0.5 One Wilde Night (2 page)

The voice in my head persisted.
“It’s a spell. Only a spell. You can resist it.”

But the voice was wrong. Dead wrong. Everything was spinning in my mind, whirling faster and faster. I couldn’t stem the rushing tide of desire, I couldn’t even breathe right anymore. A rage of lust so strong it seemed almost a living thing coursed through me, demanding to be satisfied. Immediately. Like now, already.

“Resist—”

“Well, help me, dammit!” I bit out. “I can’t do it alone!”

A groan of what sounded like real pain shuddered through my mind, but this time it was accompanied by a sensation of hands cupping my breasts, pulling me up against a broad chest. I gaped down, trying to understand what was happening, but nothing was there except the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and—

I sucked in a breath as the massage turned insistent, and heat radiated through me. How long had it been since I’d been touched? Besides when I’d gotten stuck in that elevator with those guys from Cirque du Soleil?

“What—what are you doing?” I gasped.

“Keeping you safe until you break through the spell. Break through it now, if you would.”

I didn’t want to break through the spell, though. Not for just this hot second, when all the world around me vibrated with need, with want. My eyes drifted shut as I inhaled the heady spices, and I imagined the guy who I was pretty sure belonged to that voice, those hands. Rich, bronze skin, sleek dark hair, golden eyes. It was always the same picture, and the picture was
good
.

My imaginary friend had shown up in my dreams only once, but it had been the perfect tease—leaving me wanting more, craving the touch, the whisper, the kiss that wasn’t real because it was in my head and not my bed. The deliciously perfect lover, minus the pillow talk.

But this wasn’t a dream. This was really happening.

Though my eyes reported no one in my peripheral vision, a man’s teeth bit down on my shoulder, like a wolf pinning its prey. I tried to maintain my dignity, but was no denying the groan of need that built up somewhere near my core and gained in intensity as it moved up my body. My head spun and my senses lit on fire as the very large, very male hands abandoned my breasts to skim down my torso, locking on my hips for a tantalizing second until the pressure continued, sliding down, down—

“Princesa! Princesa!”

The carnal tsunami ceased as suddenly as it started, and the sensual cocoon I’d been wrapped in unraveled just as fast. I shuddered like a dog bursting out of cold water, gasping with reaction. I felt the psychic touch ease back, replaced by words that were far too crisp and certain.

“The spell has been interrupted. You’ll be safe now.”
Pause.
“However, Miss Wilde, when you do want me—truly want me of your own free will…I’ll be waiting for you.”

“But who—” A sudden rise in the volume of chanting broke through my daze the rest of the way, and I twisted sideways as the crowd lurched again toward the dais. My brain came back online barely in time to avoid me face-planting amid a forest of stomping feet.

As it was, I was caught up in a tide of humanity, their desire a living thing. Thankfully, my focus was stronger now, sharper, which probably had something to do with the elbow in my left kidney and the meat hook that had clamped down on my upper arm.

“Cadela,” growled a familiar voice—my admirer from several rows back. I decided I liked “Deusa” a lot better. I turned to tell him so, bending my fingers into a tight, double-knuckled battering ram and punching him in the throat.

Down he went, a half-dozen of eager, sex-starved women piling on.

That should keep him busy for a while.

The damage had been done, though. There were now too many people between me and Fernanda. The pulsing crowd carried me past stage right, where two massive guards blocked the way with crossed spears. Still, this was the only path Fernanda could take, so all was not lost. She’d have to head this way with her sacrificial boy-toys to reach the ceremonial bed. Tonight, through Fernanda’s carnal and fatal offering while she wore the Trinket of Awesome Power, a whole new set of amulets would be consecrated, and the cycle would start all over again.

Unless I got to her first.

I scanned the room again, then halted abruptly, my eyes narrowing. Apparently, I wasn’t the only wallflower at the dance after all.

Nigel Friedman stood naked and leaner than I remembered him, lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, ever so slightly poleaxed at the sheer immensity of skin on display. He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he particularly short. He wasn’t muscle-bound but neither was he soft. He was the kind of man you might miss in a crowd, mainly because that’s what he wanted you to do. His blond hair was buzz cut and his jaw was looking extra-chiselly this evening, but his blue eyes were the most arresting thing about him—constantly shifting, constantly on alert.

