Kiss at Your Own Risk (9 page)

Okay, like the situation wasn’t crappy enough without the eight-legged freak coming to life in recognition of a kindred spirit. The widow was waking up because this man reflected the truth deep inside Trinity’s being, the one she’d been fighting for so long.

Was the delight in killing contagious? If he sneezed on her, would she suddenly be infected with the need to celebrate life’s little victories by snuffing out another life? She didn’t want to be around him. Not when she could hear the little miss digging on him. “Nevermind. It was a stupid idea—”

“I agree.”

She froze. “What?”

“You tell me how to kill her, and I’ll do the deed.” He got a highly satisfied look on his face. “I never thought that would be an option for me, but to have the chance to do it myself…” He grinned. “Hot damn. I’d trade a century of torture for that chance.”

“Torture?” He was into torture
and
murder? Spending time with him while the deadly nightshade was in residence inside her was like asking a Labrador retriever to work in a dog food factory. “I don’t think—”

“And I’ll take out your monster too. It’s done.” He held out his hand. “My name is Blaine Underhill, and I’m your new partner.”

Every instinct screamed at her to run from this man who was everything she was so terrified of being. But she couldn’t let her dad die. Not for her. Blaine Underhill might threaten her, but he also gave her a chance. This man could save her father’s life, without cursing her to eternity. If she made it to Sunday, and the curse was gone, all she’d have left to contend with would be her soul.

The rest would be up to her. She could do it. She knew she could.

He raised one eyebrow.

Slowly, she set her hand in his, and he clasped it instantly, his grip hard and unyielding. He smiled. “Welcome to hell, Trinity Harpswell.”

Angelica used to be fast enough.

But when the stockinged foot with the red pedicure caught her under the chin, she knew she was slipping. Or, more like flying across the room with a bruised jaw and a swollen lip. Yay, her. She braced herself, but that was sort of like the
Titanic
trying to slow down when it hit the iceberg: not a lot of mileage coming from that move.

She smashed into the light blue padded wall of the Girl Power room, and slumped down to the floor. Covered the whimper of pain with a snarky snort of derision that didn’t sound authentic enough to satisfy her. Note to self: Get thicker padding. Addendum: It was not empowering to think about how much pain she was in.

Or how much she really wanted to cry. Talk about a major pain factor. What the hell was that cushion stuffed with? Steel with a backing of concrete?

“Oh, Angelica, I’m so sorry!” Mari rushed across the room toward her. “Are you okay?”

“It was a perfect hit.” Ow. Pain. Ow. Need help. She managed a plucky smile as she waved off help from the assistant who was just too young and impressionable to ever be allowed to know how much she had just hurt her mentor. “Nice job.” Oops. Her voice was a little too high-pitched. Nothing like a heel plant to the solar plexus to make a three-hundred-year-old grandma realize she was definitely no longer in her second century.

Mari was biting her lower lip, and her mascara had run down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was pale. Her navy sweats were hanging off her hips, and the girl looked like she’d lost about thirty pounds in the last six hours. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hah. You didn’t hurt me.” Angelica hopped to her feet and let out a shout of pain that she quickly morphed into a Sheena Warrior Princess call of victory. Me, feel no pain. Me, tough. Go me. “I was just showing you how a mortal man will react to that kind of hit. You can’t damage
me.
”

Which was true. No one could touch her. So, why now? Why today? She didn’t feel pain anymore. Not like this. It looked like it was time for a little spa treatment to update all the spells protecting her from this, that, and the other thing. Last time she’d felt pain like this was when—

Nope. Not going there. Bad memories were specifically banned from her brain. Especially when they had to do with a certain six foot four black witch who had shown a young maiden all there was to know about love, sex, and magic.

Until she’d figured out all the stuff he’d lied to her about, of course.

Unlike Mari, who wouldn’t hit the century mark without knowing everything she needed to know about all three, because she was lucky enough to be under Angelica’s brilliant and devoted tutelage. Angelica eyed the gal who was on the fast track to becoming her number one apprentice. “What’s wrong with you, dearie? You’re awfully pale today.”

Mari walked over and retrieved a pale yellow towel from the stack carefully folded next to the silver tea set. Angelica noted a smudge on the sugar bowl and tried to remember which warrior had been in charge of tea today. Right. It had been the junior one. Pascal. So promising, but such a stubborn beast sometimes. She had been planning to assign him to Blaine when…

She smiled. Blaine would be back. He was doing so well. She was so proud of him. Another century and he’d be almost a good guy. He already had the manly warrior thing down, and he was turning into a halfway decent human being. She had such hope that he’d be the tender, loving considerate mate within the next hundred years. Her first real success. She was so proud of herself. And him, of course.

