Touch If You Dare (16 page)

His hands stilled on her shoulders. “They didn’t make it?”

“My mom… her scream when it bit her. I’d never
heard such a sound of agony and disbelief. My
sisters… me… we all froze… watching the blood run
from her neck.”

Jarvis began to stroke her hair.

She leaned into his touch, trying to use his caress to keep her from falling into the abyss of her memories. “And then he tossed aside his Yankees hat and howled. The sound was horrific. It broke us all out of stupor and we ran. My sisters for the trap door, me for the unicorn horn above the mantel. We kept it there in case of an attack, because they were supposed to be the most effective, you know?”

Jarvis continued to slide his hands through her hair. “No unicorn horn is going to stop a deedub in a chocolate frenzy. You needed someone like me.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t have you.” How fast she’d run for the fireplace. “By the time I grabbed it, he’d bitten everyone except Natalie. I plunged it right into his chest. That was my job. To save them. We all knew it wouldn’t go after me.”

“Didn’t work, did it?” His voice was quiet, almost regretful.

“No. He just grabbed me, sniffed me, and then threw me aside. I was still in the air when he attacked Natalie. I blacked out when I hit the wall, and when I woke up, he was gone, and everyone was down.” Her whole family. Strewn over the floor like discarded Tootsie Roll wrappers. “And in the twenty years since, they’ve all died. One by one.” Her neck muscle twitched again.

“Except Natalie.” He pressed his thumb into her neck. “And you have a plan to save her?”

“Yes.” She balled her hands into fists, refusing to think of the past. Only of the future. How this time was going to be different. This strong, powerful warrior was on her side now. “I’m going to switch her soul into the body of our friend Gina, but I have to become Reaper to be able to do it. But to get promoted I need to harvest Augustus’s soul. You saw how that went. I can’t even get the powder to work anymore—”

“Ease down, sweetheart.” He laid his palms against her temples and pressed lightly. His tone was calm, and his utter lack of concern made some of her tension ease. “We’ll figure out Augustus. I’m not worried.”

This was a man who had survived hell for a hundred and fifty years, and he’d revived from death a thousand times, or more. He knew how to win. And he was on her team now. She took a breath. “Okay.”

“That’s better.” He cupped the curve of her shoulder, and warmth began to penetrate through her skin, loosening the knot. The heat from his hands made her feel like she was lying on a beach, letting the hot sun heal her soul. The heat of hate, she knew now. Didn’t stop it from feeling wonderful.

“And my investors?” she asked. “And the target?”

“Taken care of with one visit after sundown tonight. Easy.” He snapped his fingers. “Do you have an elastic?”

She handed him the pale pink band she’d selected this morning. She’d selected pink as a reminder that she was harvesting souls in the name of love, hoping that would help her get over her issues. Obviously, it had been a brilliant tactic.

He began to wrap the holder around her hair. Why did it feel so good to have a man’s hands in her hair? Or was it just Jarvis?

He finished the bun and dropped his hands. “All set. Feel better?”

Reina touched her hair and was surprised to feel a complicated looping and twisting of her hair. She shook her head, and the updo stayed in. She smiled and realized she did indeed feel better. “Yeah, I do.” Was it because of the hair? Or because he had spent the last five minutes giving her some seriously wonderful TLC?

He nodded with a smile of smug self-satisfaction. “Women always derive a lot of their self-confidence by how they feel about themselves physically. Hair’s a big one.” He tapped his temple. “The best partners learn what gets their teammates in a fighting state of mind. The hair seemed to be a good strategy for you.” He tucked a stray tendril behind her ear, giving her hair the scrutinizing inspection an artist might give his masterpiece. “I hate to give Angelica credit for anything, but…” He shrugged and dropped his hand. “Seemed to work. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Keep it in mind? Did that mean he was going to do it again? Her stomach did a little jump of excitement. She got stressed all the time. Maybe he should take up residence in her hair and—

Hello! What was she doing thinking it was sexy that he not only knew how to do a woman’s hair, but actually admitted it? She had no time for sexy, especially when it came to Jarvis. The man could destroy entire forests simply by breathing, and he’d literally brought her to her knees when she’d been burned by the earth he’d contaminated. As an added bonus, he wanted her to go against Death, when she couldn’t afford to piss him off.

