by Mel Teshco
Pascal eyed Lewie with languid indolence. “Is that so?” At Lewie’s jerky nod he said, “Tell him I’ll see him when I’m ready. If it’s urgent he knows where I am.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“Pascal—” She caught herself for a moment. His name sounded way too personal and intimate on her lips. “It’s okay, really. You can show me the surprise another time.”
She felt Lewie’s mean gaze settle on her. A shiver of fear slid like an eel through her blood but she refused to shrink away as she turned and held his gaze. She raised her chin, eyes still locked with Lewie’s as she said to Pascal, “On second thought, I’d love to see it.”
The man’s thick, rubbery lower lip twisted into a sneer. “Bad move, sweetheart.”
Pascal shot to his feet. With the speed of a cobra strike, his hand curled around Lewie’s thick neck, forcing him to meet his gaze. “This lady is not your sweetheart. Comprehend?”
Celeste felt her gaze widen, her heart wildly thumping between fright and jittery excitement. Lewie might have a bulldog body and meat-cleaver hands but she sensed Pascal’s dominance—a hidden, steely strength that would more than match the other man’s obvious brawn.
“Whatever you say…sir.” Though his mouth curled with defiance, Lewie’s eyes were shadowed with fear.
Pascal released him as though he’d just handled poison. “Get out of here before I have you thrown out,” he said with a quietness that held steel.
Celeste blew out a shaky breath the moment the apparent henchman lumbered out the restaurant doors, carrying away with him an aura of defiance and barely concealed ill will.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Pascal’s eyes softened, flashing concern. “Unfortunately my father doesn’t gel with the idea of his only son parting ways with the mobster flock.”
“So what’s Lewie’s deal, then?”
He sighed heavily. “It’s a long, rather boring story.”
“We have all night, apparently.”
The meal arrived just then, steak basted in creamy sauce, surrounded by beer-battered fries and a handful of salad greens. The plate was placed in the middle of the table. Pascal shrugged and said, “True. But…if I have to give up a secret, then so do you.”
The very idea pushed aside the threat of Lewie as she swallowed back a sudden attack of nerves. But as Pascal sliced off a chunk of steak she said evenly, “Fair enough.”
He proffered her the juicy morsel, skewered onto the prongs of his fork, his gaze holding hers as she leaned forward to accept it. Even overcooked, the meat dissolved in her mouth, bursting with a flavor that hinted at garlic and peppercorns.
“Good, isn’t it,” he murmured.
She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste. When her lashes fluttered open, he was watching her as though she was the only thing that mattered. She swallowed. Why did eating with Pascal bring new meaning to intimacy?
“It’s kind of nice to watch a woman who enjoys her food,” he said huskily.
She managed an offhand shrug. “I’ve never had to diet.” Gargoyle genetics? She picked up a beer-battered fry, waving it in the air as she said, “So tell me about this, ah, long story.”
“Ah yes. The boring tale.”
“I bet it’s not.”
He grinned. “Perhaps you’re just nosy.”
“Definitely.”
His grin deepened but he relented and said, “Let’s just say Lewie was a street kid in deep trouble when he was taken into the fold by my father.”
“Now I’m really intrigued.”
He cut another piece of steak. “All this happened long before I was part of the equation.”
“So effectively you usurped your father’s affections from him?”
“In a word—yes.” He looked thoughtful as he added, “Though it’s no secret my father wishes I was cast in the same mold as Lewie.”
“That you’re not the ideal son probably makes Lewie resent you all the more.”
He chuckled. “You’d make a great counselor. But yes, I guess it does. Lewie dances to my father’s tune to get a cursory pat on the back. I block my ears to my father’s demands and still get a whole lot more affection.”
“That’s to be expected though. You’re his son.”
He made some inaudible sound close to a snort as she nibbled the fry. He cut another piece of steak and offered it to her. They ate in a silence that was comfortable even with the ever-present awareness between them. And it seemed all too soon when there was nothing left on the plate.
Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she said, “I’m glad you talked me into this. It was most enjoyable.” In more ways than one.
“It certainly was.” His smile was wolf-like again when he leaned forward, holding a piece of the napkin and wiping one corner of her lip. “You missed a spot,” he murmured huskily.
She cleared her throat, striving for control even as her skin rippled with sensation at his touch. “So, what now?”
He relaxed against the seat, yet she was starkly aware that he was anything but relaxed. Arousal pulsated from him—from her—until the air all but crackled with its energy.
“Can your surprise wait a bit longer?” she asked, hungry for him just one more time and willing suddenly to take one more risk with this man, one more sexual encounter. And damn the consequences.
His eyes glinted. Her heart beat fiercely. Then they stood as one, in unspoken acceptance of what was to come.
Foreign cravings, too starkly emotional for her peace of mind, almost overwhelmed her as they took the elevator to his penthouse suite. She wanted so badly to tuck herself close to his side, to press her body against his hard frame while enveloped in his embrace. It was a want—no, a need—so great, it was all she could do not to cave in.
It seemed a long ride skyward before a ping announced their arrival and the twin doors rolled apart. “Déjà vu,” Pascal murmured huskily, waiting for her to step out of the elevator before he followed.
She turned to him then, stiff with sudden anxiety and all too familiar insecurities. He’d allowed her to tie him up once, he wouldn’t allow it twice. Of this she felt suddenly, irrevocably certain.
Perhaps if she had surrendered to his touch, had allowed his arms to twine around her, she’d have been too caught up in the moment to care about her ugliness. “Pascal, I’m…I’m not so sure this is such a good idea now,” she whispered, barely aware of her hand fluttering by her side.
Pascal reined back arousal at the sight of Celeste’s chalk-white face, her beautiful jade eyes huge and fearful. Bloody hell! What did she take him for—some brute about to force her to his will? And as much as he ached to change her mind, he’d never once had to coerce a woman into his bed and he wasn’t about to start now!
“You’re probably right.” He dropped his gaze to hide the heat of his stare. He mightn’t be able to wilt his erection but he could at least deflect the burning in his eyes.
“What?” she whispered, clearly confused by his easy acceptance.
“Come,” he said in answer, holding out his hand.
She lifted her delicate hand and slowly placed it in his and for the second time that night he felt like a kid entrusted with his first adult secret. Did she recognize this leap of faith? And did she have any idea just how very precious it was that she’d chosen him to trust?
It was common knowledge that she hated physical contact. She always had. He should know. He’d been fascinated—no, obsessed—by gargoyles even before his father’s henchmen had claimed seeing such a creature when they’d interrogated a criminal lawyer who had turned on the mob.
That had been twenty-five years ago and though Pascal had not acted on his interest for some years—he’d been just seven years old then—his intrigue had been sparked and had grown fiercely over the years until it’d become an obsession.
Eight years ago when Celeste had been seventeen and he’d been twenty-four, he’d finally hired a top investigator wh
o had managed to uncover a suspected gargoyle—Celeste’s father, Cray. But from the moment Pascal had seen Cray’s beautiful family together, it’d been the daughter who’d snagged and held his interest from then on in. The PI had been pole-axed when Pascal asked him to turn his investigations to Cray’s daughter.
He hadn’t given a damn. At seventeen Celeste had been incredibly beautiful and elusive. At twenty-five she was even more so.
His hand swallowed hers and under his rough palm her hand was soft and smooth, her fingers entwined with his seemingly a perfect fit. He led her through a room with open cupboards filled with his tools of trade and a large table covered in plastic, breathing in the familiar earth and metal scents before he pushed open a far door and ushered her through.
They climbed a round of concrete steps that opened out onto a huge expanse of open, flat roof. Solar lights cast a dim light over the hundreds of large pots brimming with trees, shrubs and other greenery, turning stark concrete into an inviting, lush jungle.
