Lyon (9 page)

“Men of every class walk by, weighing your worth in terms of the coins in their pockets. You preen and woo them with your smile. But no one stops…until…finally, one man passes…and slows. He stops.”

Juliette shivered, in spite of the fire he'd roused in the corner grate. Behind her, his palms slid up and down her chilled arms, connecting her to him and warming her far more than did the fire.

Why didn't he ask his questions and get them over with? She opened her mouth to provoke him with questions of her own, but the words that came out were not those she intended.

“You should flee this place,” she whispered.

His hands paused only briefly, then dropped, finding her waist. Gently they slid upwards along her sides, shaping over her ribs, and higher. Then back to her hip, then upward again, retracing the same path time and time again. And with each upward sweep, he brushed nearer to the underswells of her breasts, until she was nearly mad with the need to have him take their weight in his palms.

“But he wants you,” Lyon murmured in that same hypnotic rumble. “You can see it in his eyes.

“You nod and turn to lead him inside the
lupanare
to your small cell. There are paintings along the hall, depicting various carnal positions he might enjoy engaging in with you. Various fetishes you might cater to. Some clients require such inspiration and instruction. You wonder if he gazes at them as you pass. You glance back and find his eyes are on you as though he wonders how you will look without your tunic. You wonder what he will do to you when you're alone with him…”

Next door, Gina's moans had turned husky and passionate. They entwined with the metered thumps of a bed hitting against the wall and were erratically punctuated by the crack of the lash. Tomorrow her skin would be welted where all could see, but she enjoyed showing off the marks almost as much as she enjoyed receiving them.

And, seeing them, Juliette would silently envy her.

The other girls assumed she was happy in her self-imposed celibacy. That she had no desire to experience the visceral entertainments all of them enjoyed. But she knew her own fleshly failings and knew she was on dangerous ground here. She would call a halt soon, but not yet. Not yet.

“At last you arrive in your windowless cell. You pull the worn fabric of the curtain aside. Your customer looms larger here and his body seems to fill up the room.

“You move toward your cot, leading him, as you have led other men before him. It's stone, covered with a pallet of straw you laid freshly after your last customer.

“While you're turned away from him, he comes behind you. And moves your hair aside. And puts his lips here, along your throat.”

Something brushed the tendon behind Juliette's ear. Lush, masculine lips. She angled her neck inviting more and they followed the downward slope to kiss the ridge of her shoulder.

Yearning traveled in their wake, and she waited to hear what he would say next. Would die if she did not.

“He touches you and you feel his warmth through the lone garment you wear. Most customers merely lift up the front of your shift and push their way inside you. But this one. His touch is different. Slow.”

Lyon's groan blended with her gasp as his hands went lower, bunching in the fabric at her hips to grasp and rock her against him. Caged in his trousers, his shaft was a thick, knotted bulge that nestled along her rear cleft and soared to sear her spine. Strong capable fingers teased and rustled and massaged, seeming intent on memorizing the rounded shape of her dèrriere.

Every sentence he spoke wound Juliette's emotions tighter and tighter in her chest. She clasped her hands at the front of her waist, nails biting into her skin.

“He waits for a sign that you're ready for him. That you want what he offers. He asks if he's your first that day and you lie, thinking he wants to be. But he hasn't a care for such matters. He enjoys an experienced woman…”

Juliette's lips parted, and she stared straight ahead, unable to look away from the painting that inspired him. For the first time in years, she was actually responding to the physical touch of a man. He'd come to her as a phantom earlier tonight, but now he was all too real.

Seeking relief, she shifted ever so slightly, igniting the slick, pleasurable drag of the nether lips high between her legs. They were swollen, puckered. Wet with her own gush. And gasping for want of what he could provide.

It was as though she were on the bridge again. The memory of his size and shape moving inside her channel was vivid. The real thing was hard at her back. He could lift her skirts and be inside her. So easily.

Her head lolled back on the strong shoulder behind her and she covered his hands with hers. And ever so gently, she squeezed.

