Angels' Flight (13 page)

“Oh?”

He smiled again, displaying a row of gleaming white teeth. “I decided this bar is my true love after all.”

Not many hunters retired. But it wasn’t completely unheard of. “You won’t miss the thrill of the hunt?”

“It’s a young man’s game. I’m in my late thirties now, but don’t tell.”

Deacon finally broke his silence. “Your bar’s doing well—we heard about it on the hunter grapevine.”

“Some of my best customers are hunters,” Marco said, genuine pleasure in his voice. “They bring their girlfriends, mates, don’t blink an eye. I’m very glad to have been a part of that fraternity. Please, come. The drinks are on me.” With that, he turned and led them to a table on the edge of the dance floor.

They all took a seat and drinks were ordered. Sara noticed that Deacon barely touched his—whiskey, of course—and neither did Marco. She took a sip of her cocktail and made a true sound of pleasure. “This is sinfully good.”

“Yes, the bar’s becoming quite well-known for its cock-tails.”

She smiled and they chitchatted for several minutes. “Does this place have a ladies’ room?”

Marco grinned. “Of course. I can show you.”

“No, just point me in the right direction.” She leaned in close and whispered, “I need you to stay here and protect Deacon.”

Marco’s eyes twinkled. “The big ones want to pit themselves against him, and the pretty ones want to take him home and give him a whip.”

Deacon’s face remained expressionless, but his green eyes held a distinct warning. Laughing, she got into the act and stroked his cheek as she left. His stubble made her fingertips want to go exploring, but she strolled to the bathroom instead, getting several approving looks from the crowd.

It wasn’t her fault she got distracted by a conversation with another hunter and ended up at a door that didn’t lead to the toilets. Unfortunately, it was locked solid and coded with a touchpad. Hiding her disappointment, she made a point of asking for bathroom directions again and went in to use the facilities before returning to the table.

“Get lost?” Deacon asked before Marco could.

“Yeah.” She laughed. “Someone dragged me off to ask if you really were as hard as you looked.”

Deacon flushed. “Keep going.”

She knew it was another warning. But the byplay had the effect of disarming any suspicions Marco might’ve had. He laughed and said a few more words before getting up to go mingle.

Deacon didn’t look particularly happy, but waited to speak until they were on the bike heading back to the hotel. “You didn’t make it to his apartment.”

“No need.” She grinned. “He crosses his leg like guys do.”

Silence.

She took pity on him. “You know, one ankle over the knee, encroaching on other people’s space.”

“You got a transmitter on his shoe.”

“When I asked to go to the bathroom.” She felt exceedingly smug about that. “And that’s not even the best part—he was wearing solid hunter boots.” Increasing the odds that he’d use the same footwear if he decided to go out killing.

“My guess—the killer’s not going to move tonight. Not after Rodney.”

“Won’t he be frustrated by the fact that he failed?”

“Possible, but this guy’s not stupid. He does his homework, strikes only when he knows his prey will be vulnerable.”

“If you had more people, you could put watches on both Tim and Marco, and, if necessary, Shah.”

“Ever tried following a hunter who doesn’t want to be followed?”

“Point taken.”

She thought of the three they’d visited. “Did you ask Simon to run background checks?”

“Might already have come through.”

He was right. He pulled out and turned on a PDA that looked as tough as he was as soon as they got back to the hotel—all three reports were waiting in his e-mail.

“Pretty standard stuff,” Sara said, as she lay flat on her back on the bed with the PDA in her hands. “Timothy had a hunt go bad, hasn’t been seen in public since, but we know he’s alive. Shah really is a spy. Doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer.”

“Gut instinct?”

“That if Shah was going to kill, he’d do it in a way no one would ever trace back to him.” She looked at the last page. “Marco is a solid hunter with a stable personal life—he’s playing happy families with a vampire, so he clearly likes them.”

“You ever been tempted?” The bed dipped as Deacon braced a knee on the bottom edge and looked down at her.

5

H
er mouth went dry. “Tempted?”

