Crazy that. But she’d had enough. Clyde couldn’t help her, and while she understood his dilemma, she still wasn’t sure he was righteous. So no go. Sticking her hand in her pocket, she whipped out the prism, swishing it in the air. “I know I promised, but . . . you do know you made me do this, don’t you?”
“Christ!” he shouted, his hands going to his eyes, rubbing them. “Would you cut me some slack?”
Delaney popped up off the chair when his human form began to shimmer. “No slack. ’Bye, Clyde.” She waved the prism once more, watching his broad chest become transparent, and then he faded completely.
She stooped to pick up the throw and had a moment’s remorse. Now Clyde was off on some plane that was a prettier version of Hell—naked.
Way to cheer up the tortured souls.
A few hours later, after a long stint on the Internet, searching Google for anything she could find about Clyde, she decided another shower was in order for her achy muscles. If he really was who he said he was, she wasn’t going to find that out on the World Wide Web. There’d been several Clyde Atwells and none had died within the last three months. The rest of the information was limited to some pretty general stuff from phone directories across the country. Every clue he’d given her about his life, she’d put into a search engine, only to come up empty-handed.
Stripping her clothes off, she ran a weary hand over her grainy eyes and flipped the shower handles on, then reached for her favorite oatmeal and seaweed scrub while the water warmed. If she was quick, she just might get enough hot water time in to wash her hair. Eyeing the dogs all sitting in a row on her bed, plumping her decorative pillows with their scruffy paws, she gave them the look. “You guys behave, got that? I have to say, I’m just a little disappointed that Clyde seems to have no trouble getting you knuckleheads to pay attention—and he ain’t the one with the kibble. So you’d all better start listening to me. I find one pillow out of order, I’ll know who was humping it, and the shit will fly. I’ll call Cesar pronto, and then we’ll just see who’s your pack leader. Understood?” She scratched heads as she hurried to get in the shower before the hot water disappeared.
Sprays of water, blessedly hot, slid over her skin in cascades as she wet her hair, grabbing the shampoo and working it into a soapy lather. Her thoughts strayed to Clyde and how she’d shipped him off to planes unknown on a rather harsh note. Why she was having bouts of regret in the way of stomach clenches was something she couldn’t pinpoint.
Or maybe she could. She was a sucker for anything or anyone hard up. If Clyde was telling the truth, he was undoubtedly hard up.
And hard.
Sweet mother and all twelve apostles. She was having naughty flashbacks to a kiss that he’d claimed was nothing more than some kind of covert operation. Yes, she was. Epic naughty thoughts.
Clenching her eyes shut, she gave her hair a good scrub. This was one of the few times in her life she decided she wasn’t going to behave like she’d just fallen off the turnip truck—no matter how convincing Clyde had been.
He was a bad dude.
End of.
She was officially absolving herself. Clyde’d been right about one thing—she had bigger fish to fry, and that included figuring out what Lucifer’s next move was. So she’d just have to go on believing that this story Clyde’d given her was just a way to get her to let his demonicness into her life and then he would do exactly what he claimed his mission was—trash her.
There it was again.
That infernal, nagging niggle in the pit of her belly that said she’d maybe possibly misjudged him. She’d never had so much one-on-one contact for such an extended period of time with a demon like she’d had with Clyde.
That had to be it.
Delaney went back to scrubbing her hair, eyes closed, enjoying the oddly blissfully hot water. She gave her scalp a good massage, but the rustle of plastic stilled her hands.
“So this could be labeled awkward, right?”
Get. Out. “What about me naked and you in my shower while I am isn’t awkward, demon?”
“Before you go screeching at me, just hear me out.”
Her hands immediately went in ten different directions at once to try to cover her girlie bits while shampoo dripped into her eyes, blinding her. “You know, I have something to say here, and I’ll try not to screech, but I make no promises. You evoke screeching.”
“By all means, say something.”
Her words came out in a watery, garbled drip of shampoo when she spat, “What, in the ever-loving fuck, are you doing in my shower? I’m naked, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah,” he said on a gusty sigh. “Me, too.”
