Blaine.” Trinity slid off the bike and walked around to face him. She planted her hands on the rubber grips (how the hell had she grabbed those mobile suckers?) and eyed him. “You’re not okay, and I need you okay. What do you need?”

  “I’m a man. I need nothing.”

  He kinda thought she snorted, or maybe that was the sound of his brain exploding.

  “For heaven’s sake, Blaine! Don’t be an idiot. What is up with the ‘I am an island’ thing?”

  “Women love that shit.” His eyes were playing tricks now, he was pretty sure of it. Trinity’s face was getting smaller and her breasts were getting larger. Or maybe that was actually happening. That would be nice of her to do. Grow some knockers just for him. “Nice rack.”

  “What?”

  “I said…” Shit. Couldn’t remember what he’d said.

  Something hard hit him in the side of his head, and he whirled around. Who’d come at him? He tried to flare up a fireball and—

  “Blaine! It’s me! You fell off the bike and hit your head on the pavement.”

  “I never fall.” But he could see some gray shit stretching out endlessly next to his head. Was that really road? Damn. Okay, maybe it was time to admit that the black magic harvesting hadn’t gone quite as well as he’d hoped. “Where the hell is Nigel? He should be here by now.”

  “Nigel?” Trinity was kneeling beside him now. “Who’s Nigel?”

  “He’s like my personal EMT. Handy guy.” He studied her face, fascinated by how it was morphing forms. “What’s up with the blurry? You can do that at will?” He reached up for her face and felt her cheek. “Weird. Feels normal.”

  “Blaine!” She sounded a little desperate now. “Tell me how to help you. Who is Nigel? Can he heal you? How do I reach him?”

  “Forget Nigel.” He moved his hand down the side of her neck and ran his thumb over her collarbone. “Anyone ever tell you that your skin is softer than the petals on an orchid?”

  “Blaine—” She hesitated. “No. No one’s ever said that.”

  “Well, then you’ve been hanging with a bunch of no-brained dimwits.” He traced the tendons in her neck. “No prickly tingly yucky stuff. Just skin. Dig it.” He blinked, trying to focus on her, but she was sliding out of sight. A peach-colored blur. Like she was dissolving or something. Like she was leaving him behind…

  His fist closed in her hair and he yanked her close. “You do not have my permission to leave me,” he snarled.

  “I’m not.” She palmed his chest, trying to hold herself away from him.

  “That’s what all the chicks say. Screw that.” He tightened his grip and pulled her closer. Needed a better hold on her hair. “Tired of people walking out. You trust ’em, they should stay.”

  “You’re right. They should. And some do. Like me. So calm down.” She palmed his hip. “Is this a phone in your pocket?”

  “A phone? Are you blind?” He grabbed her hand and set it on his crotch. “That’s like ten times bigger than a phone. More like a phone book, woman.”

  She yanked her hand free and shoved it in his pocket. “I actually meant your phone.” She pulled out something silver and waved it in front of him. Maybe it was a phone. Maybe it was a harmonica. Hard to tell when she was moving it so quickly. Did he have a harmonica? Wasn’t sure.

  But he did know that the item in her hand used to be in his jeans. “You stealing from me?”

  “For God’s sake, Blaine! Of course not!” She fiddled with the object, and he hauled her down on top of him.

  Her breasts hit his chest, and it felt right. Liked it. Liked her body against his. He set his hands on her hips and adjusted her to fit more closely between his thighs. “This is good.”

  “Your face is turning gray. That can’t be a good thing.” Her voice echoed at him from a great distance, like it was dancing around his head

  He tried again to look at her, but her face blended into the sunset behind her. Blurs of colors. He palmed her face, watching his hand meld into her lighter skin. “Nigel would like to paint this. Can’t cross-stitch it. Too amorphous.” Wanted to, though. Might be able to figure out a way. He lifted her hair and watched the golden streaks move across the sky. “Pretty.”

  “This can’t be good. You’re hallucinating. Tell me you have Nigel’s number in your phone.”

