Vincent: Her Warlock Protector Book 5 (4 page)

Gods, what had she been thinking, not even remembering protection. And three? She shivered at the thought.

Vincent crawled up the bed to cover her body with his, but stopped at her waist to suck a bright red mark into her skin as he slid the sheer bottoms off her hips and down her thighs. He crawled back over her, right hand tight on the back of her neck, left arm under her as he bent his head to seize her right nipple. His lips and tongue soaked the thin fabric of her bra as he sucked and teased, her writhing body crushed against his. He pulled his mouth away and flipped them over. Amanda suddenly found herself astride his waist. Bra unclasped and pushed off her shoulders, she bent over him, capturing his mouth and taking what she wanted. His hands held her hips in a fierce grip, his arousal grinding up into her wet heat through the thin cloth of his boxers.
 

She slid down his body leaving a trail of kisses, licks and small bites as she drifted lower. She blew a hot breath across his throbbing head. She held his eyes as she hovered there, the hint of the possibility so close that he froze. Then she grinned and sat back on her heels as she pulled his boxers down his legs.
 

He thumped the back of his head against the pillow, "Oh my god."
 

At the crinkle of the foil wrapper, he watched as she ripped the package open. Her grip firm as she slowly rolled the condom down his length pulling a hiss from between his teeth. Sitting up, he pulled her back into his lap.

With a tilt of her hips she slowly slid down his length, luxuriating in the heat of his body within hers. The hard muscles of his shoulders tensed under her hands as she spread her knees wider to take him deeper, a wild moan escaping her lips as she ground against him.
 

He stroked down her back to seize her hips and fell back onto the bed, matching his thrusts to hers as she fell forward, palms pressed against his pecs, her nails lightly scratching at his skin.

A tight warmth curled low in her stomach when his hand moved from her hip to cup and knead her sensitive breast.
 

"Vincent!" she breathed.
 

He flipped them over without missing a stroke, the change in angle causing her toes to curl. With him on top, their faces were a breath away from one another, and for a moment she was lost, staring into his eyes as the room tilted and started to spin, pulling her down by her very core. Hands locked around his shoulder blades as he moved with her, within her.

She hooked her left knee over his right forearm, spreading further as they rocked together. She hooked her right knee over his hip. Her nails dug into his back as she lost control, hips bucking wildly underneath him, her climax close. With an inarticulate cry, she was floating, falling free in open space, blissful, eyes fluttering closed as her body gripped and held him.

A long, stuttered moan rose from his throat as his hips bucked rhythmically, slowing as his muscles released. He unhooked her leg, and gathered her into his arms to kiss her softly, deeply, their sweat slicked bodies pressed together from ankle to mouth.
 

Long, languorous kisses, his tongue touching, sliding, teasing hers, his breath warm on her face as he moved his head from the right to the left and back again, touching every corner of her mouth. Without words, she knew he was claiming the last bit of her. And as her arms tightened around him, she surrendered to him completely.

"SHE'S A WITCH."
 

Lionel slammed his hand against the steering wheel, punctuating each word with a blow. They were parked under an abandoned weekender’s house across the four lane divided road from Amanda's cottage. With her house being one of the minuscule cottages next to the road rather than one of the mansions which lined the beachside, Lionel had a clear line of sight while being able to remain invisible.

"No, man, she's my stylist and this," Hugh's right hand gestured in a wide circle, "is seriously wrong. I'm not digging the creeper vibe you are putting out right now."
 

"If your friend Amanda is with Vincent Harcourt, she's a witch, and a pretty powerful one if I were to guess."

"Ok, I am going to say this slowly: Amanda. Is. Not. A. Witch."

"Vincent is Magus Corps, and he's here—with her."

"How do you know he isn't just getting laid?" Hugh listened to the waves crashing in time with the grinding of Lionel's teeth. "Look, another twenty minutes of being a creepy weirdo and we leave, okay? I promise that tomorrow I will call Paulina and see if anything's up, even though I think you are totally wrong."

The look Lionel gave him could strip paint.
 

"I'm just sayin', man."