Mari wiped the sweat off her brow before turning to face her. “I’m upset about Christian.”

Angelica had to stifle a sigh. Of course the droopy bottom lip was about Christian. “Listen, my dear—”

Mari sniffled. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

Oh, for the love of all that was well-muscled and manly! “Of course he is.” Hats off to her for keeping the impatience out of her voice. She would never talk to any of her charges the way she’d once been derided. The Den of Womanly Pursuits was all about the love. “But it’s just part of his character development. If the boys step up, Christian will survive.” Hopefully. The tentacles were dragging him down a little bit more aggressively than she’d expected. And since she couldn’t try to save him until Blaine showed up… well… she was hoping Christian found an inner strength and fast.

Mari put her hands on her hips. “You promised he’d be okay if I turned them in. You said he wouldn’t die.”

“He’s not dead, yet.” Ye gods. Could her girls be any softer? “Haven’t you learned anything? Christian still needs work to be worthy of you. Didn’t you say you hadn’t had a single multiple orgasm with him?”

Mari’s cheeks reddened. “Well, yes, but he said that most women can’t—”

“See?” Angelica set her hands on her hips, her jaw flexing with aggravation. How many years had she bought into that old shtick that it was her fault she’d never had the big “O?” It wasn’t until she’d tried out the Rose Bud Rocket Booster of Love that she’d learned exactly who had been at fault during her marriage. Yeah, uh, it ain’t been the girl. “That’s what unskilled men do to hide their inadequacies: They try to delude us that it’s our fault so we accept less than we deserve. I’m trying to make these guys worthy of you, but you have
got
to be strong enough to stand up for yourself.” She gently clasped Mari’s shoulders. “Know your worth, my dear. It’s the greatest gift you can give yourself.”

Mari gave her a skeptical look. “So I can be three hundred years old and the only sex I get is from men I have to torture into touching me?”

Angelica blinked. Ow. Direct blow to the gut. Two in less than a minute? Not a good start to the day. She immediately thought of the visioning exercise she’d done less than ten minutes ago, imagining the dark warrior of her fantasies tenderly caressing her. The feel of his hand on her body. Gentle. Of his own free will. Wanting to be with her—

“I’m starting to think that maybe your plan isn’t all that good.” Mari scowled. “I’m tired of hurting Christian. Despite all I’ve done to him and his friends, he still likes me. In fact, I think he might be falling in love with me.”

“Love?” The four-letter word jerked Angelica back into the present. For a split second, she couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about. Her brain was still leaking the residue of man-hands on her naked body. Then she saw Mari’s pout, and she remembered. That’s right. Mutiny discussion underway. “For heaven’s sake, Mari, this is for your own good. Love is the ultimate disempowerment tool, at least until everything is set up correctly.”

“You’re just bitter because—”

“Hey!” Time to drop the BFF act, apparently. She always felt so bad being sharp with her girls. Hated it when they made her give the tough love. “I’m not bitter. I’m smart. I believe in love, but with the right guy who’s adequately trained to be good to you. Trust me when I say you don’t want to fall in love with a man before he’s properly cultivated. Men have too much power over us, and once they win our love, they can abuse us and we come running back for more—”

“Christian’s already nice to me. He doesn’t deserve to suffer any more.” Mari grabbed her sweatshirt. “I’m going to go visit him, and I’m not going to hurt him.”

Angelica sighed as she watched her most promising protégé march out of her Girl Power room. Did no one appreciate what she was doing for them? If she didn’t get her love vaccine up to snuff soon, all her girls were going to be wrecked. Her chest tightened at the thought of her sweet babies falling in love. Too soon, too soon. The minute Trinity Harpswell was ripe for harvesting, Angelica was going to give her girls the greatest gift a mother could give her darlings, and they would so appreciate it when they were no longer vulnerable to the men they fell in love with.

“Gram, you have got to give it up. I mean it.”

“Prentiss!” Angelica beamed as she turned toward the south wall in time to see her favorite (well, her only) grandson shimmer through the padding. As always, he was wearing a D&G suit, and the diamond in his left ear was even bigger than the last time she’d seen him. She hurried across the room to give him a hug. He towered above her now, taller even than his dad had been.

He crushed her in a hug that made her smile.

“Always the show-off, aren’t you?” she teased. But the muscles were impressive. “You’ve been working out?”

He winked at her as he released her. “It’s a guy thing. We need to flex.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know all about the male need to strut.” She touched the glittery bowling ball in his left ear. “What are you up to now, Prentiss? Eighteen carats?”

Her grandson, man of fame, power, and money, groaned like a little boy. “Gram! You have got to quit calling me Prentiss. I bought out the Grim Reaper’s contract almost a hundred and fifty years ago. The name’s Death now.”

