Pride and Pleasure

by Sylvia Day

  Lust rippled though him, thickening his blood, shocking him. He didn’t make a habit of lusting after strangers—usu-ally he was so caught up in work he barely noticed women—but the picture she made was strikingly erotic. And it was…hmm. Months since he’d had sex, now that he came to think about it.

  “Good afternoon,” a voice behind him said, and he swung away from the door.

  Behind the restaurant counter, a middle-aged African American woman with short, curly hair and round cheeks smiled at him. “Take a seat wherever you like.”

  The place, a renovated fifties–sixties diner, was maybe half full, all the patrons seated in booths or at tables. He chose a bar stool and dropped his reading material, the latest issue of the Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology, on the blue Formica counter. “Thanks. Could I get a coffee and a menu?”

  “You bet.” She poured a mug of coffee and handed it to him along with a plastic menu. “The fruit pies are great if you’re in the mood for something sweet.”

  For him, things fell into one of two categories: those to be taken seriously and those that weren’t worth paying attention to. Food fell in the latter category.

  Coffee, though…He lifted the mug to his lips and sniffed. Mmm. Rich, robust, not acidic.

  He should have asked if the beans were fair trade, but he doubted the answer would be yes, and he needed coffee. Every man was entitled to one indulgence. Though, to be strictly accurate, as he tried to be, it was more of an addiction. Even if the stuff was poorly made, as was so often the case, he’d still drink it. Now, he savored the scent a moment longer, then lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip.

  Well, now. Another sip, to confirm his first impression. “This is excellent,” he told the woman approvingly. If you were going to do a job, you should do it well.

  Behind his back, the diner door opened and closed. It’d be the blonde. And it would be rude to swing around and look.

  “Thanks,” the woman behind the counter said. “You should try the fresh strawberry pie.”

  “Strawberry pie?” The feminine voice from behind him was light, eager, like a kid who’d been offered a present.

  A moment later, she slid onto the stool beside him, and this time he did look.

  She was stunning in a totally natural way. Her face was heart-shaped, fine-boned, glowing with a golden tan and a flush of sun across her cheeks and nose. A tangled mass of white-gold ringlets tumbled over her shoulders, half hiding a scattering of colorful butterflies tattooed on her upper arm and shoulder.

  Then he gazed at her eyes, and oh, man. They were the dazzling mixed blue-greens of the Caribbean, and he was diving in, losing himself in their depths.

  Vaguely he was aware of the diner woman saying, “So you’ll have the strawberry pie, miss?”

  He blinked and dragged himself back before he drowned.

  The blonde’s delicate tongue-tip came out and flicked naturally pink lips, and again lust slammed through him. She shook her head and said wistfully, “Just a chamomile tea, thanks. So, are you Marianne?”

  “That’s right, hon. This is my place. One chamomile coming up.”

  Chamomile tea? That jarred him out of his reverie. Might as well drink lawn clippings in hot water; it’d taste as good. Alicia, his biological mother, had been big on the stuff. And why didn’t the blonde order the pie she’d sounded so enthusiastic about? Was she one of those constant dieters?

  She sure didn’t need to be. He’d seen her legs through that filmy flower-patterned blue skirt. Above it, her faded blue tank top revealed toned shoulders and arms. Full little breasts, unconfined by a bra.

  Pink-tipped nipples. Not brown. Somehow, he knew that.

  Shit, what was wrong with him?

  Besides a growing erection that made him glad his cargo shorts were loose and his tank untucked. He’d been in tropical places where women walked around almost naked and not had so strong a reaction. Okay, he was a man of science. He could analyze this phenomenon logically. It was a simple combination of a bodily need that had gone too long unsatisfied and a woman who was a lovely physical specimen. Perfectly understandable, even if disconcerting.

  When he returned his gaze to her face, she urged, “Have the pie.” Ocean-colored eyes dancing, she added, “Maybe if I’m really, really nice to you, you’ll let me have a taste.” Her tongue flicked out again.