“Still?”
“Yep.”
“But you’ve been naked since I met you. Me? Not so much. For you it’s a standard in our budding relationship. I personally like to get to at least share a granola bar before I consent to take my clothes off.”
“Well, my eyes are closed, if that’s any consolation,” he offered with a dry sarcasm she could almost taste on her lips.
For some whacked reason, it left her deflated that he hadn’t at least peeked. Gee, twisted much, Delaney? That ridiculous notion only made her angrier. “I don’t believe you.”
“Swear it.”
“What is it about me that you can’t seem to resist? I’ve all but made your eyeballs bleed. Yet here you are. This could be considered stalkerish behavior, Clyde Atwell,” she drawled.
“I’m no stalker, Delaney Markham.”
“Then explain, demon,” she growled, finally gathering enough of her wits to begin rinsing her hair, but too afraid to open her eyes. She’d seen him in almost all of his glory. In fact, she’d just been strolling down the memory lane of nudity when he’d popped in. It’d been hard enough to resist the throw-blanketed Clyde. Wet and wild was definitely out.
“I swear to Christ, Delaney, I have no idea how I ended up here. I was off on that dismal, dreary plane you prismed me back to, and I admit, I was thinking about our predicament, and then wham, here I am.” His voice rumbled with gravelly irritation, leaving a vibration in her chest that made it tickle.
She squinted one eye open while water battered her face, keeping her chin up so she could only see from the tops of his shoulders up. She was in treacherous waters if she didn’t. What she found was a rather shamefaced demon, huddled in a corner, dwarfing her small shower space.
Wow. The demon was a gentleman. He really did have his eyes closed.
“Didn’t I tell you pink wasn’t a good color for you?” she chided, letting her hands slide to her breasts. Whether he was ogling them or not, modesty must prevail.
Clyde’s hand went to his head, pushing her shower cap up on his forehead. “Noted, and I have no clue how I ended up in this—it was just here on my head—I was just here. It’s like I said before, I keep ending up back here. With you. I’m convinced that has to mean something.”
“It means you’re ruining my shower. Wasn’t it enough that you screwed up Ghost Whisperer? I don’t get to indulge in a hot shower often because I hardly ever have hot water, and now you’re sucking it all up. So, please, I’m begging you, get out, and keep your eyes closed while you do it.” The last thing she needed was a critique from Body by Bowflex. Demon was definitely the new sexy.
“I can’t do that without opening my eyes, but I’d be happy to open my eyes—with your permission, of course.” His affable smile turned into another cocky smirk.
Her sigh filled the small shower with her exasperation. There was only one way out and that was by squeezing past her. The other half of her cheap shower doors didn’t open enough for someone as large as Clyde to get past. “Give me your hand. I’ll guide you out. You’re going to have to step around me, so watch those klunky feet.”
Clyde placed his hand in hers while she maneuvered him around her, biting the inside of her lip and sucking in her stomach to keep their bodies from touching—all while she kept her eyes affixed to his
face. His grip was tight around her fingers, their wet flesh connecting and leaving a raw trail of jumpy nerves that sizzled along her arm.
When she tugged him around her body, their chests touched, the patches of hair he still had scraping deliciously across her nipples. Her gulp was thick, her head light. Delaney blew out a shaky breath before she spoke. “I’m going to open the shower door, so step up when I tell you to.”
“Okay,” he grunted, sticking his other hand out as a guide.
“Step up now.” Sliding the creaky door open, she fought the impulse to look down at his ass, knowing full well it’d be as hard and sculpted as the rest of him.
Though, seriously, what would a peek—just a quickety-quick glance—hurt? It was, after all, just a butt. Everyone had one. And while she noted that she definitely didn’t want to see everyone’s and she was overly curious about his, seeing Clyde’s wasn’t against the law. Her eyes, with a will of their own, cast downward.
Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.
Everyone didn’t have one like that.
Holy ba-donk-a-donk. Woo to the hoo, baby.
