[Secrets of Stone 01.0] No Prince Charming

by Angel Payne

  “We probably should feed you first.” His statement was all business, but his gaze was pure mischief. “Did you eat on the plane? Before you left?”

  “Aggghhh.” I whacked his chest, but that only fed his mirth. I straightened, folded my arms, and drawled, “You want to know what I did do on the plane?”

  Inside a second, his stare turned to sensual velvet. “Does it involve you sprawled on the bed with your fingers in your panties?”

  I smacked him again but let my hand linger on his coat. The mix of the night wind, his cosmopolitan cologne, and that thick leather…wow. “I don’t use the bed unless you’re in it with me. You know that.”

  He curved his palm over mine, making me stay close. “I’ll be good. For now. Tell me.”

  “I worked on new affirmations. I’m going to be better about accepting surprises from you.”

  A rare, soft smile lifted his lips. It was the look he didn’t use very often, reserved for occasions like visits to the no-kill animal shelter he championed and Sunday dinners with his mom. “I really like the sound of that.”

  “Me too.” Since he had his animal rescue eyes on, I put on my best matching stare, along with a corresponding pout. “So…?”

  “So?” He slid the smile back into a smirk. “What?”

  “Damn it,” I groaned. He chuckled. “Are you going to make me beg? I’m not above it, Mr. Stone.”

  That ended the smirk. His face took on a thousand angles of lusty possibility, concentrated most fiercely in the sensual sweeps of his lips. As he tugged me against his chest, he let them part in heated promise before quietly ordering, “Yeah. I do want to hear you beg.”

  I didn’t need another cue. While pressing closer and lifting my face, I whispered, “Please don’t make me wait any longer. I’ll do anything you want.”

  His panther’s growl took greater force in his throat. “Anything? Hmmm. You may regret that promise, fairy.”

  “Try me,” I challenged.

  “You know I would’ve told you anyhow, right?

  “But making a deal with the devil is so much more fun.”

  As he laughed, he readjusted our positions, setting me back by a bit—and clearly trying to wrestle his crotch to a less conspicuous swell. I bit my lip hard, gazing at that bulge. It was just as difficult for me to hold back from grabbing a good feel.

  “Okay…here goes.” He actually seemed a little nervous, and that made my heart pound again. “You know how you’ve been moaning about your passport gathering dust?”

  “Ummm…yeah?” I didn’t hide the questioning lilt to it.

  “Does three weeks sound like ample time to do some dusting?”

  Forget the pounding. My pulse took off at a gallop. “Wh-What do you mean?”

  “I mean three weeks. You and me. Your birthday is coming up, and I thought we could celebrate with a splash. Italy and France, maybe Spain if we have time. Rome? Venice? Marseilles? Paris? What sounds good?” His gaze narrowed when I could do nothing with mine but gawk. “We leave in ten days, so I can have the travel girls tweak the arrangements. I know you’ve also lusted after Tuscany. It’s harder to get to, but we could work in a small side trip if you—” He halted, staring at me with a hint of panic. I could count on one hand how many times I’d seen that look on his face. It stunned me just as much as what he’d said. “Claire?” He tapped a nervous thumb on his thigh. “For God’s sake, say something.”

  I swallowed, forcing myself to comply. “I…it’s…well…whoa. Three weeks. Wow.”

  “Which means what in English?”

  I felt like an ass. Shock had me going for the nonstop stammer, and it all seemed to be the wrong damn thing.

  “I’m sorry. No, wait—I mean, I’m not sorry, not about—oh, hell. Did Andrea really agree to this? How pissed was she when you—?”

  “You’re worried about Andrea?” He looked as furious as a wildcat stuck in a barrel over Niagara Falls—with my words as the rushing water.

  “I’m ruining this,” I muttered. “Again.” When Killian’s jaw clenched so hard his chin nearly formed a V, I dropped my head and fell into silence, knowing if I said anything else it would emerge in a tearful blubber.

