by Jane Kindred
“I wasn’t actually challenging you to a fight.”
“You just said you could take me.”
“You brought up your Systema skills. Which seems pretty strange, because all I suggested was that you let me look at the stitches and see how you’re healing. Is there some reason those are fighting words to you?”
Lucy let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if trying to breathe out her own anger—a gesture he was familiar with. “No, I suppose not.” They stared each other down for another few seconds before Lucy unexpectedly crossed her arms in front of her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and whipped it up and over her head. She turned her bandaged shoulder toward him. “Well? Take a look. I haven’t got all day.”
Oliver stepped closer and peeled back the edge of the bandage. The skin was healthy looking. No redness or swelling. Little bruising. And soft. Really soft.
He drew back his hand with a jolt as though he’d touched a hot stove. “You’re right. It looks good. Glad to see it.”
She turned to face him, the T-shirt still balled in her fist. “Now let’s see yours.”
“Mine?” Oliver had to check himself from reflexively covering his crotch.
“You have some interesting scars. They looked fresh.”
“Scars?” Oliver tried to keep his voice even, his expression believably puzzled.
“On your chest. From bullet wounds.”
“Bullet wounds?” If he pulled this off, he deserved an Oscar. “I think your sleep deprivation may have gotten the better of you last night. It’s understandable if you were a little confused.”
“Was I?” Lucy’s fists went to her hips. “Then take your shirt off and let’s see.”
“This is silly.”
“It’s a little weird that you won’t just do it if I’m being silly.”
Oliver blinked at her. “Maybe you should just put yours back on.”
Lucy swore and yanked the shirt over her head, shoving her arms into the sleeves with two sharp jerks. “Quit stalling and take your shirt off, Oliver. Or I’m going to assume my suspicions are correct.”
“And what suspicions would those be?”
“That you’re something I should be hunting.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” His temper threatened to spike. He hadn’t meditated yet today. Oliver pulled off his T-shirt and held his arms out at his sides. “Satisfied? No bullet wounds.” He tried to keep his breathing steady as she stepped toward him, her nose scrunching with disbelief.
Lucy’s fingers settled lightly on the pale thin line beneath his bottom right rib, and Oliver drew in his breath sharply. “What is this?”
“A scar from an accident I had a while back. If you think that’s from a bullet wound, you need your eyes examined.”
She glanced back up at his chest. She hadn’t moved her hand except to relax it against his side. “I was sure I saw them.” Lucy shook her head. “Maybe it really was sleep deprivation.” She raised her eyes and met his gaze, her thumb stroking absently along the scar.
Oliver looked down at her hand. “What are you doing?” He’d meant for it to sound slightly accusatory, disapproving, a little annoyed. It came out sounding rough and low and hopeful.
“I don’t know.”
Her thumb was still tracing the scar, and he grabbed her hand. “Well, stop.” He moved her hand away from him, which seemed to take a monumental effort. But he hadn’t let go of it. It was like her skin was a magnet.
“I don’t like you.” Lucy’s voice was equally throaty. “You’re pompous and...” She seemed to be grasping for adjectives. “Full of yourself.”
“Those are the same thing.”
“See?”
She’d surprised a smile out of him. “I don’t like you, either.” His delivery was utterly unconvincing.
“Then let go of my hand.”
He was barely holding it. “You let go.” She didn’t.
Whatever was happening here was a bad idea. His rational mind knew it. He didn’t do romantic involvement. Or sexual. He should have meditated this morning. He should let go of her hand and put his shirt back on.
He put his other hand on her waist. No. No, that is the opposite of letting go. Definitely do not kiss h—
Oliver swore silently at himself as their lips came together.
Chapter 7
Lucy switched off her brain and let the hormones take over. Oliver was swearing softly against her lips, and she didn’t think he was aware of it. It was sexy as hell. As if by silent, mutual agreement, their clasped hands released at the same moment—two seconds too late—and Oliver cupped her face in his hands and deepened the kiss as Lucy put her hands on his chest and stroked the hard terrain, moaning appreciatively.
When her hands moved down over his abs and traced the V of his obliques, Oliver let go of her mouth and cradled the backs of her thighs to lift her off the floor so that she had to wrap her legs around him, hooked behind his ass, and walked her swiftly backward to drop her into a plush, roomy armchair next to a pile of books.
Lucy unbuttoned his jeans while Oliver lifted her shirt from the back. He tugged it over her head as she finished unbuttoning him, and she let go for a second so he could draw the shirt away. His erection pushed against the briefs exposed at his fly, and Lucy tugged down the shorts and freed him while he unhooked her bra.
Oliver groaned as she encircled his cock in her hand, warm and hard like an eminently satisfying stick shift, and stroked upward, letting the bra strap slip off her other arm before trading hands to remove the other and toss the bra aside. She brought her right hand beneath the left. He was easily a two-fister. He swore a little again as he unfastened her jeans and tugged them down. Lucy lifted her butt to let him take them off, kicking off her sneakers, and wrapped her legs beneath his ass once more, using them to jerk him toward her.
