Poison Princess ac-1

by Kresley Cole

  He raised his brows over his shades. “Hold on tighter, you.”

  As soon as I locked my arms around him, he floored the engine until the front wheel briefly left the ground. I yelped, then threw back my head and laughed.

  How long had it been since I’d laughed like this?

  Around corners, we’d lean in together. When he opened it up on a straightaway, I ducked down with him.

  But soon I grew less interested in the ride—and more interested in the driver.

  As his too-long hair whipped in the wind, I caught glimpses of the tanned skin on the back of his neck. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him there, to brush my lips against that smooth skin.

  Jackson was often so rude, so crude, but all that could be forgotten when I thought about how warm and strong he felt against me. Or when I recalled how brave and intelligent he was.

  Mom had said I could do a lot worse than Jackson Deveaux.

  At that moment, I concluded she’d been right.

  What would it be like to have him as my boyfriend? As I tried to imagine it, I sighed, pressing the side of my face against his back, fully relaxed against him. Soon exhaustion caught up with me. The constant rumble of the engine lulled me. My lids grew heavy.

  “Sleep if you want.” Again, he covered my hands with one of his own. “I’ve got you.”

  I loved it when he said that to me. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m goan to find us a bonne place tonight. We’ll have us a grand ole time.”

  Though I was curious what Jackson would consider a “grand ole time,” sleep overtook me. . . .

  26

  When I woke, a full moon was high in the sky and Jackson was only now slowing.

  “We haven’t stopped for the night!” I darted my glance around. We looked to be in a rich subdivision. “What about Bagmen?”

  “There weren’t any,” he said. “The night’s so bright, maybe they think the sun is out. Who knows?” He sounded drunk as he eased the bike to a stop. But he didn’t smell like whiskey—at least not more than normal. “In any case, the road was clear.”

  “The road to where?”

  He booted the kickstand down in front of an intimidating driveway gate, with lit gas lamps on each side. “I guess to here,” he said, scratching his head with a bemused grin. “Hey, check out the security on this place, Evie, the fences. They’ll be secure against brainless Bagmen.” Then he murmured, “Just not against us.”

  When he climbed off the bike, he left me feeling cold and out of sorts. “Why would these lights be on, Jackson? This feels like a baited trap. How about we pass this one by?”

  “Bet there’s loads of food inside.” He was already wedging his crossbow between the two gates, using it as a lever to pry them apart. “Watch and learn, peekôn.” With a click, the flourishing crest in the center parted, the gates swinging free.

  He turned back to clasp me around the waist and set me on my feet. “We’ll walk the bike from here.” Once he’d pushed it past the fence, he shoved the gates back together behind us. Another click sounded as they sealed shut.

  When the house—a gargantuan brick mansion—came into view, he whistled low. “Damn, Evie, you ought to feel right at home here.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the landscaping lights. “Those are electric.”

  “They’ve probably got a gas generator.”

  “One that would’ve had to be filled up recently, right? This place must be occupied.”

  He hadn’t even slowed. “Or maybe we’ll get lucky. What if the owner left to go source supplies and ran into trouble? He might’ve gotten attacked by roaming Bagmen. Like the rider of this bike.”

  I rubbed my arms. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “The last time you had a good one, we lost everything we owned, nearly got enslaved, and spent the night in Bagman Swamp. I’m goan to take my chances here,” he said. “It’s too late to find another place to stay, anyway. If there’s someone here and he’s decent, we’ll barter jewelry. If he’s not decent, we’ll take it. Kick him out.”

  “You’re going to steal a house from its owner?”

  “This house?” He smirked. “J’pourrais.” I might.

  After we’d parked the bike near the side entrance, he cased the house with his crossbow in hand, taking in every detail before he approached the double doors. “Hasn’t been rolled yet. Still locked tight.”

  With the end of his bow, he hit one of the glass sidelights that flanked the door, busting out a pane. The noise seemed startlingly loud.

