Black and Blue oa-2

by Gena Showalter

  At five ten, she was taller than the average woman. She had straight blond hair she liked to hide behind, and pretty green eyes she kept mostly downcast. He wasn’t sure why she lacked confidence. Unless she was embarrassed by her past? He knew she’d been a pretty wild teen, and more than a recreational drug user.

  But it looked like she’d gotten her life together. Today she wore a yellow summer dress that screamed pedigree, style, and sophistication. There were no track marks in her arms, and a deep tan made her skin glow.

  After he returned the briefcase, she was ecstatic and grateful and offered to buy him coffee once she finished with her business meeting. He played the attracted suitor and happily agreed to wait.

  Now, an hour later, they were at a little outdoor café, sipping joe and chatting—well, he was chatting, she was listening. In the past fifteen minutes, he’d counted thirteen camera phones aimed in their direction, and he’d never been more thrilled by the public’s obsessive need to know about his love life.

  Star would hear about the encounter. Maybe decide to meet with the man who’d saved his little girl’s briefcase.

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  Awkward. Wow. This might be his first strikeout. And Evie was at home, listening.

  Unreadable Evie. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, and he knew how she felt about this part of the job. It must be throwing his game.

  For John. This is for John.

  “I’ve met your father a few times,” he said. “He’s a fan of the Invaders and used to come to all our victory parties.” You attended a few yourself.

  “Oh.” Down went her gaze. She fiddled with the lid on her coffee.

  “Nice guy.”

  “Y-yes.”

  Interesting. Was that fear he detected? “What’s he up to nowadays? I haven’t seen him around.”

  “Working. As always.”

  Uncomfortable silence.

  Screw this. “Tiffany,” Blue said, layering his voice with the barest hint of compulsion. Testing the waters. . . . “Pinch my arm.”

  Her eyes glazed over, and she reached out, pinching him as he’d ordered. He almost whooped with relief. She wasn’t immune.

  Using more compulsion, he said, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, Tiffany, and you are going to answer honestly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Good. “Have you seen your father with a Rakan?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard about your father and a Rakan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you—” Yes? Excitement built. He leaned forward, saying in a rush, “Tell me everything you’ve heard.”

  Utterly monotone, she said, “I will be punished for speaking of it.”

  He increased the amount of compulsion. “Tell me everything you’ve heard about the Rakan, Tiffany. Now.”

  “In three weeks, I am to create a line of clothing from his pelt.”

  Create, not debut. A line of clothing. From John’s . . . pelt.

  Realization struck, and struck hard. John wasn’t being used as a sex slave, as Blue first feared. The male’s golden skin was to be peeled from his body and given to Tiffany. Then, after his skin had regrown, it would be peeled again . . . and again.

  He would be a never-ending gold mine. Literally.

  If Star had once sold organs on the black market, as rumors claimed, he would have the right contacts . . . and he was just monster enough to do it.

  Fury rode the tides in Blue’s veins before spilling out, filling him up, consuming him. Behind him, chairs and tables toppled over. Glass shattered. People yelped and raced for cover. John did not heal as quickly as Blue and was probably still injured from the explosion, his skin unusable—hence the three-week wait. There was still time to save him.

  “Anything else?” he demanded.

  “A small patch of the hide has already been removed for testing. Ribbons were made. Those ribbons are being sold at auction tonight.”

  A part of John had already been skinned. Blue barely contained his roar. “Where is the auction being held?”

  She rattled off the details.

  No one—no one!—was going to own a piece of John. Blue would make sure of it. “Do you know where your father is keeping the Rakan?”

  “No.”

  No. Then she was of no more use to him. For now. Before he destroyed anything else, Blue pushed to his feet. “I’m going to send you an invitation to a postgame party, and you are going to accept and do whatever’s necessary to attend. Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl.”

  Blue leaned down, saying, “You will forget the questions about the Rakan, Tiffany, but remember the invitation and your acceptance. You will also speak to your father about me. You will tell him you are interested in me romantically, and you’d like him to meet me.”

  “Yes,” she said of her own accord. “If he refuses—”

  “You’ll tell him again.” Blue confiscated her phone and programmed in his number. “Call me when your father issues his invitation.” He tossed the device on the tabletop and stalked away—before giving in to the urge to kill her.

  * * *

  Blue drove to Evie’s house, careful not to be seen, his temper only escalating. By the time he found her in the office, every muscle in his body was locked tight on bone. Looking at her didn’t help. Anger morphed into dangerous lust.

  She sat at her desk, dark waves cascading down her back. Perfect white teeth nibbled suggestively at the end of a stylus. A red tank top displayed toned arms with small but definite ropes of strength. She was fit. He remembered how good she felt pressed against him.

  Power seeped from him, the desk and chair lifting several inches above the floor. Gasping, she turned to face him. As she took in his battle-hardened stance, her eyes hooded . . . with desire?

  “Blue,” she said, her voice husky with, yes, desire. She dropped to her feet with the grace of a cat and slowly approached him. The sway of her hips transfixed him. “I know you’re furious and frustrated, but you can’t go to the auction this way. So take your emotions out on me. I can handle anything you’ve got.”

