by Anne Marsh
No fallen angel would look twice at her.
Fine with her.
Mischka was counting on the fact that her cousin, on the other hand, was never overlooked. You simply didn’t forget Pell if you’d met her. You couldn’t. At first glance, she just seemed so clean-cut and ordinary. Straight, shoulder-length brown hair stared up at her from the vid-player. There was just the faintest bit of curl to the ends. The high, clean arch of her eyebrows made it seem as if she were looking directly at Mischka. The still image didn’t capture the energy trapped in that slim, taut body. Yeah, her cousin was forthright. Clean. Down-to-earth. And then that puckish, whimsical sense of humor hit you right between the eyes, and she reeled you in and you were both laughing. Pell was fun. People simply liked being around her because she enjoyed them. She enjoyed everyone. Which was why Mischka was so horribly afraid her cousin had struck a bargain with the devil.
When the bartender slid the drink across the bar to her, she wrapped her fingers around the cool tube and placed the vid-player down on top of the gratuity before he could palm the cash. “I’m looking for someone.”
The juice was cold and artificially sweet. She would have preferred to drink straight from the bottle—after breaking the seal. But that was clearly not high-class enough for this club. Lucky her. Still, the juice was wet and her throat was dry. And she’d already paid for it.
The bartender’s pale eyes flashed with irritation and weary acceptance as he leaned in to make himself heard over the music. “No,” he said before she could so much as press the play button. His hand slid off the slim stack of bills and he started to turn away. “I can’t help you.”
“You don’t even know what I want,” she argued.
“Cash. Vid-player. Dressed to the nines but conservative. Not too flashy.” He indicated her outfit with a nonchalant jerk of his thumb. “You’re hunting one of them and you’re looking for the inside scoop. I can’t help you. Once your boyfriend, sister, best friend, whoever”—he shrugged—“has made a pact with one of those devils, there’s nothing I can do. All I do is pour the drinks.”
Did she really look that out of place? “I need to find my cousin.”
“Sure. That’s what they all say. And I’ll bet you think she was dragged kicking and screaming into this club. That there’s no way she knew what she was getting into, because she’s not that kind of girl.”
Well, yes. But it was true. And even if it hadn’t been, she wasn’t going to just abandon Pelinor because she’d made the mistake of a lifetime.
“Is there a posse of relatives behind you?” The bartender’s eyes looked over her shoulder and she wondered if he was reaching for a panic button. “Did you bring the big brother or the irate boyfriend with you?”
During that last, unforgettable family fight two weeks ago, her cousin had yelled she was going out. Back to the club. And that she’d damned well bond with a Goblin if that was what it took to get the family off her back. Pell might not appreciate her parents’ old-fashioned moral values—or that they refused to stop inviting a steady parade of stockbrokers and doctors to their Sunday family dinners—but Mischka wouldn’t let her cousin throw away that kind of love and support. Hell. She would have given anything for her own parents to still be around to badger her with impossible blind dates and embarrassing recitals of her imagined virtues.
Pell just didn’t know how good she had it.
“I left them at home,” she said, placing both hands on the bar’s top where he could see them. “It’s just me. I figure it will take the rest of the family another week before they get over the upset”—not to mention mouthing useless aphorisms about making your own bed and lying in it—“before they all beat a path to your door. You could save yourself some grief, Serge.” She read his name from the silver name tag pinned precisely to his well-ironed Gucci shirtfront. The club’s owner hadn’t stinted on the uniforms for his human hirelings; they were as expensive and well manicured as the club walls. Although the walls probably meant more to the owner. Goblins tended to think of their human neighbors as disposable.
“Just look at the vid for me,” she coaxed. “You can tell me if you’ve seen her. Nothing more, I promise,” she said when Serge flushed.
“You won’t like what I say either way,” he grumbled, but she could sense he was weakening. He’d look, if only to get her the hell away from his bar before she could cause a scene. She shot him the deliberately teasing look she’d seen Pelinor use a dozen times in an evening and he caved. “All right. Hand it over.”
