Aphrodite's Kiss

by Julie Kenner

  “What about the car?”

  “Screw the car.” He tugged her toward him.

  “Why, Mr. Taylor, are you planning to seduce me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Do you mind?”

  The burning desire shining in her eyes was real, and the shy honesty in her voice just about did him in. “I’d be disappointed,” she said, “if you weren’t.”

  The pathway twisted across the rocky slope, wending its way along the cliff above where the ocean beat against the shore. Zoë peered over the edge, watching froth leap and dance above the wave-polished rocks, the magnificent force of nature nothing compared to the tempest raging within her.

  “A beautiful view,” Taylor said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She turned to smile at him, then realized he wasn’t looking at the view, but at her.

  “I want to kiss you, Zoë.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Maybe I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t believe you’re afraid of anything.” She said it with a grin, but although he smiled back, there was something hidden in his eyes. He blinked, and his eyes cleared, leaving Zoë to wonder if she’d imagined it.

  “But I am afraid,” he said, the admission making her a little relieved she wasn’t the only one. “Afraid that if I start to kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.”

  She stepped closer, anticipating his lips on hers, steadying herself for the shock of his touch. With a little grin, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Well, Mr. Taylor. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His words drifted toward her on a wisp of air, caressing her as softly as his hand gently cupped her cheek. She pressed her face against his palm, letting the warmth of his skin seep into her blood, letting her blood and his heat burn through her veins.

  Her body lingered on the verge of ignition. Reveling in the torment, she turned her face, relishing the rough feel of his callused hand against her cheek, pressing her lips to his palm. He moaned, the soft sound sweeter to her ears than the purest musical note.

  Except . . . there was another sound, too.

  She twisted her head, trying to hear. “What was that?” Whatever it was, it meant kissus interruptus, and that was bad.

  “What?”

  “Do you hear that?” she asked, knowing the answer. The sound was too soft, too subtle. Even for her, it was almost inaudible. But it was there, low and threatening. Like a growl, or a low wail.

  He hooked a finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. “I don’t hear anything but you.”

  She smiled, but shook her head. “No, there’s something out there.”

  He pulled back, immediately tense, ready to fight. His determination to protect her warmed Zoë to her very soul, even though she of all people didn’t need a hero. “Something?” he whispered.

  “Or someone.” Then she saw it—a rustling in the brush off to the right. “There.” She pointed, automatically stepping in front of him.

  Just as automatically, he gripped her shoulders, pushing her aside and stepping in front of her. “What do you see?”

  She sidled forward again, trying to get in front of him without being conspicuous, wanting to protect him. She squinted as she looked over the rims of her glasses, her nose wrinkling from a sudden stench, and once again Taylor moved in front of her. She stifled a grin at his persistent chivalry.

  How in Hades could she describe what she saw—two creatures crouching among the leaves, one tall and thin, the other short and squatty. A greenish slime seemed to coat them both, and their mouths hung open, drool dripping off their big, pointy overbites.

  On the round one, folds of scaled fat fell over more folds of fat. The skinny one had none, its skin seemingly clinging to pure bone, as if the fat one had taken his share. Their noxious odor drifted toward her, like rotten eggs mixed with curdled milk.

  She bit back a gag and tried to decide what to do.

  If Taylor could see these . . . things, she’d have some serious explaining to do.

  “Those guys look strung out.” Taylor stepped sideways, centering himself between Zoë and the two cretins in the bushes.

  “Guys?” One eyebrow arched up.

  “I realize it’s giving them more credit than they deserve,” he whispered. “But ‘asshole junkies’ seemed a little strong.”

  “Oh.” She pushed her glasses firmly up her nose. “Right.”

  She sounded so confused, he turned around to look at her. “Don’t worry. Just let me handle it and we’ll be fine.” He squinted. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” she said brightly.

