Claimed by the Demon Hunter 3 (Guardians of Humanity)

by Harley James

  Yield to the rant. Yield, yield, yield.

  Laura had enough on her plate with her pending divorce. She probably needed someone to rage against. So Sydney remained in the stall and let her best friend get it all out.

  When Laura’s words were spent, Sydney came out, washed her hands, and the two of them returned to the table where Zuri and her transmission specialist hubby Esteban, along with the other ladies from the shop were popping new bottles of champagne.

  Right in the middle of everything sat a bottle of triple-distilled Jameson, tied with a silky red bow as well as a pub glass filled with ice, lime, and the familiar amber-colored whiskey.

  Delilah, the best diesel mechanic Sydney had ever worked with and whom she’d finally had the money to hire, knocked back an entire glass of bubbly and patted the sapphire blue leather seat beside her. “Wow, Syd, com’ere. You got somethin-somethin’ going on with one of the bartenders here? ‘Cause not one, but three servers came over here with all this.” Her arm indicated the spread on the table. “They said the tab for the rest of the night is covered, too.”

  Liv, exhaust specialist and shop jokester, shook her head. “Naw, this has gotta be some other Nob Hill boy she’s diddling. Derek musta found out, that’s why he dumped you, eh? Where’s this new guy? I’d like to thank him.”

  Sydney slid onto the seat next to Delilah.

  “If you guys took sixty seconds to think about what you just said, you’d realize your theories are ridiculous.” Esteban took a quick sip of beer. “You know Sydney’s not the diddling type.”

  “Exactly. Thank you, Esteban.” Except there was one man who might tempt her to change her mind. Someone whose name just happened to be her favorite drink.

  Jameson.

  Wow, karma, you sneaky bugger.

  Wait. What if he was lying? Guys that looked like him must be born knowing how to lie-charm their way through life.

  Besides, she didn’t believe in karma, right? There was only hard work and good decision making. Be the change you want to see in the world. Smooth-talking men who had won the genetic lottery weren’t included anywhere in her personal mission statement. Stay focused, Syd.

  That’s how she’d come this far.

  Laura finished sending a text to her ex and looked up, her frown melting as she slid into the booth next to Reese, the youngest of their group. “Guess who met Henry Cavill’s body-double in the fucking hallway, people!” Laura’s shouting drew the attention of the bachelorette party at the next table. “Syd’s looks blew this guy over. You shoulda seen his expression when she finally smiled one of her ‘real’ smiles and batted her big blue, Irish eyes at him. He melted into a gooey puddle.” She waved a hand and compressed her lips. “Sickest goddamn thing I ever saw.” Her palms slammed against the tabletop on the last word. “Just kidding, it was awesome!”

  Sydney’s face heated. Her belly, too, dammit.

  Everyone started talking over each other. Sydney put her hands in the air. “Laura, you have the filthiest mouth of any mechanic I’ve ever met. And for the record, I never bat my eyelashes.” Women entrepreneurs did no such thing. The very idea was demeaning.

  Laura raised her eyebrows with a sly smile. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and delude yourself if it makes you feel better, but I think you oughta fuck him. I bet he’s epic in the sack.”

  Everyone instantly shushed and looked over Sydney’s shoulder with wide eyes and poorly concealed smirks.

  Sydney’s gut dropped, her pulse kicked up, and the air seemed to heat twenty degrees. It had to be him. Please don’t let him have heard Laura’s randy recommendation. Jesus, just breathe.

  The lights dimmed even more, and the music tempo slowed.

  “Good evening, ladies.” Spencer nodded toward Esteban. “And gentleman. I hope you’re enjoying your celebratory evening out.” He had to pause for all the schoolgirl greetings and assurances from her tablemates. “Would you mind if I steal the birthday goddess for a dance? I requested this song just for her.”

  The Torque ladies erupted with their assent, literally shoving her off the seat toward him. She glared at Delilah and the rest of her team because she had as much rhythm as a tin man without the oil can and flat-out panicking would add to her humiliation. “I don’t dance,” she hissed at Laura, but her best friend just blew her a kiss and knocked back a butter shot.