  An invitation.

  One he would not decline.

  Forget Michael and the job. He had to have this woman.

  He grabbed her by the waist and spun her, slamming her face-first against the wall. He braced her hands over her head and kicked her legs apart, the need to dominate her overwhelming everything else.

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  With his free hand, he tore away her top, but didn’t bother removing her jeans or undergarments. Just ripped at the fastenings. Her bra gaped open, freeing her breasts. The jeans bagged on her hips.

  Not sex, some part of his brain screamed. Not yet. Not like this.

  Rational thought.

  He heard and accepted—barely.

  Needing flesh-to-flesh contact, he let her go to wrench off his shirt and meld his chest to her back; the heat of her skin drove him toward the best kind of mindlessness. When she rubbed her taut little ass against him, he pushed her jeans below the curve and his throbbing erection found its way between the cleft. He hissed at the pleasure. She squeezed at him and, oh, hell. He bit the cord of her neck. Have to have my mouth on her. Her groan of rapture filled the small enclosure.

  His hands moved to her breasts, cupping and kneading, causing her nipples to harden into perfect little points. Points he pinched.

  “Blue!”

  He kissed and licked at the sting he’d caused in her neck, still rubbing . . . rubbing into her ass, unable to stop. Felt so good. His fingers glided down her belly . . . slid under her panties, and played for a moment at her small tuft of hair, before sinking lower.

  He almost blew. “So warm and wet, baby.”

  “Always that way for you.”

  Killing me. “Shouldn’t have told me. May not be able to keep myself off you now.” He circled . .
. circled . . . where she needed him most, and as she trembled, she followed him with her hips.

  “Do it.” A command she expected to be obeyed. “Please.”

  Always begs so prettily. He pressed the heel of his hand against her and thrust a finger in deep.

  “Yes!” She groaned, her head falling onto his shoulder. “More.”

  As he fed her a second finger, she reached back and wound her arms around him, her nails digging into his ass. She urged him to move against her harder, faster, until he was practically grinding her through the wall.

  “Kiss me.” She turned her head and he angled his, their mouths meeting in a scorching tangle of tongues and need, possession and domination.

  There was aggression in the kiss. His. Hers. He loved it. It was a claim. A branding. On both their parts. He’d never felt so . . . desired, so necessary, and it was a heady thing. He knew he’d need it again and again.

  Would need this honey in his mouth, down his throat, intoxicating him. No one else had ever tasted as sweet, or wine-rich. It was as if she had been made for him, and him alone. A sweet little puzzle piece for his life . . . his bed.

  She climaxed with the hard thrust of a third finger, clenching around him, and it wasn’t long before he joined her, emptying his body of the fury and frustration, and filling it back up with unending satisfaction.

  And fear.

  He wanted her too much, and the craving wasn’t going away. Wasn’t even muting. He was falling for her.

  Falling hard.

  Fifteen

  B LUE AND EVIE CROUCHED in the rafters of the old barn where the auction for ribbons of John’s skin was to be held. They’d been here for almost an hour, still, quiet, waiting, hidden by thick wooden beams and moldy hay.

  He held at bay memories of the aftermath of their explosive encounter . . . until the second hour, when they knocked on the door of his mind, demanding entry.

  Uncomfortable silence as they’d dressed.

  Evie unable to meet his gaze.

  A murmured “Well, that was fun, thanks” from her before she strode from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. She hadn’t claimed him, after all.

  Didn’t matter. He’d claimed her.

  The time before, he’d felt horror that he’d betrayed Michael, and guilt. That time, he’d felt resolve. He wanted more. And so, more he would have. He couldn’t resist her. Fighting the attraction had done no good.

  Now he would go after her. Win her.

  Finally, the back doors of the barn creaked, signaling they were being opened. A short, wiry human with thinning hair, a great-white-shark tattoo coming up the collar of his shirt, and a man-baby belly, strutted inside with two armed men at his sides. One had a rifle. The other had a pyre-gun. Both were human.

  Behind them, another male carried a small lacquered box with the Chinese symbol for revenge lining each side. There was no sign of Gregory, Tyson, or Tiffany, but Blue didn’t care.

  This was happening.

  “—gonna go crazy for these,” Shark was saying. He swiped his arm across the items on the nearest table, scattering everything to the ground.

  The male placed the box on the surface. He was an Agamen, with huge white horns protruding from his skull. Bona fide ivory towers. Seriously, a colony of fairies could live inside those things.

  Hell, maybe they did.

  “I’m to remind you that there’s major heat on these,” Horns said.

  Shark nodded and rubbed his hands together. “Consider me reminded. Now show me what I’m gonna be selling.”

  Horns fiddled with the locks on the box. The lid was flipped open.

  Blue saw three golden ribbons resting inside and nearly vomited. The pain John must have suffered . . . must be suffering. He had to swallow back a roar of fury, had to lock his power down tight.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” Horns said with a crooked grin.

  “Are you kidding? They’re gorgeous,” Shark exclaimed. “When the Star girl finishes her designs . . . people are gonna go insane.”

  Across the expanse of the rafters, Blue met Evie’s gaze. Determination radiated from her.

