Tempt Me (26 page)

Bailey was so angry she could scream. To think that she'd almost— she whirled, turning her back on him. A sob tried to escape, but she gulped it back.

Rafe opened all the bathroom doors to make sure they were alone. She heard a loud click as he locked the entrance door from the inside. Felt his body heat as he came up behind her. “Bailey, that wasn't what it looked like.”

She turned to face him. “And what, exactly, do you think it looked like?”

An uncomfortable expression skittered across his face. “I can imagine. You left, I was standing there talking with Flynn, and she was suddenly...there. On me. Dragging me out to the dance floor. I didn't want to be rude, but she...” He jammed his fingers into his hair with a frustrated sigh. “Sasha tried to help by changing the music,” he said tiredly. “I was trying to figure out how to extricate myself as gracefully as possible when you came out and saw us.”

“Yeah, you looked like you were struggling, all right.” She focused on a whorl of wood on the door instead of him. The sight of the other woman winding herself around his body had sent a stake through her heart. “I get that you’re an incubus, Rafe, but how many lovers do you expect me to be able to handle?”

“She's not my lover!”

She shrugged with what she hoped was a modicum of sophistication. “Sex partners, then.”

Rafe snorted a laugh. “If you only knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Bailey, I haven’t slept with anyone but you in over a year.”

Whatever she'd expected him to say, that wasn't it. “You're shitting me,” she blurted.

“I wish.” He turned toward the wall of mirrors and crossed his arms over his chest, his lips twisting with something other than humor. “It's entirely your fault, you know. No one else will do.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, before he turned to face her again. “Bailey, I’m falling in love with you.”

She goggled at him. Rafe Sebastiani, love a human? Love
her
? She couldn't believe it. Couldn't let herself believe it.

Could she?

“I love you,” he repeated.

Her breath caught. No man had ever looked at her with an expression of such misery and hope before. “Are you sure it’s not just—” she waved her hand vaguely “— Operation PDA?”

“Hell, no—though Lukas’s reasons for asking us to work together weren’t exactly lily-white.” He stepped closer. “Why do you think I kissed you the way I did in front of everyone I love?” Another step. Suddenly he was standing right next to her, his luscious lips a hairsbreadth away from hers. “It’s you, Bailey,” he whispered. “Not Shane, or Lorin, or any other lover I’ve had. It’s...you.”

Could his words be true? Her heart must have thought so, because she closed the distance between their lips and kissed him.

Rafe’s groan held more than a smidgen of relief. He slipped his arms around her, lifted her, and set her on the wide ledge of the makeup mirror, delving into her mouth with his agile tongue. He sipped from her, drank from her, like he had a raging thirst that could never be quenched.

She spread her knees apart so Rafe could step closer. They both groaned when she wrapped her leather-clad legs around his hips, when the thick ridge of his penis nudged against her empty core. Need coiled, tight and low.

His face was taut with need, his eyes glittering. He was so beautiful, and he was hers.

A frantic, feral sound escaped from her throat as she reached for his belt buckle, unfastening it with a metallic clank. His cock leaped into her eager hands. He hissed in pleasure at her touch, tipping his head to the ceiling, teeth clenched.

There was a knock at the door. “Bailey? Rafe?”

Sasha.

“There's a line forming out here,” she called. “Can you... take this upstairs, to my office?”

Her lips quirked. She had very fond memories of the other time she and Rafe had gone upstairs to Sasha's office.

“Damn it.” Reluctantly stepping back, Rafe helped her down from the ledge, making sure she was stable on her feet before letting go. “Just a minute,” he called back, carefully zipping his pants over his unruly erection. “I'm going to have to walk outside like this,” he said, disgusted, “and it’s entirely your fault.”

She giggled. “Surely a sex demon with your reputation can’t be embarrassed by such things?”

Another knock. “Rafe...”

“Coming.”

She snickered.

“Be good,” he admonished, dropping a kiss on her nose as he unlocked the door.

So many people, staring right at them. So many knowing looks—including Sasha's—but if Sasha’s wicked grin was any indication, she heartily approved.

Though her cheeks burned, she felt oddly proud. She, Bailey Brown, had made out in Underbelly’s bathroom with a gorgeous incubus who was temptation incarnate. Who was having difficulty walking.