Oliver pulled her hands away, locking his fingers in hers, and held her arms against the back of the chair as he dipped in to kiss her once more. The slick heat of his mouth and his tongue made her want to taste his cock.
“Stand up,” she murmured against his lips, letting her legs drop.
Oliver paused. “What?”
“Just stand up straight for a minute.” She wriggled forward on the seat, and he must have thought she was just trying to get more comfortable because the little strangled yelp as she swallowed him was more surprise than pleasure. But his soft grunts and groans—along with more delightfully muttered expletives—quickly turned into the latter as he gripped the arms of the chair. God, she needed him inside her. She needed to hear those little bursts of sound at her ear as he burst inside her.
Lucy released him and pulled Oliver down toward the chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and putting her mouth to his ear. “Do you have a condom?”
Oliver blanched. “Oh, shit. I don’t... I don’t think so.” What kind of guy didn’t have condoms?
She nodded toward the jeans balled up on the floor. “In the little wallet in my back pocket.”
With a raised brow, Oliver extricated himself and dug in the pocket for the wallet, which was really more of a coin purse, containing two condoms and two applicator-free tampons. Part of her go bag supplies. Because you just never knew.
Lucy watched him don one of the condoms while she stripped off her panties and teased a finger into her pussy, getting herself ready. Hell, whom was she kidding? She’d been ready for almost twenty-four hours. With his pants still on, Oliver scooped Lucy out of the chair and sat in it himself, pulling her onto his lap and onto his cock. Lucy moaned with relief. Oliver kept his movements inside her slow and sensual, focusing on pleasuring her with his hands, one at her breast and one at her clit, until Lucy was squirming and pushing herself deeper onto him, her moans louder and more plaintive.
When she reached her arms over her head and back around his nec
k to bury her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, he finally let go of all restraint and drove himself into her deep and hard. She knew he was coming when he started swearing against her temple, like a stream of X-rated endearments, and his expert fingers at her pussy brought her to climax just moments after. It was as though they’d been racing to a frantic finish before either of them could back out of the game, and Lucy relaxed into him with happy little noises, whimpers of contentedness, relieved to have made it to the end.
Oliver wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her neck. “Still don’t like me?” he murmured after a moment, and Lucy laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh; she wasn’t in the habit. It felt comfortable. As did his arms hugging her. It was almost as much a relief as having him inside her. Almost. Oliver kissed the underside of her jaw. “You didn’t answer.”
Lucy grinned. “I like certain parts of you a great deal.”
“Just certain parts?” Oliver sighed. “Any in particular?”
Lucy smacked his arm. “Now you’re just fishing.”
“Just name one part.” He gyrated his hips under her. “One big one.”
She laughed again. “Your ego.”
“Ha. Touché.”
Lucy relaxed in his arms and closed her eyes for a bit, almost falling asleep, until her eyes shot open as she remembered where she was. She glanced toward the door and let out her breath with relief. He’d lowered the shades and locked the door after the Hendersons left.
“What’s the matter?” His voice was sleepy, too.
“I had a moment of panic thinking everyone could see us.”
“Nah, just the ghosts.” Oliver grinned. “We could probably get more comfortable upstairs.”
Lucy yawned and shook her head reluctantly. “I should be getting back to work. You’re not paying me to...” She paused, realizing how awkward that sentence was about to be. Because he was her client. Whom she’d come on to—and whose bones she’d jumped—while in the middle of a very serious job. She scrambled off his lap and snatched up her scattered clothes, trying not to look at him as she yanked them on. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d let her hormones take complete control. This was so unprofessional. This was so pathetic.
“Lucy.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice and glanced up reluctantly while she braided her hair. Damn. There were two really good reasons not to have looked at him. That rock-hard body glistening with sweat and those deep cinnamon eyes watching her with disappointment. Or was that three reasons?
“You’re just going to take off? That’s it?”
Lucy sighed. “Your council hired me to do a job, and people’s lives are on the line here. This was a mistake.” She cringed internally even as she said it. He’d take it the wrong way. Or the right way. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
If the sexual release hadn’t left his body feeling blissed out, his rage would have gotten the better of him. Not at Lucy, but at himself.
Oliver cleaned up bitterly, everything that had been relaxed and loose moments earlier once more tense and tight. “Mistake” was right. He’d just ended five years of celibacy for an ill-advised twenty-minute romp with someone far too young for him. He should have checked himself, knowing his age and life experience tilted the power balance between them toward him, no matter how much professional experience she had or how tough she acted. And he’d betrayed Vanessa’s memory.
He glanced down at the ring, toying with it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He hadn’t allowed himself the weakness of giving in to sexual desire since her death. He didn’t deserve to be alive—let alone indulging in hedonistic pleasure—when Vanessa was dead.
For a long time, every meal he’d eaten, every breath he’d taken, had felt like a betrayal. With his daily meditation, he’d finally moved beyond that, but he didn’t indulge his passions, like decadent foods and spirits. And he certainly didn’t indulge in sexual intimacy.
