Blood and Fire (22 page)

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Authors: Shannon Mckenna

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense, #Action & Adventure, #Contemporary

BOOK: Blood and Fire
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She put one of her crimson nails against his hand. He froze. “I don’t want flowers.” She punctuated each word with a jab of her nail. “I won’t give you my number. I don’t have kids. Let me tell you why I’m here tonight.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m really not interested in—”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m telling you anyway.”
After a moment, he jerked his chin at her to go on. Curious.
Nadia improvised on the spot. “I just met with a private investigator who I hired to follow my husband. He had pictures of my husband’s affair. With my sister. Graphic pictures.” She let her lip quiver, ever so slightly, then ruthlessly tightened them. Trying to be strong.
He shrugged. “That sucks. And this pertains to me . . . how?”
“I’ll tell you how.” Nadia let her voice harden. “I shouldn’t call or see either one of those shitheads tonight. I need distraction. You’d be doing a great service to humanity, and you would single-handedly decrease this year’s violent crime rate of the greater Portland metropolitan area if you provided me with that distraction.”
He gazed at her expressionlessly over the rim of his glass. “I’m not in the habit of putting myself at the service of humanity,” he said.
“Then put yourself at the service of something more basic.” She reached under the bar. He caught her before she could grab his crotch.
“Uh-uh,” he growled. “Don’t touch.”
“Let me.” She let her voice drop to a throaty whisper. “You look so strong. You could make me forget.”
His eyes were dilated, his cheekbones flushed. She almost had him, but he still shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re trouble.”
“What if I am?” she asked. “It won’t matter. I’ll be long gone. I already know you’re a cheap, rude, woman-hating bastard, so I won’t expect manners, or gentleness, or clever conversation, or sweet talk.” She leaned closer to breathe the words in his ear. “I’ll be happy with inarticulate grunts. While you fuck me hard . . . from behind.”
He rocked back, looking almost shocked. “Jesus, lady.”
“Yes, I know,” she crooned. “I’m a very nasty girl tonight.”
This time, he let her hand connect with the denim at his crotch. She almost squealed at what she found there. Big, hot. And rock hard.
“Is that what your husband did with your sister in the pictures?” he asked. “He fucked her from behind?”
She flinched and looked away, letting her hair fall forward to hide tears she could generate on command. She let the silence stretch out for a minute, sipping her drink as she got her emotions under control.
Sniff. Oh, that perfidious snake of a husband. Oh, that lying, treacherous slut of a sister. They both deserved to die. They really did.
She shook her hair back and took a huge, terrifying risk. “I’ll show you the pictures, if you want,” she said, brushing tears away with her knuckles, so as not to smear her mascara. “They’re in my purse.”
She held her breath, heart thudding, as he considered looking at the sexually explicit photographs that she did not have.
“I’ll pass,” he finally said. “I don’t need that kind of stimulation.”
Tears of relief sprang into her eyes. She sniffed them back, theatrically. “Suit yourself. I don’t need to look at them again, either.”
He looked almost . . . sorry for her. God, she was good. The best.
“Take it or leave it,” she said. “No strings.”
“Women say that a lot,” he replied. “It’s never true.”
“You mean women actually talk to you that often?”
The corner of his mouth curved up. She followed up her advantage, leaning close. “Believe me, big guy,” she whispered. “I don’t even want to know your name. Don’t tell me. I am
so
not interested.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. He raised his drink. Her hand tightened greedily on his cock as he drained it. She could feel his pulse, a strong, rapid throb in his stiff rod. “Take me home,” she whispered.
His eyes hardened. “I don’t take anybody to my home.”
Course correct. She hid her irritation with a smile. “Better still,” she said smoothly. “The hotel across the highway?”
He nodded and rose to his feet. Up, and up. Mmm. So tall. She got up, too, picturing herself reporting a successful mission and maybe even getting The Call, from King. An invitation to tell him all about it over dinner . . . and then, if he thought she’d been good enough . . .
