by Lexi George
After a few minutes of Beck giving him the silent treatment, Junior got the message and left in a huff. Good riddance, Beck thought. Don’t know where he’s going. Don’t care. He’s too high maintenance. I’d almost rather have Hazel.
No, she wouldn’t. Hazel had turned her insides into a slushy.
She hurried into the kitchen. Conall waited near the red exit sign like some kind of supernaturally hot sentinel, one shoulder propped against the wall, his arms folded across his wide chest. He watched in silence from his self-appointed guard post while she went about the business of closing up the kitchen.
She pretended not to see him, but he was a hard guy to ignore. Make that impossible.
Hank cleaned as he cooked, so there weren’t a lot of dirty dishes. The garbage with the shrimp shells had already been hauled out to the Dumpster. She set a dirty stockpot in the sink to soak and wiped down the counters.
Deep fat fryer switched off. Check. Oven and stove turned off. Check.
Satisfied, she headed for the exit, making a last-minute detour when she noticed the door to the walk-in cooler was ajar. She peeked inside.
Zombie in the cooler.
Check.
Chapter Twelve
Tommy blinked at her from the depths of the refrigerated darkness. “I had to do something,” he said, sounding defensive. “I’m starting to smell.”
Beck doubted Tommy could smell himself, on account of him being dead and all. But he thought he could, so there you go.
Tommy needed zombie Xanax. And when Hank found out there was a dead guy hanging out in his fridge, he’d need Xanax, too.
Probably Hank was right. Probably keeping a corpse in the cooler next to the hamburger patties was a health code violation. Probably, she should do something about it.
She closed the refrigerator and walked out the door, sailing past Conall with her nose in the air. She was going for dignified and aloof, but the hot pink sneakers sort of blew the whole Ice Princess Bitch on Wheels thing.
The parking lot looked like a deserted used-car lot, since most of the owners were still chasing the moon through the woods. She fished her keys out of her purse and opened her truck. She glanced back. Conall crossed the lot toward her, his powerful stride unhurried.
Good. He wasn’t trying to catch her. Maybe he’d taken the hint that she didn’t want his company.
She was still mad at him, wasn’t she? Of course she was.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea how he’d gotten here. Maybe he’d rented a car. Maybe he’d ridden up astride a destrier like some knight from the Middle Ages. Maybe he slid down a rainbow on a unicorn.
Didn’t matter; he was a big demon hunter. He could leave the same way he came.
She climbed into the Tundra, cranked the engine, and wheeled out of the lot. Three miles later, she abandoned the paved road for one of dirt, bumping through the thick, inky woods to her place on the river.
She parked in her usual spot under the mercury light, got out of the truck, and slogged across the yard to the back steps. The house was nothing fancy—a small, two-bedroom, two-bath cabin with a pitched tin roof and a screened porch that wrapped around three sides—but it was hers. She’d bought the land when she turned twenty-one, put a trailer on it, and moved in. The cabin had come later, after years of scrimping and saving.
“Hey, baby, it’s me,” she called, letting herself in. No answer. No large, furry lump on the wicker furniture, nothing stirring among the mini jungle of plants on the back porch. “Mr. Cat?”
Double French doors separated the screened back porch from the main part of the house. Kicking off her sneakers, she stepped inside. The floor plan was simple and open, with high ceilings and wood floors. Lots of windows to take in the view of the river and the surrounding sea of woods, the master bedroom and bath on one side of the house, the second bed and bath on the other; in the center, the eating, living, and dining areas. There was a comfy couch in the den for flopping in front of the television, and a stone fireplace for warmth on cold nights.
Home; her island of safety.
She walked through the house calling her cat.
Meow. The cry was faint. Beck followed the sound to the front porch that looked out on the river, and found Conall sitting in a rocking chair with her cat in his lap.
“Traitor,” she said to the perfidious feline.
“Brrrp,” Mr. Cat said, returning her glower with a sated, sleepy-eyed look of satisfaction.
Conall chucked the big orange marmalade under the chin. Mr. Cat, the shameless lap whore, flipped his purr button to high and practically drooled.
Beck switched her disapproval to the oversized warrior on her property. “It’s bad enough you put the whammy on me,” she said. “Now you’re whammying my cat?”
“I did not ‘whammy’ either of you.” Conall paused. “Although, in all honesty, I am not entirely sure what that means.”
Poor little demon hunter, playing the “I’m-not-from-around-here card. His translator seemed to work just fine when he wanted it to. How convenient.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to make sure you reached your abode in safety.”
“I’m fine.” A sudden thought made her stiffen. “How do you know where I live?”
“I was curious to see where you dwelled, so I followed you home one night. I felt . . . protective of you, for some reason.”
“Bullshit. You were snooping.”
“Dalvahni warriors do not snoop. We reconnoiter.”
“You were snooping. You thought I was in cahoots with your stupid djegrali.”
“They are not my djegrali, and it was reasonable for me to suspect you at first.”
“At first? Does that mean I’m no longer Numero Uno on the kill list?”
He removed Mr. Cat from his lap and rose to his feet. “Now you are being silly. Have I not pledged my sword arm in your defense? Have I not given you my word not to harm you?”