And with Lucy Smok, of all people. Someone who made a living persecuting the paranormal.
Damn. He could still smell her. She was all over him, like she’d marked him. He was never going to be able to sit in that chair again.
Oliver went upstairs and undressed with angry jerks. He needed a shower. He needed to wash her out of his brain. But all he could think about under the almost-scalding water was how soft her skin was and how she’d sounded as she came. And how pale her naked body looked against his, contrasted with the rich darkness of her hair where it tumbled against her neck out of its makeshift knot, while she’d writhed in his lap.
Jesus, this was bad. He’d lost his mind. He had to end their association. Let Wes and Nora deal with her on this case. He was done. If she came pounding on his door in the middle of the night with battle wounds, he wouldn’t answer. There was an emergency room in Cottonwood. If she was such a badass, she could get herself there.
But when insistent knocking woke him hours later, Oliver jumped out of bed and hurried downstairs to open the door anyway.
Lucy stood on his doorstep. Not bleeding. Not injured. Just Lucy, in her jeans and Oxford rugby shirt and a black leather jacket, bloodred lips in a pallid face and pale blue eyes boring into him, like the Queen of the Night.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
He tried to breathe normally. “Are you coming in?”
“No. Maybe.”
Oliver took her hand and pulled her inside and kissed her with her back against the door until their mouths ached. When they came up for air, Lucy wriggled out of her coat with a swift, sexy shrug and went for his belt buckle, but Oliver stopped her.
“Upstairs.”
Lucy nodded and let him lead the way, both of them taking the steps two at a time, and they were half-undressed by the time they reached the bed. She’d braided her hair again, and he unbraided it while he sucked on her neck and nipped at her throat, and the dark hair spilled across his white pillow like clouds of dark paint in water while he rocked and thrust and drove himself inside her for almost an hour. She came twice before he finally did—once underneath him and once on top—and he was almost sorry to come because he had to stop fucking her. Almost.
Oliver collapsed onto his back, exhausted and dripping with sweat. He hadn’t had an aerobic workout like this in ages. Lucy curled up against his side and promptly fell asleep. He didn’t realize she’d done so until he’d been talking for ten minutes—about politics and the messed-up state of the world and about being a widower and how he hadn’t been with a woman since and how he was constantly questioning himself and his values and feeling adrift in his own mortal frame. After he’d asked her twice why she’d decided to come back and she hadn’t answered him, he finally realized he’d been talking to himself. Thank God.
He played with her hair where it snaked across his chest. It felt like silk. Oliver curled it around his fist and smelled it—crisp and cool, like cucumber or avocado—and wondered what she used to keep it so luxurious.
It was too cold to lie here unclothed, as much as he would have been content to look at her being naked and still, her body for once without its uneasy coil of tension and mistrust. He pulled the comforter up from the foot of the bed and covered them both.
When he woke—more rested than he could remember having been for a very long time—he found himself alone.
Chapter 8
Lucy huddled on the floor of her car in the parking lot outside the villa and cried until she was too exhausted to keep doing it, despite the fact that it hadn’t provided her with any kind of release. People always said, “Let yourself cry. You’ll feel better.” It was bullshit. Crying always made her feel a thousand times worse. And this wasn’t how a Smok comported herself.
A Smok didn’t sleep with clients in the middle of a case—or with anyone while on the job, for that matter. And a Smok certainly didn’t
cry about it like a teenage girl in her car for an hour at six o’clock in the morning. She’d gone soft and weak and useless. And she couldn’t even really blame it on the wyvern hormones, because she’d gotten her period this morning, which meant the past two days of out-of-control desire had been after her hormone levels dipped.
And the underside of Oliver Connery’s right rib cage had sported a fading scar from a knife wound yesterday afternoon that had disappeared by this morning. Just like the scars from the bullet wounds that she knew she’d seen had faded in less than a day. And every one of those wounds was identical to one she’d given the hell beast. She was fucking her client. And he was the murdering hell beast she was hunting. So that was fun.
Lucy sat in the car for a while longer, trying to get herself together and stiffen her resolve. She needed to take down that hell beast tonight, whether Oliver was aware of his alter ego or not. It didn’t matter how she felt about Oliver. It didn’t matter how decent a person he seemed to be. His infernal form was a dangerous monster, and it was Lucy’s job to remove dangerous monsters from the earthly plane and send them back to hell.
It was ironic that she’d criticized Lucien for years for his secret campaign to rid the world of as many unnatural creatures as he could before he became one. It hadn’t been part of the Smok Consulting business plan at the time to eliminate supernatural predators. Their loyalty was to their wealthy clients who paid handsomely to have paranormal events kept quiet. But now that Lucien was effectively out of the picture, the circumstances that had taken him out of it had made his former hobby Lucy’s number one job.
Regardless of why, she had to get this thing done. Now. Which meant she had to figure out how to kill it. Soul Reaper bullets hadn’t worked. Maybe Lucien’s special exploding-tip arrows that delivered the Soul Reaper serum directly into the bloodstream would do the trick.