A guttural bellow from the next room shattered the spell Lyon had woven around them. Gina's customer had found his release.

Juliette straightened in Lyon's hold, staring blindly at the wall. “Stop. Th-that's enough.” She dropped his hands and fisted her own between her breasts, shielding her heart against her own emotions and from whatever he would say next.

What had she been thinking? Valmont would come and she had learned scant news in the vein of what he wanted. Nor had she voiced her own questions.

Lyon's breath stirred her hair. “It was you on the bridge tonight, was it not?” he demanded softly.

She spun within the circle of his arms and pulled him close.

“Answer me,” he repeated, holding her away.

“You know it was,” she gritted.

“You could see us,” he stated, searching her eyes.

“
Oui
! For pity's sake!” Clasping a hand at his nape, she forced his lips down to hers. “Speak to me only in whispers,” she scolded, nodding toward the mantel and its peepholes. “The walls have ears, even here.”

Lyon adjusted his legs wider. His paws dropped to cup the cheeks of her rear, lifting her to his heat. Hungry lips slanted over hers and it felt like a homecoming. Everything was at risk yet she had never felt safer and more protected. Except for the snap of the fire and the intermittent sound of their heated moans, quiet reigned.

“That creature with you. I saw how she was made,” Juliette managed between kisses. Was that besotted voice really hers?

“Umm.”

She cupped his strong jaw in both hands and drew away just enough to part their lips. Amber glinted at her from beneath half-closed lids. In the firelight, his lashes threw spiked shadows across his cheeks.

“What was she?” Juliette breathed.

His gaze fell to her mouth. “…a Nereid.” His lips went back to their exploration.

Nereid
. Juliette considered the word.
Not a mermaid.

“Her name?” she insisted, turning her face aside.

“Sibela.”

Disappointment shaded her features, but she only said, “What is she to you?”

“What is Valmont to you?” He kissed her once, too briefly, then leaned in until his hips pinned hers to the frescoed wall. Muscled forearms planted themselves on either side of her with a harsh thump. “A lover?”

From next door, they heard movement and voices as the neighboring occupants quit the Moorish room. Footsteps moved down the hall toward the salon leaving stark silence in their wake.

Would the guard switch his attention to them now? Who else might be listening?

She lowered her voice until he could barely hear it. “Nothing. He is nothing.”

Lyon groaned and his lips slid down the side of her throat.

A slender, silk-encased leg rose to curl around the back of his thigh.

Through layers of clothing, his prick burned at the entrance to her channel. He shifted his weight and the hard ridge rubbed her.
Mmm.

“What were his instructions to you concerning me?” he asked against her skin.

“I'm supposed to be courting you. More than the other patrons, at least tonight. I'm to learn more of your business.” There would be hell to pay if she did not.

“Toward what end?”

“He's jealous. Of your success. It would not help matters if he knew I was with you…” Between them, his cock twitched and she moaned. “Like this.”

Determination lit his face. “I'm lodging in the hotel at Quai d'Anjou. Do you know it?”

She caught his eyes and nodded curtly. Of course she knew it. Set along a tree-lined lane adjacent to the River Seine on the Île Saint-Louis, it was one of the most enduring and costly lodgings in all of Paris.

“Come with me there.”

“Now?”

With his hand, he hooked her bent leg higher around him, bringing them indecently close. “So that we may speak freely.” His voice lowered, sexy and beguiling. “And so that I can fuck you without an audience.”

She gasped, pushing against his hold. “
Non!
Did you not hear what I just said?”

“If not tonight, then tomorrow night. Prepare one of your infamous dinners if it affords you a worthy excuse to visit me.”

She shook her head. “I'm otherwise engaged. Forever. Go back to Tuscany. Tonight. Don't come back here.”

He growled, kissing her long and deeply until she was ready to agree to anything. She shouldn't want this, she berated herself. Whatever it was he made her feel just by being near, it was a mistake to want it. Had she learned nothing three years ago?

