Kiss at Your Own Risk (10 page)

Angelica mimicked his pose and lifted her chin. The days when a man could talk down to her were so over. “Okay, I’ve had enough grief today on my tactics. I’m helping my girls defend themselves against the kind of emotional devastation only a man can wreak, and I’m doing my best to turn my men into decent guys. It’s not my fault if they act like a bunch of resistant teenagers and get themselves killed!”

“Hey, I’m all for offing as many as possible, but you need a new business plan.” He gestured at the peeling paint hanging down from the ceiling. “You do realize that you’ve been operating in the red for almost three hundred years now, and the only thing keeping the creditors from burning up the place and taking your intestines hostage is the fact that I keep killing off their head enforcers.”

His comment made her pause. “You’re doing charity work for me?” Was that so sweet? Granted, protecting her from assassins was the role of a lover and husband, but still. It felt lovely to have a man looking out for her. Not that she needed it anymore, but wow…

She felt her throat tighten. It felt good. And that was just an embarrassment. If her girls ever found out that she couldn’t deliver the “I don’t need a man” attitude she demanded of them, they’d laugh her out of the place.

“Hey, don’t be trying to diss my reputation by making it sound like I do anything for free.” Her grandson grinned. “Most of these guys have enemies, so I’m running a healthy profit off protecting you, but still, you’re brilliant. You’re sitting on a major cash cow here. Torturing can go for a lot these days. Governments are desperate for some experts.”

“This facility isn’t about torturing. It’s about creating lasting and meaningful unions between men and women. I don’t torture for fun!”

“Well, no, for profit, of course. Doing things for fun is a waste of time.”

Angelica sighed. “And to think I once thought you had a chance to be a decent man.”

Death grinned. “You know you love me, Gram.” His smile faded. “But I think we need to get you financially solid here.”

How tired was she of hearing that from him? Did no man think a woman was capable of a decent business plan? “For your information, everything is coming together nicely. Trinity Harpswell will be fully ripened within the week—”

Prentiss snorted. “The black widow thing again? You’ve been working on that for centuries. Each girl ends up falling in love with someone more powerful than she is, and she gets axed when she tries to kill him. It’s not a viable business model, Gram.”

She stiffened at his derisive tone. “Trinity is different. She’s stronger, and once the curse sets, I’m going to harvest her and make a fortune off the curse. Every woman who has ever been in love with a jerk but couldn’t summon the willpower to get him out of her life will need it. And there are billions of women in that situation! It’s brilliant!” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. After all her work, everything was coming to fruition. It was time. Her vision was finally coming to life.

But Prentiss was shaking his well-coiffed head, and she could tell he wasn’t even listening to her. “Gramps isn’t going to be happy when he finds out you’ve wasted all his resources. You’re going to empty the last of his reserves by the end of the month.”

“Gramps?” Angelica felt like someone had sucker punched her in the belly at the mention of Napoleon, the black witch who had been her first love. Her husband. The father of the wonderful daughter who hadn’t survived his reckless experiments. The grandfather of the man standing before her, the boy she’d barely rescued from his clutches.

Angelica had spent almost a week crying on the shower floor after Napoleon had walked out on her three hundred and twenty-seven years ago, then it had taken her another twelve hours to crawl across that tile floor to the towel rack. Only the realization that her darling grandson was counting on her had gotten her off that cold tile and trying to rebuild her life.

She could still remember the day perfectly. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, so proud that she’d made her first batch of cookies without ever moving from the chair or touching a single item from the kitchen. And they were good! Napoleon’s favorite kind, apple cinnamon raisin, and now he could have them whenever he wanted, even when she was working. How happy she’d been when he’d taken a bite and declared them the best he’d ever had. His smile. The warmth in his eyes. His pride for how he’d taken her from a 99 percent mortal seventeen-year-old into a powerful apprentice who could whip up a batch of cookies with nothing more than magic sparkles.

And then he’d set that cookie down on the midnight blue granite counter. Shoved his hands in the pockets of those faded jeans that hugged his lean hips so nicely. Given her that “I’ve been a bad little boy look,” and then announced that his black magic contracting business had gotten too big, and he wasn’t interested in the domestic lifestyle anymore. He was done with pretending to be the nice husband, the good guy, the mentor, and he was checking out.

And then he’d turned and walked out. Just like that.

Sweet saint of agony, that moment when she’d pulled herself out of her stupor and raced after him. Stopped in the doorway of their castle just in time to see two women with long legs, too much makeup, and magically enhanced breasts climb into his new Lamborghini. They’d both hunkered down out of sight in the region of his lap, and then he’d driven off with a screech of tires.

