Kiss of Death (Supernatural Security Force Book 1)

by Heather Hildenbrand

  Did the SSF know all these creatures existed? Would I have to tell them?

  From onstage, the music shifted and there was a brief lull with only the soft strains of the electric guitar pouring through the speakers.

  “Hawkins, report,” came Rigo’s faint voice in my earpiece.

  I nearly spilled my drink but recovered quickly. I’d almost forgotten the damned comm unit was in there considering how useless it had been over the noise.

  I took a sip of my drink and used my glass to cover my lips as they moved. “No eyes on target yet,” I said just as a new song began, drowning out the sound of my own voice.

  Rigo’s response was short and full of warning. “Keep looking. And don’t…” The rest of it was lost to the noise as the drums were added.

  I sighed. Even lodged inside my ear, the gadget did me no good over the volume of the party.

  “Base, if you can hear me, FYI, I don’t copy. I repeat, I don’t copy. Too much noise.” I waited to confirm a response.

  The earpiece crackled but no intelligible sound came through.

  “I’m going to look for the mark,” I added.

  My words were met with more static.

  I huffed in frustration then refocused on what I’d come here to do. No one on the other end of my comms could help me, anyway. This was my mission.

  I could do this.

  It was time to find my mark and finish what I’d come to do.

  Tossing a few bills on the bar next to my half-empty glass, I waved goodbye to the bartender and made my way farther into the ballroom. While I walked, I scanned the room again—this time for the single purpose of identifying any possible threats.

  So far, I hadn’t seen a single security guard, which meant the two gargoyles at the door were it. I’d noticed when I came in, they were very obviously unarmed, but then if the legends were true, they didn’t need weapons.

  They were the weapons.

  That could either be good for me—backup if things turned south—or bad.

  My eyes caught again on the darker corners of the ballroom where gauzy curtains obscured what lay inside. I squinted, using my fae sight to penetrate the curtains, but even with that I could only barely make out the shape of the beds set up inside. Silhouettes moved, but I couldn’t make them out. Some sort of cloaking spell then.

  I tested the air around the curtains for evidence of magic, but my fae senses couldn’t pinpoint anything. Which meant Rigo was probably right about the magic preventing violence too. Whoever had spelled this place was powerful if I couldn’t pick up on them.

  “See something you’d like to try?”

  The voice jolted me more than I wanted to admit. And not just because I’d been too wrapped up in strategizing to notice someone had gotten close enough that his breath felt warm against my ear. Mostly that. But I also couldn’t help the shiver at the sexy tone he used.

  I covered up my surprise with a demure smile and turned to my new companion. “I’m only window shopping,” I said lightly.

  A pair of gleaming eyes stared back at me. They were ice-blue and bottomless, set into a hot-as-hell face and a rock-hard body. Even through the button-down shirt he wore, I could tell he was an impressive package underneath.

  At my comment, his lips twitched then curved upward. “No harm in sampling the merchandise, is there?”

  Our eyes met and held, and the unmistakable scent of lust rolled off him, nearly knocking my fae senses sideways. This guy wasn’t just an animal shifter; he was a predator. An alpha of his kind. And I’d just made eye contact for way too long to be considered platonic to a beast like him.

  Shit.

  I shifted away a bit so that when I looked at him next, it didn’t expose my throat or allow for any marking on his part. His gaze sharpened, and I knew he’d noticed. Oh well, better to be alive than polite.

  “Sorry, I’m vegan,” I said pointedly. “No animals for me.”

  His smirk took my breath away. “Well, if you get a craving for fresh meat,” he said, his gaze raking over me in a not-subtle-at-all kind of way, “Come find me.”

  He strode off before I could argue. Or agree. Or jump his bones. I mean, if the menu looked like him, I wasn’t against mixing business with pleasure.

  Wow.

  Milo would be doing a victory dance right now. Three months in the Tiff and none of those guys had tempted me. Then again, the male that had just walked away from me was in an entirely different league.