Now that sharp gaze was fixed on something deeper in the crowd, and I followed his sightline until I saw what held his attention. A grim-faced woman was on the move, not appearing at all interested in the carnal delights she was being offered left and right. She was small-bodied but fit, and she was completely focused on Fernanda.

I didn’t know her, but she looked vaguely Russian, with coal-black, blunt cut hair, dark eyes, and a round, pale face dominated by heavy lips.
Great
. Russians were always a pain in the ass.

And this was my orgy, dammit. I got here first.

Fernanda chose that moment to issue another ululating howl that sounded completely unlike the pretty, vivacious Carnival princess she’d been for the past week. Instead, she was transforming more and more into an Icamiaban high priestess, her body flexed and proudly on display, her adoring men falling back to stare at her like slack-jawed yokels. She shoved her fist toward the ceiling and spoke a stream of fluent Portuguese, to which I joyfully responded along with the rest of the crowd, something like “Keyaramus!” Which didn’t sound at all like “yes”, but who was I to judge? Beyond three or four emergency words like “mojito,” I sucked at languages.

The word appeared to be some sort of signal, however, because the crowd reacted again, reaching up with eager hands. Fernanda and her male entourage threw themselves into the throng. The Queen of the Naked Mosh Pit, she was handed over one admirer at a time, heading for the door the guards were barring.

I could work with that.

Taking up my position, I shoved one slender woman out of my way then struck out with my heel at a hard angle, connecting with the man directly in front of me. He buckled with a satisfying scream.

“Keyaramus!” I shouted again as I took out the guy to my left as well. He was no more than eighteen and certainly
not
old enough to be invited to an orgy, even in Brazil. I almost felt bad when he went down amidst a squeal of excited feminine voices, but I figured he’d rally. Then there was one more…

With five sets of arms suddenly down to two, the knot of mosh pitters in front of me faltered. Suddenly, Fernanda was there, toppling into my arms. Our mutually oiled-up bodies created a tableau out of Dante’s inferno, with everyone grabbing at her face, her arms, her hair, her breasts.

Including me. But I had a slightly different end game in mind.

Fernanda’s cry of ecstasy became one of alarm as she hit the floor. The two giant guards bolted forward and thrust their spears high, roaring as if they’d been waiting to do it their whole lives. People shrieked but refused to fall back as Fernanda thrashed around. Her long hair tangled around her, blinding and binding her.

I yanked my amulet from my neck and slid the catch, baring the sharp blade at the base of the frog. A slice, a swipe, and a sheathing of the blade later, I seized hold of Fernanda’s arm and pulled her to her feet. She swept aside her hair and patted her chest, panting. I placed my own jade amulet into her hand. Glassy-eyed, she clutched the stone, and her lips curved for just a few precious seconds.

Time to go.

The crowd converged on Fernanda again, their hands stretched out greedily like supplicants at the altar. Plunging back through them was like swimming against a hurricane, but I kept my head low and my hands working fast. I pulled the leather cord out of my hair, hastily restrung the amulet, then tied it around my neck.

The damn frog was hot—way too hot, actually. Hot enough to burn.

Nothing I could do about that now.

I was halfway to the door when Fernanda screamed.

Chapter Three

Truth to tell, when I’d taken this job, I hadn’t been entirely sure about the jade amulet’s legitimacy, no matter what my client had been willing to pay. But the moment I’d touched the thing as Fernanda tumbled into the Sea of Grabby Hands, I’d revised my opinion.

Now the blasted frog was practically frying my chest, but I couldn’t reach for it or act like it was anything other than another pretty bauble in a room full of them.

Given my naturally cynical nature, I’d also questioned Fernanda’s legitimacy as one of the Connected. I wasn’t sure how sensitive she was, if she was truly a member of the psychic community. She certainly wouldn’t have been the first “priestess” chosen simply because she had a nice ass.

Yeah, no. Fernanda was the real deal. The moment I’d broken the fall of her muscled, curvaceous body, I realized the Princesa had practically zinged with power. If she hadn’t been so locked into her high priestess zone, I’m sure she would have figured out that I was a Connected as well. I wasn’t about to give her time to consider the finer implications of that realization.

