Accidentally...Evil? (Accidentally Yours) (2 page)

“Yes, rake, as in cad? Or if you prefer, savage,” she said.

“Hardly. Savages don’t save women in distress. They create them.”

True. They also don’t have wildly seductive, exotic accents
. Like one of her parents’ Hollywood friends.

Light bulb.

“Oh my God. You’re a picture film actor, aren’t you?”

Yes. Yes. It all made sense now. The locals in the village had been talking about a film crew for weeks. Word on the street—errr, word on pueblo corner next to the stinky burro—was that a famous Russian director was making a movie about Chichen Itza and filming historical reenactments in the area.

“An… actor.” His icy, unsettling expression turned into a charming smile inspired by the devil himself. “Yes.”

She sighed. “That explains the trained cat. Where’s the crew?” She glanced over her shoulders.

“Crew. Errr.” He raised his index finger as if to point somewhere, then dropped it. “My crew will be here in a few days.”

“Getting into character! Right.” Maggie had heard firsthand how actors prepared for their roles. Fascinating business. Of course, acting had never really interested her. Nothing that required work ever had, which was why she’d taken up painting when her parents pestered her to do something productive. Going to parties and dating famous, good-looking men apparently weren’t worthy pursuits.

They were right
. If only her mother had lived long enough for Maggie to tell her so.

“Now,” he said, “will you tell me who
you
are?”

She held out her hand. “Miss Margaret O’Hare of Los Angeles.”

“You are a very long way from home.”

No. Really?
“I’m here working with my father. He’s a professor doing… ummm… research.”

A teeny fib. Or two. Who’s gonna know?
Truthfully, her father wasn’t researching doodly-squat; he was secretly excavating. And the “work” she was doing? It didn’t amount to a hill of pinto beans; her father wouldn’t let her anywhere near the sacred structure. “No place for a young lady,” he’d said. Well, neither was this slightly lawless, revolution-ravaged Mexican village, where electricity was considered a luxury—as were beds, curling irons, and those blessed ice cubes.

And chicken coops. Don’t forget the chicken coops.
The village was plagued with wretched little packs of villainous roaming chickens.
Like tiny feathered banditos who leave their little caca-bombs all over the damned place.

You’ll survive. Some things are more important.

“Well, Miss Margaret O’Hare from Los Angeles, very pleased to meet you.” The man bent his imposing frame, slid his remarkably-rough-for-an-actor palm into hers, and placed a lingering kiss atop her hand.

An exquisite jolt crashed through her, causing her to buck. She snapped the tingling appendage away.
Wow. That kiss could combust a lady’s drawers like gunpowder. Poof! Flames. No drawers. Just like that.

The residual heat continued spreading.
Please don’t reach my drawers. Please don’t reach my drawers…

He frowned and dropped his hand. “So tell me, what were you doing in the jungle, Margaret?”

“Jungle?”

“Yes, you know that place where I found you unconscious. Barefoot. All alone. It has many trees and dangerous animals.” He pointed over her shoulder at the lush forest filled with vine-covered trees that chirped and clicked with abundant life. “It’s right behind you, if you’ve forgotten what it looks like.”

“Yes. That.”
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
She wiggled her bare toes in the mushy grass and looked out across the hypnotic turquoise waves of the lake. Funny how the man’s eyes were the exact same color right down to their flecks of shimmering green.

An early afternoon breeze pushed a few dark locks of hair across her face.
Still thinking, thinking, thinking.
She brushed them away and then focused on the grass stains on the front of her white cotton dress. Darn it. She loved this dress, with its tiny hand-stitched red flowers along the hem. Her father had had it specially made along with a beautiful black stone pendant the week they’d arrived. He’d said the gifts were in celebration of his find; everything was exactly where he’d thought, including some mysterious, priceless treasure that would “change their lives.” He’d said he couldn’t wait to show her when the time came.

“I’m waiting,” the man said with unfiltered impatience.