His lips pulled back slightly and hers followed, loath to let him go.

“Your monsieur comes,” he grudgingly informed her.

She blinked up at him. “What?”

“Valmont.”

Juliette let out a squeak of distress and jumped away from him, her heart skittering wildly. Somehow Valmont had slithered near without her being aware. She began straightening her clothing and repinning her hair.

Lyon leaned a shoulder against the wall, folding his arms over his chest and watching her.

A moment later, the sharp rap of knuckles came at the door. “Juliette? Are you within? Is Lord Satyr with you?”

The door opened.

W
ith the arrival of M. Valmont, the stench of murder hit Lyon with the impact of a rifle blast. Anger roiled, slashing red high along his cheekbones. Though not as well developed as that of his brothers, his olfactory sense was far keener than theirs when it came to a few isolated scents. Such as blood.

His gaze fell to the man's clean, manicured hands. They'd been wet with it earlier today. Drenched with the lifeblood of hapless, innocent victims. Animals slaughtered more for the thrill of it than for the necessity of filling a stew pot.

Muttering under his breath, Valmont bypassed the two of them and pointedly strode to the mantel, where he moved the carafes and fan aside until they no longer blocked the peepholes. Then he joined them, all smiles and beneficence.

Up close, the man appeared even more cadaverous, Lyon decided, complete with sunken cheeks and blue lips. His black eyes sparkled with the sheen induced by the imbibing of drink. Absinthe, by the smell of him. He had probably once been considered handsome, but his addiction was taking a toll on his health.

“I see you are becoming acquainted with our Juliette, Monsieur Satyr,” Valmont offered by way of opening conversation. He stroked a length of lustrous hair from where it lay on her breast, brushing it over her shoulder in a way that lay subtle claim to her. Her features grew still, carefully arranging themselves into an innocuous, doll-like expression.

“Attempting to,” Lyon replied. His eyes narrowed on her. Had she lied? Was she fucking this corpse? It mattered not to him that she'd had men before. But none—and especially not this one—would ever find their way between her legs again. That pleasure, he would reserve for himself from now on.

Something else had changed about her as well. He inhaled carefully, searching the air. While he'd held her there toward the end, she'd begun to want him in spite of her contention that she shouldn't. And with the wanting, her scent had escaped its fetters and entered the air like an alluring incense fleeing some exotic genie's lamp.

Yet now, it had abruptly gone again. Was she able to rein it in at will? Such a feat would take an incredible amount of resolve. Of self-denial.

Lyon reached between her and her keeper, ostensibly to select a libation from the wine cart, but at the same time managing to part the pair. Lingering, he poured himself a drink he didn't want and offered them drinks they refused. And in the process, he managed to widen the gap between his companions until Valmont was completely nudged aside.

“Are you relations?” he enquired then, using his glass to gesture between the two and indicate a possible connection.

“Oh!
Pardonnez moi!
I must introduce myself.” Valmont made a show of politeness, pressing that recently bloodied hand to his crisp white shirt and ducking his head in a half-bow. “I am Monsieur Pierre Valmont. I function as guardian to Juliette and have for the past—” He looked around Lyon's bulk toward her. “How long has it been,
chèrie
?”

“Three years,” she supplied woodenly.

“
Oui,
but of course,” said Valmont.

“That's about the time your family's fortunes soured, wasn't it?” Lyon asked, turning the screw.

“
Oui,
” Valmont said again, eyeing him. A look of intense hatred he couldn't quite conceal flitted over his face and then was gone.

His father's vines had been felled by the phylloxera, and it appeared he held Lyon and his family accountable for some reason. Or perhaps it was simple jealousy for another's good fortune. He was no good at untangling such things.

“Mademoiselle Rabelais and I were discussing that very circumstance earlier this evening,” Lyon told him. “But our conversation had since moved on to other matters. In fact, when you joined us, I was attempting to coax her into preparing one of her dinners at my hotel tomorrow night. I've traveled over a week to reach Paris, and the thought of a well-prepared meal holds great appeal.”

