Prince of Air and Darkness (14 page)

Hunter grimaced. “Take the bottle with you when you leave.” He wouldn’t touch anything the goblin’s lips had touched before him, and he certainly wouldn’t subject Kiera to such either. After this visit, he might even have to buy a new couch, for he wasn’t at all sure he could get the stench of goblin out of this one now that Bane had fouled it with his presence.

Bane set the wine bottle down and leaned forward. “How are you feeling, Boyo? All better?” The light of cruelty shone from his eyes.

Hunter’s blood boiled, but he didn’t answer, merely meeting the goblin’s stare with one of his own. Bane held his gaze for a long time, and Hunter had the impression the goblin was assessing him, deciding how much taunting he could take without exploding into violence.

It was probably lucky for both of them that Bane wasn’t stupid. He broke off the stare, and when next he spoke, his voice was all business. “Just the usual. The Queen would like a progress report. She’s hoping our little heart-to-heart might have inspired you.”

Hunter crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve made some progress.” He hoped his stance and the belligerence of his expression conveyed adequately his determination not to elaborate.

Bane waited a couple of beats as if expecting more. When he didn’t get it, he grinned again. “Come on, Prince, out with it. Give me all the juicy details. What base did you get to? Or have you already crossed home plate?”

“You can tell my mother I made progress. If she wants any more specific details, she can stop by and we’ll have a chat.”

The goblin’s eyes hardened and he rose from the sofa. “Don’t be a fool. You don’t dare defy her. I know plenty more methods of hurting you without doing much damage, and I’d love to try some of them out.”

Hunter didn’t waver. “I’ve had enough of your interference—and of hers. I will accomplish my mission, and you don’t need to know every tawdry detail.”

Bane looked comically surprised by Hunter’s sudden show of backbone. “Did you learn
nothing
from your last punishment?”

“Remind my dear mother that she needs me right now. If she pushes too hard, her plans will go all to ruin.”

The goblin gave him a long, narrow-eyed stare, then shook his head as he hopped over the coffee table and headed for the door. Hunter moved with him, prepared to lock and bolt the door behind him.

Bane stopped in the doorway and squinted up at Hunter. “I’ll give the Queen your message. And you’re probably right in your assumption that she won’t retaliate just now. As you said, she needs you. But have you considered what may happen to you after you succeed? How many debts will you have to pay then, eh Boyo? Worth thinking about.”

Bane slipped out without waiting for a reply. Hunter closed the door behind him, then leaned his back against the door and wondered what the hell had come over him. Bane was entirely right, and Hunter was setting himself up for terrible retribution.  Once Kiera became pregnant, he would no longer be of any immediate use to his mother, and if he pushed his luck too far, he would die, and die hard.

All his life, he’d fought to control his temper, to keep his hatred of the Court he belonged to buried deep in his heart, to behave as a Prince of the Unseelie Court was supposed to behave. He’d learned how to protect himself at all costs, and how to keep his true feelings hidden behind a solidly built facade that no one could penetrate. His time in the mortal world had weakened the facade, and he needed to shore up his defenses.

Hunter’s choices were to father a child on Kiera or to die. He might not want to hurt Kiera, but he wasn’t ready to die to avoid it. And if he fathered that child, he
had
to survive to protect it.

Hunter would never forgive his own father for the foolish mortal’s impetuous escape attempt, which had stolen from him the only love and security he had ever known. He would
not
do that to any child of his.

Of course, he was getting ahead of himself. He still had a long way to go before he had a child to protect.

Pushing his worries aside the best he could, Hunter set about planning a dinner date that would shatter Kiera’s defenses and finally tempt her into his bed.

Chapter 8

Kiera made the foolish mistake of telling Jackson about her dinner date with Hunter. Jackson had shown way too much interest in her relationship with Hunter as it was, so she shouldn’t have been surprised when he showed up on her doorstep an hour before the date to “help her get ready.”

While she was still sputtering awkwardly, he swept into her apartment in a cloud of Drakkar Noir and manic energy. “What are you planning to wear?” he asked without preamble.