  His eyes were hurting. Too hard to see. He gave it up and closed them. Concentrated on touch. Tunneled his hand through her tresses. So silky. “Didn’t think there was anything softer than the Ritz Grande embroidery floss,” he mused. “Wrong.”

  “Hello? Is this Nigel?”

  He caught the back of her neck and pulled her down. Pressed his face to her throat. She smelled like baby powder and lavender. Barely there. Just the faintest hint, like she’d spritzed herself just for him, just for this moment of intimacy—

  “No, this isn’t Blaine. I have his phone. I—” She stuttered as Blaine blew lightly on her neck. “Um… my name’s Trinity Harpswell, and I’m with Blaine. Something’s happened to him, and he kept saying you could help him, so—”

  He kissed her throat.

  “Stop it!” She pushed at his face, and he caught her hand. Pressed his lips to her palm. “No, not you, Nigel. Sorry. Yes. We’re on the BU bridge.”

  Damn, her skin tasted good. The sweetness of brown sugar, with the delicacy of the lightest meringue. He caught her finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Wet and warm and so tantalizing. He wanted more. More skin. More tongue. More action. He licked the inside of her wrist.

  “I—” She tried to get her hand free, and he tightened his grip on her.

  “Not finished,” he muttered. Or maybe he said that. Wasn’t sure. Head was hurting like hell.

  “I’m sorry, Nigel. I’m a little distracted. You want to know if he’s hot? Like on fire?”

  Fire. Huh. That sounded familiar. Pretty sure he was supposed to be doing something with flames right now. Not sure what. Take a bath in a barbecue? Something like that.

  Didn’t know. Just needed the girl. Felt good to be touched. Made him not think about how much his body hurt right now. He hooked his leg over her calf and trapped her. Yeah, liking that.

  Trinity tried unsuccessfully to free her foot. “No. He’s not currently engulfed in flames. Why?”

  Blaine grabbed the back of her head and tugged her face down toward his. He missed her mouth, caught a full frontal with a cold hard piece of electronics. His phone? Weird. Why was it in her cheek?

  Trinity braced her h
and on his chest, her fingertips digging into his skin. “Okay, I’ll try to get him to set himself on fire, but hurry up—”

  Blaine yanked the phone out of her hand, tossed it aside, then fisted the back of her hair and brought her right down toward him.

  “Hey—” Her mouth landed right on his, and he grinned.

  Bull’s-eye.

  Chapter 13

  Dear Lord Almighty, was this what a real kiss was like?

  Trinity had a split second to think that it probably wasn’t a good idea to get intimate with a man who was potentially seconds away from a nuclear waste death after being contaminated by Augustus, and then the thought just didn’t seem to matter.

  Nothing did.

  Nothing except the feel of his mouth. Of the way his lips were consuming hers, taking them, compelling her response (as if he had to force her!). It was the kiss of a man who had decided he wanted it, and he was taking it.

  No asking for permission.

  No begging for forgiveness.

  Just a kiss of utter and compete confidence, like there was no chance in hell that she didn’t want it as much as he did.

  And you know, he was pretty much right.

  She wound her hands around his neck, gripping the back of his head, trying to kiss him more deeply. How could she not? It felt so good. She was so used to being the strong one. Of worrying for the safety of the man she was with. Of running away if she was attracted to a guy. Of trying to seduce him if he grossed her out, which of course was just so anti-nature it was pathetic.

  She never got cozy with the males who made her glad to be a woman. Too risky. But right now, in this moment, she didn’t really care about repercussions, control issues, or self-preservation.

  She just wanted to be kissed.

  Blaine ramped up his assault, and excitement danced in her belly and rode down her legs, like when she’d been on the bike and felt that vibration drive through her core. Only it wasn’t the bike between her legs. It was Blaine, and only Blaine. She could feel the muscles in his stomach flexing beneath her belly, felt the rising heat as he pressed his hips into her pelvis.