by Zoe Forward
The only male in sight was Nikolai. Her spell couldn’t have drawn him to her. Magic didn’t work well on him. And he wasn’t interested in her by his own admission last year. She glanced around again, still not sighting any male prospects for her fake boyfriend, and released an agitated snort.
Nikolai’s blond hair was loose, brushing his shoulders, which seemed so much wider than she remembered from last year. His nose appeared different—straighter, narrower, and without the distinctive kink of a previous break at the midpoint. A new scar rested over his left eyebrow. Had he been injured and gotten facial work? The thought of him hurt, especially severely enough to warrant surgery, bothered her.
“What are you doing here?” The low timbre of his voice with that hint of an Eastern European accent washed heat down her spine and settled into a craving deep in her lower abdomen.
Her instant reaction to him hadn’t changed. She resented it. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Saving your ass.”
“I’m positive that’s not why you’re here. Were you searching for a hookup tonight?”
“This isn’t your kind of club.” His gaze traveled down her throat to the designer spaghetti strap tank top and lingered on her breasts. His expressive lips tipped upward into an annoying grin.
“But it might be your kind of club.” She’d forgotten she’d chosen her newest skimpy top. She crossed her arms over her chest. “How do you know this isn’t where I come every Friday night?” Her mind replayed images of when he’d saved her life last year from witch hunters in a wrong-place, wrong-time life collision. She recalled being pressed tight to all those hard contours while bullets tore into him. The memory of their far-from-chaste kiss after she’d cared for his bullet wounds warmed her body. But his words following their overwhelming kiss seared her mind like pouring alcohol on a fresh cut: I’m not interested.
“You like to party? Here?” His eyebrows rose, and his voice dripped sarcasm.
She fought the urge to smack him.
“We need to talk,” he announced.
She uncrossed her arms. “How did you know I was here?”
“I arrived at your apartment right as you were leaving.”
“What could the world’s greatest Russian FSB agent, at least according to you, possibly want to talk to me about enough to follow me?”
His brows snapped into a terrifying scowl. He gripped her hand, dragged her around her unconscious attacker, and out the emergency exit into the deserted alley. No alarms sounded. He wheeled her around to face him. “How do you know what I used to do?”
Oops. “You told me. Remember?” What did he mean used to? Had he retired?
“I don’t recall revealing any such thing.” His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Did you slip me something last year, or use a spell?”
Her cheeks burned. Spells might not work well on him, but potions did.
After a clear you-did glare he shook his head and muttered, “Witches.”
She pulled against the grip on her upper arm until he released her. “I saved your life. Then you stole my experimental healing potion and ducked out of my apartment on the pretense of a trip to the bathroom.” She balled her fist, tempted to deck him. Unfortunately, she probably couldn’t reach his nose to make it hurt since he dwarfed her by almost a foot. This she-bitch side of her hadn’t emerged since the last time he crashed into her life. Nikolai brought out the absolute worst in her with an itch to fight.
She touched her necklace and took a deep breath. Owen; think of Owen with his perfect teeth, blue eyes, and sandy blond hair. And his beautiful smile.
“Your healing potion worked.” Nikolai rocked back on his heels and grinned an infuriating span of straight white teeth, which shot her agitation into the stratosphere.
Her calming imagery poofed away. “That’s great,” she said sarcastically. “I’m so glad it brought you back from whatever near-death wound you suffered.” She stepped around him, fully intent on dragging Shannon out of the club. “I’m going home.”
He caught her arm. “What are you doing in a place like this? You almost got gang raped.” Did he hold his arm in that perfect way to show off the thick bulge of his biceps?
“Thank God you arrived in time to save me,” she said sarcastically. “I had it under control.”
“The hell you did.”
“What I do is of no concern to you.”
Silence stretched between them for several seconds in a squinty-eyed war of wills. She tugged against his grip without success. “Let. Me. Go.”