Who said he loved her.

“Let's go home,” she said, taking his hand.

Rafe smiled down at her. “Let's.”

––––––––

C
heep cheep cheep.

Rafe stilled, listening. What the hell...? Something had awakened him from a fabulous dream: Bailey, her eyes raining love like a thunderstorm, making love to him with an abandon she'd never exhibited before. Except it hadn’t been a dream. She was lying naked in his arms, cuddled up against him, her arm slung possessively across his stomach.

No, it hadn't been a dream at all.

He'd driven from Underbelly to his place as fast as the deteriorating road conditions allowed, her hand wandering his thigh, almost singeing him through the fabric. The minute he’d pulled the Jeep into the garage and the door had closed behind them, the hand moved north, cupping him, measuring every inch of his need with her clever little fingers.

With a perfectly good bed upstairs, he’d almost made love to her right then and there.

Make love? Rafe almost snorted aloud. He’d almost come in her hands. It had been...a near thing. But he’d held himself back, yanked on the reins, and gotten them out of the chilly garage. They’d started stripping each other during the short elevator ride up, losing clothes as they kissed and groped their way across the living room, as they lurched upstairs to the bedroom. By the time they'd made it to the bed, he'd been frantic—frantic to claim his mate.

She hadn't returned his words of love yet—not out loud, anyway—but she’d expressed her feelings with her hands, her touch, her expression, the way she trailed her tongue over his body.

He smiled slightly, looking down at her dear little face. His little PK had shed her inhibitions, all right, making love to him like the little overachiever she was. Her eyes flicked back and forth behind her closed eyelids. Was she having erotic dreams, or coding the solution to some sticky computer problem? He couldn't read her while she slept—not yet, anyway.

That took time. Over time, he'd learn her more subtle emotional nuances—

Cheep cheep cheep.

Ah, he recognized the sound now—her mini, downstairs in her purse. Bailey shifted against him, her brow wrinkling slightly, before she settled again without opening her eyes.

She responded to the damn thing like a mother with a fussing infant. Well, not tonight. It
wasn't
a crying infant, and she was going to damn well get some sleep.

Moving carefully, he slid out from beneath her, shivering as he left the warm nest of the bed. With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she was still asleep, he padded downstairs, almost slipping on the tiny violet thong lying on the second step from the bottom. Her leather pants sprawled on the floor next to the couch, and his pants and belt lay companionably nearby. His T-shirt was a pool of white lying alone on the hickory floor, but a pile of colors tangled together near the door—his shirt, and her candy-colored silk camisoles, lying on top of their coats, taken off first.

Her purse must be under the coats.

Lorin would be amused at his deductions.
Rafe Sebastiani, foreplay archaeologist.
He flipped on a light so he could—

Cheep cheep cheep.

Damn, the thing was loud, and the purse wasn’t under the pile of coats, but lying alongside it, where the heavy fabric couldn’t buffer the sound. With a quick glance toward the stairs, he snatched up the purse and opened it, peering inside. How could such a small purse hold so much stuff? Rather than take the time to dig, he dumped the contents onto her coat. A circular container hit the hardwood floor and broke open. Dozens of pills skittered and bounced, a tiny pharmaceutical hailstorm.

“Shit.”

The mini pealed again, the trio of cheeps repeating themselves over and over again. Plucking up the mini, he fumbled around, pressing buttons until the thing fell silent.

“Rafe?” Bailey stood at the top of the stairs, gloriously nude, one hand rubbing her eyes, and the other resting on her stomach. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, babe.” He indicated the mini, still in his hand. “I was trying to turn this thing off. I didn't want to disturb you.”

Walking down the stairs in her bare feet, she picked his T-shirt up from the floor and slipped it over her head. The thin white fabric settled to mid thigh, obscuring his vision. When she joined him, he handed her the unit. “Does this happen every night? Because if it does...”

She didn’t look at the gadget, or at him. She was staring at the pills, spilled all over the floor.

“Sorry about that. I'll pick up every one, I promise.” He plucked up the nearest pill, blew on it, and dropped it back into the hot pink pillbox. “Dust bunny removal is free of charge.” Rather than the amusement he expected, tension crept into the room like an insidious fog. “What?”

