She got on her tiptoes to reach for a can of non-stick cooking spray. Her fingers brushed the can, but she couldn’t quite reach.
“Here,” he said. “Let me get that for you.” Suddenly he was behind her, his hip brushing hers, his chest pressed lightly against her shoulder. God, he smelled good, like soap and suede, and a hint of earth. A shiver of desire coursed through her, shocking in its intensity.
Too soon he stepped back and handed her the can. Which, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why she needed.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.
Geez, here she was all hot and bothered and practically panting, and he looked as cool as ever, with those flat gray eyes and his stony expression, and maybe she really didn’t have a shot at getting him into bed.
Disappointment turned out to be more effective than a cold shower at dispelling lust.
She pivoted around him, set the can on the counter, and pulled the garlic bread from the oven.
“You said you haven’t been here long,” he said. “Where did you live before?”
She eyed him askance as she put the tray of bread on the counter. “Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t run through every bit of my background you could find before coming over?”
“I did,” he admitted, watching her test a noodle. “But for an heiress, you’ve got a practically non-existent digital fingerprint. All I could find was that you grew up with your hotel magnate parents in South Africa until you were eighteen, when they were killed in a plane crash. After that, you moved to the United States. Atlanta. Until a couple of months ago when you moved here. Why is that?”
She took the pot of pasta off the stove and dumped it into a strainer, as much because she didn’t want him to see her face while she lied her ass off as because the spaghetti was perfectly al dente.
“Money draws attention, and the D’Angelo name is big in Georgia. So I moved here.”
Man, she hated lying. She’d never even been to South Africa, her parents hadn’t died in a plane crash, and she hadn’t lived in Atlanta. Well, not really. She’d grown up outside of Atlanta with her human parents, and she figured Cipher had included Atlanta in her backstory to at least keep some elements of truth in her story.
“You use a different last name for your cooking show. Why is that? I’d think that the D’Angelo name would be an asset.”
The D’Angelo name was the one most angels took by default, but she hadn’t wanted her cooking show to catch too much attention from the Heavenly sort who frowned on Memitim being in the public eye or worse, famous.
Not that she was famous, of course. But her cooking show had gained something of a cult following...among both demons and humans.
“I want to do this on my own. Running a D’Angelo TV show doesn’t exactly work with my life goals.”
“And what you want to do with your life is what...charity work?”
Okay, that was as stupid as it sounded. Cipher had left some holes in her backstory, and she’d been dumb enough to not fill in the gaps. Unless the subject was food, she really didn’t think well on her feet, and she never had.
“Yes,” she said hastily, her mind working overtime to spin this into a potential career. “I was thinking of starting a foundation. For orphans.” Oh, geez, could she dig any deeper? Time to change the subject. She gestured at the glass double doors that led to the backyard. “The table is set outside, so why don’t you head out and pour the wine and I’ll be there with dinner in a moment.”
He frowned. “You really didn’t need to go to any trouble—”
“No trouble,” she interrupted, her panic making her snappish. She just needed him out of the kitchen to give her a second to breathe and regroup. “I enjoy cooking, and I’m new to the area so I don’t know many people, and it’ll be nice to have someone to dine with.”
For some reason, he looked uneasy, but he didn’t argue.
Still, he didn’t strike her as the type to let anything go, and if he ever found a crack in her story, he’d break it open like a fragile egg.
Well, now she just had to hope she could dazzle him with good food. And maybe a skimpy outfit wouldn’t hurt. In any case, it was time to turn up the heat, and as she reached for the red pepper flakes, she knew exactly how to do that.
Chapter Five
When Declan saw the table out by the pool, set up for a decadent meal, he knew he was in trouble. Soft music played in the background, wine had been opened and left to breathe, and the lights from the pool and the string overhead bathed the area in a romantic glow.
This was so above his pay grade.
What did Suzanne expect of him? Flashbacks to the time he’d been used by a client to make an ex jealous popped into his head, but he was hungry, and whatever Suzanne had been cooking smelled like heaven, so hey, he could pour wine and see what kind of expectations he could extract from her after a couple of glasses. He’d planned to probe a little more into her life anyway because something seemed off. It wasn’t just that she didn’t seem like someone who had grown up dining on gold plates. Her story also didn’t sit right with him. She couldn’t have a career as a chef because she was destined for service? What did that mean? All of her time was being taken up by how much money she had to give away?
Declan sucked at math, but even he knew something wasn’t adding up.
Shaking his head, he poured the wine, a rich, fragrant Chianti that glinted in the soft light.
Suzanne emerged from inside, and he had to force himself not to stare. She was gorgeous tonight, her silky teal tank flowing over her breasts and swinging loosely at her hips with every step. A chunky, beaded necklace and matching earrings and bracelet added elegance to her otherwise casual outfit. Her bare feet slapped on the pool deck as she carried a basket of bread in one hand and a dish of pasta in the other.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said with the slightest Southern accent. It seemed odd that she’d grown up in South Africa and didn’t have an accent, and yet she’d picked up a Georgia lilt in just a few years. “I hope you forgive me for not making salad. I forgot to have Sexy pick up lettuce when she went shopping earlier.”