  “They die,” he mouthed. “Hard.”

  Gripping two daggers, he dropped from the ceiling and landed on his feet. Evie did the same, and together they surged forward. The men noticed and reached for weapons—but they were too late. Blue threw both of his daggers, one finding a home in Shark’s right eye, the other in his left. Howling with pain, the guy dropped to his knees. Meanwhile, Evie savagely knifed one of the humans across the throat, his skin ripping and blood spraying.

  Horns tried to sprint out the door, but Blue caught him with a thread of power—an invisible rope—and dragged him back, kicking and screaming. When Blue reached out, intending to slice through the horns to take them as a memento, the male bucked in an effort to jab him with the poisoned tips.

  A swift stab, stab, stab deflated all three of the Agamen’s lungs. Alien anatomy classes came in handy sometimes. The male flopped forward, allowing Blue to break his neck with a vicious jerk.

  The last remaining target managed to get his hands on a pyre-gun and fire a shot at Evie. She ducked, the laser soaring just over her shoulder. Blue closed the distance in a blink, grabbing the human’s arm, twisting, breaking the bone, and swiping the gun. He fed the barrel into the man’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Yellow lights sparked from every orifice the human possessed, and blood quickly followed. He crumbled to the ground.

  You think you can take out my woman? Blue spit on the body.

  Your woman? Really?

  Whatever. He spun, desperate to fight someone else, but the battle was over. He stomped to the table, and Evie tagged along. They peered at the glittering golden ribbons curling so prettily against the velvet.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He nodded to let her know he’d heard.

  “We’ll find him.”

  Yes, they would. They would never stop searching, never give up. He didn’t care what they had to do or who they had to kill.

  “Let’s get the box to Michael,” he said.

  * * *

  The next few days were packed with activities. Evie held a press conference to announce she was taking over Black Industries and that she’d set up an exhibition game for the Invaders and Strikers at the end of the week. She called Tyson Star and set up a tour of the Star Light Hotel, but he wasn’t the one to give her the tour. His personal assistant did the honors.

  She almost threw a tantrum.

  Also, Tiffany had yet to call Blue and ask him to meet her father.

  But at least no one had tried to kill him. Or Evie. It was safe to assume his cover was solid, he wasn’t a target, and whoever had ordered the car chase had changed his—or her—mind.

  Even so, Evie was a bit on edge. She and Blue had not had their chat about expectations and had not made out again. Was he done with her?

  No. Impossible. Last time he’d been totally on fire for her. Flames that hot couldn’t have just died out.

  Really? Reeeally? Have you ever witnessed a fire burning? Flames die out all the time, moron.

  She could hear him puttering around in the kitchen, and shivered. He’d snuck over a few hours ago. He’d snuck over every night, actually, secretly staying in the guest room, just as he’d promised Michael.

  Have I lost my appeal?

  No, she thought again. She wasn’t a raving beauty like the women he was used to, and she had the wrong hair color . . . and the wrong boob size. . . . Hey. She frowned. What had he ever seen in her?

  She didn’t know. But she had not fallen from the ugly tree and gotten hit by every branch, thank you. Blue had felt an attraction to her, and it had been strong enough that he’d forgotten his dislike of her.

  Maybe . . . the stress was getting to him? He worked constantly, and rarely slept.

  To be honest, she was having trouble keeping up with him.

  “Dinner,”
Blue called.

  He’d offered to cook, and she hadn’t even given a token protest. Her culinary genius was limited to boiling soup and thawing the frozen dinners her father sometimes sent over.

  “Be right down.” She had left him alone about half an hour ago; the sight of him preparing a meal, acting all domesticated, had nearly sent her into a euphoric state of shock.

  Translation: she’d wanted to jump him.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she padded to the kitchen. She checked the screen, saw Michael’s name, and grinned. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, sunbeam,” he replied. He called her once a day to check in.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  He offered nothing more, so she said, “Did something happen?”

  “Nope. Just wondering if the exhibition game was set.”

  A lie. He knew it was. He watched the news. “In two days, as planned. I’ve finalized all details for the after-party as well.” A party where Blue would probably have to seduce the pants right off Tiffany Star. Nothing else had worked.

  He would always do anything necessary to get what he needed from a target, so maybe their aborted romance was for the best. Evie hadn’t changed her mind. She would never be okay with her man bagging other women, no matter the reason.

  “Good,” Michael said. “That’s good.”

  Blue stood behind the counter and, without moving a muscle, used his power to push a plate of spaghetti across the counter.

  “Thanks,” she mouthed—and had to force herself to look away from him before she started drooling. Could the man never wear a shirt?

  I’ve had that chest pressed against mine, but I failed to touch or taste it. Bad Evie!

  It would be a lifelong regret.

  “I wanted to ask . . . how things are going with Blue?” There was something odd about her father’s tone.

  “Fine,” she said, grateful he couldn’t see the sudden color in her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Are you two . . .”

  She stifled a groan. “Fighting? No.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Too bad for you, because that’s the only question I’m willing to answer.”

  “Sorry, sunbeam, but this is important. I love the man, I do, but he’s not right for you.”