Bhyrne had been such a loner before Madame Eve had hooked him up with Zena, but had so longed to belong. Now, it thrilled him to have a family of his own. She wouldn’t stand for anyone hurting her mate and vowed fierce payback against anyone who tried.
“You have me,” she murmured, stroking the back of his neck. “And our little blazelet. We’re your family. And Max and Dag; Lily and Campbell. Would be great if someone else is out there somewhere. But…don’t get your hopes up, babe. There’s a lot we don’t know.”
“I know, Z. My first thought was, some guy sees one of Max’s sexy paintings in a magazine, in Paris of all places, has the same last name, maybe wants to cash in on Max’s fame. Or infamy. Whatever. Maybe he’s after a payday.”
“But?”
“But Max doesn’t think so. And there’s no one more reclusive and suspicious than Max. And the way the guy describes himself…like he’s some kind of spook, for real. Not just his nickname. Some secret agency that only goes by initials, if you read between the lines. He says he’s a Raines—Spokane Raines.”
“Spokane? Like the city in Washington state?” Zena’s eyebrows knitted. “Have you ever been there?”
“Don’t think so. But doesn’t seem like this guy’s got any real connection, either. He wrote this from overseas. Doesn’t seem to understand the powers he has. Thinks he’s sick. Poisoned, maybe. A lot of weird shit for an e-mail from a total stranger. Like he’s…exhausted. Played out. No family. Lost. Like I was, until I found you.”
“You want to invite him here?”
“I do.” He nodded. “Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but I think he’s adrift. Looking to retire from whatever clandestine service he’s with. If he’s got mad skills like that, like he must have in his line of work, he could be an asset to our new security agency.” He paused, then added, “Not to mention the family.”
Bhyrne clicked the attachment Max had e-mailed. A photo filled the screen. Zena sucked in her breath.
“Oh, my freakin’ goddess.” The resemblance to her love—and to Max for that matter—shattered any doubt. She could have been staring at a picture of her mate. Or his twin.
Bhyrne’s steely eyes lightened. As Max said of his own eyes when the rampaging fire-demon within didn’t turn them fiery red, they were the color of “dirty snow.” Her mate turned back to her, his face ablaze with hope. “What if…what if I have a brother?”
Chapter Three
You’re no longer alone. All his screaming senses, honed by years of special services training, told him so. Another presence had entered from the hallway.
He stared into darkness thick enough to spread on bread. At first, he couldn’t see anything, despite the acuity of his night vision. Then, for a split second, a silvery outline, the barest hint of a shadow, a shimmering thread that illuminated the elusive form, right before it darted from the doorway to hide in an alcove beside the massive armoire. Where he’d stowed most of his arsenal while showering.
Not good. No assassin—male or female— had ever managed to get the drop on him before. Had he been so exhausted by the attack in the alley and so distracted by the article—and face— in the magazine, and in composing the e-mail to Max Raines, that he’d let her sneak up on him? And yep, uh-huh, roger that she. Most definitely female.
His temp kicked up another couple of notches in response. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his cheeks. He scraped a hand over his scalp, through short, damp hair standing in spikes from his shower.
What the fuckin’ hell was wrong with him, getting all hot and bothered by a female likely out to do him damage? A woman he couldn’t even see? Yeah, but…he scented her. The fragrance wafted toward him, as mysterious as the form. Sweet and tart. Effervescent. Like sparkling wine. He wanted to drink her. And why the fuck not? It had been—who knew how long—since he’d slept with a woman, so embroiled with mission after mission, there hadn’t been time or opportunity. Suddenly his body flamed out of control again and lust boiled through him.
He could spring across the room, knock her to the bed, and press her into the thick hotel mattress while he ripped off her clothes. What the fuck was she wearing? But, Jesus. What was he thinking? Attacking a woman he hadn’t even exchanged two words with? Still…she’d crept into his room, stalked him, like the assailants he’d made fast work of in the alley an hour ago. And he’d sunk so deep into the afterburn, already semi-aroused, before she’d interrupted him. Her mysterious, erotic scent destroyed him. His boner sprang upward, insistently poking at the thin hotel towel covering his groin.