  “A woman strong enough to not only start her own business, but do it in a male-dominated field isn’t afraid of a little turn about the floor, is she?” Spencer’s voice wove around her as he led her away from the table.

  Oh, this was going to be awful. She’d abuse Spencer’s expensive shoes in sixty seconds flat, and whatever fascination he might have for her would vanish. He’d drop her back at the table and be gone.

  At least it would get everyone off her back about a relationship for at least six months.

  She felt a moment’s panic when he placed a hand at the hollow of her back. Pairs of dancers parted to make room for them as he led her to the center of the dancefloor over the beautifully intricate star and circle emblem. John Mayer was crooning in his oh-so-sexy vocals about slow dancing in a burning room. A kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight in her belly.

  “This is one of my sisters’ favorite songs,” she said, desperate for conversation that would distract her from how awkward this was in front of her staff.

  Spencer said nothing as he pulled her toward him, smiling into her eyes. His free hand took one of hers into a cradle next to their shoulders. The hold felt old-fashioned compared to other dancers who’d plastered themselves against one another, but also incredibly purposeful in a way she couldn’t explain.

  The music throbbed, sensual and smooth, as he guided her expertly around the floor with subtle pressure against her back and the slightest push-pull of his hand against hers. She’d never felt so light on her feet.

  Or beautiful.

  It was the way he looked at her. God, he could make her feel.

  Be careful, Sydney. She broke eye contact to give herself some breathing room.

  “You mentioned your sister likes this song. Younger, older?”

  “Younger by a year. I also have another sister and five brothers.” She prayed for the third time today that Tiana was okay. “I’m the oldest.”

  His eyebrows raised. “A large family by today’s standards.”

  “When I was a baby, my mom was in a car accident that left her unable to have any more children, so she filled our house with as many adopted kids as social services would allow.”

  He shook his head with a bemused smile. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone that generous.”

  Sydney smiled back, finally beginning to relax. “She was born a nurturer. My grandmother tells stories of all the stray animals she took in from the time she was old enough to be outside alone. How about you? Any siblings?”

  “I’m also the eldest of four sisters and numerous bastard brothers.”

  She laughed. “You mean, step-brothers.”

  “No, they were bastards in the true sense of the word. My father was unfaithful to my mother for the duration of their marriage. Several children resulted from his adultery.”

  Well hell. What to say to something like that? Moving right along. “My mother would be happiest if my siblings and I stopped for supper every other night. Are you close to your sisters?”

  “My sisters all died long ago.”

  She mis-stepped, a wave of sorrow filling her as he smoothly brought her back into position. The thought of losing any of her siblings made her break into a cold sweat. And with Joaquin’s health so precarious, she could empathize.

  Emphatically so.

  “I’m so sorry. Did they pass in infancy?” By long ago, that must be what he meant. No way he was older than mid-thirties.

  His hand pressed firmly into her lower back, the thumb of his other hand stroking the back of her hand. “Tell me why auto repair, Sydney.”

  Her lips parted, the change of
subject was so abrupt. Heat rushed into her face.

  What an idiot. Even the most dating-challenged knew not to discuss deceased siblings on a first, second, or even fifth date. Good grief. Thankfully the song was almost over.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. Auto repair was a natural fit because I come from a family of wrench-heads. I knew all the names of NASCAR royalty before the American presidents. My dad and his brother spend all their free time working on cars. I idolized both of them, so I grew up in the garage, watching them putter with engines. I rebuilt my own 67 Chevy engine when I was fifteen. I love the challenge of a good puzzle, and cars with all their parts are an endless source of fascination.”

  Swinging from dead relatives to self-aggrandizement. Real smooth.

  She looked around the dancefloor at the all the women comfortable in their pretty clothes, desperate now for the song to end so she could retrieve her purse, say goodnight to her friends, and go home to lick her wounds.

  What a strange night.

  “How long have you been in business?”

  She glanced back at him, startled he could be this interested. He’s probably just being polite. English manners and all that. “I opened Torque two years ago today.”