  I was still watching his amazing ass when the music shifted again, this time into something slower. A few people exited the dance floor. Most of them went around me, but one figure stopped in front of me.

  I looked up and into the face of my target: Kristoff Rasmussen, tech mogul, billionaire, and international slime ball. The image Rigo had shown me earlier had prepared me for the confident smirk set in a too-narrow face. What I hadn’t counted on were the eyes. Black as midnight, soulless, and cruelly self-serving; I had no doubt Kristoff wasn’t accustomed to the word “no” or “not interested.” What he wanted, he took.

  And tonight, he wanted me.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rasmussen,” I said in my best airhead voice.

  The transition into my created persona was a skill I’d learned early during my training and one that came natural as a fae.

  “Please, call me Kristoff.” He took the hand I’d offered and rather than shake it, he pressed it to his lips and held it there. When he finally let me go, he stepped closer than was necessary and began his perusal.

  I’d had men check me out before. Hell, Rigo did it daily, but this was beyond forward. He was already standing inside my personal bubble of space and with no attempt to hide it; he inspected me as if I were a menu. His gaze lingered so long on my chest, I had to resist the urge to remind him where my face was.

  When he finally found my gaze again, his eyes gleamed with hunger—and fire. It was the tiniest of flames flickering back at me from inside slitted pupils. Barely a second and then it was gone. By the time he blinked again, his eyes looked normal, if not a little too wandering.

  The flames I’d spotted wrapped inside a very animalistic stare were unmistakable, but just to be sure, I sniffed when he leaned close—and had to force my nose not to wrinkle.

  Dammit. This guy was a fucking hellhound. What was a demon offspring doing alive? Especially one the SSF knew about?

  “You must be Lolita,” he said, offering the assumed name Rodrigo’s people had forged for me.

  “Please, call me Lita,” I said, pretending to enjoy the way his whiskey breath crowded my own supply of oxygen. Ugh. Why did men—particularly rich men—always assume they were exempt from basic manners and hygiene?

  “Lita, then,” he said. “You look absolutely stunning. Better than your picture.” He inhaled and leaned in, grinning lasciviously as he added, “Your scent is already making me wonder what sort of details the photos your service provided—and that dress—are hiding.”

  I blinked. My scent?

  Shit.

  Hellhounds were known for their ability to sniff out…well, everything. Including things like dishonesty and manipulation. It was probably one of the things that had helped him climb so high on the corporate ladder or avoid getting taken out by SSF trackers. And fuck it all, it was really going to make this mission nearly impossible.

  I bit back the rage that built for Rigo. He’d kept this from me on purpose, and it was going to cost him if it was the last thing I did. Instead, I plastered a flirty smile on my face and tried to conjure up some feeling of attraction or interest to cover up any scent that might suggest what I actually wanted from him. Yes, it was probably in his pants. No, it wasn’t his doggy-dangler.

  “A girl never tells,” I said, complete with batting lashes.

  Kristoff’s smile turned smug. “Lucky for us, the night is young. There’s plenty of time to uncover all of that.” He winked, tucking my hand into his elbow as he began leading me toward the second bar. “Co
me. Let’s get you a cocktail, and then you can tell me all about yourself.”

  Swallowing my disgust, I let myself be led away.

  Kristoff stopped at the end of the bar and shoved aside another customer, ignoring the growl that rose up at our backs. I couldn’t help but be a little impressed at the size of his balls when Kristoff didn’t even bother to turn and face the werewolf he’d obviously pissed off. You had to be pretty sure of yourself to turn your back on an angry dog.

  Or stupid.

  The fae bartender closest to where we stood eyed Kristoff with raised brows. Clearly, he wasn’t a fan of Kristoff’s methods either. The male fae glanced at me, and his expression sharpened a bit.

  Shit. That was all I needed. One of my own kind seeing straight through my glamour to the pointed ears hiding underneath.

  “What can I get for you?” he asked.

