Bad Boys of Summer
Page 22
Miranda looked up and almost yelped again, but this time it wasn’t because of her ankle but at the face looking down at her. Pushing her hair back, she leaned against what seemed to be a bar. The man bending over her moved closer, letting his black hood fall back to his thin shoulders. His eyes were dark, his face covered in a gray beard, and she could smell some kind of alcohol on him. A swirl of almost purple smoke hovered over his head and then twirled into the thick haze that hung in the room.
She relaxed and breathed in deeply. Thank God. Itwas a bar. And here was one of its drunken, pot smoking patrons in costume. An early Halloween party or surprise birthday party in get-up. That’s all. She’d been in worse situations. Being on the floor with a broken ankle was a new twist, but she could handle herself.
“I just dropped in,” she said. “Can’t you tell?”
Maybe expecting some laughs, she looked around, but the room was silent, all the costumed people staring at her. Or at least they seemed to be staring at her, their hoods pointed her way. Miranda could almost make out their faces—men and women, both—but if this were a party, no one was having a very good time, all of them watching her grimly.
Between the people’s billowing robes, she saw one man sitting at a table lit by a single candle, staring at her, his hood pulled back from his face. He was dark, tanned, and sipped something from a silver stein. Noticing her gaze, he looked up, and smiled, his eyes, even in the gloom of the room, gold. For a second, Miranda thought she recognized him, almost imagining she’d remember his voice if he stood up, pushed away from the table, and shouted for everyone to back away. Had she met him before somewhere? But where? She didn’t tend to meet robe wearers, even at the weirdest of poetry readings.
Just as he seemed to hear her thoughts, nodding at her, the crowd pushed in, murmuring, and as he’d appeared, he vanished in the swirl of robes.
“Who are you?” the man hovering over her asked, his voice low, deep, accusatory.
“My name’s Miranda Stead.”
“What are you?” the man asked, his voice louder, the suspicion even stronger.
Miranda blinked. What should she say? A woman? A human? Someone normal? Someone with some fashion sense? “A poet?” she said finally.
Someone laughed but was cut off; a flurry of whispers flew around the group and they pressed even closer.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” the man said, his breath now on her face. “How did you get here?”
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“Luscious” copyright © 2006 by Lori Foster
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