In the Company of Witches
Page 22

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“All right,” she agreed.
He gave her a searching look. “You’re brave enough to risk that?”
“I am.”
“I doubt that. You’re just confident of your win, which is dangerous, because it aligns the fates against you.”
“I don’t know about that. Victory goes to the bold, I’ve always heard. Let’s play and see.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “You’ve named your stakes. What do I get if I win?”
“The same thing I get.” Her brow furrowed. “Me tied up.” Though even saying it made butterflies do nosedives in her stomach. She’d better win, or she’d painted herself into a corner she wasn’t prepared to be in.
“I intend to have that regardless, win or lose.” He gave her that direct look. “So if I win, the stakes have to be something I can’t obtain for myself.”
Okay, that sent a hard kick through even lower regions, but she covered it with a sultry hip cock. Laying her long-nailed hand on the doorframe just below him, she caressed his palm. “A charming personality?”
At his dour expression, she chuckled. “You don’t really want one of those. Okay. If you win, you get your clothes back.”
Mikhael closed his fingers over her wrist, holding her there. “Try again.”
“Fine.” Telling herself she was insane, especially with her pulse tripping beneath his hold, she threw it open. “What would you like the bet to be if you win?”
“Free croissants from Matilda, whenever I stop by, from here forward. Forever.”
Her brows rose in surprise. “You’ll have to take that up with Matilda and her spirits. She doesn’t do anything I say.”
“I can work it out. Women respond to me.”
She snorted. “If I win, I get you, restrained and naked, at my mercy. And you want bread?”
“I’m going to tell Matilda how poorly you value her skills. I’ve tasted the croissants, and I think those are proportionate stakes. I don’t get home-cooked food too often. I want a lifetime supply of free croissants. It seems reasonable.”
It was about more than croissants. He was making it clear the stakes would be him becoming a regular visitor to her place. Someone to fence words with, someone who made her feel…the way he made her feel. It wasn’t an act of commitment or permanence, anything to make him or her feel hemmed in. But it was…tempting. Far more so than a to-go bag of crescent rolls, no matter how good they were.
“Perhaps I’ll tell Matilda to give you a meal with those rolls. On occasion.”
It must be true that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. His fingers curved closer over hers, a squeeze that became a clasp, a more intimate link between them.
“You value having me naked, tied up and at your mercy far more highly than I expected.”
Arrogant ass. But you have no idea how true that is.
Straightening, she slipped her hand free. “When I win, if my magic can’t restrain you, I expect you to be a gentleman and honor the bet. Pretend to be helplessly restrained, like I did with those thin silver chains of yours.”
“That was Underworld silver,” he said. “It’s unbreakable and configured so that only I can break its hold. You would have had to harm yourself or break the balusters. I wouldn’t have allowed you to harm yourself. You were helpless, Raina.” His voice became husky as he held her gaze. “But the moment your mind surrendered to me, you were my slave, with or without the chains.”
He had a way of looking at her that was total Bad Guy, but not. He knew how to stroke that part of her, yet twist it as well, like dragging a feather down someone’s back, only to have it turn into a poisoned barb. And make the body crave both.
Ducking under his arm to break the contact, and seeking a little space, she sauntered over to the far wall and the music system there. “If it doesn’t throw you off your game, I’m going to put on some music.”
When he made an assenting noise and headed back toward the table, she let out a breath. She shuffled one of her favorite playlists, buying herself some time before she turned toward the gaming table.
Of course, when Mindy McCready’s “Ten Thousand Angels” came up, amused despair flashed through her. As Mindy sang about needing a legion of angels to resist the temptation of a sinfully irresistible male, she was staring right at one, taking a seat at the table. It wasn’t contrived; it was just the way the damn man moved, all that ripple and flex of power and warrior’s grace, with the dangerous profile of a hawk.
He glanced at her, raised a quizzical brow as she schooled her expression into indifference, fast enough she probably looked like she’d swallowed a bug. Sliding into her seat, she picked up the deck. “So if you don’t have a home, where do you usually stay when you’re not working? Hotels, cottages? Caves?”
He put an ankle on his knee. “It depends on the job I’m assigned, as well as the location. I’ve stayed at plenty hotels, but I like forests.”
“Do you hang from a tree like a bat? Wrap your wings around you to protect your fancy suits?”