Thinking about it made her wet, which had the happy effect of making her even hotter for rough, mindless sex with Aaro. A breathless, squirming, sexy feedback loop. She took Aaro’s muscular arm.
Goodness, he was huge. She might have to double dose him, she thought, palpating his bicep. She could administer it in something from the minibar. If not, there was always the vapor. Three squirts, for such a massive man. But not quite yet, though. Oh, no, not yet.
She’d go a few rounds with this one before she brought him down.
16
 
B
runo ducked und
er the swing of the studded iron ball that swung on Rudy’s mace. There were three Rudys, inexplicably wearing medieval chain mail. The second was armed with an ax, and the third with a broadsword. Bruno jerked back. The broadsword swooshed by his Adam’s apple. He stumbled to the side to avoid the ax, dove to bring down the mace-wielding Rudy.
Then he saw the dais.
Lily was bound to a pole. She wore a long white gown, torn and mud stained. She was blindfolded. Oil-soaked wood was piled around her. Her ragged skirt flapped in the wind. So did her skeins of hair.
Terror tore him open inside. He sprang up to fight, but now there were six Rudys, a mass of suffocating bodies driving him back as one of them sauntered toward Lily, waving a burning branch. He glanced back, his sweaty face split by a mocking grin. Thrust the flame into the fuel.
The wood ignited instantly, flames leaping to lick at Lily’s ragged skirt. Bruno struggled, shoving, punching, howling Lily’s name.
She yelled back, but the sound came from so far away—
The image splintered.
Thud,
he was on a floor, in the dark. Naked, sweaty. He looked around frantically for his attackers—
Lily was huddled against the wall, naked. Her hands were over her nose. Her eyes were huge. Oh God. What the fuck had he done?
It took him about six attempts to get words out, his voice shook so hard. “You . . . all right?”
She lifted her hand, looked at it. Blood trickled from her nose. His horror soured into shame. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered. “Did I do that?”
“I’m OK.” She touched her nose. Blood reddened her fingers.
“That wasn’t the question.” He tried to get up. Thudded down onto his ass, still shaking. He hadn’t even thought about the nightmares. How dangerous they might be for her. Hadn’t even warned her. Fucking idiot. He’d just drifted off in a post-coital haze. La-di-dah. Zzzz.
“It’s my own fault,” she said softly. “I should have known better. You were having the mother of all nightmares, and yelling my name, and I, um . . . tried to grab you. To wake you up. Big mistake.”
He cringed. “Oh, God, Lily. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, really,” she assured him. “I’m not—”
“I could have fucking killed you!” he roared. “Do you realize that? How close you came?”
She shrank back. “You didn’t,” she said. “So chill. No harm done.”
“No harm done?” His voice cracked. “You’ve got a fucking broken nose, and you have the nerve to say
no harm done?
”
She palpated her nose. “Not broken. Just, you know. Bumped.”
“By my
fist?
That’s not a bump! I
slugged
you, goddamnit!”
“Well, and so? You’re not helping matters by yelling at me. You were dreaming. It’s not your fault. Get the fuck over it.”
Her attitude was so calm in the face of all the apocalyptic doom he was feeling. It had a weird effect on him. Like a knot, slipping loose.
He fell into pieces. Shaking with silent sobs. He dropped his face into his hands, mortified. Lily grabbed him, but he flinched away, flinging her arms off. “Don’t touch me!”
“No way!” she yelled back. “You can’t do that to me! You can’t push me away! I won’t let you! Not anymore!”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt!” he bellowed.
She grabbed him again, and what could he do? Slug her again?
Aw, fuck it. Let her hug him if she wanted to risk it. It was her skin. He kept his face covered and just endured the silent, racking sobs. He couldn’t make any sound. Pressure in his throat kept building. His voice box was imploding. A burning, crushing ache. He didn’t even try to stop crying. He knew when he was pounded.