“Waiting. Oh, yes. I was in the jungle because…”
Still thinking…

Fear. Yes, fear was the reason she’d been capering about. Her mother’s recent death had left her plagued with the corrosive emotion. She feared she would never make right with her past. She feared opening her eyes to the present. She feared the future would bring only pain and suffering because eventually anyone she cared for would leave. Fear was like an irrational cancer that ate away at her rational soul.

It was why, when her father began acting peculiar back home—disappearing for weeks at a time, mumbling incoherently, obsessing over that tablet—she came to Mexico. She feared he might simply disappear in this untamed land, evaporate into nothing more than a collection of memories—just as her mother had.

And now she feared that she had failed; her father had not been seen for three days. But she didn’t dare articulate this distressing, gloomy thought aloud.

“Because… I am a painter!” she said. “I went exploring for new scenery. I got turned around, and then that giant cat of yours appeared out of nowhere and chased me.” She rubbed the gigantic lump on her forehead. “I fell and hit my head. You didn’t happen to find my sandals, did you?”

One glorious turquoise eye ticked for the briefest moment. “Searching for scenery?”

“You don’t believe me?”

He shook his head and grinned with a well-polished arrogance only found on the face of a Hollywood actor. She quickly wondered if he’d ever met her mother but then dismissed the thought. She didn’t want to think about her mother; the pain was simply too fresh.

“No. I do not believe you,” he stated dryly.

The nerve!
“You did find me in the jungle, didn’t you? Wasn’t I unconscious?” She pointed to the large lump on her forehead. “And wearing this?”

“Yes, but I believe you were searching for something else.”

Nosy rake.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mr….”
Arrogant Nudesunbather? Mr. Nomanners Perfectbottom?

“Backlum Chaam.”

Backlum? What an odd—oh! He’s in character
. “Sure, Joe. Whatever blows your wig, but—”

“The name is not Joe, it’s Chaam. I just said it.”

Margaret blinked.
Deep, deep into character.

“And I assure you, I do not wear a wig. This is my real hair.” He gave his shiny black mane a proud tug.

“I meant—oh, never mind. Listen, it’s been great, Mr.
Chaam,
but I gotta skedaddle; my father is probably wondering where I am.” She wished. Her father was likely dead. Or injured.

Stay calm. You’ll find the ruin. You’ll find him…

If only she’d insisted on knowing exactly where the excavation site was hidden. Instead, she’d done what her father had asked—fearing his anger—and stayed near the village, spending her days painting, learning Spanish from the local children, or swimming with a friend she’d made: a young woman named Itzel who didn’t speak a lick of English.

“Have a lovely afternoon.” She flashed an awkward grin and turned toward the shoreline.

A firm grip pulled her back and twirled her around. Two powerful arms incarcerated her body and smashed her against an astonishingly firm, naked chest. His touch instantly ignited that gunpowder, and…

Combustion!

A wave of carnal heat ripped through her body.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my Gooood…
Margaret felt her face turn a lascivious red. Beads of volcanic sweat seeped through her pores. Every muscle in her body wound up with merciless unchaste tension, like ropes anchoring a massive sail, a sail blowing her ship toward the most delicious place ever. And then…

Release.

Maggie braced herself on the man’s bountiful biceps as the tension snapped and silent fireworks exploded throughout her body.

Oh my god.
Had she just… had she really just…?

He cleared his throat. “Was it as good as it looked?”

She let out an exaggeratedly long breath.
What the flapdoodle?
“You’re not an actor, are you?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from quivering.

He shook his head from side to side. “No. And you are no human.”

Chaam beamed at the enchanting brunette in his arms who gazed up at him with her large, dark eyes—eyes that contrasted the sunburnt, freckled cheeks of her striking face. Did she have any clue how long he’d waited, how long he’d held the silent, impossible wish for her in his cold heart?

Seventy thousand years.

Seventy.

Thousand.

That’s how long the mere hope of her had kept his existence tolerable. And that’s why he found it impossible to believe his impossible wish had been granted. The gods did not have mates. Period. That privilege belonged only to those of human origin. Hell, even vampires occasionally found a mate. Lucky bastards. But regardless of the facts, he’d always allowed himself the fantasy. And he’d envisioned her seventy thousand different ways: a delicately framed blonde with sea green eyes; a seductive, black female with velvety waves of chocolate brown hair and eyes of hazel; a tall and athletic woman, a warrior, with olive skin and straight dark hair. He’d imagined her many ways, but he’d never once imagined Margaret. Not the exotic sort, yet sinfully feminine with a crisp intelligence and a disarming smile. And clearly the product of these new times with her very masculine-style independence.

