Lure of the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “I will. I’m going to call Swann’s and see about finagling their waiting list.”

  “I mean—” Lillian caught herself, put one hand to her neat bodice and shook her head. “Never mind. Have a good time, darling.”

  He hesitated. But when he would have said something, anything, she waved him away, already once more engrossed in the computer screen by the time he managed to swallow the lump of love, of unease in his throat.

  With a resigned sigh, he left through the lobby doors, crossed the garden proper, and made his way to the small, inconspicuous hall that led to the family wing. He’d shower, change, and make the calls he needed to make.

  He’d start, Phin thought grimly as he fingered the slick stain on his sleeve, with calling in extra security.

  “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”

  Naomi smoothed clear, liquid gloss over her mouth without looking in the mirror, her glance flicking instead to the comm on the marble countertop. “Great. What?”

  Eckhart’s voice was as pleasant as ever. If Jonas had told him about her little episode, she couldn’t read it in his easy inflection. “Miles is set up to deliver your weapon whenever you’re ready.”

  She brightened. “Great! I’ll send a message just as soon as I know where I’ll be able to meet him.”

  “He’ll be on call.” His voice twitched into annoyance as he added, “And we’ve hit another snag getting the blueprints.”

  Unable to dredge up the energy to be annoyed, Naomi moved her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “Oh, well. I’ve mapped out the dining floor, the lounge, the beauty suite”—she repressed a shudder—“and the, I don’t know, I think they call it the quiet room.”

  “Mapped out?”

  “The place is a fucking maze. More staff corridors and offshoots than hell.”

  “I don’t think,” Eckhart replied dryly, “that hell has staff corridors. Still, it’s good to know you’re in over your head.”

  She wished she could have argued with him, but the sheer fact was just that. She was. Naomi grimaced, smoothing the sleek gray dress over her hips. “I told you this was stupid.”

  “Maybe.” Eckhart sighed. “Have you run into anyone suspicious?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to give him Abigail Montgomery’s name. She realized it before Eckhart had even finished speaking. Bringing the full inquiry of the Church down on the woman’s selfish, empty head would make Naomi laugh like nothing else; sheer shits and giggles.

  But that would end with the Church’s eye turning right back to her. Flagged.

  Processed.

  “Naomi?”

  “Just the dead guy in the wardrobe,” she said, sighing. “The guests all seem fairly normal, at least the ones I’ve seen. Lots of people come in for day passes, but they don’t have the same run of the building.”

  “What about the ones you haven’t seen?”

  “There’s a couple recluses, but gossip suggests they don’t leave their suites for hell or high water. I have to get my hands on the guest list.”

  Eckhart’s frown matted into a grumble. “Christ, we’re only a quarter through the official staff records over here.”

  “That many?”

  “It’s a spa with more staff corridors than hell,” Eckhart reminded her. “What do you think?”

  “I think that parallel just keeps drawing itself,” she said wryly.

  “What about that witch?”

  “And we’re back to the dead guy in my wardrobe,” Naomi said with a twisted smile. “Did you get the photo I sent?”

  “Yeah. No ID as yet. Any chance you took some samples?”

  “I did.” She glanced at the armoire. “While I was using expensive bath gel to clean the blood up.”

  “Nice. Give them to Miles, it’ll give us a better lead,” Eckhart said.

  “Okay.” Frowning, she snatched the ugly patchwork purse from the floor and added, “I’m headed out. As soon as you get your hands on those blueprints, I want them.”

  “If they exist,” he said. “I’ll tell Miles to be ready.” He paused, and for a brief second she heard a low, almost imperceptible three-note whistle. “So, who are you going out with?”

  Naomi bit back a smile. “I’m just getting out while I can.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound assured. “Just try not to break him.”

  “Hey—”

  “And don’t forget the blood.”

  “Fuck you, Eckhart.” Naomi disconnected the comm, dropped the unit into the rainbow-vomit purse, and went in search of the white pea coat she’d seen somewhere in her luggage.

