The Perfect Dish (32 page)

Winding her arms around his neck she shook her head. “And keep Viv from planning some outrageous shindig? Not a chance. Plus I still need to introduce you to Jason.”

“You think he’ll like me?”

“Make him dinner. You’ll own his soul.” Her smile faltered. “You don’t have a spell for that, do you?”

He laughed. “No, and no more spells, I promise.” He bent his head, capturing her mouth for the long, hot kiss he’d wanted to give her since she first walked out of the wings and caused his heart to stop.

She returned his passion with a delicious wantonness that went straight to his groin. She wiggled closer. Her fingers curled into his hair in teasing little caresses that sent fire down his spine.

His woman. Wearing his ring. He laughed against her mouth and she pulled away.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, nibbling kisses at his jaw and chin.

“You make me happy.”

She brushed her lips across his. “That’s all I want to do. Make you happy.”

“That so?”

“Yep.” She winked. “Why?”

He glanced down at her boots. “Were those my sister’s idea, too?”

“Nope.” She stretched one leg out to give him a better look. “I had a layover in Dallas and while I was walking around killing time, I saw these in a shop window. I thought you might like them.”

“I love them.” He cleared his throat. She had no idea. “Actually, I’ve had a fantasy about you in boots since the first time we met.”

“You did? About me in boots?” Laughing self-consciously, she scrunched up her face like she couldn’t quite believe him. “But at the party that night you told me you liked those high heels I had on.”

“Those shoes are hot. Very hot. But I was talking about the day of the book signing.”

“The book signing?” A look he could only describe as horror filled her eyes. “You were fantasizing about me then?”

Pulling her closer, he shrugged. “Maybe I’m an optimist but I had a feeling that suit and tied-up hair hid an insatiable wild woman.”

“You’re silly.” She giggled. “And wicked.”

“I know.” He kissed her fingers as she traced his mouth. “But you like that about me.”

Her hands moved down to his chef coat. “Speaking of insatiable, how quickly can we get to your hotel? Shelby said they put you up at a suite in the Carlton Grand. I hear the rooms have giant whirlpool baths.”

“And you think I’m the wicked one?” If she wiggled one more time, they wouldn’t make it out of the dressing room. But the thought of joining her in the tub had a definite appeal. “You don’t even know what the rest of the fantasy is.”

“Does it involve keeping the boots on?” She had his coat almost all the way off.

Sheepishly, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah.” He had to have her soon or he was going to implode. “What do you have to say to that?”

Grabbing handfuls of his shirt, she rearranged herself to straddle his lap. She looked at him with a saucy smile on her lips and a naughty gleam in her eye.

“Yippee-ki-yay, cowboy.”

The End

About the author:

When the characters in Kristen Painter’s head started to take over, she decided to exorcise them onto paper and share them with the world. She writes paranormal and fantasy romance, and also has the first of three books in her gothic urban fantasy vampire series, Blood Rights, coming from Orbit in fall 2011. The former college English teacher can often be found online at Romance Divas, the award-winning writers’ forum she co-founded. She’s represented by Elaine Spencer of The Knight Agency.

Connect with Me Online:

My website: www.kristenpainter.com

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* * * EXCERPT * * *

HEART OF FIRE

by

Kristen Painter

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Kristen Painter

Heart Of Fire

Copyright © 2010 by Kristen Painter

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

* * * * *

Chapter One

A shout ripped Ertemis from sleep. He bolted to his feet, yanked his sword from its sheath at his hip, and in a blur of flashing metal, prepared to deal death to the intruder.

There was no one in the room.

He relaxed and sheathed his sword, groaning as the remnants of last night throbbed anew in his skull. Cheap human ale. He rubbed his eyes, still stinging from the smoky tavern air.

An aching head, gritty eyes and naught to show in his hunt for his birthfather. How the edge of his Feyre hungered for the bastard’s blood. He scrubbed his eyes again. Other than the Traveler’s tales, he had little to go on and time was running out. Surely, the Legion knew he’d deserted. If only his bond price weren’t so high.

Midday sun spilled through the old wood shutter slats, slashing the dusty air into light and dark slices. He leaned his Legion-issued sword against the bed and picked his leather breastplate off the floor. Another shout rang through the air. He clutched his head. Vile, stinking, babbling humans. At least the residual effects of the ale dampened his heightened senses. More shouting broke out.

What in Saladan’s name was going on? He dropped the breastplate onto the bed. The ruckus erupting outside needed squelching if there was any chance of further sleep. The more he slept, the faster his elven blood would work the healing magic that enabled him to pickle his brain night after night and kept his black skin scar free despite his many battles.

He drew on his trousers, grabbed his sword belt, and unwedged the room’s only chair from beneath the rusty door latch. The scarred, faded leather notched easily into the silver buckle at his waist as he trudged down the steps. The belt settled low on his hips, the weight of the sword as comfortable as the press of a woman but far more reliable. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he stepped onto the crowded street.

The brilliant noonday sun drove daggers into his head. He grimaced, shielding his eyes with his hand. People rushed through the streets, their faces drawn into worried masks. Even with his faculties dulled, the tang of panic hung in the air like burning refuse.

The daylight, the noise and the crush of unwashed human flesh reminded of why he’d had the ale in the first place. Blunting his acute senses made time spent among humans a little less wretched. Night’s quiet solitude was preferable, and since quitting life as the Legion’s fatal messenger, night offered a security day did not. The Legion would soon realize their deadliest weapon had no plans of returning. They would place a hefty bounty on his head, send men to hunt him. No one left the Legion until the Legion decided it was time.