After a while, the weight of her arm across his shuddering back came into focus. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. Drops of moisture tickled, cold against his back. She was crying, too. Did not help. Not that he had any right to complain, after scaring her, popping her in the nose. Letting her watch his nervous breakdown up close.
Lily went into the bathroom, came out again a moment later. The bed sagged as she sat again, her warm body pressed against his. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. She shoved tissues into his hand. He mopped up the snot, keeping his face averted. He felt like a helpless kid again, on those nights when he lled into a ball and put a pillow over his head, when Rudy and Mamma were having at it.
She threaded her cold fingers through his. “Will you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” He was channeling his sullen, truculent Uncle Tony again. Hardwired to act like a butthead when he was stressed.
Lily was unfazed. “The nightmare.”
He shook his head, but she tugged his hand. “Tell me.”
A shudder rippled down his spine. “It’s old,” he muttered. “Had it since I was a kid. When I was thirteen, Kev put a spell on me. Talked me into a trance every night. They finally eased off.” He tried to swallow. A diamond-hard lump lacerated his throat. “Now they’re back.”
“What’s the dream about?”
He shrugged. “Fighting. I’m in a white virtual space, like a video game. Monsters come at me. And I fight them.”
She harrumphed. “Scary.”
“Oh, yeah.” The words exploded out of him. “Because it’s not like other nightmares. I wake up feeling . . .” He trailed off. It was too weird.
“Like what?” she prodded. “Come on, Bruno.”
“Like it’s real,” he concluded, feeling ashamed. “I mean, physically real. Like I’d really been fighting. Pulled muscles, sweat, bruising. Sprains, even. Maybe because I hit stuff while I flop around. I end up on the floor sometimes, like now. I don’t fucking know.”
“Wow,” she murmured. “What kind of monsters?”
“My mom’s boyfriend. The one who murdered her.”
Her soft cheek pressed his shoulder. “That’s so horrible.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said. “But he was not what particularly sucked about tonight’s dream, believe it or not.”
She nudged him after a few moments. “So? What was, then?”
“You,” he said. “You were there. Everybody in costume. Medieval armor, like a goddamn Arthurian pageant. You wore a fancy white gown. You were bound to a stake. And they held me down while Rudy . . .” His throat closed up. “He stuck a burning branch into the wood.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” she said. “That was the moment when I tried to wake you up, right?”
“Yeah.” He waited for more. She just hugged him. “So, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “I gather you are not as freaked out by this as I am.”
“My threshold for freak-outs has gotten higher lately,” Lily said. “I can only be scared of so much at one time, and I’m sorry, but your dream just don’t make the cut.”
“Oh,” he muttered, vaguely embarrassed. “Gee.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she urged. “It’s, like, a triage thing. I just don’t have the juice. I know it must be really awful for you.”
“Whatever.” He felt an urge to laugh, but that was too close to sobbing. “What the fuck were the crusading knight outfits about? Ye olde renaissance fair from hell? My subconscious decided the dream needed dressing up? What’s next, flamenco outfits?”
“No,” she said quietly. “It’s about saving the princess.”
He went still. Her words reverberated in his head. “Come again?”
“It’s a classic theme, right? In fairy tales, in movies. Video games you played as a kid. Didn’t you ever play to save the princes?”
“Yeah, but . . .” His voice trailed off. He was unnerved. It was true, he’d played in video arcades as a really young kid. But after the dreams started, he’d stopped. He hated video games.
Lily draped herself over him so that his head was tucked under her chin, her gorgeous, mouth-watering tits were right in his face, in all their succulent, springy softness. Right up there to distract him.
“You really are my champion,” she said. “Even in your dreams. Like you were this morning.”
“I, ah . . . but I—”
“I’ve never had one before,” she said. “I always had to fight alone. It feels nice. Thank you.”
“Hello. Lily,” he said, his voice vibrating with tension. “I failed. In the dream. They torched you. It wasn’t nice.”