She slid him the sleek silver unit and watched as her cousin’s puckish, mischievous face appeared on the thin screen. Even upside down, her cousin radiated life. Her husky voice chattered animatedly with someone offscreen, telling one of her favorite travel stories. Pell had itchy feet, her mother claimed affectionately. You couldn’t nail the girl to one spot; she’d be out and about before a week was up. The young woman on the screen, however, was describing an exotic beach, a particularly effective alcoholic concoction and a close encounter of the paranormal kind that Mischka was fairly certain her aunt had never heard.
Vintage Pell.
She almost missed the tension in the bartender’s shoulders. Hastily, he dropped the vid-player back onto the counter.
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t recognize this one.”
This one? Just how many women came into G2’s and hooked up with paranormals here? He hadn’t been shocked by the possibility. He hadn’t so much as turned a hair—until he’d seen the vid.
“You recognize her, Serge. You’ve seen her in here.”
He didn’t answer, so she leaned closer. Pell would have known how to wrap this man around her finger, would have known how to flirt the damn answer out of him. For the hundredth time since Pell’s disappearance, she wished she could be her cousin. That she had the guts and the courage to bend the rules. To live a little and find out, just once, what it was like to be the bad girl.
Instead, here she was, on cleanup duty yet again.
“Look,” he sighed, “you don’t want to know, trust me. She’ll probably show up in a few weeks or months and then you can all put this behind you. But if you ask questions now, you’ll get answers you might not want to hear. Things won’t be the same.”
She knew that; that was why she was here. “Tell me,” she said, not letting go of his gaze. He’d have to say no to her face, that was for damn certain. She wasn’t letting him slide off the hook easily.
“Fine.” He shoved the vid-player back at her and this time she took it. “Yeah, I’ve seen her. She’s pretty much a regular in here. Sometimes, she came in with a bunch of other women. Some of them were known Goblin junkies, women who’d hook up quick and easy with one of them for a night. Maybe two. For little favors, you understand. Nothing big. Maybe a promotion at work, that kind of thing.”
She’d heard of that.
“Most of them, though,” he continued, “were virgins in that sense. Oh, they were interested, sure, but they hadn’t sold their souls yet. We had a pool going,” he admitted, “about how long it would be before the next one sold out and who would go first.”
Lovely. Her cousin had been a set of cheap odds.
“Pelinor?”
“That her name? Lovely girl. She was friends with one of them. Weirdest thing,” he said thoughtfully. “Never seen that happen before, specially not here at G2’s. That Goblin would just sit and talk with her, maybe dance. He bought her drinks.”
“But she wasn’t seeing him.”
“No, not if by seeing you mean was he fucking her senseless. And he wasn’t drinking her soul. Not the last time she was in here two weeks ago, at any rate.”
“And?”
“And nothing. It was a busy night. That was the last time I saw her, and you asked. I haven’t seen her—or him—since.” He palmed the stack of bills and two days’ salary disappeared into his expensive slacks’ pocket. “You ordering another drink?”
&nb
sp; She pushed. “You know his name?”
“Nope. Friend of the owner, though.” He shrugged. “You got the balls, you ask Brends Duranov if he’s seen your friend. That kind sticks together, though, and he’s not going to care if his friend drank your friend dry. Look,” he sighed, “it’s a tough break, I know, but take it from one who knows. You go home and you wait. Your cousin will probably come home when she’s good and ready. And even if she doesn’t, there’s nothing you can do. You’re only human.” His eyes went flat and lost. “And they’re not. You can’t ever forget that they’re not human.”
Amazing what jersey did for a female’s ass.
Watching the ice princess sweet-talking his bartender, Brends admired the wicked cling of her dress and debated whether she understood the effect it had on her male audience.
Probably not.
Growl rumbling in his throat, he dragged her scent deep into his lungs. He’d found his mystery woman, the woman who had haunted his dreams for three nights running and whom he’d scented outside his club.