Beyond Valmont, Juliette was shaking her head and making furtive hand gestures in an attempt to dissuade him from pursuing his course. He ignored her. As smarmy as Valmont was, perhaps he would aid him in one thing—securing her consent.

“I have informed monsieur that my Friday nights are engaged for the foreseeable future,” Juliette interrupted.

“Alas, and I must return to my estate soon,” Lyon went on. “Though I have assured her I am willing to meet any price for the offer of dining in such excellent company as hers, I cannot seem to budge her from her position.”

Valmont's eyes lit at the promise of a hefty payment. “Happily, Juliette is mistaken,” he said, drawing her surprised glance. “Her calendar has an unexpected opening and she will be available to you after all. Tomorrow night, did you say?”

Her eyes flew to his face. “
Mais non
—” M. Valmont maneuvered around Lyon to capture the fluttering bird of her hand in the cage of his. Lifting it, he stroked its back. “
Ma chère
, Monsieur Satyr sojourns in Paris only briefly. It is a great compliment to find him vying for the favor of your culinary talents.”

Lyon studied her, expecting some debate on the issue. She obviously wanted to refuse. But she only stared at the pale hands caressing hers.

“I can assure you my ward will provide an unforgettable repast. I imagine you're already planning it in that lovely head of yours, are you not, Juliette?” Valmont straightened the lace along her neckline, touching her intimately in the process. She showed no indication she'd noticed.

“Of course,” she replied tonelessly.

Eyeing that proprietary hand on her, Lyon imagined himself ripping it away and breaking its every bone. The instinct to claim and protect her rose in him.

His thoughts went to the door. He could shove Valmont through it and into the hallway. He could keep Juliette with him inside this room, lock the door with his mind, yank up her skirts, and have at her. His cock surged, heartily endorsing this plan.

On the other hand, getting himself arrested on his first night in Paris was undoubtedly the wrong way to go about things. He'd elicited Valmont's assurances that she would come to him tomorrow.

He should depart. Now, or he'd act on his plan, providing fodder for the Parisian gossips for years to come. It wouldn't matter to him personally, but it would adversely affect his family. Always his first consideration.

Slicing the undercurrents that swirled around him, Lyon spoke. “It's settled then. Juliette will visit me tomorrow at my hotel. No later than four in the afternoon.”

Her eyes protested, letting him know she would not come to him willingly.

But once the arrangements were finalized, he left, feeling his gut wrench at the loss of her as he did so. Outside on the street, he glanced back toward the lights warming the windows of Valmont's apartments and shoved his hands into his pockets. Considering the fact that she was somehow subduing her scent, the pull of Juliette Rabelais's charms was surprisingly strong.

Having been within touching distance and yet not mated her, he was finding it physically painful to withdraw. The remembrance of her scent still lingered in his lungs, urging him to return to her and make her his.

Her skin would be cool against his heat, her lips soft yet not too sweet. He would drown his cock in her. Drown in her sea-green eyes…

…sea-green…eyes. Sibela. Twenty hells!

Lyon's head whipped around toward the park. For the past hours, he'd largely managed to forget there were
two
Faerie daughters in Paris. And that he had promised to meet with Sibela again tonight.

His long gait ate up the ground as he crossed the deserted street and took the steps down to the park. He wasn't looking forward to this assignation.

He was hurting for lack of sex, but for the first time in his life the need was specific to one woman. And it wasn't Sibela his body pined for.

One coupling with Feydon's sea-child might be excused, but if he were to make the mistake of mating with her again, his fate would be sealed with hers. Regardless, it would be impossible to lie with another after having found Juliette. He didn't delude himself that he was in love with her. But he was infatuated in a way he couldn't remember ever having been with anyone before her, and felt boyishly eager at the prospect of seeing her again.

Sibela wouldn't take kindly to the change in their relationship and would demand an explanation. He had a feeling that mentioning he'd spent the past half hour wrapped in her sister's arms would be unwise. But he needed to settle things with her and determine what she knew of Juliette, if anything.