“To take up with a vamp?”

Oh
. “Sure, they’re gorgeous.” But not
real
, not like Deacon. “Don’t tell me you don’t agree.”

“The whole bloodsucking thing’s kind of a turnoff.”

“Yeah, that trips me up, too. I don’t want my partner thinking of me as a midnight snack.” She switched off the PDA and laid it carefully on the small chest of drawers beside the bed. “Have you ever had a vamp feed on you?”

A shake of the head, his eyes lingering on her lips. “You?”

“Emergency feed,” she said, suddenly hot in the T-shirt and jeans that had been fine moments before. “The guy was so badly off, I had to do something.”

“Hurt?” Those night-shadow green eyes were drifting over the rise of her breasts, the dip of her stomach.

She breathed deep, saw him suck in his own breath at the movement of her chest. “Not as much as you’d expect. They have something in their saliva that takes the edge off.” Stretching out her legs, she raised her arms above her head. “And you know they can make it feel good if they want.”

He didn’t answer, his attention very much on her body as she relaxed from the stretch. Then he moved onto the bed, bracing himself above her using his forearms. “Yes?”

A simple question—one that made her pause and think. Hunters weren’t prudes, but Sara had never had a one-night stand. It simply wasn’t in her. Yet she’d wanted Deacon from the instant she’d seen him. And from the arousal he was making no effort to hide, she knew full well he wanted her, too.

But they weren’t just two hunters who’d met on the road. “Are you going to get all weird after?”

“Define ‘weird.’” He settled himself more firmly against her.

She bit back a moan. The man was hot, hard, and more than ready. “I need you to follow orders if I become director.” Her former lovers wouldn’t hesitate, because she hadn’t been a candidate for the critically important position then. But now she was very much a candidate. “Are you going to expect special treatment?”

“I’m not in bed with the future director. I’m in bed with Sara.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

It was tempting to rush, but she stroked her hands into his hair and tugged. The kiss was a punch to the system. Making a sound of sheer pleasure, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. The man was big, solid all over. A wall of flesh and bone and muscle contained by granite will. She wanted to rub against him until she purred.

He bit her lower lip. She gasped in a breath and then it was happening again, the wild rush of sensation, the near-unbearable pleasure, the need to taste him deep. When the kiss broke this time, she nuzzled at his throat, kissing her way along the taut tendons of his neck. He smelled so damn good.

He tugged her back for another kiss, and somewhere in between, she realized his hand was on her bare back, under her T-shirt. She wanted more. Breaking the kiss, she let go of him and tugged at her T-shirt. Deacon rose off her enough that she could pull it over her head and off.

“Green?” He traced the scalloped lace of her bra with a single, teasing finger.

She began to unbutton his shirt even as he unhooked her bra. “It’s my favorite color.”

“Lucky for me.” The last word was a groan as she flattened her hands on his chest. “Damn lucky.”

“Off,” she ordered.

Grunting, he rose to a kneeling position and slid off her bra before getting rid of the shirt. But he didn’t come back down straight away. Instead, he reached out to close one big hand over her breast. She cried out at the unexpectedly bold touch, her eyes clashing with his. Deep green, but no longer calm or unaffected.

It made the last of her inhibitions fall away, and when he bent his head to her breast, she thrust her hands into his hair and held on for the ride. The Slayer knew what he was doing. There were no hesitant caresses, no requests for more permission. He’d asked once, and she’d acquiesced. Now he took every advantage. Truth to tell, it was beyond erotic being with a man so sure of himself in bed. So sure . . . and so utterly involved. Now she knew the answer to her question—when Deacon lost control, he
lost
control.

God, could he get any sexier?

She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him wet and deep and open. “I think you should take off your pants.”

Nuzzling his way down her neck to her pulse point, he reached down to hers instead. But rather than opening the jeans, he slid his hand under the waistband to cup her with bold familiarity. She arched into him, wanting more. “No teasing.”

A nip at the soft flesh of her breast. Shuddering, she thrust her hands into his hair and tugged. “Don’t you talk in bed?”