  Of all the outfits the Mission had set her up with, none of them screamed date with the spectacularly sexy Phin Clarke. Hell, if she had her way, she’d have strapped herself into something made out of buckles and synth leather, replaced all her piercings, and hauled him out to the Pussycat Perch or the Shell Casing for a night of grueling, sweaty, skin-to-skin dancing.

  Watched him take his turn feeling like a fish on a hook.

  Instead she was wrapped from shoulder to knee in gray designer silk and sporting crimson stiletto boots that likely passed for the rich-bitch version of fuck-me fashion. It would have to do.

  Naomi shrugged into the coat, pulled the purse over her shoulder, and tried not to grimace at the horrifying rainbow leather. It was the only purse big enough to conceal a gun and a handful of bloody swabs.

  She didn’t think she’d manage to get away with a holster in the dress.

  She rubbed her hands together, glanced briefly into the mirror hanging over the mantel, and, wordless, offered an extended middle finger to the neat, put-together reflection before leaving the suite.

  Naomi made it as far as the garden before nerves curled into a tight little ball of uncertainty in her chest.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  This wasn’t her world. Phin wasn’t her type. Here she was, Naomi West, missionary, headed out to the topside nightlife as if she belonged, looking every inch as if she belonged—

  She hesitated at the lobby door.

  But she didn’t belong. Not here, not with him, not out there. It was all an act. Fine. She needed out, she needed her gun. She needed to get the blood samples to Miles.

  She wanted to bend the oh-so-smooth Phin Clarke into knots. Break him into delicious pieces, so that when she left this godforsaken prison with its ignorant, sheltered inmates, Naomi could say she had one bright, interesting moment that didn’t involve bullets and blood.

  Gritting her teeth, she shoved open the double doors, made it two steps in before her skin prickled in sharp awareness. Wrenching her gaze from the fountain, she met the palpable, speculative wall of three pairs of eyes. Staring at her.

  Phin’s twinkled. Challenge.

  Another game? Raising her chin, Naomi’s pace lengthened, her heels echoing as she crossed the marble floor. “Phin, Mrs. Clarke,” she offered by way of greeting.

  “Good afternoon, dear,” Gemma said as she straightened. Beside her, standing by the computer monitor, a striking woman with wheat gold hair smiled at her. Calm. Serene.

  And more than a little appraising.

  Although Naomi recognized the tall silhouette, she’d eat her purse if the woman was any kind of concierge.

  “Naomi.” Phin’s hand slipped to her lower back as he gestured to them both. “You’ve met my mother, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” she began, only to frown when the older woman’s smile deepened.

  “Now I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Lillian Clarke. Mother, Naomi Ishikawa.”

  Naomi’s eyes narrowed. Flicked from Lillian’s strong features to Gemma’s chocolate dark eyes, shining with merriment. To Phin, who watched her with the same easy smile that shaped Lillian’s mouth. “By marriage?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  Naomi’s fingers twitched. “You think you’re so clever,” she murmured, and patted his cheek. His eyes flickered—surpris
e or something else, she couldn’t tell—and she stepped out of his reach, offering a hand to the striking blond. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Clarke.”

  Nice to meet the woman who had air-kissed Abigail Montgomery the night before. Nice to look into her clear, green-gold regard and smile as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  As if she weren’t wondering just how much this second mother knew. About her. About the body she’d shoved into the polished armoire.

  About the things she’d done with her son.

  Planned to do still.

  The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Lillian, won’t you?” Her grip was gentle, her fingers long and fingernails devoid of polish. A single gold ring glittered on her ring finger, matched twin to the woven band on Gemma’s.

  “Lillian,” Naomi repeated dutifully. She brightened her smile to skin-searing wattage, turning it on Phin. He blinked. “I am ready when you are.”

  To kick your ass from here to the lower city streets, she added silently. Her jaw felt stiff, smile too tight.

  “Have fun,” Gemma said gaily. “Do deliver my best to Franco, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mother.” His hand firmly back at Naomi’s hip, he bent to press a kiss to the woman’s cheek. Gave the other woman, his other mother, the same farewell.