Illuminated pathways stretched before them, one leading to a bench seat, another to an enclosed building shrouded in shadow. Pascal steered her toward the door of the building.
She nodded in the direction of the bench seat, a note of grievance edging her voice as she said, “I thought we’d sit over there.”
He grinned. “Perhaps another time?”
Celeste stepped back, dropping his hand. Another time? A date? An abrupt dart of pleasure was as quickly followed by a hard, inner shake of her head. No, this night was all they had, all she’d allow. It would be totally reckless—insane, to wish for more.
All introspection fled when Pascal opened the door and flicked on the light switch. She gasped, her stare jerking from side-to-side. Gargoyle statues filled the atrium-like room. Some were life-size and others no bigger than an adult hand. Naked, clothed, male and female, each one was exquisitely beautiful.
Pascal stayed in the doorway as she drifted forward, touching and caressing the flowing lines, the perfect symmetry of each one she passed. She knew without asking who had created these bronzes. Yves Carrington-Moore, the one and same artist who’d created the bronze she’d bought at the charity auction where she’d met Pascal for the first time.
She whistled under her breath. These babies were worth a small fortune—probably a large one—and yet Pascal kept them all in this flimsy building, ripe for the picking. No, not ripe for the picking. Hiding these from the world on top of a casino boasting top-notch, high-tech security was probably safer than any vault.
So simple and yet so brilliant.
“Never in a million years would I have guessed you’d show me…this,” she whispered, totally awed.
His tread was only just discernable behind her as he closed the distance between them and said huskily, “Art is my passion—my life.”
She pivoted to face him, in that moment knowing exactly what he implied, knowing exactly who he was—even before reading the truth in his eyes. “You’re the artist!”
“Yes.” He shrugged lazily, but there was a challenge deep in his stare. “I’m Yves Carrington-Moore, famous artist. I’m also Pascal Daniels, infamous womanizer and mobster son.”
Her chest felt oddly tight as she whispered, “So who am I with now?”
“Does it matter? Pascal—Yves, I’ll still want you more than life itself.”
From anyone else it would have sounded corny, stupid even. But, oh Lord, she knew exactly how he felt. She was drawn to him, mesmerized by him. If she’d been one hundred percent human and wingless, she couldn’t have been more joyous. “So you bid for your own piece of work to…to get my attention?”
“Yes.” His eyes gleamed with something indefinable. “It worked, didn’t it?” In answer she went on tiptoe and kissed him gently, tentatively, sighing at the little shocks of pleasure tingling along her lips. She pulled back, searching his stare. “You wanted me even then?” she breathed.
He nodded. “I wanted you from the very first. I knew you were special.”
To anyone else that would have been a compliment. For her “special” was no tribute. She wasn’t human. Not completely. She never would be.
He grinned a little cheekily. “I’m guessing you like Yves as much as Pascal, hmm?”
“Are you saying I have to choose?” she asked weakly.
“Of course not.” His eyes flared and then hardened fractionally. “I’m just relieved you’re not mad I kept my…identity secret.”
A sliver of unease chilled her blood. “Oh.” His words hadn’t been directed at her. He couldn’t know! Shit. Shit! Could he? She raised her chin and managed coolly, “Who you were never concerned me. I never expected more than a few hours of pleasure together.”
“And now?”
A change of subject was long overdue. She looked away and focused on the rows of statues, some of which gurgled water from their mouths and into bowls either held in the crook of their arms or set between their feet. “I can’t believe you have so many of these…creatures,” she said faintly, barely holding down her ever-growing anxiety.
“What can I say, they fascinate me.”
Her stomach cramped and she pivoted back to him, only distantly aware her eyes were wet. Her voice cracked. “The same way I fascinate you?”
“Yes,” he said gently. And his eyes, his brilliant, beautiful topaz eyes, told her exactly what her mind screamed couldn’t be true.
He knew!