Her face grew hot, her cheeks flaming though the water had grown cool. She darted her guilty, prying eyes back to his broad back just as Clyde stepped up and out of the tub, forgetting to let go of her hand and pulling her out behind him.
The wet slap of flesh as she lost her balance and fell into him, knocking him forward to the floor, was sharp, Clyde’s grunt when he hit the floor with her on his back, sharper still.
And then they were pressed together in a mass of crooked, bent limbs on her tiny bathroom floor.
Naked.
All this nekidity might have been redundant but for the fact that lying front side down on Clyde’s big back was, for the tiniest of moments, hawt, hawt, hawt.
His skin was supple, firm, slick with droplets of water. Delaney’s cheek fell to his shoulder, her nostrils flaring with the heady scent of man. She didn’t care that his neck was at an awkward angle, jammed up against the vanity, and she cared even less that his foot had been left hooked on the edge of the tub. It wasn’t every day she was able to indulge in the raw sexuality of a man. For as totally wrong as that thought probably was, she just wanted a moment . . . to linger . . . on top of Clyde . . .
“Delaney?”
“Hmmm?” Yes, she could fully acknowledge that was her voice doing a breathy Marilyn Monroe imitation.
“Please don’t take this as an insult, but I can’t breathe, and I think I might have broken my toe. So do you think you could get up? Please?”
Like now? When she was just getting the taste of her first real, live man in years? How selfish. But, an inner voice, scathing and derisive, reminded her, He’s not a live man, horn dog. Demon, remember?
She popped off of Clyde’s back, once more silently thanking Pilates for her core strength—for any strength that allowed her to unglue herself from him and his tasty bod.
Her hands fumbled for a towel, yanking it off the rack with hasty fingers and wrapping it around her. She turned her back to him, handing the other towel to him over her shoulder. “Put this on.” And make it snappy, she thought, or all this pent-up sexual energy was going to become a long-ignored, libidinous shitstorm worthy of the apocalypse.
Clyde’s groan signaled he’d untangled himself from her shower. The dogs began to whimper their love for Clyde’s return with whining joy. He cleared his throat. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
With the sound of the bathroom door closing, she covered her face with both hands. She’d just plastered herself to a demon—and had liked it. There was nothing about this that was good. Nothing.
Squaring her shoulders, she wiped the condensation off her bathroom mirror so she could untangle the mess her hair would surely be in without having been conditioned. She frowned at the reflection peering over her shoulder, perfectly cool, perfectly blonde. “Ah, Miss I Vant to Be Let Alone, now isn’t a good time. I’m taking a page from your book. I’m a sopping-wet, half-cleaned mess, and I’m sure you wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like this—even at your worst.” When a girl really wanted to experience low self-esteem, all she had to do was get a little visit from Ms. Garbo to set her straight. Whenever she appeared to Delaney, she was permanently the bodacious babe of her 1920s fame.
Her ruby red lips moved before the whisper of her voice flitted to Delaney’s ears, the striking clarity of her cheekbones adding to the stunning entity, paling Delaney in comparison. “Flesh and the Devil,” was her less than remarkable, but suggestive advice.
Delaney wrinkled her nose at Greta. It’d taken some time to understand exactly what her otherworldly celebrity clientele were trying to tell her, but once she’d figured out they all spoke in reference to their famed movies, it had made conversations much easier to participate in. What Greta was suggesting was—was—gasp worthy. There’d be no getting a freak on with Clyde just for the pure pleasure of freaking. “You bet your silent movie bippy he’s the flesh of the devil. And I know exactly what you’re thinking when you suggest such a thing, you risqué broad. No. Absolutely not. I work for the other side. There’ll be no hanky-panky with his flesh—especially because it’s from the devil’s.”
Her thin, pencil-rounded eyebrow arched in mockery. “The Kiss.”
Okay. So there was that. It had been a stellar kiss even though the reasons for it were hardly based on anything more than necessity. “Guilty. It was fantabulous—he’s a consummate kisser, okay? Now quit making me feel worse than I already do, and while you’re at it, take your perfect size zero butt outta here. I can’t concentrate when you’re all looming over my shoulder being so coolly blonde and breathtakingly gorgeous.”