  “Be careful.” Lillian touched his chin, shot her a small, narrow smile. “Both of you.”

  Naomi let him guide her away from the desk. Firmly held her tongue as he beat her to the double doors and propped them open for her.

  Only part of it was anger.

  The man looked good enough to eat. His suit was something smooth and tailored, some designer who specialized in crisp lines. Simple. It was a dark, smoky gray, offset beautifully by the black button-down shirt beneath it. He didn’t bother with a tie, leaving the collar open to frame the lines of his neck. The barest hint of muscle below it.

  He’d brushed his hair back, held it in place with some kind of fine pomade, and Naomi couldn’t help but notice how it showcased the angled lines of his cheekbones. His smooth-shaven jaw.

  Silver cuff links, different from the ones he’d removed earlier, winked as he gestured across the garden to a small, discreet door.

  Naomi gritted her teeth. “What the hell was that?”

  “My parents,” he replied mildly. He didn’t let her stop, kept a firm hand at the curve of her lower back as he guided her into the corridor.

  Naomi shrugged out of his grasp, easily keeping pace with his long stride. “Don’t give me that bullshit. That was a setup.”

  This time his eyes glinted when they turned to her. Flicked to the spiky knot of her upswept hair. His slow, easy smile made her want to climb inside his skin and lick him bloody. “You wore your hair up.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she retorted, but his obvious appreciation triggered a low, liquid slide of awareness. Of anticipation. “You purposefully didn’t tell me about your parents.”

  “It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention.” Phin paused at a thick wooden door, one hand braced on the panel. “I don’t hide my life from people.”

  “Cleverly shed blame.” Naomi looked up at him, at the smooth lines of his indulgent expression, and admitted to herself that she couldn’t decide between licking him and punching him.

  Maybe she could punch him square in the mouth. And then lick it better.

  “What’s the problem, Naomi?” He raised his eyebrows, smiled right into the face of her irritation, and touched her lower lip with the tip of his index finger. “Are you mad because you didn’t know or mad because they wanted to meet you?”

  “Neither,” she snapped. “I—”

  She what? Why was she mad? Because she felt set up? Because she didn’t want to know that Phin had two mothers?

  When she didn’t even have one?

  She shoved at the tendrils of hair framing her face, shaking her head hard. “Never mind, can we just go?”

  “Your wish,” he murmured, and swept open the door.

  It led to another corridor. Another simply decorated, nicely painted hall. Without another word, he led her past several intersections, past doors that led somewhere Naomi couldn’t see.

  They walked through a wider foyer, its brass elevator free-standing in the middle of the round, open room. Columns decorated the walls, beautiful vases and lush potted plants offering vibrant color to the pale cream shelves inset into the walls.

  “I live here,” Phin explained as he caught her craning her neck to see what lay beyond the elevator frame. “This is the family wing. Across the compound is the staff wing.”

  “Your staff lives here?”

  “Some,” he replied, and swept open another door, another simple lock. “Here we go.” Naomi stepped into the chilled, dark recesses of a parking garage.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Who knew?” She should have. Why hadn’t Mission intel mentioned a parking garage? Of course there would be other ways to get to the resort. Deliveries wouldn’t come through the elevator.

  Damn it. She wanted blueprints almost as badly as she wanted her gun.

  “Your chariot awaits.” He pointed toward a sleek silver luxury car with its engine idly humming. It was almost as long as a limousine.

  Almost as redundant and self-indulgent.

  Heiress, she reminded herself tightly, and stepped off the landing. Phin followed her closely, chuckled when a man in a neat black uniform stepped out of the car to open her door for her.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, sliding into the roomy, extravagant interior. Cream-colored leather, real leather unless Naomi’s tingling fingertips were wrong, enfolded her weight, smooth as butter. She could stretch out her legs, take up an entire seat, and still there’d be room for five more in the excessive space.

  “Thank you, Martin.” Phin slid in beside her, unbuttoning his coat with one deft hand. “Champagne?”