And on top of it all, the man was going to explode, sooner rather than later.

That was way more than three strikes.

No more sexy thinking about him. Business partners only.

Jarvis brushed a fleck of dirt off her shoulder, as if he couldn’t quite keep himself from touching her. “First stop, the Castle of Extreme Opulence.”

“Oh, no, let’s take care of my things first.” If she helped him and got caught by Death before she’d saved her sister, it would jeopardize everything. See? She was thinking clearly again. Go her.

But Jarvis shook his head. “We can’t meet with my investor until nightfall, so let’s go find my brother and clear my shit up.” He fisted his hand, the one with the black tangle on his palm. “I’d hate to explode before we had a chance to take care of your sister.”

She bit her lip. “You think you could go soon?”

“Anytime, babe. I’ve never been down this road before.” He turned and headed toward the truck. “Cameron might be able to give me more time.”

She watched him stride across the clearing. “You want more time?”

“Hell, yeah. I’m free man now, sweetheart, and I want to enjoy it.” He reached the Escalade and opened her door. “Your chariot, my dear.”

Oh, come on! Like it wasn’t bad enough that she liked him and he was going to explode, but he actually
wanted
to live, too? She couldn’t handle that pressure. Not again.

This would never work. She was already under so much stress she couldn’t even put her own hair up in a bun, and apparently she’d lost all ability to powder anyone, let alone Augustus. If she started worrying about Jarvis dying, then what? She’d be so freaked she’d be useless to anyone, especially Natalie. “This won’t work. I can’t team up with you. I can’t.”

“Let’s go.” Completely ignoring her protest, he left the car door open and strode around the truck to the other side. His body was so well-muscled, and he moved swiftly and efficiently, a man who was used to precise execution in everything he did. He was fast, dangerous, and smart, everything she needed to accomplish the impossible.

She couldn’t afford to find someone else to help her. She needed him, and she needed him now. How come her only chance to save her sister was also the biggest threat to doing just that?

Death was two steps inside the door to the Dungeon of Temporary Situs when he heard the mournful sound of the harp reverberating through the cement walls. Holy hell and high water. The Guardian of Love was playing his harp again!

He barreled down the circular stairs, nearly skidding out on the first turn when the top stone twisted under his foot. Damn rotting dungeon! The terms of the purchase and sale from the Grim Reaper had banned Death from structurally altering the classic dungeon in any way that made it less depressing, scary, and miserable.

At the time, Death hadn’t really cared. All he’d wanted was his own business, and Lord Grim (as he’d insisted on being called) had worked the death business into such a hole that it was available for a bargain price. Death had leveraged his ass off to get it and had agreed to any terms that would lower the price to within his range.

But three hundred years later, the crumbling stone steps were treacherous as hell in dress shoes. But if he made any improvements, the son of a bitch could take the entire business back for the original purchase price. Given that it was now worth about three hundred billion dollars more than when he’d bought it, Death wasn’t all that high on that idea.

The harp drifted up louder and more mournful. “Cameron! Stop it!” Death reached the last cell on the right and raced inside.

The Guardian of Love had his head inside the strings of the harp, and he was sawing at his throat with the strings, trying to decapitate himself.

“Hey!” Death jammed his knee into Cameron’s back, yanked the harp off his head, then headlocked lover boy onto the handwoven Oriental carpet he’d had brought in for his new guest (Lord Grim had forgotten to ban decor). “Did I not make myself clear that you could not play that harp?”

Cam was struggling, trying to get to the instrument. “I love my harp. She calls to the essence of my soul.”