Chapter Four
She pressed a hand to her mouth, stumbling back. He reached for her and as she recoiled, his lips pulled into a tight line. She couldn’t worry about his feelings right now, not when every iced-over sensibility was going into meltdown.
She stared at him, her eyes growing wide as the stark truth crashed through her mind like a train wreck she’d somehow known was about to happen—if she hadn’t ignored all the warning signs. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”
When her words came out hard and flat, his brow furrowed. “I’ve had my suspicions.”
Dark anger, like bile, rose up inside. She’d spent almost a lifetime hiding her ugly wings, her true self. For what?
She lashed out, struck him across the face with an open palm. An audible crack reverberated around them—small satisfaction for the long-repressed emotions now unleashed inside her. “Bastard!”
The lines on his brow deepened into a scowl. His eyes flashed, all hot, brooding male. “Yes, I am.”
Her jaw ached as she gritted her teeth. Yet even in her haze of fury she sensed the simmering waves of intensity emanating from him had little to do with her act of violence. There was something she couldn’t put her finger on, something not quite right, if only dark emotion wasn’t choking her mind.
“But it matters little,” he added in a growl. “I want you Celeste, regardless of who you are—who I am. I hunger for you; I know you hunger for me. One night isn’t going to be enough. Hell, we both knew it was never going to be enough.”
Anger died a quick death and she had a sudden insane desire to laugh, to stamp her feet like a petulant child. Instead she swallowed past an ever-thickening lump in her throat while her eyes filled with scalding tears. “You don’t understand.”
“Don’t I?” he asked, curving a hand beneath her jaw. His lightly calloused palm was tender and gentle, in direct contrast to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek. “I know about your father, about his gift.” At her shocked intake of her breath he added softly, “About the gift he passed onto you.”
It’s no gift.
She felt the tears abruptly overflow, pouring down her face unchecked. “You’re mistaken,” she whispered, but she was all too aware he wasn’t one bit deceived.
He couldn’t possibly know everything, could he? She’d been so careful. Even her mum and dad—Loretta and Cray—had secluded themselves at their bush cabin high in the mountains, giving no one the chance to speculate and gossip about her mother’s beautiful, but maturing appearance, her father’s still youthful
good looks.
“You know very well I’m not,” he said quietly.
Oh, god. Her belly twisted as her mind tossed thoughts about like a toy boat in a churning sea. “Who else knows about my father?” Her voice rose. “About me?”
“Aside from myself, a skeptical investigator and the fading, vague memories of three of my father’s lackeys the night they saw Cray. Not a soul.”
“Then—” She sucked in a breath. “What is it you want from me?” Really want?
“Surely you know?”
She swept an arm out, indicating the inanimate statues as she choked out, “I’ve just discovered your obsession with these. I’d be pretty naïve not to wonder about your attraction to me.”
He nodded in agreement. “Yes. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t long been fascinated by the possibility of other real-life gargoyles.”
Other real life gargoyles? For one heart-stopping, delirious second, she truly believed he knew of other gargoyles. Then her pulses slowed, common sense rearing its head. Clearly—somehow—he’d learned of her father’s gargoyle curse before discovering a small part of the genetic affliction had been passed onto her.
His amber eyes so very shrewd, yet gentle, he added, “But deep down you wonder about that possibility too, don’t you? Wonder about the existence of other gargoyles.” He brushed a stray lock of her long hair behind an ear. “Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. Gargoyle…or not…I want you.”
She swiped her tears dry with the back of her hand. “You say that now.” Lifting her chin, she stepped back. “But you’ll soon change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
She tugged her dress down her bound torso and past her thighs, stepping out of it before dropping it aside. “Wait and see,” she whispered.
“You don’t need to—”
“Yes. I do.”
A light filled his eyes and turned them golden, his stare all but glowing as she stilled before him. A light breeze ruffled some loosened strands of her hair, and then skimmed over her bare buttocks, her thighs and pussy.