Lionel nodded once eyes fixed on Amanda's house, head cocked at an unfamiliar sound.
 

"Was that a sheep?"

"Yeah, Amanda keeps it as a pet. There are pictures of it in the salon."

"So she has a familiar."

"Very witchy, the evil woolly familiar."

While murder had its place, Lionel could get more use out of a living person than a dead one. He was already out here on his own. The murder of a member of the clergy elite would be enough to put his own head on the block. But really, would anyone miss this hippy?
 

Lionel returned to watching the front of Amanda's house, filing away that her house appeared to be the only one occupied for a mile stretch in either direction. It was not like a sheep was going to be able to stop him.

WEDNESDAYS WERE SLOW mornings for the hairdressing duo of Blown. Unless there were walk-ins, which there never were, they could make calls, work on the books and gossip. On this particular Wednesday, there was only one topic of conversation.
 

"Do you think I could get the same ‘Wow!’ effect if I stopped having sex for a month? 'Cause I don't think I could manage to go eight months,” said Aimee.

Amanda had been about to answer, when the buzzer sounded. They both looked up from the computer to see a pale man in a white wool suit hovering near the magazine rack, hands in his pockets. Through the glass front door, Amanda could see a white Porsche was the only car in the parking lot. She elbowed Aimee then tilted her head toward the door when Aimee looked over at her. Seeing the car and the way the man was dressed, Aimee whispered to Amanda, "Charge him double."

Amanda stepped out from behind the counter, with her very best customer smile glued on.

“Hi, would you like an appointment?"

He turned and looked at Amanda. "Amanda, right?"

The guy had a bright-eyed glint to his eyes that stopped Amanda in her tracks.
 

"Have we met?"

His left arm lashed out and something cold and wet hit her in the face before she could turn away. She wiped furiously at whatever it was, only to find it was water. She blinked at him for a moment.
 

"What. The. Hell,” she said through clenched teeth.

She strode toward him, her fists curled at her sides when her eyes landed on the flask in his hand, a cross engraved into its silver surface.
 

"Did you just throw holy water on me?"

Aimee ran past Amanda, a pair of gleaming shears held above her head dagger style. She ran at him.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!,” she screamed.
 

"
Help me, Jesus
,” he muttered.

Though he launched the flask at her, she ducked it. It slowed her enough though, that he was able to beat a quick retreat. In moments he was across the parking lot, heading toward his car.

 
“I’ll cut you, white boy!” Aimee yelled. “I’ll cut you bad!”

Though she shook the shears at him, she didn’t follow. She stepped back into the salon, dropping the scissors on the front counter.
 

"Oh, my god, they fall for the crazy Asian lady act every time. Classic. Did you see that guy? I think he was high.”

Though Amanda didn’t think so, she wasn’t sure what to make out of him.

"This island just keeps getting weirder,” she said.

MY DAY CAN'T get any better,
Lionel thought.

As though drawn by some homing mechanism, Magus Corps Captain Vincent Harcourt pulled into the parking lot and parked his Charger nose-to-nose against the Porsche.

Fine
, he thought.

"I threw holy water on your witch,” he said. “You'll be happy to know she isn't possessed."
 

Lionel stepped into Vincent's personal space as Vincent climbed out of the Charger. He leaned closer and took a deep sniff.

"A woman's body wash and yesterday's clothes. Are you too old or were you too tired to make it out of bed this morning?"

Vincent slammed the Charger’s door closed, as his eyes scanned the parking lot. Lionel already knew there’d be witnesses.

"Why are you here?" Vincent demanded.

Lionel smiled his most malicious smile.
 

"Do you think you can do a better job of protecting this one?"

"Go fuck yourself,” Vincent growled. “Where is she?"
 

“In there,” Lionel said, nodding at the salon.

“Sarah. Where is Sarah Kennedy?”

"Can’t you smell her on me?” He laughed at Vincent’s anger. Lionel stepped closer, his index finger in the center of Vincent’s chest. “You are never going to find her. You’re. Just. Not. That. Good.”

Vincent's punch came out of nowhere.