  “Two important celebrations, yet it’s my lucky day. You feel glorious in my arms, Sydney.”

  At the first touch of his mouth on hers, her toes curled in her boots. Her body softened into his hold, her hands moving to grasp his suit lapels. Caged in by his arms, she shivered as his lips moved against hers. A soft restraint that shimmered with deeper passions held at bay. She could feel it churning inside him. A turbulence so at odds with his formality.

  Her fingers released his lapels, sliding under his sport coat to flatten her palms against his white dress shirt. How could anyone’s skin radiate so much heat? He curled into her, arms tightening, breath heavy against her cheek for a moment before his lips trailed down to the base of her jaw, then kissed the sensitive hollow below her ear. One of his hands raked down her side to grasp the underside of her knee, bringing her leg up so she could press more intimately against him.

  Oh Lord, why had no one ever told her how much better erections felt through a man’s dress pants instead of denim? She began to grind against him. Yessss. It whispered through her mind. But his voice, not hers. Disorienting in its presence.

  She tilted her head back to blink up at the gorgeous, spinning crystal balls and massive barrel chandeliers flickering with their warm, Edison-bulb glow. His lips followed the trajectory of her neck, murmuring beautiful, unintelligible words in a language she’d never heard.

  Floating. Hungry. Tingly.

  Achy.

  More.

  She wanted to sink down into him. Lose herself. Here, there, anywhere. This is what losing control feels like. His fingers curled into her ass, lifting her up, against him and…

  Oooo. No more thoughts.

  Up and down, then up and around he circled her against his pulsing cock until she couldn’t stop the moans spilling from her lips.

  “Where have you been all these endless years?” he rasped.

  Can’t speak. Don’t understand.

  The momentary confusion fragmented as another wave of pain-tipped pleasure washed over her. Silky edges of his hair curled around her fingertips as her thumbs framed his jawbone to force his mouth back to hers. He groaned deep in his chest. His arms banded around her like he was going to absorb her.

  “Let go of your restraint.” His heart was beating as fast as hers. Breath coming as hard as his hands worked her hips, her ass, guiding her pleasure. “Use me,” he commanded, and she broke.

  Hard. Loud. FIRE. In her vision. In her veins.

  Blue-tipped flames. Orange, yellow, crackling. Acrid in her nostrils.

  Six feet under. Down, down,

  Down.

  Bury me in fire.

  Yesssss, he whispered, satisfied. A serpent in her head.

  Burning pulses that went on and on. Gasping for breath. Cheek against his chest. Strong. Solid. Burning.

  Branding.

  “My goddess,” he whispered into her hair, wrapping her in that incomprehensible heat, swaying her in the protective circle of his arms. “I’ve got you.”

  I know, she thought, looking into the deep blue of his eyes. Her hands stole around his waist to slide up his back as the flames smoldered, and they swayed in place like fine sea-grass at low tide.

  Sounds muffled as though underwater. Then louder. Spencer stilled, the warmth seeping from his eyes. Consonants and vowels slowly clarifying as a strident voice struck Sydney’s temporal lobe like a locomotive.

  “Holy hell, boss, snap out of it!”

  Sydney blinked at the striking woman glaring at Spencer, and the world tumbled in.

  Laughter. Spilled drinks. Spinning crystal lights flickering against bodies bouncing to the relentless beat of the music—the sultry ballad Spencer had requested a distant memory.

  Mostly, though, it was this tall, thin, brown-eyed woman with flowing, two-toned platinum and black hair, layers of smoky eyeshadow, and long, black fingernails. Dressed in black from her sleeveless turtleneck to the tips of her boots, she could pass as any movie’s female assassin.

  Sydney started trembling, the pit of her stomach twisting, her neck growing itchy as the memory of what she’d done—in front of this lovely, scary woman. In public!—crashed in on her.

  “Spencer, you must come,” Lady Assassin said in a voice that demanded compliance.

