Tempt Me (35 page)

She really wanted was to live with Rafe. Would he understand that it wasn't him she’d distrusted, but herself? Had she completely ruined things?

“Hey.” Jack’s soft voice. “Sorry we're late.”

She glanced at the door. Jack and Sasha, together? This...might not end well.

“I wanted to check out this church thing.” Sasha removed her long coat. “I've never been to a human wedding before.”

“Right.” Jack must really be worried about her emotional state if he’d dragged a succubus along as backup—especially
this
succubus. “Jack, how’s your schedule Monday morning? I'd like to book some time with you and Lukas.”

“How about later today?”

She shook her head. “Monday is fine.” She had to talk with Rafe first. After tonight, she'd have a better picture of what her future might hold. If Rafe forgave her—if they had a potential future together—she’d stay in the Twin Cities. If Lukas accepted her plan, she’d remain at Sebastiani Security.

If either man rejected her, she had bigger decisions to make.

“I think the wedding’s about to start.” Sasha sat next to her, leaning forward on her chair as people took their seats below. The huge sanctuary quieted, and music wafted in from the speakers:
Canon in D
, but with a distinct Celtic twist.

The groom escorted a beautifully dressed couple down the aisle to the front right pew, kissing them both before proceeding to the altar. When he turned, she got her first real-world glimpse of Mel’s beloved, Daniel O’Brien. A shaggy-haired Irishman wearing a kilt, a tuxedo jacket, and wire-rimmed glasses, her sister’s absent-minded professor looked ecstatic, and luminously in love.

Yes, he’d suit Mel very nicely indeed.

She swallowed a lump in her throat as her sister’s bridesmaids, dressed in long columns of red, walked down the aisle, escorted by tuxedoed groomsmen. The bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up at either side of the altar. The lump returned as the music swelled, as the guests all rose in unison, looking expectantly toward the back of the church.

She couldn’t see Mel until she was about halfway down the long center aisle, escorted by both of their parents. She knew her father would figure out a way to both give his daughter away and officiate at the ceremony, but her mother's presence at Mel's side was a pleasant, non-traditional surprise.

“You favor your mother,” Sasha said softly.

“Mel looks more like her than I do.” Seen from behind, the two women looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Down at the altar, her mother was lifting Mel’s fingertip-length veil, giving her a sweet kiss. Their father did the same, and then escorted her mother to the front left pew before ascending the shallow stairs with a swirl of white robes, positioning himself under the spotlights in the center of the large altar.

Mel and Daniel joined hands. The look they exchanged was drenched with love.

As her father's spoke the opening words of the traditional ceremony, her mother suddenly turned, looking up to the balcony where they sat. A timeless second passed. Her mother’s nostrils twitched, and a bittersweet smile tipped her lips before she turned and faced forward once again.

A sob escaped her clogged throat. She turned her head into Jack's chest and let the tears flow.

––––––––

R
afe took another sip of Bollinger as the critic nattered on and on about delicacy of line, and sublime sexual and emotional tension. The man was gay and his interest aesthetic, but if he kept talking about Bailey’s body in such specific terms for very much longer, he was going to lose his protruding front teeth. Rafe had long ago come to terms with the fact that to be an artist making a living from his work meant showings, critics and reviews—opening your imagination up for judgment, and occasionally taking it on the chin—but right now, this guy made him want to throw a punch or two.

If he felt exposed, how in the world would Bailey react? Hell. There wasn't a person here who could possibly misinterpret how he felt about his as-yet-unidentified muse. The buzz was building, and Brooke was ecstatic.

“Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Sebastiani.” The critic closed his notebook, and tucked it into his suit jacket. “I notice there are no prices...”

He hadn't allowed Brooke to price any of the sculptures because he wasn't sure they were for sale. How could he part with a single one? On the other hand, why keep them around, torturing himself with what he couldn’t have? “Contact Brooke next week.”

“Ah, you want to maintain the set.” The critic gave
Bailey, Bloody
a covetous glance. “Entirely understandable. The sculptures in sequence are as much a part of the experience as any individual work. Museums, then? Who’s offered?”