He gave her a look that made her want to take a healthy bite out of him. “Something like that.”
She smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
“Maybe you will. Two cards.” After he picked them up, he spoke again, unexpectedly. “I like trees. I like sleeping in them. It’s quiet, and when it’s not, what’s making noise isn’t disruptive. In the ancient forests, I occasionally find a dryad or hamadryad that stayed behind when the Fae separated themselves from this world.”
“And she doesn’t mind you…nesting in her branches?”
He snapped a rejected card at her nose in reproof. “Crotch would be the obvious crass arboreal term.”
“Too crass and obvious.” She didn’t really want to know about all the women Mikhael had been with. He’d certainly made it clear he didn’t want to hear about her liaisons, so she switched topics, noting him tapping his fingers as the tune switched to one of Li’s AC/DC favorites, “Highway to Hell.” She snickered. Glancing at her, Mikhael tuned in to the irony. His gaze sparked in response.
“Do you know a lot about music?” she asked.
He put his cards down, rapped the table twice with his fist. Then he drew her attention to his other hand, which now held a top-of-the-line player. She chuckled at the subtle theatrics, feeling the short wisp of conjuring energy. “I should introduce you to Ramona. She runs a magic shop. I can get you a top hat and a rabbit.”
He laid it down on the table. “I keep about six thousand songs on this, and I have a library of about fifteen thousand more on a backup drive.”
“Where do you keep all this stuff if you have no house?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve seen Derek pretty much pull a sword out of his ass, so I expect you guys have some weird way of manipulating multidimensional pockets of space. Ruby said you have a Ferrari. You probably keep it folded up in the other pocket.”
“Last time I did that, it got an oil leak. Ruined a good jacket.”
“Smart-ass. Why don’t we alternate? I’ll play a song; you play a song. I’ll learn about the complex male musical culture of beer and boob watching—”
“And I won’t lose significant testosterone levels fighting off the effect of continuous sappy chick songs and pretentiously empowered girl bands.”
“Fair enough.”
DESPITE HER TEASING, MIKHAEL COULD TELL IT SURPRISED her that his music was eclectic, but he’d been around long enough to have wide tastes. Wagner, Russ Freeman and Kevin Kern shared storage space with Aerosmith and Foreigner. He was a big fan of the Sinatra music style, but he eschewed those sung by Sinatra himself, too aware of the man’s character to enjoy them.
She liked variety, too. Country, classical, Latin rhythms, Celtic instrumentals. In the pop arena, she favored romantic ballads with male vocals that emphasized rough emotion over studio polish.
Since their previous discussion had stirred things up a little more than expected, they’d agreed to one more short practice round. While they did that, she was paying attention to the music he chose, probably to use it as an advantage. He suspected she deliberately lost a couple hands to fathom his poker strategies.
Studying every detail to anticipate a client’s wants and needs was innate to her. Everything could be a strategy, even the music she chose. But he preferred to think her deceptively casual scrutiny now had to do with her need to control the situation even as he made her feel more out of control. Their own personally unique dynamic.
“Why don’t you hate males?” he asked, when she was reshuffling the deck. It was his turn to do it, but he’d deferred to her, enjoying the graceful slide of her fingers as she turned the cards and positioned them. He always appreciated the female form, but he had to admit he’d rarely been captivated by the way a woman moved her hands. He told himself it was because they were doing their task against the backdrop of her breasts, the tempting cleavage revealed by the cashmere V-neck.
Now, though, she looked puzzled. “Because of what Elceus did to you,” he prompted, “I’d think you’d have a distrust of the male gender. You don’t. Obviously.”
“No more than sensible.” She gave him a sultry smile. “My father was the one who gave me the sex demon blood. He was an incubus, not like the ones you hunt. He hadn’t…transitioned, though he was more seasoned and mature than those you’ve met here. He was a fair and noble man, strong. He didn’t stay with my mother after I was born; it wasn’t in his nature.” Her eyes became more flat. “But he tried to get help to rescue me. No one would aid or believe an incubus, no one in authority. When he enlisted the help of more nefarious sources, they sold him out to energy dealers.”
The paranormal equivalent of drug dealers, who would kill a sex demon and bottle the blood, because in the supernatural world it provided unparalleled sexual euphoria, a supernatural Viagra. A risky one, since even short-term use could be toxic.