His response was to kiss his way down her breastbone, before sitting back up. Withdrawing his hand with obvious reluctance, he undid her jeans and pulled them off, along with her panties. A still, darkly sensual moment as he simply looked at her. Her body arched in silent invitation. Taking it, he bent down until his lips touched her ear . . . and whispered such wicked promises, such decadent requests, she thought she’d melt from the inside out.

“Okay, stop talking.” It was too much sensory input, too much pleasure. “Right now.”

He smiled and sat up, his gaze never leaving her face. The intimacy was blinding. Then one big hand spread on her thigh, thumb stroking the insanely sensitive inner surface. She cried out in the back of her throat . . . and twisted out of his hold to sit up on her knees.

A flicker of surprise, followed by a smile, slow and sure. “Fast and sleek, and pretty.” He bent to run his lips along her neck as she pulled out his belt and threw it to the floor, then started on the buttons of his fly. “Mmm.” A sound of pure male appreciation.

Pushing his pants down just enough, she closed her hands around him. His big frame shook.
“Sara.”
And then he was pressing her onto her back, tugging off her hands and sliding into her in one solid push.

Her entire body arched up off the bed. Wow, she thought, seconds before her sanity fractured, Deacon was built exactly in proportion.

B
ody tingling from the aftereffects of the best orgasm of
her life, Sara stared at the hotel ceiling. “I knew we had chemistry, but that was unnatural.”

The arm across her waist squeezed a little. “I live to please.”

Sexy, uninhibited as hell when you got past the control, and he had a sense of humor. “I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a long-term relationship?”

She’d expected shocked silence, but he answered straight away. “I wouldn’t make a very good lover for the director.”

“Don’t like the spotlight, do you.” It wasn’t a question, because she knew the answer. And part of her wished she didn’t. Because she liked Deacon, more than liked him. Each time he revealed some new facet of his personality, she found it complemented hers on the deepest level. There was promise here. And it wasn’t just about sex. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Being alone’s never been a problem for me.” His fingers played over the curve of her hip. “You’re going to accept, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She’d always known it would come to this. “The Guild is important. It needs to have someone at the reins who cares enough to make sure it remains strong, that hunters are protected from vampires and angels both.”

“What about the hunting?”

She stroked her hand along his forearm. “I’ll miss it. But . . . not as much as some. My best friend, Ellie, she’d go stir-crazy within a week.”

“Elena Deveraux? Hunter-born?”

“You’ve met her?” She turned to him. Face relaxed with pleasure, hair all mussed, and green eyes lazy, he looked like a big cat sprawled beside her. A big, dangerous cat.

“Heard about her,” he said. “They call her the best.”

“She is.” Sara was damn proud of Ellie, considered her more sister than friend. “I worry about her.”

“You worry about all hunters.”

And it was true. She did. “I guess I was meant to be director.” Her sense of responsibility was part of who she was. She could no more walk away and leave the Guild in weaker hands than she could force Deacon to change his lifestyle to accommodate hers. “How did you end up the Slayer?”

“The Guild keeps an eye on possibles. I was approached by the last Slayer and offered the position.”

He’d accepted, Sara knew, for the same reason she would. “Someone has to do the job.” But it was also a calling of sorts—she knew she’d love being director, that it would challenge and excite her in ways normal hunting couldn’t hope to match.

“And that someone might as well be the best.”

She smiled and shifted to face him fully, his hand on her hip, her own under her head. “Have you ever met an archangel?” The tiny hairs on her arms rose at the very idea.

“No. But you probably will.”

She gave in to the shivers. “I hope it’s not for a long, long time.” Angels, she could deal with, but archangels were a whole different story. They simply didn’t think like human beings in any way, shape, or form.

Deacon’s lips curved. “I think you’ll handle it when the time comes.” Reaching out, he brushed her hair off her face.

The tenderness of the gesture did her in. Again, she felt that promise. That tug that this could be so much more. “Right now I just want to handle you.” And she did.