  Instead of entering, he stood motionless, cocking his head. After long moments, he reached in and opened the door, inhaling deeply. The air smelled fresh. No Bagmen around?

  Weapon raised, Jackson finally entered the house, with me close behind.

  “This is a mistake,” I whispered, trying to recall something Matthew had repeated in all his mutterings and ramblings. It was tickling at my brain. “Why is staying here so important to you?”

  “ ’Cause you’ll like it here. Soft girl like you belongs in a place like this.”

  “I’d prefer the shrimp boat.”

  “I’ll make a note.”

  Lamps burned low, lighting the interior enough for us to search the lavishly decorated house. It looked like a movie producer’s Hollywood pad. Even I was impressed by the wealth.

  Every room was even more luxe than the one before. “This feels like a trap,” I repeated.

  “Trust me, Evie, this place is goan to be a beauty. Remember? I got a sense for these things. And just think, if there’s power and a well, there’ll be a hot shower.”

  I nearly moaned at the idea of piping-hot water. But when a breeze wafted from overhead fans, I still said, “Why is the occupant so wasteful? Eventually, the gas will run out.”

  “Heh.”

  “Why heh?”

  “The gas was already running out before the Flash. But I bet every room in your big ole mansion was cold as an icebox all summer long.”

  “This situation is more acute.”

  “If you think you could die tomorrow, why not go all-out? Part of me admires the owner for this.”

  Sometimes when he said things like that, I was reminded of how different we were. Like fundamentally different. “We’ll have to agree to disagree. . . .”

  We searched both wings upstairs and down, finding even more delights. The bedrooms had closets full of designer clothing and shoes. The garage housed camping supplies, hi-tech survival gear—and a colossal storage tank of gas.

  No car, though.

  In the enormous kitchen, Jackson opened one of the two refrigerators, which was surprisingly well-stocked with jellies, condiments, and drinks.

  He briefly closed his eyes at the feel of cold air, then said, “Come here, you.” He shoved me in front of him so I could feel it too, then stood behind me with his hand on my shoulder. “Admit it, this was worth it just to feel the icebox.”

  Though I was still wary about being here, I reminded myself that Jackson was the bogeyman, as long as he had that bow. So I closed my eyes too, and we just stood there for long moments.

  Then I felt him reaching past me. “Jesus, chilled long-necks. Okay, that’s it, I’m on the lookout for three bears.” He snagged a couple of bottles, twisting off the tops. Pressing a beer into my hand, he led me into the biggest pantry I’d ever seen. “Find us something to eat, woman.”

  I arched a brow, but did inspect the goods, enough to last two people for months—canned and boxed foods, airtight cartons and bags, fruit juices. After hastily stuffing my backpack with PowerBars—just in case we had to flee—I perused the shelves for dinner.

  A jar of maraschino cherries had my mouth watering. I snagged them, as well as a couple of cans of black olives, a carton of Pirouette cookies, and a bag of giant pretzel sticks, making a picnic on the counter.

  For our main course, we enjoyed beer and pretzels. For dessert, Jackson hit the cookies, while I dug into the cherry
jar. When I dropped one in my mouth, my eyes rolled with pleasure.

  “You like cerises, huh?” He eased closer to me. “I’ve got an envie for a cherry.” A craving.

  Cajun innuendo, Jackson? “Here.” I smiled sweetly, holding one up by the stem for him. “Enjoy the only cherry you’ll get from me.”

  “Sounds like a challenge.” With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he nipped it from my fingers with his even white teeth.

  Flustered, I took a swig of my beer. But he pressed his finger to the bottom of the bottle, tipping it until I’d finished it with a gasp.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” It was working. I’d always been a lightweight, and now one beer had me pleasantly buzzed.

  “Sans doute.” Without a doubt.

  Okay, he was definitely flirting with me. Because I was the only game in town and he was . . . strung tight? Had to be. Still the same old Evie here.

  He finished his own beer, chasing it with a shot from his flask. “Let’s see what’s outside.” He collected his bow in one hand and my free hand in his other, then led me to a line of towering french doors.