  “She’ll have a Frostbite,” Kristoff told him without bothering to ask me.

  Poking out from underneath his silver hair, pointed ears twitched as he strained to hear Kristoff’s response. The bartender looked over at me, his silvery eyes clearly waiting for confirmation.

  I sighed but nodded.

  He pursed his lips and looked back at Kristoff. “And for you?” he asked him.

  “Lemonade and fireball,” Kristoff snapped.

  The bartender didn’t look too happy about his request, and I couldn’t blame him. A hellhound with a fireball buzz didn’t sound like a very friendly combination, but he went to work on the drinks without complaint.

  While we waited, Kristoff’s phone buzzed.

  I pretended not to notice as he read a text. A second later, I watched from the corner of my eye as Kristoff nodded almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on something—or someone—behind me.

  Before I could catch a glimpse, the bartender handed me a glass. I took it with a wobbly hand, letting some of the liquid slosh over the edge onto my wrist. The wince I gave at the chilled liquid wasn’t forced. Holy shit, this drink was otherworldly cold. Too late, I realized the Frostbite portion undoubtedly came from the fae himself.

  “Oh, dear, I’m so clumsy. Do you have a napkin?” I spun around, pretending to look for something to wipe my hand.

  Sliding my gaze up, I caught sight of a man standing with his back to the wall not far from a dimly lit archway leading out of the ballroom. His dark hair was cropped close in a no-nonsense military buzz cut. He wore a suit similar to Kristoff’s, but the sleeves strained around the man’s thick muscles and the pants were two inches too short. Borrowed, clearly. Or just a bad sizing. Either way, considering the angry set to his jaw, I had a feeling the suit wasn’t his usual attire.

  He was obviously Kristoff’s hired goon.

  He caught me looking and glared back at me. I spun quickly to the bartender who held a napkin out. Smiling, I took it and wiped up the mess I’d made. Beside me, Kristoff was too wrapped up in his drink—and checking out everything with boobs—to notice my recon.

  When I looked again, the man was still there, watching me.

  So, Kristoff had brought a date.

  Once I had a firm grip on my drink, Kristoff grabbed my hand again and began leading me back through the crowd. I didn’t realize his destination until it was too late. By then, we’d already reached the u-shaped couches that lined the far wall. Kristoff let go of my hand long enough to sweep his arm out in a gesture for me to sit.

  I chose a spot between two other couples, both locked in quiet conversations with one another. Still, I was glad we weren’t alone at least. And even more relieved he hadn’t chosen one of the curtained beds nearby. There was a lot I was willing to do for this mission, but sex with a client wasn’t one of them.

  Nerves twirling in my stomach, I set my purse aside and perched on the edge of the couch before taking a hefty swig of my drink.

  This was it.

  Time to get to work.

  “So,” Kristoff began, sitting close enough beside me that our legs were pressed together. I pretended not to mind it and resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose against the stench of his breath when he spoke again. The fireball was a lot stronger than the lemonade. “Tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun?”

  “Well,” I began, channeling Lita. “I like yummy drinks like this.” I rattled the ice in my glass and grinned. “And I like parties and…” I cast a quick glance around the ballroom for something else to name.

  There were plenty of amazing sights to choose from.

  The creatures I saw milling around us or swaying to the music were stunning. Many of them had dropped any attempt at appearing human. Dresses had cutouts for tails that twitched in time to the bass while others had forgone clothes altogether in favor of small scraps of fabric to cover the important bits in order to let things like scales or fur hang out.

  A few of them appeared human-like, though I knew none of them really were. And none of them were paying a single shred of attention to me.

  None except for one.

  A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood at the edge of the dance floor, alone and unmoving among the others rocking and gliding. He wore a black suit complete with gloves and a black mask that looked out of place where everyone else had dropped their own disguises. The only bit of color was a blood-red bowtie.