Rafe resisted glancing at his watch. Resisted looking at the door. The showing was half over, and Bailey hadn’t shown up yet. “You’ll want to speak with Brooke.” From the other side of the room, loud laughter lanced through his aching head. He and Brooke had wanted to create a cocktail party atmosphere, and they’d succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.

He hated cocktail parties. What had he been thinking?

Too many people, and most of them strangers. His family and most members of the Council hung out together over in the corner, covertly guarded, but Lorin and Gabe had made a break for it, holding hands near the beginning of the sequence. He’d lost sight of Chico and Winnie, both off duty, who’d raised a few eyebrows by arriving together. Over near the bar, Wyland was in quiet conversation with Scarlett’s friend, investigative journalist Tia Quinn.

“Hello, Darby.”

His sister. Thank the universe.

Rising on tip-toes, Sasha kissed both of the critic’s cheeks. “I hate to interrupt, but can I borrow my brother for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

Sasha shot an apologetic smile over her shoulder as she drew him away.

“He’s staring at your ass,” Rafe muttered.

“Darling, everyone’s staring at my ass.”

He nodded, acknowledging her point. She wore a vintage black velvet riding jacket with peplum over skin-tight leather leggings, paired with sky-high Louboutins. Fashion with an edge, yet not sacrificing warmth—an important consideration on the coldest night they’d had in weeks. The valets outside parking cars were really getting a workout tonight.

She peered around his shoulder. “Where’s that guy who asked whether I’d been your model?”

“Gone.” Thankfully. Did the man not have eyes in his head? Or if he did, did he actually think Rafe would express amorous feelings for his sister in clay? He shuddered. “People are odd.”

“No shit.”

He glanced at the door again.

“She'll be here.” Taking his hand, Sasha led him to the corner where his friends and family had gathered—coincidentally or not, right next to the last sculpture in the series. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. The fire opal ring tucked in his left front jacket pocket burned him like a brand.

Claudette separated herself from his father, extending both arms. “Rafe.”

He stepped into her embrace. The approval and encouragement she’d embedded in his name comforted him like a balm.

“Beautiful work, Rafe,” his father said, resting a hand on his back. “Simply beautiful.”

So much said without words. He had his father's blessing. “Thanks,” he choked out.

Someone handed him another glass of champagne, and he took a quick sip. Hopefully the tiny bubbles would break up the lump in his throat. His entire family was here, and there was Jack, Bailey’s best friend, standing between his sisters. “Thanks, everyone, for coming.”

“We wouldn't miss your show for the world.” Scarlett toasted him with a mug of frothy hot cocoa. Lukas, hovering protectively next her, drank nothing and looked distinctly green around the gills. “While everyone is gathered, can we share some news?”

“Finally.” Antonia rolled her eyes.

“Hey.” Sasha nudged Antonia with her elbow.

Scarlett glanced around the circle, no doubt noticing all the knowing glances. “Well.” She looked at Lukas, who shrugged in denial. “It seems you all might know our news anyway.”

Rafe gestured to a hovering waiter for more champagne. “There's no keeping a secret in a family of incubi and succubi.”

“And then there's the fact that Lukas has been upchucking his morning cornflakes for weeks,” Antonia added. “Kind of hard to miss.”

Sasha stepped in. “Can we let her finish?”

Scarlett clutched Lukas's hand. “We're having a baby!”

During the congratulations that followed, Rafe noticed that Lukas looked equal amounts exhilarated and terrified, and he caught his father and Claudette exchanging a concerned look. While most parents might have vague, sparkling dreams of their child becoming president one day, these parents would have to plan for its near-certainty. Their child would lead, would be groomed to take a seat on the Council. Lukas and Scarlett would need every wit at their disposal to effectively parent an incubus/siren child who might inherit both parents’ extravagant skills.

If he and Bailey ever had a child, what gifts might he or she—

He whipped his head to the entrance. She was here, removing her coat to reveal a lime green cocktail dress that clung to her curves and drew too many eyes—including those of the smooth attendant who’d just taken her coat, gloves and scarf and handed her a claim ticket. Shivering, she stepped away from the entrance, accepting a flute of champagne she probably shouldn’t drink.