“Honestly, I didn’t expect dinner at all.” He took the pasta from her and set it on the table. “Usually I just run out and get a burger or order pizza when I’m on a job.”
“That won’t happen while you’re working for me,” she promised. “I have a fully stocked kitchen—unless you want a salad, obviously—and you’re welcome to anything in it. I also plan to cook a lot.” He pulled a chair out for her and scooted it forward as she sat down, gracing him with a smile. “Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you.” He gestured to the food as he took a seat. “But again, you really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“Like I said, I enjoy cooking, and dining outside is always a pleasure.”
“Always? Ever eaten an MRE outside in a jungle?” He grimaced. “Not a pleasure.”
Her laughter rang like a clear, perfect bell in the evening air. “I take it back. Humidity and insects suck. We’re lucky to have a relatively dry evening tonight.” She tilted her head toward the pasta. “I hope you like it.”
He filled his plate with the spaghetti and a couple of slices of garlic bread. The first spicy, smoky bite made him moan. “This is incredible. What is it?”
“It’s my take on Spaghetti all’Amatriciana.” She took a sip of her wine. “It’s my favorite. It’s so easy and quick, but it tastes like you’ve been cooking all day.”
“I could eat this all day.”
“Well, there’s plenty, so have as much as you want.”
She wore her hair down tonight, the curls flowing over her slender, bare shoulders, and when she reached up to tuck a strand behind her ear, his breath caught. How had he not noticed the mark on her arm? It appeared to be a brand, about the size of a quarter, on the inside of her wrist.
Gently, he reached out and took her hand, turning it to
expose the mark. “What is this?” Eyes wide, Suzanne tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, being careful not to hurt her. “Suzanne?”
“It’s nothing,” she said, a little too forcefully. Beneath his fingertips, her pulse picked up, tapping out an anxious rhythm that furthered his suspicion that it was more than nothing. “It was a stupid drunken thing to do where I grew up. Some, uh, friends and I wanted to get matching tattoos, but we were afraid our parents would freak out, so we did that branding thing instead.”
Ouch. Declan had a tattoo, one he regretted with every fiber of his being, but he didn’t remember it hurting. Maybe because he’d been shitfaced. But he was pretty damned sure he could never be too drunk to not feel a red-hot element searing his skin.
“And you thought they’d be okay with scarring yourself permanently?”
She shrugged. “Well, the lines aren’t as noticeable, and I wore a lot of bracelets to cover it up.”
“What’s the symbol mean?” He ran his thumb over the raised, flesh-colored lines, his curiosity engaged at the wavy pattern inside the circle.
“It means ‘commitment to one’s duty.’”
He blinked. “Seems like an odd thing for a group of young friends to get.”
She took a sizable drink of her wine, and he got the impression she was buying time before she answered. But why?
“It can also be considered commitment to one’s friendship.” She put down her glass, her gaze falling to where he held her wrist in his hand. “But since my friends and I have lost track of each other, I’ve adopted the duty meaning.”
Clearing her throat awkwardly, she smiled and looked up, a hint of wine glistening on her lips. Was it crazy that he wanted to taste it? He also didn’t want to release her hand, but at some point, he’d stopped being interested in her brand and had become fascinated by how soft and smooth her skin was. How her pulse pounded beneath his fingertips. How those burgundy-painted nails would feel digging into his shoulders during sex.
Fuck.
Reluctantly, he released her and shoved a piece of garlic bread in his mouth like she was a vampire and he needed protection.
“So,” she said, tucking her hand in her lap. “Enough about me. Tell me about you.”
Not a subject he wanted to talk about. But he supposed he owed her a little information.
“What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been with McKay-Taggart?”
Easy enough. “A few years. Before that I was a PJ in the Air Force.”
Her fork clinked against her plate as she twirled it in the pasta. “What’s a PJ?”
“Pararescue jumper. Special ops. Basically, a combat search and rescue paramedic.” He shrugged. “Means I’m as good at causing injuries as I am at fixing them.”
She studied him for a second and then nodded. “Hmm...makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
“You.” She gestured with her garlic bread. “Nine months ago, you saved a lady who fell and hit her head at the coffee shop. She was confused and slurring her words, and you knew she was having a stroke when everyone around her thought her behavior was the result of a concussion from the fall.”
He stared in surprise, his pause giving her time to take her first bite of pasta. “How did you know about that?”
“I saw it happen.”
“You were there? I don’t remember that.” And he would have.
“I was there, but there was a lot of commotion, so you probably didn’t see me.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “So why did you choose that job in the military?”
He shrugged. “I’ve always had kind of a savior complex. Ever since I was nine and saved a dog from a bunch of kids that were abusing it.” He’d kept the dog, a husky mix, until it died six years later. It had been his constant companion at a time when he’d needed it, and he’d been a dog lover ever since. With the exception of Dobermans. “The kids beat the shit out of me, but it was worth it. Gave me the incentive to get involved in martial arts, and I got a cool dog.”