  For a moment, I wondered if he was the shifter who’d flirted with me earlier, but the eyes were completely different; dark, almost black, and bottomless. And the way he stood wasn’t an alpha stance. If anything, it was beaten. Despite his set shoulders and the quiet confidence, he seemed defeated somehow. Or sad.

  He gave no indication as to what kind of creature he was or what had made him stop moving. My fae senses were completely at a loss.

  The only thing I knew for certain was that he was staring right at me.

  I could feel it as surely as I felt Kristoff’s weight lilting toward me on the tiny couch. Except the stranger’s attention didn’t make my skin crawl. In fact, his presence drew me in until I forgot all about the tech billionaire scuzbucket beside me.

  “Yes?” Kristoff prompted, leaning in. I felt his gaze sweep down to my cleavage and then back up to my face as I finally wrenched my eyes from the mysterious stranger. “What else do you like?”

  “Um.” I set my drink aside, trying to remember what I’d been about to say. The music pouring through the enormous speakers was making it hard to think. Or maybe it was my brain catching frostbite. Hells Angels, this drink was cold.

  “Dancing,” I said and shot to my feet just before Kristoff’s mouth could brush my earlobe. “I love this song!”

  I took a few steps toward the dance floor, scanning for the man I’d seen a moment ago. But he was gone.

  A hand landed on my lower back, and the smell of fireball hit me as Kristoff whispered, “I only know how to slow dance. I hope that’s all right.”

  Ugh. I rolled my eyes and led the way to the dance floor. It was perfect for what I needed to do, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the price.

  The band was good, I noticed, casting a quick glance toward the stage. According to Starla, Dastardly Deeds had a reputation for putting entire parties on their ass thanks to Marina, the lead singer. Apparently, her siren song could make your feet move until well past their physical limits, leaving you sore at best. Dead at worst. I could only assume she’d taken her power down a notch for tonight since no one looked enthralled or on the verge of collapsing.

  Still, there was a definite pull to sway to her song, and it only got stronger the closer I got to where she stood onstage covered only by her long blue hair and a few crystal sequins. By the time I reached the dance floor, an open area with speakers pointed directly at the dancers, my entire body pulsed with the rhythm of the music.

  I found an empty space on the floor and turned to find Kristoff close behind me. He reached for me eagerly and wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me close. I wound an arm around his neck and let the other rest casually on his shoulde
r. His skin already felt hot to the touch, which for hellhounds was probably par for the course, but still.

  Maybe if I didn’t encourage him, he’d keep his hands—

  Not even five seconds into our swaying, one of his hands dropped low, grazing my ass.

  I gritted my teeth.

  Kristoff’s eyes met mine. He smiled suggestively. I smirked back at him.

  All around us, couples moved and swayed, but Kristoff barely shuffled side to side. If his moves in bed were anything like his dancing, it was no wonder he had to pay for dates. Not that I ever planned to find out for sure.

  I waited until at least a minute or two into our dance before I let my hands begin to wander. True to my assumption, the moment mine did, Kristoff’s did too. I did my best to ignore the gentle rubbing over my hips and let my own hand drop to his waist, slinking around to hold him tighter as my fingers continued to idly brush over his jacket. In return, Kristoff’s hand dropped lower too, brushing over the top of my ass for the second time.

  I bit my tongue and kept up the charade.

  Swaying a bit more heavily, I dropped my hand again, this time dipping my fingers into his front coat pocket.

  Nothing.

  Damn.

  I slid my hand free again and worked it slowly up his chest before letting it rest on his shoulder. Then I repeated the whole thing with my left hand. Finally, my fingers closed over a small rectangular item.

  I slid my fingers over it to be sure and was rewarded with three solid edges and a fourth hollow end—perfect for plugging into a tech device.

  Thank the angel.

  I closed my fist around the chip and slid it free, using my body to distract Kristoff. And while I hated everything about what I was doing, I couldn’t help the tiny sense of victory. I’d gotten the chip without losing my dignity—well, not completely. I’d passed my test.

  Next stop, detective.

  But Kristoff wasn’t done with me yet.