Kiera calculated her chances of getting Jackson to butt out and decided they were nil. “I haven’t the foggiest,” she admitted with a sigh of resignation.

“That’s what I thought,” he responded smugly, marching toward her bedroom, assuming she would follow. Which, of course, she did.

He opened the door to her walk-in closet and flipped the light on, tapping his chin with one finger as he considered the possibilities.

“I’m just going to his apartment, Jackson. It’s not like we’re going to some fancy restaurant where I have to dress up or anything.”

He tore his attention away from her clothes to give her a knowing look. “The clothes you wear for this intimate little dinner in his apartment will go a long way toward signaling your intentions. What do you want your clothes to say, eh? ‘Keep your hands to yourself?’ ‘Take me, I’m yours?’” He indicated her current outfit of jeans and a boxy solid blue sweater with a sweep of his hand. “For instance, that outfit says ‘This isn’t a date, it’s merely a friendly get-together.’” He perused her closet and pulled out a burgundy silk dress with a plunging neckline—a dress she’d bought because it was gorgeous and on sale, but one she’d never found an occasion to wear. “This little number says ‘fuck me.’ Big difference, you see.”

“I thought you were here to help!” she snapped.

He put the dress back and gave her a look of perfect innocence. “I am, darling. You said you’re not sure how you feel about him. Well, by the time we figure out what you’re wearing to this dinner, I think it will all be a lot clearer.”

She groaned and rubbed her face, reminding herself that she had indeed asked for this. She’d told Jackson that things had gotten pretty hot and heavy when Hunter had come over to view the website. She suspected he’d read more into her words than she’d meant to communicate. She backed away from the closet to sit on the edge of her bed, her palms perspiring as she tried to make sense of everything. It wasn’t as though she’d never gone on a date before. It wasn’t even as though she’d never gone on a date where she was contemplating whether to sleep with the guy or not. But damn, she couldn’t ever remember feeling this nervous about it before.

Jackson abandoned the closet and sat on the bed facing her. “Maybe you need a little perspective,” he said softly. “This is not a life or death decision you’re making. And you don’t need to decide right now. All I’m suggesting is that you straighten out in your mind what the possibilities are.”

She sighed heavily. “You’re right, I know. But everything’s swirling around in my head and I can’t tell up from down.” She turned to him, her oldest friend, who’d seen her through happiness and heartbreak. “Do you ever remember seeing me in such a muddle?”

“No,” he admitted. “You usually make up your mind way too early and then ignore any suggestion that you just might be wrong.”

She winced. “Geez, Jackson. You’ve really been getting in some zingers lately.”

“Sorry, but it’s true. If you meet a guy and your first impression is that he’s the kind of man you might like, you suddenly put these blinders on and dismiss every sign that he’s an asshole until you’ve gotten your heart thoroughly stepped on. And if you get the impression that someone
isn’t
your type, there’s not a damn thing he can do to change your mind no matter how perfect he is for you. The fact that you haven’t made up your mind about Hunter is a good thing, in my opinion. You haven’t known him long enough to make up your mind one way or another.”

She made a gesture that was halfway between a shrug and a nod. “So where does that leave me for tonight?”

“Okay, forgetting certainties for a moment: is there a chance you might sleep with him tonight?”

She frowned, but the answer was inescapable when she’d almost let him take her against the wall. “Yes.” She swallowed hard, her hands sweating even more, and she cursed herself for the foolish reaction.

“Then you should dress for success, so to speak.”

“I’m not wearing the red dress, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Not at all. That would signal certainty, and you aren’t certain. What you want to do is let him know that you’re open to the possibility.”

Jackson headed for the closet again, searching her entire wardrobe. Eventually, he emerged with a clingy black pencil skirt—another sale purchase she’d never worn, as evidenced by the tag still hanging from it—and a deep green silk charmeuse blouse.

“Put these on and then let me see,” he commanded.

Kiera raised an eyebrow at him. “Do I get any say in this?”

He grinned. “No.”