“Do you miss the Air Force?”
No one had ever asked him that, and he had to think about it for a second. Ultimately, the answer was pretty clear. “I miss the job. I don’t miss the life.”
“Is that why you left? Because you didn’t like military life?”
She has a way of getting you to talk. Jules’s words from earlier echoed in his head, and damn if she hadn’t been right. It’s going to drive you crazy. Yeah, she was right about that too.
“I had reasons,” he said, and Suzanne’s eyes flared at his abrupt reply, which sounded harsher than he’d intended. But he really didn’t like talking about his time in the military...or about his past in general, and Suzanne had somehow gotten him to reveal too much already. “Anyway, I joined McKay-Taggart until I’m ready to do something else.”
They both paused to eat, with Declan practically shoveling the food into his mouth. He loved Italian, and this was one of the best spaghetti dishes he’d ever had.
“Something else?” she asked as he swallowed his last bite. “Like what?”
“I’ve got a standing offer to join FEMA.” He filled his plate again, and so did Suzanne. He’d bet she could keep up with him, bite for bite. “It’s tempting, but I need a break from government employment for a while.”
Mainly, he needed to keep his father’s influence out of his life, and since his father was a U.S. senator, his reach was extensive. And maybe, despite the fact that FEMA would give him the kind of work that would address his desire to help people, he was putting off accepting the job because he’d miss the element of danger he craved.
“So you get hired out as a bodyguard,” she mused. “I’ll bet you have a lot of stories.”
He smirked and reached for his ice water. “You wouldn’t believe half of them.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said softly. “Tell me the craziest.”
He had several to choose from, and after rejecting most of them for various reasons, he settled on the one that had come up in Taggart’s office earlier in the day.
“Once,” he began, “a lady hired me to make an ex jealous. I didn’t know the truth at the time; she claimed to have a stalker and needed a bodyguard, but when we were in public she climbed all over me. Freaked me out at first.”
“At first?”
“Yeah. She said she thought it would discourage her stalker if he thought I was her boyfriend. Made sense.” She’d been an octopus, but hey, some jobs required sacrifice. “Eventually I figured out that whenever she was being flirty, the same guy would be nearby. I thought it was her stalker, but it turned out that it was her ex. She didn’t have a stalker. She was the stalker. Oh, and they were swingers. So she took me to a fucking sex party.”
Suzanne laughed. “Was her ex there?”
“Yup. She was trying to hook up with him by getting his date to hook up with me.”
Suzanne’s eyes glittered with curiosity, and paired with her reaction to the sex play room that might also be a serial killer workstation, he got the impression she wasn’t very experienced in bed. “Did you do it?”
He winced. “It wasn’t one of my finer moments. But she was hot and I hadn’t been laid in almost a year.”
“A year? Seriously?”
“Why so surprised?”
Avoiding his gaze, she absently circled the rim of her wine glass with one shiny fingernail. “I don’t know. You hang out with people who belong to a sex club. And Top has a designated sex closet.”
“Sanctum is a BDSM club, and how do you know about the sex closet?”
She shrugged. “I’ve spent a lot of time at the restaurant. I hear things.”
The way she said it, almost shyly but with curiosity, continued to surprise him. In his experience, those with a lot of money were naïve about how normal people lived, but sex was not one of those things. There was something very...off about Suzanne. She was clearly worldly, smart, and wealthy, but there was
an underlying genuineness and innocence that didn’t line up with what was on the surface.
He reached for his wine, but just as his fingers brushed the glass, someone drove a nail through his brain. That was the only explanation for the sharp, searing pain that streaked from the top of his skull to the base. He managed to not grab his head and fall out of his chair, and if Suzanne noticed, she didn’t show it. In fact, she was suddenly alert and looking out over the property grounds.
“I need to check on dessert,” she said, bounding to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
She took off in a rush, leaving him to cradle his skull and just try to breathe.
Chapter Six
Suzanne was freaking the hell out.
The wing anchors, the marks on her shoulder blades from which her wings would sprout from once she Ascended, itched with the presence of evil. Declan’s heraldi didn’t burn, which, under normal circumstances, would mean he probably wasn’t in danger. But the demon stalking him wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.
“Sexy!” she shouted as she darted through the kitchen. “Sexy!”
Her sister was running down the grand staircase, her eyes wild. “I sense evil.”
Suzanne nodded. “Stay with Declan. Get him to come inside if you can.”
“Wait!” Sexy flashed down the stairs, blocking Suzanne’s path. “You stay with Declan. I’ll go after the demon.”
“It’s my job.”
“I have four hundred years of experience you don’t have, Suzanne. Don’t be an idiot.”
Suzanne hated being reminded that she was practically an infant in the angel world, and she especially hated being called an idiot.
“This is my show,” she snapped. “My Primori, my duty. I’m in charge, and you’ll do what I say.”
Sexy bared her fangs—fangs Suzanne hadn’t inherited from their fallen angel father. “You’re a foolish little girl sometimes, sister.” She brushed past Suzanne with enough force to knock her into the wall as Sexy left to tend to Declan.