She stepped out of the shadows, as if she had no more control over herself than he did. All in black, like a cat burglar. Lithe and slinky as a feline.
Christ on a Popsicle Stick. She was gorgeous.
Her mane of long, straight hair, so fair and bright a blonde it shone nearly silver in the dark room, looked fine as watered silk. He drank in her pixie face, with its delicate features and lush red mouth. A mouth he wanted on him. Everywhere. Her body seemed so slight and fragile he thought he could snap her between his hands.
Her eyes, a striking, river deep, midnight blue, narrowed. “What are you?” she murmured.
“What are you?” he said at the same time. A dazzling radiance spilled off her hair like a halo and illuminated her, the ethereal light filling the room. “You fuckin’ glow.”
“I know. I’m a WOW.”
The gamine’s voice, soft but clear, like the tinkle of tiny golden bells, chimed through him. He shook his head to clear it. Her words made no sense. “A what?”
“A WOW. Will-o’-the-wisp. ”
What the freakin’ hell was a will-o’-the-wisp? “Okay. So…who are you working for, Ms. WOW? KGB? DCRI? CIA? MI5? Mossad? What are you doing here? How’d you get in? Who sent you? What do you want?”
Ignoring his questions, she sighed instead, a soft, sexy breathy sound. “Goddess, you smell good.” She took a few more steps toward him, as if she could not help herself. His balls tightened. His hard-on pulsed.
“Yeah, you do, too. Smell good. What kind of perfume are you wearing?” Like he cared which expensive three-ounce bottle of Chanel Number Whatever she’d splashed on her wrists or behind her ears.
“Not wearing any.”
Right, and those words didn’t make him mentally strip her or anything. He nearly groaned. “Want to taste you. Lick you. Fuck you.” A compulsion he didn’t understand seized him in its urgent grip. He should be groping for the knife strapped to his ankle, the one he never even showered without, instead of moving closer to her, to the bed.
“I’m totally on board with that.” Dragging her fingertips over the hem of her dark shirt, she lifted the material above her head, muttering something under her breath. Something that sounded suspiciously like, “Even if you are a demon.”
Her words barely registering, he stared at her bared tits, round and high, pale but perfectly formed, painted with a peachy blush, the nipples dusky and erect. He began to reach for them, when her words finally got through to him. What the fuck. “I’m not a demon.”
“Yeah? Then how come you’re going into breedspawn?” She slid a slim finger down his heaving chest, tracing through the rivulets of sweat. “A little hot in here? Or is it just me?”
She sidled still closer. Her unique perfume doused him. Needing no more blatant invitation, he dragged her tight against him, his torso mashing the soft breasts. He closed his mouth over hers. Hot. Hard. Heavy. Showing no mercy.
Jesus.
The taste of her. Crème de cassis and vintage Dom, black currants floating in champagne.
He growled, the harsh, raw sound emerging from deep within. Nibbling on her lower lip, he urged her lips apart to drive his tongue between them, the way he wanted to thrust his dick into her heat. She responded with eager excitement, the silky flesh of her tits rubbing his naked torso like some erotic massage. Her small gasps and sighs, the whispery hitches of breath and moans of longing she made were so erotic his c
ock throbbed, hard enough to bat a baseball over the centerfield fences. The towel and her leathers were all that stood in the way of that spine-tingling homerun. Then he shifted position, moving lower to suck her bare breast, eliciting another sharp gasp. She shook with pleasure. Wedging a hand between her thighs, he quested higher. Bingo.
She parted her legs, swiveling her hips to bring him closer, mewling more urgently with each caress of his hand. Her heat, even through her tight leather pants, nearly singed his fingers. He took her desperate cry into his mouth, absorbed another low moan in his own harsh groan as he deepened the kiss. But when he tossed her onto the bed, her eyes reflected shock, the glaze of desire replaced by shadows of uncertainty and confusion, as if the bounce of the mattress snapped her awake from some deep spell.
She sprang up, grabbing for her shirt and scooting back toward the headboard, away from him. “Holy shit, what just happened?”
“Nothing much has happened yet.” He lied and they both knew it. No woman had ever smoldered so hot in his arms, had shown a hunger to equal his own. A weird, compelling force still held him in thrall. She’d struck a match to his pool of gasoline, igniting lusts that raged out of control. But she leaped off the bed and fled, glaring at him from across the room.