Jackson ducked out of the room to let her change. She had only one set of sexy underwear—the one with the black lace bra Hunter had already seen—but if there was a chance she might end up undressing in front of him, she didn’t want to be caught wearing bra and panties that didn’t match. She briefly considered skipping the bra altogether, but that was not her style at all. She decided Hunter was way too male to notice she was wearing the same bra—or care even if he
did
notice—so she went with the set.

The skirt fit tightly to her curves, and the button-down blouse hung just to the middle of her hips, letting most of those curves show. She looked at herself in the mirror from all angles, wondering if the outfit looked sexy or if it looked like she should have bought the next size up.

“How long does it take you to change, woman?”

Jackson’s voice startled her out of her contemplation of her reflection. “Come on in,” she beckoned, and he soon obliged.

If he weren’t gay, she would have described the look he gave her as lascivious. His eyes glinted with satisfaction, and his smile was practically wolfish. He whistled softly. “You ought to let me dress you more often.”

She sniffed and turned back to her reflection. She had to admit, she was decently covered, and if she’d seen some other woman wearing the same outfit, she wouldn’t have thought she needed to go up a size. It was just that wearing something so form-fitting wasn’t at all her style. “I don’t know . . .”

“Well I do. You look stunning.” He made a face. “Well,” he amended, “your
body
looks stunning.”

“Hey!” she cried.

“That clown-wig hair will never do.”

“I’m about three seconds from kicking your ass.”

He was entirely unintimidated. “Someday you’ll have to take my advice and get it cut. But for now . . . Do you have any mousse or gel?”

Her chin jutted out stubbornly. She’d heard more carrot jokes as a kid than she could bear to remember, and she’d come home from school crying so many times it had become almost habit. In an attempt to be helpful, her mom had taken her to the hairdresser and had her hair cut short. Far from being helpful, it had caused the kids to call her Little Orphan Annie. When she’d become an adult, she’d vowed she would never again let anyone make her feel embarrassed about her hair. “I like my hair just the way it is,” she lied.

“Do you have any mousse or gel?” he repeated.

“This is
me
,” she said, grabbing a lock of hair and shaking it for emphasis. “If he doesn’t like it, then tough.”

Jackson put on a look of long-suffering patience. “Do you have any mousse or gel?”

She glared at him, but knew in a battle of stubbornness, he would always win. Without speaking to him, she stalked into the bathroom and dug in the cabinet under the sink until she unearthed an ancient tube of gel, from which she had used maybe two squirts. She tossed it at Jackson, who caught it nimbly.

He wrinkled his nose and blew on the tube, raising a cloud of dust. Other than some muted clucking sounds, however, he refrained from comment. Next, he badgered her about hair ornaments and she finally revealed a cache of barrettes she hadn’t used in ages. These days when she wanted to restrain her hair, she settled for scrunchies.

Jackson picked out a large barrette with an antique bronze finish, then dragged her to the bathroom. Reminding him that he was not a hairdresser seemed to do no good, and he bullied her into wetting her hair. Then, he squeezed about a gallon of gel into his hands and applied it liberally to her head. He then forced her to go digging again to find the diffuser for her blow dryer. When her hair was dry, he brushed a few locks away from her face, securing them with the barrette just below the crown of her head.

He declared himself finished and finally allowed Kiera to look at herself in the mirror. She gasped.

What he had done had seemed so simple—just applied some gel, gently blow-dried, and pulled some locks into a barrette—but the effect was just short of miraculous. The wild frizz of curls was tamed into neat spirals tumbling down her neck and shoulders, and having the locks closest to her face caught up in the barrette revealed lines she hadn’t realized she had.

Jackson put his hands on her shoulders, his face appearing beside hers in the mirror. “It doesn’t take a hairdresser, Kiera. All it takes is a willingness to be pretty.”

She stared at him in the mirror for a long moment, trying to understand what he meant. Then she shook it off and forced a laugh. “All right, Pygmalion: you’ve done an admirable job.” She turned around to face him, the false smile fading. “Any advice for me on what I should do tonight?”

He leaned against the wall and gave her a gentle smile. “I’m afraid that’s something you’ve got to figure out on your own. The best advice I can give is to listen to your heart.”