  But of course he knew she wasn’t. How could she be? Hell, she was an elementary school librarian. Apart from that run-in with that police impersonator, Taylor was certain that the closest Zoë came to the wrong side of the law was chasing down people with overdue library books. And Taylor intended to keep it that way.

  Her brow creased. “So you think they’re just two guys hanging out in the bushes?”

  “What I think is that we should get out of here.” He took her hand and started heading back toward the Andersons’ house. “If they are junkies, they probably wouldn’t have any qualms about jumping us—not if they thought it might get them enough cash for their next hit.”

  His thigh ached, and he idly rubbed it. Whether she’d meant to hire him as a protector or a date, either way, he was there. And he didn’t intend to let her down.

  “Well, then,” she said. “Let’s get going.”

  He took her hand and hurried her down the path.

  After a few seconds, she stopped.

  “What?”

  “Footsteps. Behind us.” She started moving again, tugging him forward. “Let’s get you—I mean us—out of here.”

  He slowed a bit, listening. “I don’t hear anything.”

  She stepped behind him and nudged him with her shoulder. “Keep listening. You will.”

  Nodding, he moved on. Most likely she was just nervous, and wanted to get away as fast as possible. He would have been smart not to have said anything at all—to have just headed back to the house without clueing her in to their uninvited companions.

  Now the poor girl was imagining footsteps and bogeymen. And no wonder. It wasn’t as if she’d led a life of adventure, and here he was, dropping her into the middle of a situation that was decidedly not Capraesque.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shadow waver behind them on the darkened path. Uh-oh. Maybe Zoë was right. Maybe the whacked-out weirdos were following them after all.

  He thought of the strange man impersonating an officer earlier and wondered if there was more to these druggie creeps than the need for a fix. Were these guys following them with a more nefarious purpose? And were they following him or Zoë?

  Certainly not her. She’d seemed genuinely perplexed in the car. And he couldn’t imagine anything in the life of a librarian that would attract such unpleasant attention. He, on the other hand, had recently been hired to locate a very large, very missing, very expensive gemstone.

  Maybe he wasn’t the only one looking for it. . . .

  Damn it! He’d jumped so hard and so fast at the possibility of ten grand he hadn’t even considered the consequences, had basically blown off Hoop’s concern that it might be hot. And now he’d gone and embroiled Zoë in the twisted little plot.

  Trying to hurry—without looking like he was hurrying—he took her elbow and moved her along.

  “Are we hurrying?”

  “Nope. Just strolling.”

  She sped up. “Let’s hurry.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  They started walking faster, Zoë taking the lead and Taylor pumping hard, trying to keep up.

  She took his hand and sped up. Taylor started trotting.

  She sped up again. Taylor started running.

  The trees started passing faster than they usually did when he jogged on the beach, and the wind cut into his fac
e the way it did when he rode a roller-coaster. A stitch started in his side. His lungs burned; his thigh screamed.

  He glanced over at Zoë, who looked about as winded as someone out for an evening stroll. “You . . . work . . . out, right?” he managed, sucking in air as they chugged along.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Lots.” She caught his eye. “Too fast?”

  “No,” he lied, clutching his side and gasping. He gave up. So much for being macho; this was the new millennium, after all. Coughing, he stopped, bent over, and sucked in gallons of glorious oxygen.

  Air, God, how he loved the feel of air in his lungs.

  “Sorry.” Zoë stopped and jogged backward to him. “I get a little carried away.”

  “Hell, lady. You could qualify for the Olympics.”

  She laughed, but it sounded a little forced . . . and then her eyes went wide.

  “What? Am I turning red? I do that when I’m winded sometimes.” His hands were still perched just above his knees—his favorite gasping-for-air position—but when he looked up, he saw asshole junkie number one reflected in her glasses. And this was one fellow who definitely looked like there was more on his mind than a walk on the beach. He was lunging forward.

  “Aw, hell.” Whipping around, he kicked his leg out, ignoring the screaming of his thigh, his only thought of keeping Zoë safe.

  “Taylor, no!”

