Blood Enchantment (62 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Greta

“Oh my good Lord, ʻcourtingʼ?” Gia asks slowly.

“I kid you not—verbatim.”

“I don't know—”

“Come on, Gi, this is the real deal. You've been pushing me to date
-actually
date—and Tor falls into my lap. He's warm; he knew my parents. He's Danish, so I'd be overcoming my issues with the Caucasian male…”

“I wish I could meet him,” she states in a flat voice.

I can tell, even with the thousands of miles that separate us, she's biting her nail. “But?”

“I don't know; he seems too good to be true.”

“Is this a psych thing? Or is this a woman thing?”

“Women's intuition.” I hear the white-noise buzzing of our cells, international calling notwithstanding.

Now it's my turn to bite my nail. I gaze up at the ceiling, lying on the cushy bed in my hotel room. I can still feel Tor's lips on my hand where they brushed my knuckles.

I shiver. “You told me to follow my gut.”

“I did.” Gia sighs. “It's just—what about this Paco fella?”

Now there's where my gut gets flustered. “Yes. I felt something there, too. For a stranger. In an elevator. It was the weirdest thing on the planet.”

“Is it the same as Tor?”

Definitely not.
“Paco was combustible. I mean, I felt like I'd stuck my finger in a light socket.”

Gia laughs. “Doesn't sound very pleasant, Greta.”

“No!” I laugh, too. “I made that sound bad. What I meant was there's that enigmatic chemistry you spoke about in our sessions. That I'd know it when it struck.”

“And Tor?” Gia asks instantly.

I hesitate for a couple of seconds.

“Can't take back the pause, Greta.”

I nod, though I know she can't see me. “He feels safe, exciting. He's handsome.”

“That's all greeeaat,” Gia says with mild sarcasm. “But there's plenty of men in the world who would love to pair up with the Nordic goddess.”

I smile. “Right.” My sarcasm
isn't
mild.

“Listen, Greta, I just want you to be cautious. This thing with Tor is moving quickly. And I just—I hear something in your voice when you talk about Paco that seems real.”

I shrug. It didn't go anywhere. I met him in the elevator, and it was instant perfection—physically. And knowing my background, that's saying something. But Tor is here.

Tangible.

He made the first move, and I need that. I tell Gia.

“I'm still not convinced. Text me every day. And Charlie gave you an additional week as an Atta Girl?”

“Yes. I—”

“You feel proud of yourself?” Gia interrupts softly.

“Yes,” I whisper back, slightly ashamed.

“Don't own false guilt, Greta. You
earned
this client. It doesn't matter that he wants to get into your panties…”

I bark out a laugh. “Uh-huh.”

“Doesn't he?”

I think about the heat in Tor's eyes and the possessive way he held my hand as his lips pressed against my sensitive flesh.

“Yeah, I think.”

“Okay, I'll try not to overthink it, and you'll go slow. If a trigger comes again, you know how to manage it.”

“Tor saw me through that.”

“Which I like. He gets a Gia brownie point.”

“But not enough to give me the sign of the cross or something.”

Gia laughs. “No absolution. Not yet.”

“Why are you so cautious now?”

I can feel her shrug.

“Don't know,” she admits slowly. “I guess I'm more of a control freak than I knew. And there's the Club Alpha possibility in all this somewhere.”

I open my mouth to reply when a knock raps against the solid birchwood door of my suite.

I sit up in bed, my brow knitting. “Gotta go. Someone's at the door.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

“Nosey,” I say, slipping my heels on from my date with Tor, and walk to the peephole.

Paco.

Oh my God
. Heat flushes through me like water down a drain.

“It's Paco.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Hot.
Damn
. I'll let you go, but you text me the
minute
he leaves. Be careful.”

A second knock has me jumping in my heels. “I thought you liked the sound of Paco,” I say as though I'm in a trance.

“I do. It doesn't mean I'm not cautious.”

“Okay.” Without looking at my cell, I swipe Gia's image away and slowly open the door.

*

Paco

My eyes say they are the same. These two women are identical twins, separated by so much and so little.

But my heart knows the difference. Greta harbors a gentleness that is utterly absent in her twin. As though my body is reading my mind, my ribs twinge from Lisbeth's torso strikes. 

“Hello,” she says hesitantly, a question in her clear, melodic voice.

My heart picks up beats it didn't have before, beginning to hammer.

I ignore the physical excitement of my body.

My eyes take in her beautiful outfit, including the heels that make her within an inch or so of my six feet and three inches.

But it's her knuckles bleeding to white as they grip the edge of the door that gives me pause.

“Hello,” I say, putting my hands in the pockets of my slacks. My appearance is a decided improvement from before, when I was sweat-soaked and as appealing as a spoiling tomato.

“May I come in?” I ask softly.

Greta's eyes widen. “I don't know you, Paco.”

I rock back on my heels.
True.
“You do know me. We met on the elevator.”

I give a sly smile.

She grins in return. “That's true.”

Greta does not trust easily. Fear edges her eyes, making them tight. Her irises are no longer the easy sky blue but a deep, troubled sea within the storm of her face.

I touch her hand, and her grip tightens on the wood. “Come to the rooftop then.”

I retreat a step, and she raises her eyebrows before finally giving a nod of agreement. “Hang on a second. Let me get my keycard.”