She was perfect for him in every way.

Perhaps this explained why despite the impossibility of this female being his mate, his body and soul screamed she was his.
But perhaps she is yours? A miracle. A gift from the universe.
Why else had he been able to touch her? When he’d first stumbled across the unconscious beauty in the jungle, her dark hair tangled with twigs and leaves, he assumed she’d met her demise. But then he stroked her cheek, and she made a tiny moan. Yes. With pleasure. Actual pleasure from his touch. Humans normally winced, shrieked, or passed out. But this one moaned.

He must have stood there with his mouth gaping for ten entire minutes, studying her ripe full breasts pressing against the white cotton fabric of her dress. And those smooth, creamy thighs… He saw them as clear as a blazing hot day with her dress hiked up the way it was, revealing the lacy hemline of her silky undergarments. Then he’d noticed her lips. Like her plump breasts, they were fully, juicy… just ripe for a kiss. He’d debated for one agonizing second before he dove in and sampled their sweetness. Once he did, his heart made that leap toward believing the unbelievable because the vision thrust upon him in that moment could not be a product of his imagination. He was never that creative. Could she be his missing piece? His mate?

Idiot. Gods do not have mates. Your mind is connecting dots that do not exist because you want to believe
. A more rational explanation might be that she was a genetic anomaly, a human tolerant of his touch.
Or, that she is not human at all.
“Wha-what did you say?” she stammered.

“Drop the charade. I know you aren’t human.” He gave a playful little squeeze, and she wiggled against him.
Ummm… delicious.
He couldn’t get enough of her sensual warmth.

“You’re crazy.” She thrashed her head from side to side. “Let me go!”

That wasn’t going to happen. Whatever—whoever—she was, he had no plans to release her.

Yet.

She was simply too enticing. A tall, curvy drink of water after a seventy thousand-year drought.

“Help! Help!” She clawed at his bare arms.

“I will let you go, little bobcat,” he grunted, “if you promise not to run.”

“I am
not
a bobcat! Help!”

“Okay, then. My little—”
saucy clawed minx? Feral cupcake? Chipmunk of lust?
“Hell. I was never skilled in the pet-names department. Can’t I simply call you bobcat?”

She froze; hostility raged in her eyes. “No. You most certainly cannot call me bobcat!”

He turned his head to avoid her pounding fists. “Stop your assault. I’m not going to hurt you.” No, he certainly didn’t want that. He did, however, want to do other things to her. “I want you to tell me
what
you are. Then I will release you.”

More screams.

There was only one solution.

Spank her?

No, idiot. Start with showing her the vision you saw upon discovering her. Perhaps this will entice her to answer.
He dipped his head and kissed her softly. The woman stilled in his arms.

Yes, now she sees, too.

Words couldn’t describe the deific enormity of the visions he shared. Stars, millions of stars, laughter and joy, the eternal thread of love weaving itself through every beam of sunlight, the divine spark of life in every drop of rain, the two of them lying naked under the tropical night sky. He had seen every step, every moment in time leading up to today.

Fate had brought them together. But as much as he wished for her to be his mate, the truth was undeniable: Gods did not have mates and they certainly could not be intimate with humans—the gods’ energy was far too powerful for any sustained, passion-filled, physical contact—which was ironic because humans were the only species they felt anything for.

Yet, like a miracle here she was. Saucy little claws and all. And he’d simply stumbled upon her. Just like that.

Perhaps she is a miracle, yes. But human, no.
This kiss—wet, thirsty, unfiltered—was proof.

He pulled away, craving another glance of her exquisite face that included a tiny dimple in her right cheek and a sexy little mole just below her lip. She was utterly unique. She was utterly perfect. He couldn’t help but beam. “You saw the vision, didn’t you, my little… love guppy? And now you understand.”