“And nothing will, demon.” In a flash, she scrambled for the door, fumbled with the handle, and disappeared.
***
With her brains still fried, Genny somehow managed to get in the elevator and ride to the lobby. She’d wanted him so badly, she still blazed with desire. The lethal attraction made no sense. Well, okay, she’d never seen a guy more gorgeous—or with such a menacing, ominous air about him. Eyes like ice. Hair like midnight, cut short, a little spikey. Shoulders broad and deadly. A physique huge and muscular, large and strong enough to crush her. But he wouldn’t ever. She knew instinctively the massive male would always protect—unless she made an enemy of him. Then, danger, danger, Will Robinson.
And he was her enemy. She had to remind herself of that. Forcefully. But the mental exercise was far from convincing.
Hell, what she’d felt when he’d held her against his hard body, thrust his tongue into her mouth, jabbed his erect cock into her thigh, and rubbed his hand between her legs, went far beyond mere attraction, far beyond sizzling sexual hunger. He tasted like destiny. She gasped another gulp of oxygen. There were no words in her vocabulary to describe what he’d made her feel. The desperate passion for him, the urge to let him mount her, to take his cock deep and ride him, to have him pleasure her with his hands and his mouth, for him to thrust and withdraw until they’d both come, whimpering and screaming, still held her in its grip. Lust pooled between her legs, drenching the panties she wore beneath her leathers. She trembled with need, never so fuckin’ hot and horny in her life.
Damn. What she wouldn’t give for a good, stiff drink. But she had to get off the street before even civilians noticed her glowing. His erotic touch switched all her internal/external lights on, fired her up like a house decorated with flashing Christmas ornaments so over-the-top they stopped traffic.
Holy crap. Had she really almost gotten down, dirty and horizontal with the guy? Vertical. Sidewise. How. Ever. With a demon probably going through breedspawn, no less—if that delectable and intoxicating mating scent had been anything to go by. She did not do demons. Not. Ever. No matter how big and hunky and devastatingly gorgeous they were. No matter how much their scary-sexy lethal vibe appealed to her. No matter how many images of their entwined limbs, twisting and writhing over rumpled sheets occupied her mind. Shaking, dizzy, light-headed, still caught in the grip of impossible fever, she recalled the feel of that massive, muscled frame dwarfing hers, his delicious tongue tangled with hers in soul-searing kisses.
Soul-searing, all right. Her knees wobbled. Putting her hand out, she touched the granite exterior wall of the hotel for support then banged her forehead on the stone. Where the hell could she get that drink? At the airport and on a plane—plenty of alcohol to get her across the Atlantic. She’d never dropped a hunt in her life. Until now. But she had to leave this one be and get back to Sleepy Hollow. Fast.
It would be a cold day in hell before she fucked a demon. Even the hotter-than-habanero demon she’d just escaped.
A very cold day.
Her phone pinged. She stared at the screen in horror and then slumped against the wall, sliding down until her ass hit the concrete sidewalk.
I have not signed him yet. But you have met your match. How did you like him?
***
Spook collapsed back on the bed, naked, staring at the ceiling, his brains scrambled, his cock erect and throbbing. He gritted his teeth and slid his hand lower, gripping his dick. He’d explode if he didn’t get relief.
What had just happened? Had he dreamed the female who’d sneaked into his hotel room and ended up in his arms? She’d called him a demon, but somehow he didn’t think she’d referred to his lovemaking skills. Breedspawn? What the fuck was that? And why couldn’t he get her out of his head?
When he’d pressed her slim, wispy form to his, she’d melted . Unlike anything he’d ever felt. Unlike any woman he’d ever been with. Stimulating. Arousing. He stroked his cock up and down, back and forth, harder, faster, imagining her hand, her slick heat sheathing him to the hilt. The taste of her lips, her tongue—like one of those berry-flavored Stoli vodkas he’d never order in a bar, would never be caught dead drinking. But now he wanted another sip of her. More. More. Much more. He groaned. The way her mouth had parted so eagerly when he’d urged her to open for him, her limber body wrapping around his, ratcheting his temperature until his fever zoomed off the charts. And those soft, plump tits, the nipples pebbling, screaming to be sucked. He wanted to sink his teeth into her, lick her juice. Hell, yeah. The whole fucking package. Totally addicting.