  Spencer shifted Sydney under the shelter of his arm and turned his head to converse with Lady Assassin in low tones Sydney couldn’t hear. She swallowed hard, her gaze lasering through the crowd to find her friends staring at her with gaping mouths.

  Every last one of them.

  Oh.

  Oh, shit.

  What had she done? Orgasmed with a stranger on a crowded dancefloor in front of her team, that’s what.

  A helpless laugh spilled out, her residual buzz extinguishing in a crush of sobriety.

  What had she been thinking? Besides the unbelievable sexual hedonism, she’d actually entertained thoughts of a connection with this elegant man. Stupid. She was overalls and ponytails six days a week. He was three-piece suits and designer dress shoes.

  He wasn’t the club’s manager, he was the freakin’ boss.

  He was Derek all over again.

  Her throat tightened painfully. How could you fall for this again?

  She tried to disengage and return to the table, but Spencer turned her to face him.

  “I have to take care of some business that cannot wait. Please stay until my task is completed.” He stroked her cheek, whispered manent—whatever that meant— and then melted into the crowd, three or four bouncers following close behind.

  Sydney slowly walked toward her table, trying to gather any shreds that remained of her dignity and figure out how to explain her uncharacteristic exhibitionism on the dancefloor.

  Liv was bouncing in her seat. “Do you have any idea whose face you were just sucking? Oh my God, that was Spencer Jameson, real estate billionaire!” she gushed without pause or volume control. “I finally realized why he looked so familiar when he first walked up to the table. He’s been on every most-eligible bachelor list for the last decade, bruh. He owns this place, plus several restaurants and hotels up and down the California coast. All the entertainment mags have shown him with tons of female dates, but no one’s ever been able to pin him down for more than one night. And never, and I mean never, has he been as lost in the moment as he was with you.”

  “Shut. The Hell. Up!” Laura crowed, spilling some of her drink on Reese.

  “Aww, man.” Daphne grabbed a wad of napkins and helped Zuri blot Reese’s fuzzy-navel-drenched shoulder. “Lookit what you did, dumbass. Calm that shit down.”

  Liv shook her head. “No chill from this corner, Daph. I’m not even joking this time. You mark my words, Syd, someone will have s
old their cell-phone picture of you guys all but changing his oil to one of the social rags by morning!” She turned to the rest of the gang. “We’d best be ready for a flood of new business, bitches. Our fearless leader has sprung herself a hot new social profile!”

  Esteban and Zuri high-fived while Laura and Reese whooped.

  Nonononono.

  The thought of Dad waking up and opening the paper to find his responsible, eldest daughter dry humping a billionaire in public like a common hussy filled Sydney with more shame than when she’d overheard her ex, Jarvis, telling another shop technician that she was a terrible lay.

  She leaned over Laura to reach for her purse. Grab and go. Talking fast usually worked for her loud-mouthed best friend. “You guys are the best. Thanks for dragging my butt out tonight. It was a blast, but I’m gonna head home now. Pounding headache, you know. Need to sleep it off. I’ll arrange five Ubers to get you home—no exceptions! Also, do not leave your drinks unattended. There might be Ecstasy on the loose around here. I’ll be in tomorrow a little late, so don’t think something’s wrong.” How early would she have to be to beat the paper delivery boy at mom and dad’s? “See you!”

  Delilah grabbed her arm, frowning. “Hold up. You think you were drugged?”

  She didn’t feel drugged. At least not anymore. God, was she, though? She felt a pang of fear. No. Neither of her drinks had been out of her sight. She was just overwhelmed by her reaction to Spencer. She’d never felt a connection like that to anyone. “I don’t think so. I just want you guys to be careful.”

  “You’re going to his place, aren’t you, you little sneak!” Liv smirked. “You’re even slicker than me. Bravo, babe!”

  “Did you hear what she said? She might have been given a date rape drug,” Daphne insisted.

  “Syd?” Laura’s smile had vanished, only to be replaced by that probing look that usually led to way too much self-disclosure.

  Not tonight. She wanted to pick these events apart in her own mind first. And she needed to scoot before Spencer came back looking for her. If he came back.