  His leg connected squarely with the fat one’s jaw, but instead of the reassuring crack he’d expected, he heard an anti-climactic slooshing sound, a bit like he’d just karate-kicked a jellyfish. Man, this is one drugged up son of a bitch who really needs to go on a diet.

  The slug sank to the ground, a nice imprint of the bottom of Taylor’s shoe tattooed onto the side of his face. Flushed with victory, Taylor looked up at Zoë, whose eyes were still wide.

  He had just enough time to say “What?” when it registered—he’d seen the fat one, but there had been a skinny one, too. And before he could do anything, a bony little arm locked around his neck.

  In front of him, Zoë bounced up and down, looking like she wanted to jump into the fray.

  “Stay back,” he said, except with Skinny’s arm pressing against his windpipe, it came out sounding more like stray cats.

  “What?” She squinted, looking from him to Skinny, then back to him again. And she was still bouncing, that “I really wanna help” look plastered on her face.

  “Got . . . under . . . control,” he managed to spit out, then realized with a bit of horror that his feet were no longer on the ground. The fact that he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen did not—repeat, not—mean that he was any less in control. Nope, didn’t mean that at all. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.

  He realized what an odd-sounding word didn’t was, and decided that maybe control was overstating things, especially considering he was getting a little loopy from lack of air.

  Whizzzzzzzzzz! Something zinged over his head, and he heard a thwack as the something connected with Skinny’s head. All of a sudden Taylor’s feet were back on the ground, and his lungs were filling with oxygen.

  Things were looking up.

  One glance at Zoë confirmed that she was all right. More or less, anyway. She was staring—almost trancelike—at a point just over his head. Taylor whirled around, leading with his fist, and caught Skinny—who was standing there motionless like an idiot—square on the jaw. For a moment the junkie just teetered, almost as if he were drugged. Then he yelped and hightailed it down the path.

  What a strange reaction to a punch, but the result was right.

  He tossed a smile Zoë’s way. “Guess that wraps up the fun for tonight. Join us for another mugging tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.” Then he sank to the ground.

  He was making jokes. Thank goodness. She’d been afraid she hadn’t acted fast enough and one of the nitwits had hurt him. Of course, Taylor’d managed to take care of Nit all on his own, but Wit’s necklock hadn’t exactly looked comfortable.

  “Are you okay?” She knelt down beside him, checking his neck for bruising.

  “Fine.” His gaze swept over her, the inspection stirring her blood. “How about you?”

  Not fine at all. But that had more to do with the way he was looking at her than what had happened with Nit and Wit. She forced herself to lie. “No problems here. You took care of them.”

  “I don’t think they were junkies after all,” he admitted. “I think they were after me.”

  She remembered the fangs and the drool and the really gross smell, and silently disagreed. Out loud she said, “Oh?”

  What she really wanted to ask was, Didn’t you see the fangs? The slimy drool? The one eye instead of two? Do you really think those cretins were your average, everyday junkies?

  “Yeah. I just took on anew job. I’m tracking down an heirloom. Possibly stolen. Maybe they figure I’ve got a lead.”

  “Maybe.” If he thought he knew where Nit and Wit came from, she wasn’t going to argue. It guaranteed her secret was still safe.

  She stifled a sigh. For Taylor, there was no drool, no fangs, just a couple of muggers out for a Sunday stroll.

  “Well,” she said, trying to sound chipper. “The important thing is you’re okay.”

  “Okay? I’m great,” he said. “Everyone says so,” he added confidentially and smiled. Then he stood up and helped her to her feet.

  “Everyone?” she asked, looking at him pointedly and fighting a laugh.

  “Oh, so now you’re a detractor?” He said it with a grin, and she had to admit he looked pretty scrumptious.

  “Well,” she said, trying to sound grudging, but not succeeding very well, “I suppose you might be a little great.”

  “Great is an all-or-nothing thing.”

  She laughed. “Greedy, aren’t you?”