So why she was here?
Sure, G2’s drew some strange birds, but most of them looked like they were enjoying themselves. Or trying to. She’d ordered a damned juice, for Christ’s sake, and then left the ten-dollar beverage on the bar. As if so much as taking a sip inside his club might contaminate her. On some level, he knew he was being unreasonable. Maybe she was just another human female out slumming, making a quick little visit to taste the Goblin wares and rack up stories for her friends back home. A dare, maybe. Or a little gesture of rebellion. He’d seen the type. Made sure they got what they wanted—and that they paid the appropriate price for their pleasures.
It was almost witchy, though, the way the straight black sheet of hair fell around her face, parting smoothly around the strong line of her jawbone. Looking down on her from his hidden observation point three flights up, he could see the white line of her part marching across her skull.
Perfect. Every hair in place.
She walked with a sense of purpose, an almost feline prowl that had taken her straight across his dance floor precisely as if she knew where she was going. What she wanted. It was damned sexy. And it was just possible, he decided, that she simply had no idea that every male in her vicinity wanted to unwrap that tight little package.
Or maybe she did know and it was another weapon in her arsenal.
He wasn’t sure which he found sexier.
If tonight was his lucky night, she’d be here looking for a little action.
Or not.
She flashed a vid-player and the hunter in him went on the alert. From where he was, he was too far away to see the screen, but clearly she was looking for someone. Asking questions. Questions made his clientele understandably nervous. The bartender was shaking his head, but moments later the little bastard had pocketed a stack of bills and had his face right up close to hers. Brends made a mental note to have a little conversation with his employee later that night. A conversation that was going to include an unexpected severance package, if the cocky little bastard didn’t hightail it back to his side of the bar and start doing the job Brends paid him to do.
Maybe Brends would do his job.
He’d find out just what his newest guest was up to. And then some.
Three
Oh, hell. Coming out of the women’s restroom, Pell froze. She recognized the slim, elegant figure perched by the bar. Maybe she’d been kidding herself when she’d thought her family—and her cousin—would let her go if she threatened to bond with a fallen angel. She should have known that Mischka wouldn’t let her go. Wouldn’t let her fall when there was something Mischka thought she could do to stop it. Mischka was like that. She’d spent a lifetime rescuing her baby cousin from herself and usually—usually—Pell had been grateful. You couldn’t put a price tag on that kind of love.
She wasn’t grateful. Not tonight. Not this time.
Her heart beating hard in her ears, Pell headed back toward the private table. And him. Maybe Dathan would have some ideas on what to do next, because she was fresh out of getaway plans. The writhing crowd of dancers would cover her movements for now, but she couldn’t count on anonymity for long. Mischka was too logical, too precise.
Too stubborn.
Pell was going to get caught unless she pulled a rabbit out of the hat. Now. She couldn’t believe that Mischka hadn’t seen through her threat to run away with a Goblin, hadn’t recognized the ploy for what it was. Sometimes, Mischka was naive. Sometimes.
Fallen angels were out of Pell’s league. Goblins played for keeps. She’d always pegged them for kindred souls since the rumor on the streets was they’d been kicked out of the Heavens for being a tad bit less than perfect. Well, she wasn’t perfect, either. And she’d been known to break a few rules. Okay. More than a few. Being friends with Dathan, however, probably violated at least one international treaty. Now she could only hope that her friend would be able to save her from her current mess.
Because Mischka’s unexpected presence at the club was only the tip of the iceberg.
Spotting a break in the crowd, she scooted through the opening. It had been a mistake to let Dathan coax her into coming here, a place where she was known. A place Mischka knew she visited.
When she approached the leather banquette where Dathan lounged like a pasha with his harem, he took one look at her face and leaned over, coolly dismissing the hangers-on from his booth. The young blonde shot her a look Pell couldn’t quite interpret. Part intoxication, part chagrin. Too bad if the blonde was jealous, because nothing was going to happen. Dathan was her friend. If he wanted to use her to send unwelcome human company packing, that was fine with her. Words were cheap, and she didn’t care if the clubbers thought she was Goblin bait. God help her, though, if Mischka saw. Or if word got home to her parents.