The smoke rising from the asphalt was the last thing she’d seen of her no-good, son-of-a-bitch true love.

The smell of burned rubber still made her nauseous.

Napoleon was her inspiration, in every way, for the gift she was bringing to the young men and women in her care. He was the reason she’d become the pillar of strength, a beacon of love and nurturing, and the self-love goddess that she’d become. Anything to give the lucky women and men in the Den of Womanly Pursuits a chance to avoid what had happened to her.

So, yeah, three cheers and bottoms up to the bastard.

But the fact that he was the driving force behind her empire didn’t mean she actually wanted to
think
about him, let alone hear his name spoken.

And her very astute grandson was well aware of that. She eyed him. “Why on earth would you bring him up?”

Prentiss raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t heard?”

Angelica gripped the edge of the weapons table at the sudden caution in his voice. “Heard
what?
”

“That I’m back, my dear.” Napoleon’s deep voice filled the room

Angelica’s whole body shuddered. The room started to spin, and her skin got hot, prickly. She was going to pass out—

No! She was stronger than this! He couldn’t affect her anymore. For heaven’s sake, it had been three centuries!
I am a goddess. I am a beautiful, sexy woman. I love myself.

Prentiss’s brow furrowed, and she saw the concern on his face. “Gram—”

That did it. No way would she take pity from the man who now owned the soul of every being in existence, a man who had once been a boy who slept in her bed every night because he was too scared to sleep alone once his grandpa had left him.

She raised her chin, took a breath, and turned to face the misogynistic liar with great hair who had nearly destroyed her on every level of being a human, a woman, and a witch.

As he and Trinity shook hands to seal the bargain, Blaine was not pleased to note that her skin was still as soft as it had been when she’d tried to stop him from pre-empting her ankle. Well, it was actually the fact he still liked the feel of it that was decidedly inconvenient.

Never thought he’d have to worry about getting all brain-drained over a woman, let alone one linked to the she-devil who’d spawned an entire generation of well-trained female pain-inflictors. But damned if he didn’t just want to keep on holding that cute little hand of hers.

Verdict in: His mental acuity had apparently not survived the Den intact. He was officially insane, because he still hadn’t let go.

“So.” Trinity plucked her hand out of his, and he released it.

Self-discipline of steel. He was such a man.

Trinity turned toward the bathroom sink, grabbed a bottle, and began to spritz the contents on her wet hair, something a completely ordinary woman would do. Weird. He never thought of women as… women.

She glanced at him. “Tell me why this woman who has your friend needs to… die.”

“Angelica? Maybe because she’s a hellacious bitch from hell who gets her jollies out of kidnapping children and then torturing them for centuries, assuming they live that long.” He leaned forward and sniffed. Whatever Trinity was spraying smelled good. “Is that lavender? With a hint of mint and a dash of apricot?”

Trinity paused mid-spray and eyed him in the mirror. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.” What kind of question was that? “Angelica’s not going to be winning any social justice awards, despite what she may think.”

“No. I meant about the apricot. How could you possibly smell that?” She held up the bottle. “I love apricot, but even I can’t distinguish it in this spray.”

“What?” Had he said the apricot thing aloud? He replayed his words in his head and realized he had. What kind of warrior talked about lavender and freaking apricot? For hell’s sake, he’d been out from Brainwashing Central for almost ten hours now. Toughen up, man! “I can kill a man with an apricot from a thousand yards away.” Yeah, that sounded better.

Trinity raised her eyebrows. “And you think that’s cool?”

He shrugged, folded his arms over his chest, and propped himself up against the wall. “It comes in handy.” He made his voice nice and deep.

She set the bottle down and turned to face him, her gaze searching his face. “You really don’t mind taking lives?”

He frowned at her tone. “Why would it bother me?”

She sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a pale blue comb. “I guess it’s good.”

He watched her pick up a lock of her hair and run the comb through the ends. “What’s good?” He had no clue what they were talking about. Couldn’t concentrate on anything except that comb sliding through her hair.

“That you’re the way you are. It’s safer for you that you scare the living daylights out of me.”

He was fascinated by the way she worked through the tangles. The witch and her progeny cleaned themselves up with a flick of their hands. He’d never seen a woman comb her hair before. It was… sensual… yeah… the way her fingers drifted over her hair… the way she tugged so gently at the knots.

“Blaine.”

“Mmm.” Her fingernails were a pale pink, barely shimmering in the dim light of the bathroom. None of the bright, daring colors he was used to seeing. Her hands were small. Delicate. He was used to thinking of women’s hands as weapons. Hers seemed different. He reached out and brushed the back of her hand with his fingers.