Greta smiled with warmth and sympathy, winking an eyeliner rimmed eye at Delaney before she faded.
A grip she hadn’t even realized she had on her sink tightened, then released, leaving the muscles in her hands jittery. She dried her hair, dragging a brush through it, fuming the entire way right up until she yanked her nightgown down from the hook on the back of the door.
Her behavior had been appalling, she acknowledged, reaching for the bathroom doorknob. But that was all going to change right now.
Clyde was on her bed, a pile of puppies surrounding him, wearing her pink bathrobe.
“If this keeps up, you’re going to owe me a trip to the bathrobe store,” she remarked before picking her discarded sweater off the floor and pulling it over her head.
“If this keeps up, I’m hoping we’ll find something that’s more suitable to my coloring,” he joked.
Laughter burst from her lips while weariness implored her to just give in. “Look, Clyde. I’m ass fried from our shenanigans. I don’t know that I believe your story, but if I’m honest, I will admit to having reservations about disbelieving you, too. I don’t know why, I just do. Don’t screw that up. We’re precarious here, you and I. We’re teetering on the brink.”
His whole face relaxed, the small lines around his mouth easing. “Jesus. That took long enough. If you’ll just look at this with some logic—”
Delaney scowled. “There is no logic to this. If I’ve learned nothing else since this ghost chat gig happened, I’ve learned there is no rhyme or reason to the spiritual world. If what you say is true and you can’t keep yourself from ending up back here, I’d have to wonder if Lucifer didn’t put some kind of binding magic to this assignment, so that you’d have no choice but to stay glued to my side. Or, if you’re telling the truth, so that Clyve would stay glued to my side like a thorn in my ass. But I’m too tired to care right now, and I’m too tired to explain binding. So you can sleep on the couch for tonight, and tomorrow I’ll try to figure this out. But by no means is this, in any way, shape, or form, me conceding total belief in you or your cockamamie story. I reserve the right to take it back and nail you, balls to the wall, with my prism if I have even the remotest hint you’re full of shit. Got that? You win the first round for wearing me to a frazzle—so take my bathrobe an
d just let me get some sleep. No arguments, no discussions. Deal?”
He clamped his delish lips closed for a moment, but no sooner had he done that than he opened them back up again. “Will I fit on the couch? It’s pretty small.”
“Will you find a couch, small or not, on that plane you keep ending up on?”
“Point.”
“But remember, I’m keeping my prism under my pillow and a box of salt under the covers. Don’t frig with the medium. Now, good night, Clyde.”
He rose from the bed, moving with caution around the side of it to avoid stubbing another toe. His face held a thousand unanswered questions, but for the first time since she’d met him, he appeared to find his shutoff valve. “Good night, Delaney.” Clyde turned on his heel, the width of his pink back disappearing out of her bedroom door when he pulled it closed behind him.
Dogs one through six sniffed the air, noting Clyde’s departure, and then the pitiful whine began. A whirring sort of hum peppered with the occasional yip.
They defected off the end of the bed, jumping like lemmings at the edge of a cliff, and headed straight for the door Clyde had just exited.
Dog number three, not known for her social skills, scratched beneath the gap of the door. Dog number six, using the one good front paw he had, joined her. “Heeeyyyy!” she whispered on a hush, kneeling down alongside her faithless pack, all lumped on top of one another in a ball of fur and whimpers. “You’re shitting me, you bunch of traitors. Is he the one who feeds you? Is he the one who cleans your puke up after you’ve snarfed down one of those damned rawhide bones like you’re rabid? Most importantly, did he save your asses from the guillotine? You’d all be kaput if not for me. I can’t even believe this is happening. What if he is a demon? Then where will ya be? Do you suppose old Clyde there is going to change your diaper?” she asked her BeDazzled canine. Her gaze turned to dog number three. “And if you think you have phobias now, miss, hah! Just you wait until Lucifer makes you his lapdog.”
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