  Killian yanked me close again. “I have Andrea handled, baby. She’s Barney compared to the T-Rexes I’ve taken on in my life.”

  I giggled at the image of my boss’s elegant face poking out of a purple Barney costume. But what the hell did he mean by T-Rexes? And wasn’t I not supposed to care anymore, anyway?

  That handled my resistance to the tears. Perfect. Now I was slinging the waterworks at him too. And, oh, how he loved that. Not.

  I pushed away, burying my face in my hands. “Please. I need a redo, okay? I’ll get this right, I promise.”

  Killian growled. Hard. Right before clutching the back of my neck and forcing my face into the command of his mouth-mashing kiss. A whine tore up my throat, thick and needy. I clawed at his arm, making it my anchor during my ride into blissful surrender.

  “You’re getting it right already.” His voice was as coarse as the steel in his stare. “Understood?”

  I started bawling harder.

  Would he ever stop being amazing? Ever?

  “Oh, baby.” He rubbed my cheek with a big thumb. “Don’t cry. I just wanted to make you happy. We don’t have to go. I can just have the girls cancel and—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Though my order spurred him to more laughter, I added, “I’m crying because I’m happy. And…”

  “And what?”

  “And because of my own stupidity.” I returned his caress, pressing a hand to the magnificent, high plane of his cheek. “You are amazing. And perfect. I’m just not used to all of it…to your generosity, to you filling all my dreams like this. I’m not used to trusting it, to trusting any kind of happiness, so I don’t. Instead, I turn on the soundtrack of suspicion, unwilling to believe that this is really happening.”

  He blinked hard. For a moment, the clarity in his gaze was replaced by dark-gray clouds, as if only half his thoughts were still here and half had jumped to the moon. “I know.” His words were so full of commiseration, I felt it to the marrow of my bones.

  I pressed my hand a little tighter to his skin. “You do know, don’t you?” When he reacted simply by kissing me softly, I went on, “I love the surprise. I really do. Thank you, Mr. Stone. Now I just need to pinch myself to assure I’m not dreaming.”

  “Hey.” He threw a mock glower. “If there’s any pinching going on around here, I’ll be the one doing it.” After a quick kiss to my nose, he grinned again, obviously pleased with himself for blowing my mind. “Now, no more crying, Miss Montgomery. Let’s get you some food.”

  “Okay.” I giggled and sniffed. “That sounds really good. Maybe a big salad—and an even bigger glass of wine.”

  “Fuck.” He rolled his eyes. “No way. You’re getting a burger. And some goddamn fries. And then the wine.” He finished the look by letting his stare darken back to sensual velvet. “And then me.”

  As usual, the man knew exactly what it took to make my world perfect.

  And for once, I chose to believe that it wouldn’t all disappear tomorrow.

  Continue reading No More Masquerade…

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  Excerpt from Bolt Saga: 1

  Emma

  One year later…

  The executive offices at Hotel Brocade are always a fun place to be, but they’re even more exciting when the boys in the reservations bay are trying to kill each other.

  “Bam!”

  “Kazow!”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Not if you’re dead first.”

  “Yeah, right. Because your spleen on the ground isn’t an indication I got you first, huh, crap-for-brains?”

  Ahhhh. Nothing like the sounds of cybergeeks in full slay-or-be-slain mode, a special perk of working the six p.m. to four a.m. shift. Whe
n splattered spleens are invoked, I know it’s time to finish up my break and get back to work. Let nobody say the new girl didn’t learn the important lessons fast.

  Thank God.

  Because I really need this job.

  I swore I’d cut off my right nipple if I got this position. The left one too, though thankfully things never came to that. I intend to keep my nipples and the job by being the hardest-working person in the building.

  This job is what finally got me out of hell.

  Okay, Orange County hasn’t always been hell. It just took a dive that direction once Dad got his massive promotion to VP at an international conglomerate with a massive campus in Irvine, thrusting our family into another income bracket—and the stratosphere of vanilla-flavored snobbery.