  We exited one onto a huge screened lanai that was like a wonderland, with gazebos and an outdoor kitchen. The moon was full overhead, lighting the area gently, until it looked untouched by the apocalypse.

  Escorting me farther outside, he declared, “We are home, Evie Greene—”

  He fell silent at the sight of a pool, sparkling in the moonlight. A filled pool.

  Water. A death trap.

  “Christ,” he muttered, darting his head around. “Moon or no, why ain’t we swarming with Bagmen?”

  I pulled on his hand. “Jackson, we’ve got to go!”

  “Stay here.” He strode to the side of the pool, crouching down to dip a finger. After tasting the water, he rose with a thrilled expression. “It’s saltwater, bébé.”

  Salt? “Then they’d be repelled, right?”

  He nodded. “And the water’s warm.”

  “Where’d it all come from?”

  Propping his bow against a lounge chair, he said, “Private well. Just like you had at Haven.”

  But we hadn’t wasted it to swim. “Jackson, please. The owner could return at any minute!”

  “Why would someone be out this late if he’s coming back?” Jackson kicked off his boots. “Finders keepers.”

  “You’re not going in!”

  In answer, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing rigid planes of muscles. Yes, I’d caught glimpses of him shirtless before—but this was the first time I’d utterly lost my breath looking at him.

  His face and his broad chest were still tanned, his eyes seeming to glow in the moonlight. That onyx rosary around his neck glinted with his movements.

  He was stripping before my eyes, yet I couldn’t look away. I bit my bottom lip. Any minute I would turn my back. Any minute . . .

  As he began to unbuckle his belt, his stomach muscles rippled.

  I grew weak in the knees. Any minute.

  When he reached his zipper, he cocked his head and met my gaze.

  I was frozen, could do nothing but stare. He raised his eyebrows at me in challenge, his fingers inching his zipper down.

  A second after I’d finally found the presence of mind to turn my back, I heard his belt buckle ping on the tile floor, the rustle of his dropped pants. Eyes wide, I snapped, “This is foolish, Jackson—”

  In the space of a heartbeat, he’d snagged my pack off my back, looped an arm around my waist—and hauled us both into the pool.

  27

  I broke the surface, sputtering, shoving water out of my face. “Have you lost your mind? Ugh! I am not skinny-dipping with you.”

  In a scandalized tone, Jackson said, “Skinny-dipping? Evangeline and her dirty mind.” He glanced down. I could see he’d left on a pair of dark boxer briefs.

  “Oh.” Had I sounded disappointed? “Still, I’m not all right with this. We should be—what do you call it?—watching our six.”

  “So you do listen to me on occasion? Who’d-a thought . . . Look, I’m not goan to let anything happen to you. I’ll hear anyone coming in plenty of time.”

  When I remained unconvinced, he said, “I told you, no one can get the drop on me. Doan you trust me?”

  I didn’t have much of a choice. “You couldn’t have let me remove my boots?” I dragged them and my socks off, flinging them near his bow.

  “You’re right. I should’ve let you strip.” Then he splashed me in the face.

  I sputtered again, but he was grinning. Not a smirk—a real smile. As I gazed at his lips, I found my own curling in response.

  I pointed behind him. “Oh, look!” Then I splashed the back of his head.

  He faced me with his eyes wide. “Now you’ve done it! You mess with the bull . . .” He chased me around the shallow end until I was squealing with laughter.

  It felt incredible to act like normal kids again. To flirt and play.

  The voices were blessedly quiet.

  Just before he caught me, I dunked under, swam around him and yanked back on his ankles. He couldn’t have known that in another lifetime, I’d been a terror in the pool.

  He acted like I’d tripped him, sinking like a stone. Once he broke the surface, he looked surprised—and delighted—that I was messing around with him.

  I’d never seen this playful, grinning side of Jackson before, had never seen him without his customary restlessness. I recognized then that I’d never witnessed him happy until now.