His eyelids drifted closed. “I’m sorry I pinched your potion last year, but it saved my brother.”
“I. Don’t. Care.” She stomped on his foot, elbowed his solar plexus, and smiled when he released her with a grunt. Thank you, self-defense lessons. She spun to walk away from him.
Behind her he called, “My brother? Alexi. He married Serenity. The witch who probably taught you that move.”
She halted, shocked. Yep, Serenity led the mandatory monthly witch self-defense classes. She had yet to meet Serenity’s elusive husband, Alexi, after their secretive marriage a few months ago. She’d wondered about the last name similarity between Alexi and Nikolai. Slowly, she turned back toward Nikolai.
“He’s your brother?” That meant she was pseudo-related to Nikolai. Great.
He granted her his gorgeous grin again, the one that showed off his tan. He probably got the tan from an outdoors op, or whatever he called what he did. She didn’t even know exactly what he did. Her mind conjured images of James Bond, even though Nikolai worked for Bond’s enemy country. She didn’t like the thought of Nikolai as an international playboy, but anyone that good-looking probably peeled women off left and right.
He’d look amazing on TV. Maybe, just maybe, she could convince him to help her.
“What?” His eyes swirled with distrust.
As spectacular as she imagined his chest must look without clothes, there was a small issue of his status as a Russian agent. Used to work for. So, maybe there was hope. Perhaps the TV people wouldn’t do a background check. And neither would the millions watching the show. Facial recognition software…but he might’ve had work done. She shouldn’t ask him to help her, but what option did she have? She needed a “boyfriend” in less than fourteen hours.
She forced a bright smile. “Drive me home. It’s just a few minutes away over in Chelsea, but you already know where I live, don’t you? I assume you drove. Let’s go. Then we’ll talk.”
“We can finish our discussion right here.” He didn’t budge.
“I thought you wanted to talk. This definitely isn’t the place for a chat.” She waved at the dark alley. “I can’t focus on anything other than the stench of garbage out here.” With a cringe she examined her pink heels. The off and on rain today had left shallow puddles on the asphalt. “The dampness will ruin my new stilettos. I just found these a few days ago. They’re limited edition.”
He backed up a step and gazed at her in silence. His lips flattened as if he’d arrived at a decision he didn’t like. Gripping her elbow, he steered her out of the alley toward the street, moving so fast she had to jog to keep up. Not easy in five-inch heels.
As he helped her into a dark-colored SUV, his arm brushed against her breast. A fine shiver traveled through her. Her gaze shot to his. In the ambient light from a streetlamp, his intense green stare captivated and then seared her with his bold sensuality. She’d been mesmerized by his magnetism last year. This reaction to him had to be the product of his unique brand of magical coercive powers. He’s not interested in you by his own confession.
As he pulled the car into traffic, she texted Shannon:
Found a ride home. All good. Have fun.
She stared at his angular profile. Power and confidence seeped from him. He was so frigging hot. “What do you need to tell me?”
“I’m driving. That means we’re not talking right now.” His gaze didn’t deviate from the road
.
She tried not to watch him drive. How in the world she found the simple act of gripping a steering wheel sexy, she didn’t know. The way he caressed the leather and watched her out of the corner of his eye as if it was her body he touched, and not the wheel, drove her wild. She squeezed her legs together with an uncomfortable ache between them. She sank deep into the passenger seat.
What did she really know about Nikolai? An innate danger clung to him, etched into every line of his face and the way he carried himself. His inherent threat should repel her, but instead it fascinated her, drew her in. “What are you?”
His gaze fluttered to hers for no more than a second. “You labeled me yourself. I’m FSB. Actually, it’s ex-FSB.” The low caressing tone of his voice wrapped around her, soothed her.
Was he trying to mesmerize her? “I don’t mean what you do or did, but what are you? What form of magic do you have?”
“I am what I am.” His voice dropped softer, lower. “That’s good enough for now.”