  AKA hell.

  But I’ve escaped. I’m no longer part of that world. I’ve finally begun a life filled with more than hair appointments, yoga classes, and fretting about the carb count in my morning muffin.

  I intend to stay here.

  This job is the key to truly beginning my life.

  I arrive back at my office, a proud smile erupting as I take in my view. Twinkle lights glow in the olive and palm trees surrounding the pool area. Banks of tropical flowers flutter in the gauzy night breeze. A few people are enjoying the hot tub across the deck, quietly laughing and talking, but there’s nobody in the bigger pool, so the water is reflected as lazy aqua swirls against my office window. The scene is stunning, even at night.

  God, I really love working here.

  “Well, good evening, Miss Emmalina Crist.”

  I smile toward the source of the greeting issued in a musical accent from my office doorway.

  “Good evening to you too, Miss Neeta Jain.”

  Neeta folds her arms and grins. “The warriors of Geekdom have you cutting and running for the sane side of the building again?”

  I laugh, slightly nervously. Neeta is dressed nearly the same as me, in a dark skirt suit with a satin blouse beneath, but on her the look is sleek and glam, while I feel like the girl playacting at adulting. Which is ridiculous. I’m nearly twenty-four now. I landed this job on my own. Paid for this suit with my own money. It’s not dress-up. It’s mine. This life is mine.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  I intend to keep repeating it, in my heart and on my lips, until I really believe it.

  For now, I push aside how her waterfall of dark hair and perfectly kohled eyes remind me of the pretty but plain world for which I still feel like the poster child.

  “It’s all right,” I assure her. “Wade and Fershan deliver when it matters most. Their guest satisfaction scores are among the highest for the Reservations Department. As long as they’re Prince Charmings for the public, I don’t care if they eviscerate each other a hundred times tonight.”

  She laughs softly while walking toward the window. “Excellent point.” But her composure jolts the second she pivots toward my monitor. “And speaking of excellent points…” Her jaw goes slack. She drops into my chair. “Look at the glory of this one.”

  I move behind her, curious about what’s caused her to gawk. Every staff computer is programmed to boot up into the guest-room online menu so we stay aware of any technical issues. In addition to local attractions, there’s a live feed of local news features cultivated for the maximum relevance to our guests, though the feature is often more valuable for us. Our downtown location puts us in the thick of it during major emergencies—which could be anything from a six-plus magnitude earthquake to a diva breaking a fingernail en route to an awards show—so the constantly changing feed has become an essential compass.

  Right now, Neeta expands the compass with eager swiftness. I won’t be surprised if her throaty gasps and dreamy sighs develop into drooling.

  “Glory?” I mean every note of my fascinated echo. I need to see what’s turned her from worldly and sleek to stuttering and adolescent.

  Once I step around and view the screen, a frown takes over. “A convenience store robbery?” I thought I’d be helping her ogle the hottest hunks on some movie premiere red carpet. “Okay, even the OC peasant isn’t getting the appeal.” I wonder if we need to change the feed to another station. Last time I checked, stories like this didn’t fit any of the Richards Resorts “R’s of Hospitality.” Relax. Revitalize. Renew.

  “A thwarted convenience store robbery.” Neeta jabs a red-tipped fingernail in emphasis. “And look at the god who did the thwarting.”

  “God?”

  “God.”

  I peer closer at the feed. It shows the same basic news-chopper view of the little store like so many others in the city. Semi-busy street intersection. Palm trees. Geraniums planted in the median. A couple of parking spaces and a bike rack out front. Posters for beer and lottery tickets in the front window. A neon sign: Yes, We’re Open. There’s nothing special about the police presence either. A pair of cruisers with lights flashing, turning the area into an ironic urban disco.

  “I really…don’t see what’s so…”

  But then I do see.

  The screen changes, showing cell phone footage timestamped from forty-five minutes ago. Looks like amateur stuff captured from across the street from the store. The cell owner’s commentary can be heard, captured along with the images.