  Blood rushed to his groin as he imagined that pink tongue lapping his shaft. The blonde would be appalled if she had any idea what he was thinking.

  Unless…His friend and colleague Adrienne—whom he’d known since grad school—said women found him attractive, though he never noticed it himself. The blonde couldn’t be flirting, could she? No. No possible way. She could have any man she wanted, so why would she want a science geek like him?

  The diner woman put a small china teapot and a mug in front of her and she said, “Thanks, Marianne.”

  “I’ll have the pie,” he choked out.

  “Sure you will,” Marianne said with a knowing grin. She glanced at the blonde. “Whipped cream?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  He imagined the blonde painting his cock in whipped cream and licking it all off, and wanted to bury his face in his hands and groan. Since he’d first seen her, he’d been…bewitched. Except, there was no such thing as bewitchment in scientific reality. This was very unsettling. He rather desperately fingered the scientific journal he’d brought in with him. If he buried himself in its pages, he’d be on safe ground.

  “You’d rather read than talk to me?” she teased. “My feelings are hurt.”

  “Uh…” He glanced back at her.

  Her impish grin revealed perfect white teeth. “If we’re going to share…” She paused.

  He held his breath. Share? What man wouldn’t want to share any damned thing with this woman?

  “Pie,” she finished, “I figure we should introduce ourselves.” She held out a slim hand with short, unpainted nails and several unusual rings. “Jenna Fallon.”

  “Mark Chambers.” He took her hand warily. Sure enough, when she shook firmly, he felt a sexy sensation. A cross between a glow and a tingle spread up his arm. He hurriedly let go, picked up his coffee mug, and took a sip, trying to regain his equilibrium. “You live around here, Jenna?” Likely so, since she’d been on foot.

  She shook her head, curls dancing, revealing a couple of simple stud earrings in each ear, then settling. “I’m from Canada. Been living in Santa Cruz, working on a peregrine falcon survey that’s run out of UC Santa Cruz.”

  “Great,” he said with relief. She was into the environment like him. A colleague, not a woman. Well, of course she was a woman, but he was okay when he dealt with them as colleagues. He was actually okay in bed, too; sex was one of the activities that deserved to be done well, and his partners always seemed happy. It was the in-between stuff, the social part, that gave him problems.

  Carefully, she poured a disgustingly weak greenish brew from the pot into her mug, sipped, and smiled. Eyes bright, she said, “It’s part of a really successful conservation project. Did you know the falcons are an endangered species in California? In 1970, they only found two nesting pairs. Now, after a captive breeding program, there are over two hundred and fifty.”

  On firm conversational ground now, he said, “Yeah, the DDT and other pesticides almost did them in. Thank God those have been banned, and the captive breeding programs worked.” He studied her. “Bet it was a challenge to track them down. They have a habit of nesting in remote areas.”

  When her eyes widened in surprise, he said, “I’m a marine biologist, and I’ve learned a fair bit about marine birds. Oddly enough, I’ve been in Santa Cruz, too. Working on a research project at UCSC’s Long Marine Lab.”

  “Seriously? Isn’t this wild? We never met in Santa Cruz, yet we both happen to walk into Marianne’s Diner at the same moment.” She grinned. “The universe is pretty amazing.”

  “Yes, it is.” A place
of science and of still-to-be understood mysteries. A place mankind seemed hell-bent on destroying. He knew people often found him rigid, but he had no patience for those who didn’t give a damn about this incredible world.

  Marianne refilled his coffee and put a plate in front of him. He barely glanced at it, except to note two forks, until Jenna enthused, “Now, that’s a work of art.”

  He took another look. Flaky-looking crust, plump red strawberries suspended in glaze, a mound of whipped cream. Not bad at all.

  Jenna told the other woman, “Neal at the service station sent me your way, and I’m sure glad.” She picked up a fork, then gazed up at Mark with wide, expectant eyes.

  How could he say no to those eyes? “Go ahead. I have a feeling I’d have trouble stopping you.” He only spoke the truth, but she grinned as if he’d said something amusing.