She tilted his head back. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “They didn’t get me this morning,” she said. She ran her finger across his brow, then through his hair. “And you tried. I could see you were trying. Heart and soul. That’s enough for me. That’s more than I’ve ever had.”
His arms clamped around her. She melted into his embrace.
“It’s not enough,” he blurted out, harshly. “I want more.”
She just gazed up at him, looking confused. He gave her an impatient little shake. “I want more,” he repeated, louder.
She looked bewildered but willing. “Ah . . . OK,” she offered, timidly. “Take it, then. You can have it all. It’s yours. Everything.”
All. Everything. That was good. He could work with that.
Then they were kissing, dying for more of that magical whatever it was that they made together, out of nothing, out of nowhere. A mystery made of energy and heat, out of ache and want.
He pushed her down onto the bed, lips locked, fitting his body to hers. Feeling her silent welcome as she arched and spread, wiggling against him until his cock could find its way in, then the long clinging slide. Arms clutching, legs twining as they rocked and plunged, sighing, gasping. No technique or style, just raw emotion. The bite of her nails in his back were points of light in the heaving turbulence. They thundered over the top and down, into the heart of a violent climax.
Reality crept back, with relentless marching steps. His sweat cooled, trickled down his back, into his ear. The first few times they’d had sex, he’d managed somehow to keep from coming inside her.
Well, hell. He’d warned her. And he still felt like an opportunistic asshole. He pulled away, rolled onto his side. She glowed in the dim light of the kerosene lamp he’d left burning. So beautiful he could start up and make this same mistake again, right now.
“I’m sorry.” The words rasped out. Hoarse from all the sobbing.
She just nodded, as if it were no big deal. Too used to danger. Her threshold was high. It took a lot of juice to be constantly terrified. There was nothing to say. She touched his cheek. She didn’t say, “No problem.” They had nothing but problems. She didn’t say, “It’s OK.” It wasn’t.
You’re my champion.
That scared him to his bones. He’d always avoided responsibility. Now he knew why he’d steered clear. It was a ten-ton weight of cold rock. Stark fear, of failing her, losing her. Fear that could break him.
But all he could do was keep fighting. Hell, he had lots of practce.
 
This was ridiculously easy. Zoe was irritated. She could have sent that brain-dead sow Melanie after all. Petrie didn’t even have an alarm. There was a tree that would allow an intruder with no technique at all to clamber onto the kitchen roof and steal over to the bathroom window. Evidently, Samuel Petrie was not as paranoid as a normal cop.
Zoe felt practically insulted.
She slid the window open and slithered in like a slim shadow. She realized that he just hadn’t gotten around to putting his paranoia into practice. Boxes were piled everywhere. The rooms were empty.
Research had revealed that Petrie was twenty-nine, unmarried. Wealthy family. Ivy League school. He’d decided after graduating to go into police work, to his family’s distress. He’d recently bought his first home in a middling shabby North Portland neighborhood.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Light and chatter of the TV came out, even at three
A.M.
She’d waited until the last minute to creep in, but soon she had to rendezvous with the team following McCloud down from Seattle. If he was still awake, she would melt away the way she came. Lots of cops had trouble sleeping. Tomorrow was another day. She angled a tiny mirror around the door and peeked.
Ah, yes. He was sprawled on the bed, a sheet wound around his hips. Mouth open. Fast asleep as the TV gabbled. She drifted toward the bed, smiling behind her mask, silent as a whorl of smoke.
She angled the bottle close to his face, admiring the jutting angle of his stubble-shadowed jaw, and
squirt—squirt—squirt.
He murmured, but the stuff worked instantly. He wouldn’t stir for hours. In fact, with such a heavy dose, he was liable to sleep through his alarm and wake with a nasty headache tomorrow. Poor baby.
Zoe sat down on the bed next to him. The large bed and low dresser were the only articles of furniture in the room, and they stank of newness. No mirror. Dead giveaway that there was no woman in his life. Only a man could make do with just the mirror above a bathroom sink.

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