“Oh, please.” She flicked the earring, making him wince. “Prentiss is a name that denotes intelligence and sensitivity. Death is… well… it sounds like you’re a seventeen-year-old Goth drug addict who lives in a blacked out van smoking crack and hanging out with sixteen-year-old prostitutes.”

Her unrepentant grandson grinned. “Ah, the youth I failed to have. I like the sound of that. I think I’ll go buy a van.”

“Prentiss! No decent girl is going to like a man named Death.”

“Fortunately, I don’t need to be liked. I’m rich and powerful. It pretty much does the job with the ladies.” He sauntered across the room, his glistening shoes soundless across the gym mats. “And the stone is forty-one carats, by the way. It’s a blue diamond, originally given by Ivan the Terrible to his first wife, Anastasia, on their wedding day, among other illustrious owners. You like?”

Sweet Hail Mary. What she would give to get her hands on her arrogant progeny for a year. Even a couple of months in the Den would clean him up a bit. What chance did he have of ever being worthy of a decent girl who could love him? Yes, he was a lowland filth project when it came to women, but she knew he had a beautiful heart. Or at least he used to. She was so worried about him. “Wearing a diamond as big as a golf ball makes you look arrogant.”

“I am arrogant.” He walked over to the row of photographs on the wall, all her girls who had gotten a fifth degree black belt or higher. He pointed at the third one, a picture of Mari. “What’s her name? She’s new.”

“No.” Angelica plucked Mari’s picture off the wall. She’d known those golden locks were a bad move as soon as Mari had decided to wear her hair down around the men. “You don’t get my girls. You aren’t nearly nice enough.”

“My girls think I’m nice.” Prentiss flipped her a grin that was so cheeky it reminded her of the happy youth she’d raised. Before he’d become overly aggressive, dominating, and entirely unapologetic, of course. But she knew the good man was in there somewhere, even if he’d done his best to kill him off.

She hid Mari’s picture under the vase of white roses. “Your girls tolerate your insensitive and demeaning treatment of them because you pay them large sums of money to allow you to behave badly.”

Prentiss walked along the line of photos, dismissing each woman he looked at. “I know. It’s a racket. They’ll put up with anything for a chance at my money and the fact that I’m singlehandedly responsible for the fate of their souls.” He turned and gave a long look at the photo she’d hidden beneath the flowers. “It works.”

Angelica moved in front of the vase, blocking his view of Mari’s photo with her body. What lascivious thoughts could a man possibly have when confronted with a grandma? “I love you, my boy, but when my black widow inoculation is ready—”

He snorted. “It won’t work on my girls. There’s no love.”

She cocked her head, surprised by his comment. Her orphaned grandson had never uttered that word in her presence. Not since he’d stood there as a five-year-old and watched his parents turn to ash when one of his grandpa’s experiments went awry. “Doesn’t that bother you? That none of your women love you?”

“Of course not.” Prentiss ambled over to the weapons table and picked up a pocket dagger she’d magically enhanced to unerringly find the target that its wielder was picturing in her mind. She’d created the spell for her younger girls, who didn’t have the skills to protect themselves yet.

He ran the blade along his finger until it drew a trickle of blood. “I’m the most powerful man in the universe. Nothing bothers me, least of all the fact that the two hundred women living in my palace don’t love me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and hurled the dagger straight at the wall in front of him. The dagger spun in mid-air, so fast it was a blur, then it shot in the other direction and embedded itself in a landscape on the west wall. “Huh.”

Angelica grinned. “You were thinking of the painting, so that’s what it hit. I just finished the spell yesterday.”

“Impressive as hell, Gram. I’ll take a dozen. It’ll come in handy for some of my lower-skilled apprentices to take out the reluctant souls.” He walked over and plucked the dagger out of the wall. “It’s not good for business to let beings get away after I’ve taken money to ensure their demise.”

Angelica raised her brows. “You so need some time at my school.”

“Thanks, but I have too much to do. The privatization of the Death business into a for-profit corporation has been an incredible time sink.”

“Ah, life is so tough.” Angelica removed the knife from his hand. “This is for my girls. I didn’t create it to make money.”

“We need to talk, Gram.” Her grandson’s amusement faded, and he got his “I’m going to lecture you” face on. She almost laughed when she saw it. It reminded her so much of the eight-year-old walking into her office and telling her that she needed to double the number of chocolate chips in her cookies.

But the man her co-chef had become folded his arms across his mighty chest and shot a dominating tone in her direction. “The word’s getting out that you’re going a little crazy over here with the matchmaking scheme. I’ve actually had to assign a full-time ward to watch this facility because you have so many beings so close to death all the time.”