Dead wouldn’t begin to cover it.
“She’s here,” she all but babbled, sliding onto the banquette next to him. The heat of his large body was a welcome solace and she fought the urge to tuck herself into the shadow of all that girth and strength. She was going to be a big girl tonight. She really was. Right after she asked him for one last favor.
Dathan’s large hand wrapped around hers. She expected him to tug her up from the banquette, but instead he turned her hand over in his, wrapping her in hard, reassuring warmth. Anchoring her.
“Don’t panic,” was all he said, but his free hand was flipping out a cell and dialing. He spoke a few low, guttural words in an unfamiliar language.
He must have a plan. Thank God. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to speak a foreign language in front of others?” She spoke lightly, but her eyes were moving over the seething dance floor, looking for Mischka.
He barked a final word into the phone and snapped it closed. Dark eyes swept up, and for a moment she wondered if she’d accidentally sat down with a stranger. He looked different. Harder.
“No,” he drawled. “Really? Maybe you should consider giving me a few lessons in—linguistics.” The words sounded almost dirty. Playful. If she hadn’t been so worried about Mischka tracking her down, she would have been tempted to play. They’d teased each other, flirted, for months now. It was good having a friend with whom she felt comfortable. And they both knew that the words were only words.
“Don’t, Dathan. Not now,” she said.
Those dark eyes stared at her and then his face relaxed, the unfamiliar tension melting away. “All right,” he agreed. “I won’t. Now why don’t you tell me what’s up?”
The firm pressure of his hand stroking hers was rubbing away the panicked tension until she wanted to melt into a puddle of bliss. That was Dathan. So uncomplicated. Always there. Really, she didn’t understand why Mischka was so prejudiced against the fallen angels. Dathan was her friend. The older brother she’d never had. She’d leave town when the itch got too bad, travel as far as her money would take her, but whenever she came back to M City, he was waiting there for her. Dathan’s f
ingers moved along her hands in sure strokes. When they discovered a sore spot she hadn’t realized was there, they pressed knowingly. The ache melted away and she bit back a moan of pleasure. God, Dathan could have made a fortune in a five-star day spa. His hands were pure magic.
“I’m in trouble,” she admitted.
“Really,” he said dryly, bending his dark head over her hand. “I’m shocked, Pell. How out of character. Tell me about it and we’ll see what I can do.”
That hair, she thought, was sinful, the color of midnight and lost souls, even though he usually kept it pulled ruthlessly back from his face. Dathan was neither handsome nor beautiful, but she’d always thought the strong lines of his face possessed an animal magnetism. Since other women stared when he entered a room, she figured she was right.
Stalling for time, she let her eyes trace the familiar hard line of his jaw and cheeks. Dathan had the golden eyes of an animal, never unaware of his surroundings. Even relaxed on the leather seat opposite her, his impossibly large body confined in the close space, she recognized the loose fighter’s stance. His right hand rarely left his blade, one thumb stroking the sharp edge over and over. Protector, her gut sang. Predator, her mind supplied.
“Well,” she said, and wondered why it felt so awkward to confess this to him. “You know my family. And I’ve told you about my cousin.”
“Mischka.” He nodded. “The perfect one.”
“Yeah,” she said glumly. “Well, she’s convinced that I’ve decided to sell my soul to the fallen angels and—” There was really no way to put this tactfully, she decided. After all, the male holding her hand was one of them, even though she knew he would never take advantage of her. They were friends.
“And you’d like to convince her of the utter untruth of that particular statement?” His head never moved. “Which is why, of course, you’ve spent the last two weeks in my guest room and are now here in my very public company. Wise move, Pell. Your cousin isn’t going to accept a notarized document when she gets wind of this. Which she has.” His head snapped up. “If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t have bothered telling me this.”