“It turns you into a blubbering suicidal embarrassment to love.” Death tossed the harp into the hallway and slammed the door shut. “You’re like a woman and chocolate. Get some self-control, man.”

The bright yellow tulips he’d brought down yesterday had opened. The two humming birds he’d imported were happily dive bombing the feeder, their buzzing filling the air. The waterfall was bubbling cheerfully over the stones, and little blue fish were swimming merrily around, occasionally leaping out of the water for the sheer joy of it. “How are you not in a good mood? I did a brilliant job creating an oasis of peace and harmony.”

He was delighted he’d had the foresight to lock Cam up instead of succumbing to his whiny requests to sleep in the guest wing last night. After yesterday’s trip back to the homestead to retrieve Cameron before he succeeded on his mission to die at his home, Death wasn’t taking any more chances with his most precious commodity.

Cameron sank into the luxurious armchair and pressed his forehead to his hands. The tux Death had given him was wrinkled, and he clearly hadn’t bothered to use the monogrammed gold razor that was still sitting on its silken towel next to the rusted spigot oozing brown water. “I can’t do this. I just want to go home and—”

“Kill yourself?” Unacceptable. He would not let love vanish from this realm just because the Guardian was some manic depressive sap who couldn’t see goodness if it had breasts and belly danced on his face for hours. Death pulled out the ottoman and straddled it. He leaned forward, invading Cameron’s personal space. “Hey!” He kept his voice sharp. “What do you want most in the world?”

Cameron sniffled, like a freaking pansy. “To die.”

Death smacked Cameron on the side of his head.

“Ow!” Cameron looked up with a scowl. “Don’t hit me.”

“What else do you want?”

Cameron narrowed his eyes. “Nothing—”

Death smacked him again, and this time Cameron nearly fell off the chair. “World peace, you dimwit. World peace!”

“Oh. Right.” Cameron rubbed the side of his head and sat back up. “I forgot.”

“Well, remember it, because you’re going to make
it happen. You’re about to change the world as it exists. Remember?”

Cameron sniffled. “That thing this weekend?”

“That thing this weekend is going to make us both billions of dollars, give you a purpose in life, and create world peace.” Or close enough on that last one. “Where’s your excitement? You were all fired up about this last night.”

“I just feel a little weepy today.” Cameron plucked the silk handkerchief from his tux pocket and blew his nose like a girly girl.

“Cameron.” Death yanked the handkerchief away and shoved it back in the sap’s pocket. “Men don’t cry. End of story.” Death pounded his fist against his chest. “We hold all our emotions deep inside, even love.”

“Prentiss! Where are you?” A desperate male voice rang through the dungeons. “I need help!”

Death ground his jaw. A visit from the amoral, womanizing, black magic witch who abandoned him for over three hundred years was not what he was in the mood for right now. “I’m in a business meeting, Napoleon. Make an appointment.”

“Your real name is Prentiss?” The Guardian of Love started to laugh. “That’s even less manly than Cameron.”

“Shut up.” Death sighed with resignation as the door to the prison cell turned a pale gray, and then the world-renowned assassin walked in.

Then he took one look at his grandpa, and he sat up. “What happened?” Napoleon was always meticulously adorned, but his suit was so wrinkled it looked like he’d been wearing it for a month. His usually pristine black hair was jagging past his ears, messed up, and shaggy. The laces were missing from his right shoe, and he smelled like he’d slept in a sewer.

Napoleon sagged against the door, as if he was too exhausted to stand any longer. “I’ve lost her.”

“Her?”

“Angelica. Your grandmother. My wife. My true love. I’ve lost her.”

“Oh. That.” Disgusted, Death sat back down and returned his attention to Cameron. “So, let’s go over the plans for this weekend—”

“Did you not hear me?” Napoleon strode across the room, grabbed the beanbag chair from the corner, and plunked it down between the two men. “My truest, most wonderful sprite has been plucked from my loving arms.”