Another stream of Portuguese wailed out over the crowd, louder this time, and everyone finally panicked. From what I could tell, they were being ordered to stop, to hold, and this group knew better than to think that good things were going to come from that.

They ran for the door, hurtling me forward, all of us pushing and shoving as we burst out of the room and up the wide stairway. We erupted in a naked geyser straight onto the dance floor of O Diabo, the Rio club that had already been raving when I’d first shown up here in broad daylight, three hours before.

Now the place was manic. Night had fallen. The energy of the city had jumped a few more notches, hitting fever pitch as the evening wore closer to the final night of parades at the Sambadrome.

O Diabo was a stone’s throw from the enormous venue, where Fernanda was due to march in a parade in a little under an hour. She was on a tight schedule.

In fact, for one sweet shining moment, I hoped the sight of the Sambadrome looming over us would be to my advantage. Fernanda might hit the open air and realize that, ritual-shmitual, she had a booty to shake.

Dare to dream.

Raucous cheering filled the club. I snuck a glance at my watch—then realized I wasn’t wearing one. My clothes were stashed behind O Diabo’s bar, courtesy of a very agreeable bartender who’d expressed significant doubt that there was really a full-tilt orgy going on in the club’s subbasement, but who’d been more than willing to help me strip. A good man, but there was no way I could stop for my clothes at this point. Not with at least two other Finders after me.

“Sara!” As if on cue, a hand snaked out of the crowd and latched onto my bicep, wheeling me around. Of course, the dashing British operative had managed to recover his clothes. Nigel was nothing if not a strategic thinker. Which was why his chest was covered in black tech material, his legs encased in running tights. He had on shoes, too. Actual shoes.

And, more to the point, there was a knife in the bastard’s other hand.

He slashed at my neck. My instinctual reaction to jerk away actually helped Nigel as he yanked the amulet free—taking what felt like a good chunk of my skin with it. He dangled his prize for just a moment to gloat. I grabbed for it, but he was already dancing back.

“That’s mine!”

Nigel, apparently unfamiliar with my jurisdiction over the amulet, turned and dashed out of the bar, his laughter floating back to me. I hadn’t taken three steps after him when a powerful, feminine hand snagged my left arm, whipping me around the other way.

Fernanda’s eyes were bright, almost manic. Before she could eat my face off, I pointed ahead. “Vamos! I don’t have it, he does! Get him!”

She apparently understood enough of what I said, because she took off again, her burly bodyguards pounding after her. She’d also somehow managed to find a microdress and platform heels, but I didn’t have that kind of time…or concern for modesty. I raced into the street, ignoring the cheers and catcalls as I focused on my quarry dead ahead.

They weren’t hard to spot. Nigel might have been ex-Special Forces, but he wasn’t Batman. I could see him racing ahead of the lumbering guards. As for Fernanda, the girl could move. She charged after Nigel with her arms bent and her legs cranking. Never mind the platform heels, she was gaining ground.

I followed about fifty paces behind, mainly because I had no shoes and was running through the streets of a city in full Carnival mode. Of course, losing that amulet would hurt a lot worse than bruised heels. Trying not to wheeze, I picked up the pace.

As we rounded the corner, Nigel braked sharply. A fifty-person-strong samba school shimmied in place, waiting while three-story stadium doors swung open in front of them. I blinked as every sense was assaulted with light, color, and an unbelievably loud wall of noise.

We’d reached the Sambadrome.

Enormous screens lit up the world like a revolution. Music blared over loudspeakers intense enough to vibrate my bones. An explosion of brightly hued revelers erupted from impossible-to-believe, larger-than-life parade floats that lumbered forward like elephants among ants. And everyone—everywhere—was dancing.

This was Fernanda’s home away from home. Showing that her lungs were nowhere near as crapped out as mine, she shouted loudly, her voice carrying over the music like a call to arms.

The men and women prepping an enormous Day of the Dead float reacted instantly, abandoning their positions and throwing themselves at Nigel. The cagey Brit changed direction on a dime, skimming around the parade float and racing toward the next one in line. Fernanda’s laugh was exultant, as if she’d somehow chased Nigel into a cage.