"VINCENT IS IN a fist fight in our parking lot,” Aimee called from the front.

“What?” Amanda muttered.
 

Before she knew it, she was standing at Aimee’s side, both of them staring out the large display window.

"Did you see that? The pasty faced guy tried for one of those 'this is Sparta' kicks and your Vincent grabbed his foot and took his shoe."

 
Aimee pressed her forehead against the glass. Amanda could hardly believe what she was seeing.
My Vincent
, she thought. Her heart leapt into her throat, as she covered her mouth and shut her eyes.

"Oh! Pasty-faced religious guy just belted Vincent in the face."

"Is he okay?" Amanda gasped, her eyes flying open.

"He's okay enough to punch Pasty Face in the nuts."

The man in the white suit was limping, trying to back up, but Vincent tackled him.

"He was on the football team in high school,” Amanda muttered, hands over her heart.

"Whoa!" Aimee cried out. "I didn't even know that was possible. I've only see someone Matrix-ninja-flipped in the movies. I wouldn't have thought Pasty Face had it in him."
 

Amanda watched helplessly as Vincent landed on the hood of the Porsche. Incredibly though, as they watched, he quickly scrambled to his feet.

"Oh, no,” Aimee breathed.

"He wouldn’t,” Amanda said, almost pleading.

"River Dancing on the hood of the Porsche." Aimee clapped her hands and laughed. "Oh god, I should totally be videoing this. Where’s my phone?"

The single whoop of a police siren stopped her. But neither Vincent or the man in the suit seemed to have noticed. Though the police officers shouted, they continued to grapple with one another.

“Stop!” Amanda screamed, heading for the door. But before she could take two steps, Aimee had her by the wrist.

“Are you as insane as they are?” she demanded.

Lights still swirling on the top of the car, the officers approached carefully, tazer guns out in front. They got to the man in the suit first, who had pinned Vincent to the hood. He convulsed and slid sideways, eventually landing on the ground.

"Oh, Vincent, don't stand up,” Amanda pleaded quietly. “Not even with your hands up. Just lay there. Oh!”

The second officer tazed him until he lay still on top of the hood. Agonizing panic rose up in Amanda’s throat, as she struggled against Aimee’s surprisingly strong grip.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Aimee said. “You want to get arrested?” Amanda stopped. “I know I don’t. But if you go out there, I’ll have to come with you.”

Amanda paused, watching Vincent and the man in the suit get handcuffed.

“See,” Aimee said, “they’re all right. Let it take its course. They were idiots not to have stopped.” Aimee let go of her. “Just let them cool off, okay?”

As Amanda watched them get shoved into the back seat of the patrol car, it seemed there was little choice.

HUGH SAT IN his office and stared at the battered telephone on his desk. He should have made the call yesterday, when an uninvited Templar had shown up at the door. Nothing about Lionel Stone’s unannounced arrival in Galveston fit with the long-term strategy that Hugh was being forced to fulfill.
 

He drummed the end of a pen against the blotter and tapped his foot in time to the rhythm of the “should I, shouldn’t I” that danced in his head.

With the cold receiver pressed to his ear, he dialed the number, waited for the prompt, and pressed in the code. He bit his nail as he waited out the silence.

A deep voice came onto the line. "You have thirty seconds."

Hugh rushed the words out. "I have an unrequested Templar in-house." Right nail bitten to the quick, he switched to the left.

"His mission goals?"

Hugh held back. It occurred to him that an accurate description of his apparent goals might be ‘short-sighted, stupid shit that draws attention to us.’

"I don't know,” he said instead. “Local authorities are aware of his presence."

There was a loud and put-upon sigh.
 

"How did the Templar come to the attention of the local authorities?"

"Engaged a Magus Corps officer in broad daylight in the parking lot of a beauty salon."
 

"Name of the Templar?"

"Lionel Stone."

Several seconds ticked by. It sounded as though a muffled conversation was taking place.

"Offer Templar Stone any and all assistance. Do not interfere with his mission. Do not engage the Magus Corps officer. Protect your cover identity and proceed as directed. What is your current report?"