I wait, watching her slender body weave through the low, minimalistic furniture of her suite.

My new penthouse suite is one of two on the thirty-eighth floor. The rooftop terrace is above the damaged suite I had occupied on the fortieth.

She moves toward me, and I admire the subtle sway of wool-encased hips and wonder on the chill that awaits.

I open my mouth to remind her to bring a coat, but she's already out the door and closing it behind her.

“What is this about?” she asks, walking beside me to the elevator.

I feel my lips curl. “It is not obvious?”

Her face floods with subtle pink color, but she asks, “What country are you from?” It’s not an accusation, but a natural, unfettered curiosity, which appeals to me.

Greta is not pretentious. It's refreshing.

“I am Mexican.”

Her smile instantly warms my skin.

Her happiness at my revelation surprises me. “What is that smile for?” I select the up button on the lighted keys.

“I-I think it's wonderful to meet new people, is all,” she answers softly, but her eyes shift away. When they meet mine again, I see more within those depths, but nothing she's willing to vocalize.

The elevator doors part, and we step inside.

Silence reigns as we make smooth progress to the rooftop.

“Where's your friend?” Greta asks.

“He is nearby.”

The soft whir of the elevator's smooth ascent whispers between us.

“Cryptic,” she comments.

I hold her eyes, thinking of Lisbeth's same choice of words earlier, and gooseflesh springs over my skin. “Truthful. He is my guard, but I have asked for privacy in this conversation.”

“So it's
not
the pleasure of my company.” Her voice sounds bruised, and I want to immediately wipe away the words that caused the hurt in her comment.

“Very much. But after we talk about the things I must say, you might never want the pleasure of mine again.”

Her pale eyebrows pull together as the elevator dings.

We walk out together unto a slate stone patio. Stars twinkle in a night free of light pollution.

Norway dims the lights in the evening.

The bones of pergolas are bare of foliage this late in the year, but they hold gnarled vines. Party lights sway in the chilly breeze, casting a glow over the stone and wood.

“It's beautiful,” Greta comments quietly, her eyes everywhere on the roof. She shivers, and I shrug out of my coat.

I hold it out to her with a finger.

She instantly backs away, and I frown, wanting to know the reason she behaves like a dog that’s been kicked too many times. I am unafraid to ask tough insights I gain through observation. “Is it because I am a man or because you do not know me?”

I appreciate that she does not pretend to misunderstand me.

“Both,” she says in short reply. She snatches the proffered coat as though she doesn't wish to give herself time to change her mind. She slips it over her silk blouse, and the sleeves reach midway over the tops of her hands.

Greta flaps her arms like a bird at her side, and I burst out laughing.

“It does not fit,” I acknowledge with a nod.

She shakes her head. Wisps of hair that are silvered by moonlight flutter beside her temple, and I stifle the urge to tuck them behind her ear.

“No, but it's warm.” She bites her lip, seeming to consider something, then she meets my eyes. Her chin kicks up, and I see the spark of personality she hides. “It smells like you.”

I throw up my hands. “I hope that is an improvement over before.”

I can see her blush even in the minimal light from the swag lighting. “I like the way you smelled. Then.” Her eyes meet mine. “And now.”

I don't hold my breath, but it feels like a weighted lump inside my chest. “Yet you're too fearful to allow me inside your room.”

She nods slowly.

“Prudent,” I say, moving away, giving her the space I sense she needs.

“I like you, Paco. But I don't know you. I feel like you're a good man…”

“But what do I want?” My lips quirk.

Her eyes inspect the tips of her high heels. “Yes.”

My palms dampen. “Club Alpha.”

Her face jerks up, eyes rounding. “Yes.”

“I am a player.” My gaze holds her prisoner, and adrenaline swamps my chest, making breathing a chore. “Are you, as well?”

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation.

Good.

My shoulders drop, the tension easing.

“Something has come to my attention.”

She pulls a face of such pure confusion, I chuckle. “Besides the fact that we've met within two weeks of Club Alpha's quarter?”

“Beside that.”

“What?” Greta asks, more relaxed now that she knows I'm another player.

“Your sister.”

Her confusion turns to disbelief. “What would my sister have to do with Club Alpha?”

“I have made her acquaintance.” I do not reveal how that came to be. That Greta might be in grave danger. That Tor Aros is the primary suspect. That I am not in league with the police. That I have no proof. Or that I'm supposed to kill Lisbeth—or her.

I do not voice the mess of my thoughts.

Greta clears her throat disdainfully. “That is not funny, Paco.”

She begins to take off my jacket, and I react instinctively, grasping the lapels with my hands and pulling her forward.

Her fear is palatable.

My desire to protect Greta and have her close to me is a compulsion I cannot ignore.

I will not.

“Greta,” I say softly.

“Let go of me,” she says in a tight voice.

“She has been in hiding all this time—lived an alternative existence from your own. Now she is in danger, and so are you.”

This close to her soft, fair skin, I can see her pulse leaping in the hollow of her throat.

I lean closer, and her head tips back.

She ceases all my thoughts. I've never been with a woman whose mere proximity is so dangerous to me. But Greta is that.

And more.

I cannot stop the words. “Do not fight what is between us, Greta.”

My nose presses against the crook of her neck, and I stop fighting what I've longed to do since we met in the elevator.

I press my lips to skin meant for my kiss.