She froze. “What are you doing?”

“Touching you.” He turned her hand over so he could inspect it.

Trinity went very still. “What are you looking for?”

“Not sure.” He traced the lines on her palm, felt the softness of her skin. There was no tingle of black magic. Just skin. That was the difference. She wasn’t tainted. He sandwiched her hand between his. “Your hand is warm.”

She swallowed. “I always run hot.”

“I like it. I’m used to cold hands.” He pressed her palm to his throat. She didn’t try to strangle him. Didn’t try to hurt him. Damn, it felt good.

Her green eyes were wide and wary as she allowed him to play with her fingers. There was no nefarious plotting in her expression. Just uncertainty with a faint blush to her cheeks. She looked like a woman, not an enemy.

Her comb slipped out of her hair and caught the neck of her shirt, pulling it away from her collarbone. Exposing the witch’s mark.

He tensed at the sight of that yellow flower. At the reminder that she was the Chosen, that she’d been spliced with the witch’s DNA to make her a receptive vessel. Getting smitten over her hands just because they didn’t make his skin crawl? Not a great plan.

“Now you look mean. I don’t like mean.” She smiled, relief flickering in her eyes. “So keep it up.” Trinity pulled free and turned away, but her cheeks were flushed.

He scowled as he watched her finish her hair. He’d be a fool to buy into the blushing thing. He’d seen women fake girly blushes and then unleash a herd of starving wolverines on him. The minute he let his guard down, Trinity would come after him. Didn’t even matter if she didn’t want to. It had been bred into her with magic, evil, and probably a little bit of torture.

His tattoo began to burn at the thought of Trinity getting tortured. Yeah, not a smart choice to like her, but getting pissed on her behalf sure felt good. Another item to add to the list of reasons why Angie-Babe needed to be shipped off to the world of eternal night.

Trinity set the comb down and grabbed a ponytail holder. “Okay, they’re calling this thing I need to kill the Chameleon. So, the first thing we have to do is find it—”

Unacceptable. “No. Witch first.” Feeling empathy for a sexy green-eyed victim wasn’t the same thing as being stupid enough to actually trust her to uphold her end of the deal once she’d gotten what she wanted.

Yeah, he still had his shit together. It was all good.

Trinity shoved her hair up in a ponytail and turned to face him. “Here’s the deal, Blaine. You can’t kill this witch without me, but I can kill my target without you. So you need me, and I don’t need you. So we do mine first, because I won’t help you until my dad is free.”

He narrowed his eyes. Huh. She had it right. How the hell had she twisted it like that? On the other hand… “You won’t kill it.” He was bluffing, but he was pretty sure he was right. She was talking smack, and she didn’t want to kill Chammie-Boy.

She sighed and pressed her lips together. “I don’t know if I could do it,” she admitted.

Hah. Bingo. High five, anyone?

Her gaze went to his. “But I do have the capability to accomplish my goal. Can you say that about yours?”

Well, that was handy. They both knew the answer was a negative. How about them apples? Somehow, he’d been so distracted by her hair, or her breasts or whatever, that he’d forgotten to watch his babbling and he’d spooned her too much info. And now she was using it again him?

Nice work, Trio.

Aggravating, but still, he liked it. The chick was smart, using her brain instead of black magic branding irons, and he respected that. Almost made him want to kick back and spar with her for a bit. War with words. Hadn’t been much of that in his life. Unfortunately, not really the time. “Listen, I could make you do it the way I want, of course, but we don’t have time. So, here’s the deal. We’ll find the Chameleon, have a tea party for two with Angelica, and then I’ll do the double down and take them both out at the same time. That make you happy?” Not that he wanted to make her happy, of course. He folded his arms over his chest. “That’s the plan and you can take it or walk,” he added. Yeah, that was better.

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth, like she knew she’d won. “That’ll work.” She fished a folder out from behind the toilet. “Here’s the information on the Chameleon.” She set it in his hands. “I don’t even know where to start. Any ideas?”

Blaine started to leaf through it. “Changes form,” he read. “Different one each time. Kills in random areas.” He felt the wheels in his brain begin to turn. He looked at a map of the assassinations and saw a pattern. Had a good idea where it would hit next. It felt good to go to battle against a foe he could defeat.

But as he studied the file, he couldn’t help but slant an occasional glance at Trinity as she finished getting ready. He wasn’t used to seeing a female get dressed, put on makeup, dry her hair. He liked it. Made her seem softer. Less like an instrument of torture and more like a female. Less perfect. More touchable.