He'd lain with Sibela only once and not during Moonful. A bond had been forged, but it was weak and could still be broken. That would be easier with her cooperation. Therein lay the rub.

Surely, she had no deep attachment to him, though he'd sensed she had some underlying motive for seeking him out. What would induce her to give up any claim to him? He ran his holdings through his mind, pondering which might suit her best. An offer of jewels? Land? He had a wealth of both. He would simply determine what it was she desired and give it, rather than himself, to her.

Of course, something must be done to keep her protected, but he was currently at a loss as to a solution. There were no more of his kind here on earth. No fourth half-Satyr brother to husband a superfluous fourth half-Faerie.

However, it seemed his questions and any rendezvous were to be postponed. Though he paced the riverbank on all sides of the park twice, neither Sibela nor her scent were anywhere to be found.

“Excellent,” he muttered irritably. He threw himself onto one of the benches lining the park walk, choosing it because it afforded a view of the gray townhouse with the red door across the way.

He had no doubt that Sibela would return once she'd finished pouting, and it occurred to him that perhaps it would be best if their confrontation were delayed. Once Moonful passed, they would both be in a more reasonable frame of mind and body. Then he could calmly introduce Feydon's daughters to one another and take them both with him to Tuscany. There, he and his brothers could sort out their parentage and determine any obligations toward each of them.

He groaned inwardly at the prospect of Nick and Raine's reactions when he arrived with two females in tow, rather than one. They would no doubt take great delight in teasing him about his supposed magnetic qualities.

As though to punctuate his thoughts, a woman drifted over the grass toward him, seeming about to speak.

“I'm not here,” he murmured, with a curt gesture of dismissal. She paused, gave her head a confused little shake, and then turned back toward the steps that would take her up to the bridge.

He glanced around. There was no one else in the park. She must've descended from the Pont Neuf specifically to visit him. Sighing, he erected a mild force-spell around himself, so no others would be drawn here.

What was enticing them to him in such droves? he wondered. Was it the fact that three creatures with ElseWorld blood had come together here in Paris? In a Human city unused to such things, they very well could have stirred up some latent magic. He didn't want to consider the other possibility—that ElseWorld itself was somehow seeping into this world.

There was movement at the high window of Valmont's apartments. As Lyon watched, Juliette came to the glass. So, that was her bedchamber, as he'd guessed earlier in the day.

Seeing her again sent a quick jolt of lust through him. Unfortunately, she didn't linger, but only twitched the curtains closed, leaving him humming with it.

Normally in this sort of situation, he would've conjured a Shimmerskin to fuck away the idle hours while he stood—or sat in this case—guard over Juliette. A Shimmerskin's iridescence was difficult to subdue even under a bespelling. Still, he'd taken such chances before in the open. He could've found a hiding place. Perhaps sequestered himself and a partner in the shadows of the bridge or gone to his hotel.

However, the urge to mate just any random female had quieted in him. His eyes went to the high window again.

Because of her.

Unfastening the front of his trousers, he slipped a hand inside. It dove deep, settling itself in the warm nest of bristle at his groin.

Experienced fingers that knew what he liked curled around the root of his shaft and he gripped himself.
Umm.

He tipped his head back and luxuriated in the caress of moonlight on his face and throat. Tonight's moon waxed only one cycle shy of complete fullness. Less than twenty-four hours from now, the most sacred night of the month for the Satyr would occur, gripping him in its carnal thrall.

Under an uncut moon, he would be at his most potent. Able to impart childseed if he so chose. It was a serendipity that his kind had been designed so that they could fornicate where and with whom they chose on all other nights, without worry of siring children or contracting disease.

A woman of experience, Juliette would no doubt take precautions against conception, unaware that he could easily supercede them at his discretion. She would be angry if he did so. But it was tempting. A child would go a long way toward protecting her in the way King Feydon had commanded. Since a Satyr child required only one month's gestation, he could become a father with staggering swiftness.