He came with a groan and mopped himself with the towel, completely unsatisfied. He had to find the woman. That woman.
Tossing the soiled cloth aside, he sprang off the bed and raced to the door, throwing it open, staring down the deserted hallway. Too late. Beyond caring if he gave the other guests a good show, he stood naked in the hotel corridor, holding his head in his hands, consumed by only one thought. He had to see her again. They weren’t done yet. Not even close. But how to find a…what was it? WOW? Will-o’-the-wisp?
What the fuck was that?
Returning to the desk near the window, he fired up the laptop again. A search of his usual sources and top secret data bases revealed nothing. He didn’t even know her name. But he had to find her. He Googled “will-o’-the-wisp” and discovered a lot of crazy-ass entries about fantastical beings who lured unwitting men to their deaths with mystical lights. Okay, so she’d glowed when he’d gotten her excited. Aroused. But come on.
To distract himself, he scrolled through the e-mails clogging his inbox.
One from—whoa—Maxwell Raines: Forwarded your photo to my cousin, Bhyrne. Yes, we think you’re family. Expect an e-mail from him.
Holy shit! There was another Raines? Opening the e-mail from the cousin, Bhyrne, he nearly fell off his chair: Notice any resemblance? The attached photo could have been the selfie he’d taken earlier and sent to Max. Except that the guy in the picture wore a black T-shirt and had a gorgeous, grinning, raven-haired babe sitting in his lap, her arm draped around his neck. She’d added a PS: I’m Bhyrne’s mate, Zena. Come visit us in Sleepy Hollow.
And, finally, another one of those cryptic e-mails from 1Night Stand. His boss had signed him with the exclusive and mysterious dating service, apparently deciding Spook had lost his edge along with his focus and needed to get laid. He double-clicked the mailbox icon.
I have found her for you. Your perfect match. Are you ready yet?
He shut his eyes, his hand hovering over the reply button. His superior had started to fill out the extensive application for him. Pages and pages of questions. Too much personal info requested, as far as a guy like him, used to slinking anonymously
through life, was concerned. He’d tinkered with the form himself at odd hours of downtime, especially during those dark moments before dawn when he’d sat in a lonely, foreign hotel room, a desert war zone, or other global hotspot, trying to figure out how much he could omit, or how to cagily phrase a response to make it appear as if he’d answered a question when he hadn’t.
He’d never finalized the application. But Madame Eve, owner of 1Night Stand, seemed to know everything about him. More than he knew himself. He was someone who operated in the shadows, and her knowledge made him nervous, caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. But he wanted answers. And needed to see the elusive…WOW again.
He pecked at the computer keyboard, Can you get me a will-o’-the-wisp? and hit send.
The laptop immediately chimed with an incoming e-mail.
I already have.
Chapter Four
“None of this will do.” Veronica grimaced and turned away from the closet in Genny’s Sleepy Hollow apartment.
Her head still spinning from her torrid encounter with the blistering hot demon in Paris, the flight home and flurry of e-mails from 1Night Stand with the particulars of the match, Genny could barely follow the witch’s bubbly chatter.
“It’s either all leather or all gossamer. And I’m not even sure what gossamer is! But you def need some slinky silks and satins,” Veronica informed her. “We’re going to have to go shopping. The Westchester, okay? We can hop over to Neiman-Marcus for sexy lingerie.” She eyed her friend. “Unless…up for a trip into the city? Saks?”
“No. None of the above. I’m not even game for this 1Night Stand date.” Genny frowned. When had she and Veronica switched roles, anyway? A few months ago, before 1Night Stand had matched Veronica with her super hunky and super fine contractor, Sean Jones, the reluctant young witch had sleep-walked through her existence as a quiet, unassuming, shy, fabulously wealthy widow. She hadn’t even been a very good witch. Instead of living her own life, she’d eagerly followed her will-o’-the-wisp bud’s exploits as Genny flitted around the globe.
In From the Cold Page 2