“Please tell me you’re not trying to convince me not to ask more questions. That kind of persuasion doesn’t work on me.”
“Serenity demonstrated it doesn’t work well on witches like you.”
“But you thought you’d try it anyway,” she muttered.
A small smile teased his lips, but he didn’t glance her way.
He parallel parked in front of her apartment building. What a miracle to find a spot so convenient. Maybe this had to do with whatever mysterious magic he wielded, or maybe he’d just gotten lucky. She led him to her top-floor apartment, a generous inheritance from her deceased parents.
Perhaps his being here meant her spell had worked. Maybe he’d been in the area and was the best the spell could conjure. If so, then the magic might help influence him into helping her. Reliance on her flimsy spell was a bad plan. Her spell-casting remained a work in progress. Maybe she could slip him a potion to make him amenable to her plan.
She led the way to the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks.” His eyes narrowed a fraction, communicating he wouldn’t be fooled twice.
Shrugging, she picked up the mug she’d forgotten hours ago. She shoved it into the microwave and reheated it for a few seconds, then sipped the steaming tea. “Why were you looking for me?”
“To warn you.” He remained on the periphery of her kitchen, hovering near the door.
“To warn me of what?” Dread slithered down her spine.
“I had a vision of a threat to you. I don’t know exactly what or when it will happen. I only know it’ll happen soon. Do you have any reason to believe something or someone is after you?”
She shook her head. “A vision? I heard your brother has some sort of magical abilities. Are you guys warlocks or something else?”
“Something else.”
“Are you a vampire or shape shifter or something?”
He cracked a smile. “I can’t believe you think they exist. I’m like you. My long-ago ancestor’s parent was a Greek god. Alexi is oldest and he gets the super skills in the family. Like you ladies, only the first in line gets the big powers. The rest of us…” His expression closed, signaling an end to the subject.
“Do you have precognition or something like that?”
“Something.” His eyes roamed the kitchen in a calculating manner as if he was assessing exits and weapons.
“Okay, thanks. Warning noted.” She cleared her throat. She’d better get to the point quick before she lost her nerve. “Since you no longer work for Russia I want to offer you a job.”
“What kind of job?” His gaze swung to her, the wariness back in his eyes. “To protect you from whatever might come after you? I’m not a bodyguard.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You obviously need a better bodyguard, if tonight is any indication of his skill.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bodyguard. I didn’t invite him along tonight. I have a different job for you.”
His eyebrows shot upward.
She cleared her throat and then forced out quickly, “I would like to hire you to be my fake boyfriend on TV.”
Chapter Two
“You want me to do what?” Nikolai’s mind stalled on her verbal bomb.
“I want to hire you.” Jen leaned against the kitchen counter, far too casual.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend? On TV?” He stared into Jen’s wide-set blue-gray eyes and the grin of her generous mouth, a mouth he’d spent a lot of time contemplating, far more than he should have. Her brown hair was shorter, more professionally cut than last year. He missed her long locks, but the cut matured her in a good way. She was closer to thirty than the barely twenty-one vibe she projected.
“There’s this reality show I plan to audition for tomorrow. But it’s a couple’s show. Since I’m technically single at the moment I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”
He liked the thought of her not having a boyfriend, but not this scenario. “On television? Which TV show?”
“Extreme Survivor.”
A snort escaped him. She had to be messing with him.
Her eyes narrowed in warning.
Oh shit, the woman wasn’t kidding. “You want to go on Extreme Survivor? You, the art museum PR coordinator?”
“Well, I figure with you I’d have a better chance of getting through a few days.”
“You couldn’t have formulated this plan more than about fifteen minutes ago. You can’t be serious.”
Her eyes widened with momentary fear, but her back stiffened and her shoulders went rigid. She gave him a confirmation nod. Respect and admiration for her rose. She recognized the dangers, but something important pushed her.