  “Damn. What assholes would rob Santa Claus?”

  Sure enough, the store’s proprietor is a sweet old guy who probably volunteers as Saint Nick around the holidays. I wouldn’t believe any less, though right now he stands behind the counter wearing a Go Dodgers T-shirt. Though the leader of the hoodlums has drawn a gun, the man reaches for them like Santa trying to reason with a pair of Jack Frosts with matching bleached Mohawks.

  “That sweet man,” Neeta murmurs. “I’d be on the floor in a puddle of terror.”

  “You mean like her?”

  The cell phone shot pans wider to include a woman no older than us cowering on the floor. Bad guy number three, just noticing her, stomps over for the grab.

  But he clutches at nothing but air because the woman has…levitated.

  At least five feet. Straight into the air.

  “What…the…”

  “Right?” Neeta gasps as the girl starts to scream. “That’s not even the best part.”

  “There’s more?”

  I barely get the words out before the poor woman starts to gently float toward the back of the store as if being carried by some invisible divinity. There’s five feet of empty air between her and the floor and a discernible black line scorches the linoleum along the terrified woman’s path to safety.

  “How…is…that…?”

  “Right?” Neeta repeats.

  “No,” I blurt. “Not right. How the hell is that even possible?”

  “They say he does it with massive electric fields,” Neeta responds. “Though how that works is still anyone’s guess.”

  “He who?”

  “He…him.” She declares it as if heralding Eros himself, just as another man appears at the left of the video. That’s barely an exaggeration. The figure to which she’s referring could double as the god in a movie. He seems to appear from nowhere, as ceiling lights burst and shower behind him, like he’s descending from freaking Mount Olympus in a fit of rage. Damn good way to describe what the guy’s mood looks like too. His strides are wide. His arms are an A, framing the air on either side of his body. His fists look like brutal coils at the end of muscled ropes. And holy shit, do I mean muscled. Having a tennis star for a sister means I actually know the name of every striation in the human arm, though rarely am I able to recall them while looking at them. His legs present the same fun game, and don’t get me started on his abdominals.

  On second thought, go ahead and get me started.

  All of that is encased in an outfit I can only describe as motocross meets rock god. The black leathers are so tight he should look like a pretentious jackass but weirdly doesn’t. His getup has flexible fabric inse
ts of some sort which cushion his glorious body in all the key places he needs to move. He even wears kick-ass boots—if that’s what they can be called—evoking black ops or SEALs, pieced in a crisscross up to his knees.

  He’s part ninja, part ultimate fighter, part thundercloud—and a hundred percent captivating.

  I can’t rip my stare off him. He seems to uncoil power like a live electrical wire—but with an insane body.

  Truly insane.

  “Holy…shit.” I finally summon the bandwidth in my brain to breathe.

  “Nothing holy about what I’d love to do to that guy.” Neeta snorts. “Whoever he is.”

  “What do you—”

  Eros-ninja-thunder-dude interrupts my question, stalking toward the robbers and planting his feet the same width as his fists. He lowers his head as if he’s saying something, and it earns him a triple hoodlum rush—which he answers by raising both fists and spreading his fingers until they’re strained wide. In another universe, I’d expect spider webs or fireballs to fly from his palms. In this one, there’s only a tangible but invisible shudder through the air that acts like a three-way punch striking the robbers.

  It’s as impossible to comprehend as the levitation trick on the woman, but it’s the truth. Neeta’s gasp, in tandem with mine, tells me she thoroughly agrees. We’re riveted as the hero lifts his arm a little higher and flings it as if throwing trash away—which is very likely what he’s thinking too—as the hoodlums scatter into the air like a wind-tossed trio of used slushy cups, flying twenty feet before crashing into the drink coolers at the back of the store. They stick there for a few seconds, bawling in terror, before plummeting along with the glass to the floor. Whoever’s taking the cell footage provides a perfect flash of commentary.