A tiny, redheaded tornado was on an intercept course. His feet moved, but not quickly enough.

Shit. Brooke would reach Bailey first.

***

S
he was overdressed.

There were so many people, a shifting sea of sophisticated, artsy black. She looked down at her bright green dress, with its retro, vaguely
Mad Men
vibe. She’d felt so confident and sexy standing in Nordstrom’s dressing room.

Now, she felt hideously out of place.

She considered not handing her coat and gloves to the smiling attendant, but he’d already given her a claim ticket and it was too late for that. “Thank you.” She stepped away from the chilly entrance, out of the traffic pattern. Instead of the intimidating, hoity-toity snobbery she'd half-expected, the event seemed more like a party. Black-uniformed wait staff smiled as they circulated, carrying trays of wine, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres. Everyone milled around red velvet-draped pedestals.

Displaying her naked body.

She took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply.
Okay, suck it up. Find Rafe and apologize.
Certainly no one would connect her with
The Dreamer
—for that was what Rafe had called his show—especially if she...just stayed here against the wall, out of everyone’s way.

“Champagne?” A hot waiter handed her the flute before she could think about it. Shooting her a flirty smile, he continued on his way.

Should she drink it? Wyland was probably here somewhere; she could ask him, but...”To hell with it.” She took a sip, raising an approving eyebrow as the tiny bubbles effervesced on her tongue. There really was a difference between the okay stuff and the really good stuff.

“You look like you could really use that.” A tiny woman joined her, holding a glass of white wine. Her exuberant red hair flamed against her simple black blazer, shirt and pants. In lieu of a necklace, a pair of rhinestone-studded reading glasses hung suspended on a silver chain.

“Yes, I guess.” Having to look down to speak with someone was a novel experience.

“I'm Rafe's agent, Brooke Kearney.” Her voice was pure New Yawk. “And you're Bailey.” The bird-like woman skimmed her frame with oddly knowledgeable eyes before shaking her hand. “So nice to finally meet you. Rafe is occupied with his family at the moment. Why don’t I take you through?”

Her stomach lurched. “No, that's not necessary. I can wait—”

“Here, in the corner? In that gorgeous dress? Honey, I don't think so.” The woman grasped her hand, her French manicured nails digging like talons.

OK, she was going to get a personal tour of the sculptures whether she wanted one or not.

Soon she and Rafe’s agent were standing at the first pedestal, and she recognized the sculpture as the one Rafe had been working on when she'd arrived at the cabin. Yes, it was her nude body, but... abstracted somehow, with breasts more suggested than specifically sculpted. She looked down at the tiny card, which read, simply, “One,” in the same spare, architectural font as the sign in the gallery window.

The Dreamer.
It was nice of Rafe to at least suggest that the figure—um,
she
—might be sleeping or dreaming instead of waiting to have sex, or recovering from it. But there was no disguising the sensuality eddying off the sculpture in waves.

It wasn’t until they’d reached “Nine,” and seen that slight depression in her hip from the weight of Rafe’s invisible hand, that it clicked. The series wasn’t simply a set of erotic nudes. He’d sculpted the physical and emotional evolution of their relationship, laid it bare in clay. He was there in the sculpture with her, present without physical form.

It was genius. It was...uncanny.

They’d reached “Sixteen” before she noticed the hush in the room. She tensed, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes upon her.

Brooke’s nails bit in. “Breathe.”

She obeyed, drawing herself up to her full height. She had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

“That's my girl,” Brooke murmured. “You'll do nicely, for a human.”

For a human? If she only knew.

“Yes, you'll do nicely.”

“I'll do a damn sight better than that, Ms. Kearney.” If Rafe gave her half a chance.

The other woman patted her hand. “Please, call me Brooke.”

The air at her back warmed. She shivered as she inhaled his scent, as gooseflesh rippled over her skin.

“Rafe. There you are.” Brooke released her hand and stepped back.

She turned to face him. Yes, there he was, looking slightly pale and drawn, like a poetic Heathcliff. He wore head-to-toe black like the rest of his guests, and his hair spilled over his shoulders, a waterfall of spun gold.