  She carved off a sizable chunk—an entire, huge berry, a portion of crust, and a hefty dollop of cream, and opened those pink lips wide to take it in. Her eyes slid shut, and she tilted her head back, humming approval as she chewed, taking forever to consume that one bite. The sounds she made and the blissful expression on her face reminded him of slow, very satisfying lovemaking.

  His cock throbbed and he swallowed hard, wanting what she was having.

  Finally she opened her eyes and beamed at Marianne. “Perfection.” Then she frowned down at the plate and up at Mark. “Aren’t you having any?”

  Pie, she meant pie. “I was…” Watching you get orgasmic. “Uh, waiting for you to taste-test.”

  “It’s delicious.” She dug in her fork again. “Here.”

  Next thing he knew, that laden fork was in front of his lips. Startled, he opened and let her slide the hefty bite into his mouth.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “Things taste better that way.”

  Yeah, if he kept staring at her beautiful, animated face, he wouldn’t taste a thing, so he obeyed even though he felt weirdly vulnerable about shutting his eyes while she gazed so expectantly at him.

  Normally, when he ate, his mind was on work not on food, but now he concentrated as he chewed. Ripe, juicy fruit, the sweetness of the glaze, a rich, buttery taste to the pastry, and unsweetened cream with a hint of vanilla. Each flavor was distinct and the way they blended together was…perfect.

  And don’t miss a sexy game of

  TRUTH OR DEMON by Kathy Love,

  coming next month!

  What the hell?

  Killian blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling—a dingy white ceiling. Not the crisp, new, white ceiling at home. Nor was he in his own bed. This one was decidedly feminine, covered in a ruffled bedspread plastered with pink and red cabbage roses. Nothing like his black silk sheets.

  He glanced to the right to see an antique nightstand with a lamp that looked as if it came from a yard sale circa 1959 sat on top in its full flowered and beaded glory. An Agatha Christie was opened, facedown on the doily-covered surface. Several medication bottles were lined up beside that.

  Great, not only was he in a strange bed, but it appeared to be that of an elderly woman.

  He glanced to his left, hoping he’d see something that would make sense to him. He definitely needed an explanation for this predicament—and why he didn’t seem to recall how he got there. But instead of some clue, he found someone staring back at him.

  The ugliest, mangiest cat he’d ever seen. It stared at him with its one good eye. An eerie yellow eye. While the other was adhered together into a crusted black line. Its long, white hair—or at least he thought it was white—had a matted, gray tinge like it had rolled in ashes. Damp ashes.

  Maybe Killian was still in Hell. But he suspected that even demons would throw this thing back.

  Keeping his movements slow and subtle, Killian levered himself up onto his elbows, concerned even the slightest move would to set the beast into attack mode.

  The cat hissed, its back arching and his tail, once broken or maybe just as naturally ugly as the rest of it, shot up like a tattered flag at half-mast. It hissed again, louder, its lips curling back to reveal a splintered fang and some serious tartar buildup.

  Killian braced himself for what appeared to be an inevitable fur-flying assault, but instead the feline monster darted over the chair and disappeared under the bed, surprisingly fast for such a massive creature.

  “Great,” he said, peering over the edge. Now he felt like he was stuck in some horror movie where the monster under the bed would lunge out and grab him as soon as he set a foot on the floor.

  He fell back against the mattress. The scent of musty pillow masked only slightly by some kind of stale, powdery perfume billowed up around him.

  Where the hell was he?

  He lay there, searching his brain, but nothing came back to him. His last memory was getting off work and going home. But he was clearly no longer in Hell. This place was very definitely the dwelling of a human. Humans had a very different energy than demons.

  Had he gone home with some human woman for a little nocturnal fun? Not his usual behavior, but not unheard of either.

  He glanced around the room with its flowered walls and damask curtains. A pink housecoat was draped over a rocking chair in the corner.

  He cringed at the sight. And not unless he’d suddenly developed a taste for the geriatric set.