“You think I put some kind of spell on you.”
“Ah, that,” he said. “Foolish words spoken in haste. I came to apologize.”
Beck turned and stared blindly out at the river. The orange moon laughed down at her. She had a feeling Conall was laughing at her, too. He didn’t give a hill of beans about her or her feelings.
“Stop being nice.” She folded her arms tight beneath her breasts. “It confuses me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bastard who won’t stay in his corner.”
She blinked back tears. God, she was hormonal. She took a deep breath to calm herself. It didn’t help.
She was supercharged. It was the moon and the call of the river. She needed to go for a run in the woods or a swim, something to get rid of the jitters.
What are you, the poster child for the unaware? the sly voice in her mind said with a smirk. It’s not the moon or the river. It’s him.
A sudden tingle of awareness warned her of his approach. Somehow, he’d closed the space between them without making a sound. Heat poured off his powerful body, and his cool scent enveloped her.
“This bastard will not stay in his corner. This bastard regrets hurting you more than he can say.”
Beck swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. I couldn’t care less what you think of me.”
“So very tough,” he murmured. His fingertips traced the opening in the back of her dress, brushing her bare skin and sending little shivers of delight coursing through her. “But not, I think, as tough as you pretend to be.”
He replaced his fingers with his lips, and her knees nearly buckled as she felt the warm, wet drag of his mouth across her naked back. A playful nip on her shoulder was followed by the soothing lap of his tongue. Goosebumps of pleasure prickled Beck’s skin, and her breasts felt heavy and tight.
Sweet Sister Ruth, out of all the males in creation, why did it have to be him that got her motor revved?
He turned her around and pulled her into his arms. Twisting his hands
in her hair, he lowered his head until their mouths were but inches apart. Her pulse skittered at his nearness.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I should think it is obvious,” he replied, and kissed her.
He took his time about it, tasting her at leisure, nibbling at her bottom lip and stroking her with his tongue like she was some kind of exotic fruit and he couldn’t get enough. She felt that kiss from her head to her toes and everywhere in between.
Especially there, between her legs.
Her blood heated and sizzled in her veins, and the wildness crouching inside her threw back its head and howled. She was on fire and trembling, and her stomach did a quivery, flip-floppy thing, like an army of frogs was jumping around in there.
It was too much. It was too hot, too exciting. Too everything.
She tore her mouth away from his and backed away. “I thought we agreed this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Yes, we did.” Giving her a wicked smile that made her heart go ker-thump, he stalked her across the porch and backed her against the wall. “I changed my mind.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, putting her hands on his chest. The heat of his skin scorched her palms through the thin fabric of his white shirt. “What about talking? You said we needed to talk.”
“Talking is highly overrated.” Bending his head, he blazed a trail of hot kisses down her throat. “I am more interested in doing. . . other things.”
Beck’s eyes drifted shut. It felt good to be in his arms. He was big and strong and he made her feel safe, which was ridiculous. She could take care of herself. She tried to think, but thinking was impossible with him so close.
The warm puff of his breath teased her skin. There was something she needed to tell him, something important.
Oh, yeah. They hated one another. That was it.
Opening her eyes, she told him as much, but he seemed undisturbed.
“I do not hate you.” He drifted feathery kisses from her temple to the curve of her jaw. “If I hated you, I would not be doing my best to make amends.”
“A-amends?”
“Most definitely. I have a plan. Would you like to hear it?”
“Um . . . yeah. I guess so.”
“First, I would tell you again how beautiful you are.”
Beck’s heart rate kicked up another notch as his hand slid under her dress and up her thigh. Her head was spinning. “Flattery’s usually a good start.”
“I am glad you approve,” he said. “And then I would tell you that your skin is glorious. Soft and luminous, like moonlight on roses. It makes me want to taste you all over.”
“Moonlight on roses?” The words came out a husky growl. She cleared her throat. “Nice, but it’ll take more than a few pretty words to get you out of hot water with me.”
“So fierce,” he said with a chuckle. He caressed her inner thigh. He was close, so damn close. Just a little farther . . . “But I am curious. If you are unaffected, why do you tremble in my arms?” His clever fingers circled higher, inching closer to the aching spot between her legs. “And what has made you so restless?”
“Moon,” she gasped, clutching his shoulders.
“I do not think it is the moon at all.” His black eyes gleamed. “I think you want me.”
She glared up at him. “Not in this lifetime, mister.”
“I think you are bluffing.” His fingertips brushed the edge of her panties. “Shall we experiment and see?”
Cupping his palm between her legs, he stroked her clitoris with his thumb. She went off like a rocket, waves of pleasure engulfing her.
He released her, and she slid to the floor in a boneless heap, her dress bunched up around her thighs.
“Just as I expected,” he said, smiling down at her. “Bluffing.”
The combination of that smile and the post-orgasmic pheromones whizzing around her brain made her woozy.
So she was easy. So all he had to do was touch the outside of her panties and she had a big old orgasm. So what?
She leaned her head against the wall and scowled up at him. “My mother may have been possessed, but you’re the devil.”