She opened her mouth, but didn't speak. Her eyes were glued to the pill he held.

He looked at it more carefully, recognition hitting him like an uppercut punch. Yes, he recognized this pill. From that night over a year ago, when he'd given her one in Sasha’s office, the night of Scarlett's show.

His breath left his body, forced out by the glacier suddenly sitting on top of his chest.

“I can explain.” Kneeling at his side, she hurriedly collected pills.

“Can you?” he said distantly. The explanation seemed pretty clear already. The woman he loved was drugging herself so she could be with him.

She scrubbed her knuckles against her stomach, grimacing. “It's not that I don't trust you, Rafe—”

“Really.” Was that his oh-so-reasonable voice, speaking so clearly and lucidly? Like she hadn’t stabbed him right through the heart with a freaking ice pick?

Her sudden anger snapped at him like a whip. “Rafe, look at this situation through my eyes for a minute. I’m having just a few teeny, tiny issues here.”

“Issues?”

Her eyes bored into him. “Me, being human. You, not. Me, being a preacher’s kid. You—” her laugh held no humor “—not. Then, learning my first lover was a sex demon, too?” She threw her hands in the air.

His voice cracked back. “And you didn't think to share these ‘teeny tiny issues’ with me? Bailey, taking experimental medication is no fucking solution.”

“Well, it seemed to be working well enough to begin with,” she snapped. “How could we have a relationship, find an equal footing, if I lose all common sense when I’m around you? I needed the safety net.” A hand crept to her stomach, her knuckles scrubbing against the soft cotton fabric.

“You didn't trust me with your emotions.”

She bit her lip. The knuckles scrubbed harder, faster, but she didn't seem to be aware of it. “It wasn't like that.”

“It was
exactly
like that.”

“Well, with your reputation, can you blame me? I—” She suddenly doubled over, both hands clutching at her midsection. “Holy—”

Pain. Lancing physical pain.

Fear flicked the glacier aside like a gnat. “What’s wrong?”

She coughed, spraying a mist of blood over his chest. It dripped down her chin, spattering drops on the white T-shirt and the hardwood floor. She collapsed onto the cold wood, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her knees drawn up protectively.

“Shit.” Calling 911 was out. She might be human, but the drugs she'd taken were paranormal, experimental. And he could get her to the hospital faster than any ambulance could. “Hang on, babe.” Covering her shivering body with his coat, he jammed his legs into his pants, threw on his shirt without buttoning it, and stomped into his boots. He slipped the pillbox into his front pants pocket. Scooping her up, coat and all, he stepped onto the elevator, trying to shove the fear aside as he mentally plotted the fastest route to Memorial.

Her body contracted as she coughed again. “Hang on.” Her face was speckled with blood, like a vampire first learning how to feed. But Bailey wasn’t a vampire, she was human—and that was her lifeblood, seeping into his shirt, staining his skin bright red.

***

“H
ey! You can't park there—”

Carrying Bailey, Rafe shouldered past the night guard. Memorial’s lobby was crammed with patients and their worried families, on two legs and on four. Werewolf pups bayed. Babies cried. But he kept walking, straight to Reception, almost bumping into a tall woman bundled up for the weather.

“Mr. Sebastiani?”

She looked familiar, but Rafe kept his eyes on the prize: the closed door leading to the treatment area. He would throw his family’s name around so hard and so obnoxiously that they’d bump Bailey to the front of the line just to shut him up—

“Rafe.”

“What?” he snapped.

“Annabel Melvin,” the woman said. “I treated your brother and Ms. Fontaine when they were attacked last year.”

Yes, he remembered her now. A formidable Valkyrie, Dr. Melvin had somehow kept Lukas hospitalized for days longer than his irascible brother had intended.

Dr. Melvin unbuttoned her coat, tucking her hat and mittens into the pockets. “What happened?”

“We were arguing, and she clutched her stomach and coughed up blood.” So much blood, and she’d spit up more three blocks away from the hospital. He didn’t know whether her closed eyes meant she was exhausted or unconscious.

“You were arguing?” Melvin asked.

Ah, hell. He probably shouldn't have mentioned the argument—not when the inside of his Jeep looked like a crime scene.