  He swung an arm around her and lowered his mouth to her ear. “Insatiable,” he whispered, clearly pleased with himself.

  Well, why shouldn’t he be? He’d saved her from the bogeyman. Or at least that was what he thought.

  The truth wasn’t quite so straightforward.

  He looped his arm through hers and they headed back toward the car in silence, Taylor most likely reliving his victory, Zoë definitely reliving hers.

  Taylor had called them men. But they weren’t men. Not at all. And when the skinny one had been dangling Taylor from one slime-covered tentacle thing, she’d been helpless. If she’d fought, if she’d lashed out and beat the bugger to a pulp, Taylor would surely have been suspicious. To say the least.

  So she’d ripped a button off Taylor’s coat and flung it at the beast, hitting the noxious creature square on the nose and stunning it. But then Taylor hadn’t gotten away fast enough, and when the enraged beast was about to pummel him, Zoë had reacted on instinct, aiming a burst of concentration right between the dufus’s bugged-out eyes.

  And it had worked.

  That was the truly amazing thing. Never in a million years had she thought that thinking really hard could rank up there on the list of top-ten ways to ward off ugly idiots. Who knew? She’d aimed her superstare in his direction, Wit had frozen, Taylor’d gotten in a solid punch, and the little creep had taken off, a groggy Nit following right behind.

  Easy-squeezy.

  Just a few days ago she could barely levitate a book. Now she was going all gonzo with telekinetic power. How cool was that? Except she shuddered to think what would have happened if the now fully functional Zoë Smith superstare hadn’t worked. Either Taylor would have been monster fodder, or Zoë would have had to put some of her martial arts on display.

  She shivered, and Taylor pulled her closer, smiling down at her. Automatically she smiled back, feeling absurdly safe just being in his arms. Absurd because Taylor didn’t really up her safety quotient. Heck, she could lay the man out in two seconds flat, but still . . .

  She sighed. There was something special about just being held by him.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked
.

  She tilted her head back, basking in the warmth of his luscious brown eyes. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” But even more than before, she was sure Taylor was far from fine. If he got caught in the cross fire of her testing, if Nit and Wit decided to make an encore appearance . . .

  She needed to send him on his way—safe back into Hollywood, where at least he was familiar with the bad guys. Where the bad guys were guys, not monsters in men suits. He’d never be safe with her.

  They stopped in front of Francis Capra, the only car in the drive now that the guests had all left. She leaned against the back while Taylor opened the door for her.

  “We ought to get you home. Some hot chocolate, some rest.” He trailed a fingertip down her cheek, and it was all she could do not to gasp. “You’ve had a traumatic evening.” He kissed his fingertip and pressed it against the end of her nose. “Maybe set you up on the couch, tuck a fluffy blanket around you, watch a funny movie . . .”

  Oh, no. With sudden certainty, she knew that she wasn’t about to settle for a PG-rated night with Taylor.

  Heck, she wasn’t even going to settle for R.

  No, as scary as it was—as much as she was sure that she would practically explode from his touch, not to mention his kisses—Zoë knew one thing for sure.

  Tonight, she wanted X-rated. Wanted it bad.

  With what she hoped was a sultry smile, she reached up and stroked his cheek, banishing thoughts of Nit and Wit, pushing away worries about any of the council’s tests. Right now she wanted only to think about Taylor. Gently, she turned his face toward hers. “No hot chocolate, no blankies. Just you.”

  “Zoë, we were attacked. This isn’t—”

  “You,” she said with more force.

  She hooked her arms around his neck and pulled herself up on her tip toes. She brushed her lips over his, calling on every ounce of concentration to stay focused when her lips tingled from the butterfly-soft kiss. “You can try to stop me, of course,” she whispered. “I’ve never seduced a hero before, but I intend to go down fighting.”

  Taylor moaned, his hands caressing her back, pulling her closer against him until her body burned with the heat of a thousand suns. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing a lady.