He wasn’t used to looking at women as… well… accessible, and as he watched her pull on a pair of sneakers, he felt something stirring in him. Something that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and protect her from the witch, like he was trying to do with Christian.

Yeah, like that could happen. Doing that would blow all his plans to shit and leave Christian dying in hell. He shut the file. “I’m going to take you back to my place. You can stay there while I take my team out after this shapeshifter.”

“I have to go with you. It’s part of my contract. I have to bring the…” she stumbled over her words. “Heart.”

“I’m going alone.” No way did he want to spend more than a minute with her. She tempted him and he was just not down with that. Didn’t make him weak to admit it. Made him strong. Any good warrior knew exactly where his limits were and made sure to take care of them.

She frowned at him. “I—”

He took a gamble. “You want to be there to see that thing die? To see me rip out its heart?”

She paled and slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. Her face was stricken.

Shit, now he felt like an ass for putting that expression on her face. But that was okay, because now he was in control. Of her. Of the situation. He liked it. It was how it should be. But he couldn’t help rubbing her shoulder to ease her stress. “It’ll be okay. You won’t have to see it.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably best.”

He squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Just grab what you need to stay for a couple days at my place. I’ll take care of everything.” Huh. He liked saying that. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane. I kill bad guy. Beat chest. Tarzan howl.

Her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Hi, Reina—” She stopped, and her face got even paler. “Oh, no. I’ll be right there.” She slammed the phone shut. “We have to go.”

And then, before he had a second to stop her, she was running for the door.

“Hey!”

But she was already gone.

What was up with this woman? Didn’t she understand he was in charge here? Didn’t she comprehend how important this was? It had to be done his way, or Christian was going to die.

But when he heard Trinity’s footsteps thunder down the stairs of her building, he knew she wasn’t thinking about his issues. And that really pissed him off.

He’d had one hundred and fifty years of his life being complicated by the witch and her progeny, and it ended now. No murderous black widow with sea foam green eyes was going to mess it up for him.

Blaine headed straight for the window he’d busted through on the way in, and grinned as he launched himself out of it.

Yeah, she’d be surprised when he was waiting for her outside.

Then she’d realize exactly who was in control.

***

Trinity’s heart was racing as she sped down the stairs, clutching her phone.

And the EKG overkill wasn’t from the exertion.

It was from the way he’d held her hand, as if she were some magical gift, some precious jewel. The way his throat had moved when he’d placed her hand on it, in the ultimate gesture of trust. She stumbled on the steps, and barely caught herself on the railing.

Didn’t he understand how dangerous she was? Didn’t he care what monster swirled inside her?

Her phone rang again and she quickly answered it. “Reina! How is Cherise?”

“Oh, man, you’ve got to hurry. She’s locked herself in the conference room and she’s crying her eyes out. I can smell smoke, and I know she’s got one of her pitchforks ready to jam it into her heart. She said she’ll talk only to you.”

“Tell her I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Trinity shoved her phone in her purse as she leapt off the last stair. She didn’t have time to talk down one of the desperate clients at Triumphant Women Jamboree, Inc., the divorced women’s empowerment agency she worked at, but she didn’t have time not to.

Helping these women was the only thing she did that made her feel good. It nourished the nurturing side of her she was so desperate to tap into. It gave her hope that there was something worth redeeming inside her soul. No matter how worked up she was, the widow always went to sleep the moment she walked into TWJ.

And now… dear God, now… she had to go. Blaine was unhinging her, and pulling Cherise back from the edge of utter despair would stop the bleeding in a way nothing else would. She flung open the door to the parking lot and screamed as she plowed right into a hard wall. A wall that was warm and smelled really, really good.

Blaine’s arms closed around her, and she caught the faint scent of smoke. “Going somewhere?”

She looked up at him, and saw the hard lines to his face. Felt the tightness of his grip on her shoulders. The man was a solid mass of muscle and immovability that made her stomach do a little dance. Oh, crap. Her female side was totally jonesin’ for some loving from him. Was there any planet on which a manly man was convenient? Because this wasn’t exactly handy dandy for her right now. “It’ll take ten minutes, and if I don’t do it, I’m going to snap.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And that’s bad.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m a black widow. Take a guess.” The She-Beast-of-Love was stirring again. How could she not? Blaine might have killing issues, but he was so freaking tough that what woman wouldn’t respond to him on a biological level? Not that biology would get him killed, but Trinity had read way too many issues of
Cosmopolitan
not to know that women turned sex into love the way they turned chocolate into a three-course meal.

Example #1: Barry.