  And, damn, it was a good look on him. “You’re smiling.”

  “I should be.” His wet hair whipped over his cheeks. “Best day I’ve had in a long, long time.” He began edging me toward the side of the pool, and I let him. Streams of water slid down his broad chest and rock-hard torso.

  I want to follow those streams with my lips. . . . Okay, so maybe Jackson wasn’t the only one strung tight. “Um, best day?” When my back met stone, he kept easing closer until I could feel the heat coming off his body. I had to crane my head up to meet his gaze.

  His grin turned smug as he said, “Got me a new bike, a jolie girl who’s sweet on me, and a mansion for us to live in.”

  Then I realized that I had a very real problem—add it to my tab. Jackson Deveaux was nearly irresistible like this. “Sweet on you? Please.”

  “I can tell.”

  “How?”

  “You smell like honeysuckles when you’re liking ole Jack.”

  Oh my God. Just as I’d been told, I did smell like flowers. No wonder everyone had kept complimenting me.

  “When you’re mad,” he added, “you smell like roses. Excited? Sweet olive. I’m still figuring out the rest.”

  Even as he continued to stun me with his insight, I muttered, “Th-that’s ridiculous.” How was I going to hide my secrets all the way to North Carolina?

  “Is it?” He inched even closer.

  “In any case, it’s not like you are sweet on me.”

  “C’est vrai.” That’s true. “But I do know that it’s slim pickings out there.”

  I glared, unable to tell if he was teasing. “Melt my heart, Cajun.”

  He reached forward, clasping the edge of the pool on both sides of me, boxing me in.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to kiss you for the first time.”

  Heart stop. Form words, Evie. “Y-you told me something like that at my party, but I didn’t fare so well that night.”

  “Me neither. God, I’d wanted me a taste of you.” His smoldering gray gaze was locked on my lips.

  I wetted them, just as I had then.

  “Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about almost kissing you? I remember every detail about you. I couldn’t tell if your eyes were blue or green. Your lips were so red—it was sexy, but I couldn’t decide if I liked it. ’Cause it wasn’t you, not really.”

  That almost-kiss hadn’t been just a trick! He’d felt the same excitement an
d attraction that I had.

  “Evangeline, you’re like . . . like a peekôn dans ma patte.”

  A thorn in my paw. How appropriate. I guess that’s my nature, Jackson.

  “And I can’t quite shake it, no.” His eyes were completely mesmerizing.

  For the first time in months I wanted to draw—just to capture that look forever.

  “Let’s take this off, cher.” When he reached for the hem of my soaked hoodie, I found myself raising my arms so he could pull it free, leaving me in my white cami.

  Which was now see-through. I might as well have been wearing nothing.

  When his gaze dipped, his lids went heavy and his Adam’s apple bobbed. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Mercy me.”

  I’d never been looked at like this, had never been utterly certain that a boy was gazing at my body—while imagining how he wanted to touch it. My face and chest flushed with embarrassment.

  Just when I was about to duck under, he said, “Non, you let me look.” His accent was getting thicker. “Waited a long time to see you like this.”

  “But we’ve only been together a couple weeks.”

  He grazed the backs of his fingers along my cheekbones, as if my face was made of delicate porcelain. “Uh-huh,” he murmured as he leaned down to gently press his lips to mine. His were so firm and warm. I could just taste the bite of whiskey.

  He felt perfect . . . the kiss, right.

  He parted his lips, coaxing me to do the same. Once I did, he leisurely stroked his tongue against mine . . . and again. Relaxed, wicked flicks.

  Energy filled me, pleasure radiating. This was addictive—nothing meh about it.

  Our tongues tangled, over and over, until I couldn’t stop a moan. I wanted more of him. I wanted this never to end. I needed more.

  I was losing control; why wasn’t he? His kiss was sensual, but deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

  As if he has something to prove?

  Just when that thought arose in my foggy brain, he drew back with a cocky smirk. “There. Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He rubbed his thumb over my bottom lip. “You’re not laughing now, are you—”