Snarling a curse, Ertemis narrowed his eyes against the glare. He scanned passing faces for someone who might know what was going on. Few returned his gaze, but the flow of humans split, giving him a wide berth.

The frightened expressions as mothers pulled their children closer, the timid glances of men…none of it was new to him. Few sane people were of a mind to engage a dark elf, especially one of Ertemis’s size and current disposition. He hadn’t earned the nick ‘Black Death’ for being kind and sweet.

The crowd’s collective gaze crawled over his body like a regiment of ants, staring at his telltale black skin and the silver runes tattooed down his spine and up his slanted ears. With less ale and more thought, he would’ve donned a tunic and trousers. His clothed appearance drew stares enough but the sight of him shirtless stalled traffic.

He wanted to shout at them to stop staring, that he wasn’t one of the Travelers’ curiosities to be gawked at. Instead, he ground his teeth and held his tongue. An outburst would only make them stare harder.

A bright spot of green bobbed toward him through the sea of humans. He reached into the crowd, snatching the vibrant cloak of a small man coming toward him. The left side of the man’s face was a bunched mass of scars that disappeared beneath his tunic collar.

“What’s this ruckus about?” Ertemis muttered to his captive.

The little man stumbled and put his hands out to catch himself. He looked up, fear registering on his face. He stared at Ertemis in dumbfounded silence, mouth agape, eyes large.

In his peripheral vision, Ertemis saw a crowd developing at a distance around him. The only thing he missed about the Legion was being left alone.

He dragged the little man into the alley between the tavern inn and the mercantile beside it. “Just tell me what this commotion is about and you’re free to go.”

The man whispered, “Quarantine,” then cleared his throat before speaking again. “Quarantine’s been called on the whole city. Half of the north quarter and all of the eastside have come down with Speckled Fever, and they ain’t lettin’ anybody out. The gates are locked up tighter than an Ulvian’s pocketbook.” He added, “Sir,” as if hoping to gain enough favor to be allowed to live.

“Don’t call me sir,” Ertemis snapped. He released his grip on the man’s cloak. Raking a hand through his hair, he swore under his breath. “Codswallop.”

His elven half could protect him from human illness, even if he had to suffer through it first. But being quarantined wasn’t going to help him find the man who’d ruined his mother’s life. Slodsham was a passable place to spend a few days, but that’s where it ended. Staring past the man, he exhaled in frustration.

An enterprising light flickered in the man’s eyes. “I don’t much wanna be here, either. I got goods ta buy and coin ta--anyway, maybe we...” Another upward glance at Ertemis and the man stopped.

“Begging your pardon, master elf...I best be off.” He shifted his gaze down to the alley and tried to back away.

Ertemis tightened his fist in the man’s cloak. “Speak.”

The man’s gaze darted to the alley’s entrance then back to Ertemis. “I know a way out.”

“I don’t need your help to ditch this slum.” He’d find a way on his own, after his head stopped throbbing.

The man frowned. “But I need yers, master elf.”

“Why? What’s in it for me?” Ertemis watched the alley’s entrance for company. He released his grip on the man’s cloak.

“I’m owed a favor from a rather shady fella. I reckon he won’t pay up without some persuadin’. The kind you could provide, if ya understand. It’s worth fifty silvers when we’re out.”

Everyone always wanted something, but Ertemis needed the coin. “Seventy-five and not a silver less. What’s your name?”

“Haemus Brandborne at yer service, fiber merchant, seller of the finest colored fabrics, yarns, and other textiles ya could ever want.”

He grinned, showing a few missing teeth as he extended his hand. “An yers?”

Marbled burn scars matching the one’s on the merchant’s neck covered the man’s hand and extended up his wrist and under the sleeve of his rich tunic. Ertemis crossed his arms over his chest. “Master elf will do.”

Haemus’s gaze went to the sword at Ertemis’s side. The merchant’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Ain’t you the...” His voice trailed off as if he no longer wanted an answer.

Narrowing his gaze, Ertemis finished the man’s sentence. “Black Death? And what if I am?”

“The Black Death.” Haemus breathed the words out like a curse. “I didn’t think ya came out during the day...ya in Slodsham for work or pleasure?” His eyes suddenly went wide and he shook his head. “Don’t answer that.”

With his scarred palms up, he stepped back. “I just want out of the city.” He swallowed. “We got a deal, then, right? And that makes us partners, don’t it?”

“We have a deal,” Ertemis nodded slowly, the pain in his head not yet subsided, “but we are not partners.”

* * *

On one last walk along the placid shores of Callao Lake, Jessalyne watched some of the resident herd of cervidae, the deer people, gather ahead. Fairleigh Grove had been home to the skin-shifters since long before Jessalyne’s father had brought her mother to this secluded vale.

A few of the young cervidae, in human form and dressed in simple linen tunics, played on a cluster of boulders, their mothers and fathers close by. The cervidae reproduced so slowly, each child became a carefully guarded treasure.

Her jaw tightened. How wonderful to grow up with adoring parents. A father to protect you. A mother to teach you.

One of the male cervidae kissed his companion’s cheek. Jessalyne looked away. The sight made her ache for something new, something she could never have. Who would love someone like her? Not even the cervidae dare touch her.