  “At least let it have been some hot granddaughter,” he said aloud. The monster under the bed hissed in response. Probably not a good sign.

  He remained there for a moment longer, then decided he couldn’t stay trapped in this sea of frills and flowers indefinitely. He had to figure out where he was—and, more important, why.

  He sat up, steeling himself for his next move. Then in one swift action, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and gave himself a hard push against the mattress, vaulting a good three feet across the floor.

  The dust ruffle quivered, then a paw with claws unsheathed shot out and smack around, hoping to connect and maim. Finding nothing, it snapped back under the bed’s depths. The bed skirt fluttered, then fell still.

  “Ha,” he called out to the animal, feeling smug. Then he just felt silly. He was a demon who managed to outsmart a cat. Yeah, that was something to get cocky over. Especially since he was a demon who had somehow managed to forget where the hell he was.

  He stepped out of the bedroom into a small hallway. Directly in front of him was a bathroom that revealed more flowers on the shower curtain and on the matching towels hanging of a brass rack. Even the toilet seat cover had a big rose on it.

  To his right was another bedroom. A dresser, a night-stand and brass bed—and of course more flowers.

  He frowned. Would he really hook up with a human who was this obsessed with floral prints—very bold floral prints? He didn’t think so—he was admittedly shallow—but anything seemed possible at this point.

  He wandered to a living room with its swag draperies and ancient-looking velvet furniture. Ben-Gay, hand lotion, Aleve, a crystal bowl filled with mints, and a box of tissue were arranged on another doily-covered table beside a tatty-looking recliner. A crocheted afghan was draped over the back.

  “Let there be a granddaughter…let there be a granddaughter,” he muttered, even though he’d seen not a single sign of youth so far.

  He crossed the room to a fireplace, looking at the framed photos crowded along the mantel. Only one woman kept reappearing in the pictures and she didn’t look to be day younger than eighty. But he didn’t recognize her. In fact none of the people in the pictures jogged his memory.

  “Maybe I don’t want to remember,” he said, grimacing down at a picture of a group of elderly woman on what appeared to be adult-sized tricycles beside some beach.

  Then his own shirtsleeve caught his attention—or more accurately his cuff link, deep red garnets set in a charm of a ferry boat. The symbol of his position and job in Hell.

  He set down the picture and inspected himself. He was still dressed his standard work uniform, a white
shirt with a tab collar, a black vest, and black trousers. He’d taken off his gray coat sometime during the evening, but he was relieved to see all the rest of his clothing was intact.

  A good sign nothing happened, but it still didn’t give him any hint as to where he was or how he got there.

  “Just get out of here,” he told himself. He could just easily contemplate this bizarre situation in the luxury of his own place.

  He closed his eyes, picturing his ultramodern dwelling with its clean lines and stark colors. Not a single flower to be found anywhere. He visualized the living room with its black leather furniture. The bedroom with its king-sized bed and dark red walls. He especially visualized his black granite bar and the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Whisky.

  A nice glass or two of fifty-year-old scotch and a little Xbox 360 on his big-screen television seemed exactly like what he needed after all this strangeness. There was nothing like expensive liquor and Modern Warfare 2 to get him calmed down. Then maybe he’d recall his lost evening.

  Let there be a hot granddaughter, he added again.

  Then with his creature comforts affixed in his mind, he willed himself away from this odd apartment and back to his own world…

  Except nothing happened.

  No whirring sound, no sense of whisking through space and time. No—nothing.

  He opened his eyes to find himself still surrounded by flowers and the scent of old age.

  Pulling in a deep breath, he closed his eyes again, and really focused. But this time he noticed something he hadn’t the first time. A sort of weighted feeling as if manacles were around his ankles keeping him in this dimension.

  He released the breath he didn’t even realize he held pent up in his lungs. What was going on? Why should he be able to dematerialize out of the human realm?

  But then he realized shouldn’t wasn’t the right word. He felt like he couldn’t. No, that wasn’t exactly the right word either.