  “Are you serious?” Heiress, her Mission brain warned again. “Not before dinner,” she covered quickly. “It goes to my head.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She frowned, bracing both hands against the seat as the car slid into motion. “That champagne goes to my head?”

  “That anything does,” he said lightly. “Still.” He reached over, slid open a compartment to reveal two crystal glasses and a bottle of what Naomi could only assume was expensive champagne. “It’s here if you want some.”

  She was half tempted. Mostly because it was something for her hands, her mouth to do that wasn’t pushing Phin down on the butter-soft seat and exploring his concealed chest, his stomach, his—

  She flicked a glance at the opaque window panel that separated the driver from the back. Jumped when Phin’s low, knowing laugh slid into the collar of her coat and wrapped like a vise around her ribs.

  “I didn’t bring the massage oil,” he said, stretching out his legs across the clean, pale floor of the car. His shiny, polished shoes nudged her red boots. Just a touch. “But I can probably find something just as good.”

  Chapter Eleven

  His hands filled her imagination. The warmth of his palms. His deft fingers kneading, stroking, feeling her body. Heat swirled low and tight. Naomi straightened. “You wish,” she retorted lightly.

  “You’re tense again.”

  Outside the tinted glass, rain splattered, turned the muted lights of nighttime traffic and the glow of the city in shimmering rivulets. It hummed. Different from the steady, unending thrum of the mid-low levels beneath them, but just as alive.

  Hungry.

  Her eyes flared. “I’m wondering what I’m going to have to pay for this night.”

  “Pay?” Phin smiled. He studied her, from the tips of her crimson boots to her smooth, bare legs crossed under the hem of the silk dress. To her mouth. “I thought you said I had to pay for my women.” The glow in his eyes should have scorched everything it touched.

  A corner of her glossy mouth quirked. “I’m not your woman.”

&
nbsp; “Am I paying for you?”

  “I’m not for sale.” Naomi wanted to climb inside those eyes and cover her naked body in sweet, dark chocolate. Only vaguely aware of this little contest of verbal words, she slid her tongue over her bottom lip, easing the tip over that missing center ring. His eyes flamed to wicked, hungry life as he watched her lick the gloss away.

  “Good,” he said hoarsely. “Then there’s no mistaking this.” And then he wasn’t across the car anymore. He wasn’t in the opposite seat. Between the space of one breath and the next, Phin sank to his knees in front of her, his eyes brilliantly dark, glittering like ancient gold in a face suddenly taut with the heat Naomi knew drew him like a moth to flame.

  That’s what she was. Fire. And she couldn’t help the sleek, intimate tug of arousal between her legs, the uncurling warmth that spread through her limbs like liquid silver as he speared his fingers into the loose wave of her gathered hair and tilted her face between his palms.

  “Phin,” she warned him, her eyes on his, “you’re so going to get burned.”

  “God, I hope so,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

  He kissed her like a man drowning, in desperate need of air. He feasted on the full, lush curve of her lips as if he starved. He wasn’t rough, he didn’t force her, but, God, he didn’t have to.

  She wanted him. Wanted this.

  Wanted more.

  The luxury vehicle purred around them like a sleek cat as he swept his tongue into her mouth. It slid between her lips the way she wanted another part of him to mimic, deep, claiming. Assaulting every sense. She tasted the smooth rasp of his tongue, the minty, wet heat of his mouth, smelled his musky aftershave and drew it deep into her lungs. Wanted more.

  Impatient, her breath catching, she pushed at his jacket. At the too expensive material that he shrugged out of, leaving it crumpled to the floor.

  A low sound of approval rasped from his throat, jerked when she struggled with the buttons of his shirt.

  Phin tore his mouth from hers, let her take in deep, shaking breaths of air as he pushed her hands away and slid his fingers around her hips. “Damn it,” he muttered, wrenching her off the seat and into his lap. Her knees hit the floor, sharp points of rasped pain. He grunted, hissed out a breath as her thighs bracketed his waist.