His smile widened. “See you in the morning, boss.”
He vanished.
“Conall?”
No answer.
Beck sniffed. He was gone, not a hint of warm, green-scented male anywhere. Well, that answered her question about how he got around.
He got around just fine, she thought darkly. In more ways than one.
Mr. Cat rubbed against her hip with a reproachful meow.
“Talk to the paw, buddy,” she said. “You’re as pathetic as I am.”
She sat on the porch floor until she was certain her legs would support her before retreating into the house. She fed Mr. Cat and took a long soak in the garden tub.
While she soaked, she thought about what had happened and decided not to beat herself up about it. It had been years since she’d had sex with anyone, and she was long overdue in the orgasm department. The way she figured it, she was entitled.
Orgasms were good. This orgasm, in particular, had been a pip—the best ever, in fact. She no longer felt so jittery and antsy, and her headache was gone. Yessir, that orgasm had done her a world of good.
In fact, that orgasm had probably saved her life. Hell, that orgasm had probably saved other people’s lives, because all that bottled-up sexual tension could have exploded and hurt someone. It was what you might call your sacrificial orgasm. She’d taken one for the team, maybe even one for humanity.
She was a frigging saint.
Nope, all things considered, she had no regrets. She needed to stop thinking about it though. And she really needed to stop thinking about Conall. Granted, that orgasm had been pretty darn terrific—okay, it had rocked her world—but she couldn’t go there again. Mr. Sexy Demon Hunter with the magic hands and mouth and seductive words that turned her insides to goo was off limits.
From now on, he was just another employee at the bar.
She would not blush when she saw him in the morning. She would greet him with cool composure. She would be professional, pleasant but aloof. She would keep her distance. She would not allow herself to be distracted by his supernatural hotness, and she most certainly would not succumb to his sweet-talking ways.
And on no account would she allow him anywhere near her panty line again. Her crotch had a mind of its own and could not be trusted. Of course, that meant she was back to living in a no-gasm zone, but it was the smart thing to do.
The thought was so depressing that she almost slid under the water and let herself drown.
She sat there until her fingers wrinkled, which is God’s way of saying “Hey, dumbass, out of the water already,” and climbed out. She dried off with a fluffy towel, donned her robe, and padded into the kitchen for a post-orgasmic, celebratory cup of hot chocolate. Funny how everything in her world had narrowed to that mini volcanic explosion of pleasure, like a planet being sucked into a collapsing sun.
Jeez Louise, she really needed to get laid more often. If she had a normal sex life, Captain Orgasm wouldn’t have this effect on her.
Yeah, right.
She added a couple of extra marshmallows to the mug and took a sip of melted, sugary fluff off the top. A series of sharp yips from the woods behind her house startled her. Hot chocolate sloshed over the edge of the cup, burning her hand.
“Dang it,” she swore, sucking on her scalded fingers.
A harsh grunt outside drew her to the window. She peeked through the blinds at the yellowed rectangle of grass behind her house.
A shaggy black bear sat on his haunches, the bulky centerpiece in a circle of tawny gray coyotes. The bear flung back his head and growled a rumbling ode to the moon. Tipping their noses skyward, the coyotes joined in.
The mystery of the missing cook and the runaway musicians was solved. Hank and the band were holding a concert in her backyard, and it looked like they’d settled in for the
night.
Chapter Thirteen
The alarm buzzed and Beck aimed a bleary eye at the clock. The wild kingdom jamboree behind her house had gone on until after two. Four hours of sleep and a full day of cleanup ahead, plus a to-do list that included getting the broken window replaced.
Ugh.
She groaned and pulled the covers over her head. Her rest—what little there’d been of it—had been disturbed by torrid dreams starring a certain black-eyed demon hunter. She was wide awake and horny as hell.
Her brain might accept that her steamy interlude with Conall was a one-time thing, but the rest of her body had missed the memo.
Just her luck the one guy she wanted to scratch her itch was a big fat no-no.
Something heavy hit the mattress, and she felt the tread of kitty paws across the coverlet.
“Brrrp,” Mr. Cat said, batting the blanket over her face with his paw.
“Let me guess. You want breakfast.”
“Meow,” Mr. Cat said.
Beck stuck her head out of the covers. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that I might be smothering.”
Mr. Cat stalked across her chest.
“I can feel your concern,” Beck said. “Way to show the love, pussycat.”
Dragging herself out of bed and into the bathroom, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. No point in taking a shower when she’d spend the day mopping up God knows what-all. She’d clean up later, after the job was done. Going to the walk-in closet, she threw on a pair of old jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt, and scraped her hair into a ponytail. She found her work boots on the porch and put them on, gave Mr. Cat his morning spoonful of wet food, and headed out.
It was Sunday and Beck’s was closed. If she busted her hump and got things tidied up, maybe she could spend the afternoon reading on her porch. Quiet time was precious to her, and the thought cheered her.
Her little bubble of happiness burst when she pulled into the parking lot and spotted Earl Skinner waiting near the back entrance of the bar. He wore a sweatshirt and dirty jeans. Patches of hair bristled on his unshaven, receding chin, and his stringy hair was oily and matted.