He said, “I might be able to deal with the left field bullshit they toss the competitors on that show if I could get past it being television and un-reality. But you? You do realize you can’t wear stilettos on that show.” Why was he even analyzing this juvenile scenario as a possibility?
“Oh, good. You’ve seen the show before. I do own other shoes.”
“They make you do crazy things on that show like climb mountains with your bare hands and no ropes, or swim across the rapids of a half-mile-wide river that’s infested with piranhas. There might be snakes and spiders. You might even have to eat them.” He chuckled when her face paled.
She notched her chin up. “Can you make them taste good?”
Laughter bubbled from deep down in a release of tension he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Actually, he hadn’t laughed this hard since he last tangled with Jen. He shook his head. “No. Nothing makes them taste good when you’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m not a covert ops soldier or a survivalist. We can’t be on national television.”
She moved close so fast that he flinched. His scalp tingled when she lifted his hair. “If you cut your hair short and shave this beard thing into a goatee, you’ll look totally different. Then people from your past won’t recognize you. Your roots are dark. It’s only a five-day competition, sometimes less, depending on how fast competitors drop out. So your hair shouldn’t grow out in that time. You’d look…” Her face flushed, and her eyes darted to his, wide and startled.
Their unusual attraction had her in its grip, too. The last time they crossed paths, he assumed his pull to her to be a product of her witch magic. Months later, without even a spark of interest in another woman, he suspected Jen had been matched to him by the underworld god, Hades, from whom he descended.
He wanted Jen with a desperation that made being in the same room with her dangerous. But he couldn’t offer her the long-term she deserved right now, not with the vicious predator who still stalked him. That bitch planned to kill his soul mate.
Leave. Now.
Jen’s admiring gaze activated a surge of repressed fantasies of her and that mouth. Hell, he’d shave his head if it meant he’d get her in bed at least once before he died.
No. Get your head right. Don’t fall under her spell.<
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He would be with her, eventually. He would claim her. But not yet. The risk to her remained too high for him to make her his now. His vision didn’t clarify if the threat to her was the same woman he and his brother had been attempting to eliminate for the past year, or if it was an extraneous threat. Over the past two weeks he’d seen several versions of the precog vision. If he wasn’t there when the threat targeted her, she died. If he was there, he died. Lose-lose situation. His visions were usually right. However, a few months ago his brother demonstrated his visions could be altered. He’d do whatever was needed to keep her from dying.
Jen’s life was essential, as was the life of any firstborn in Greek god–descended families.
But national television? Definite no. If he went on TV, the evil stalking him would recognize him and assume he’d bonded to her. Then there’d be more than contestants gunning for him. The small facial changes, a necessary repair after a mission gone awry last year, might prevent facial recognition software from identifying him, but wouldn’t deter the evil necromancer hunting him. He had to dissuade Jen from this TV show. Maybe he’d try his coercive powers again, even though they didn’t seem to work well.
“Please. Won’t you help me?” She puppy-dog-eyed him.
His mind clouded, and he forgot why he needed to convince her not to do this.
His gaze dropped to her breasts, naked beneath the thin top. Her smell seduced him—vanilla and floral. Nothing in his life prepared him for Jen, not the training he’d received or the in-field experience. Everything about her was different. He’d wanted more with her than with any other woman, and still did. With other women he could remain detached and in control, but he couldn’t turn off his reaction to Jen. It burned him from the inside out with the temptation of something far more than an easy one-nighter. Starting their eternally together scenario sounded pretty good right now, regardless of the risk to her.
No. Do not cave to the temptation of her lips.
Beyond the lure of her body, her fierce spirit with its fire, passion, and determination mesmerized him. She’d gotten under his skin last year to the point he’d monitored her from the shadows and ensured her safety numerous times. His instinct to protect her made him forget the discipline he’d been taught. It made him disregard other jobs in order to track her. He needed to remain in control and resist that which flared between them. His best protection of her was to distance himself from her.
