Golden Anidae (A Blushing Death Novel) (11 page)

Detective Salazan hauled himself up into the front seat with an easy grace I hadn’t seen in five long months and started the engine. He cast one last lecherous gaze at me from the corner of his eyes, lingering on the long expanse of thigh I’d left exposed. Breathing deep through his nose and letting his thick musk tingle across my senses, he slid the car into ‘drive’ and skidded out into traffic. His suit, again, was tailored. The fabric seemed soft and silky. I was sure the suit had to have set him back a couple of thousand dollars. How, exactly, did he afford it? Cops didn’t make anywhere near the salary that could afford Detective Salazan a custom Escalade and tailored suits.

“I’m glad you were able to see me tonight. I’m sorry about the short notice. My schedule cleared suddenly and I wanted to see you,” he said with an unabashed smile that probably made most women weak in the knees. As he eased the SUV to a stop at the red light, he met my gaze. The amber flecks in his dark eyes seemed to swirl with desire. He watched me like he was already imagining me out of my dress.

“No problem, it’s not like I was doing anything tonight anyway.” I shrugged. “I’ve been told to stick close to home.” I pursed my lips, teasing with an evocative glance from under my lashes. I crossed my legs, slowly, sliding my calf along the bare skin of my knee and giving him a very good glimpse of flesh.

His eyes dropped to the slow glide of my limbs. His heart raced in his chest, the sound thumping in my ears like a heavy cadence of bass drums. I turned, watching the Strip as the light turned green. Horns blared behind us, urging us to go and he jumped, finally taking his foot off the break.

We pulled into the long drive of The Venetian, where Detective Salazan hopped out and tossed his keys to the waiting valet before the poor guy had a chance to come around the podium. Detective Salazan circled to my side of the SUV and angled the valet away from my door with his bulky body and opened it himself. Holding out his large hand for me, he waited.

I could still see the hungry gleam in his eyes as his gaze dropped. Taking in my legs as I descend from the SUV, a small smile crept across his lips.

He took my hand and led me away from the hustle and bustle of the casino games, canals, and shopping. We strolled through the check-in area for the VIPs and down a secluded and eerily quiet hall. A sudden rush of adrenaline surged through me as my mind started to go into fight mode. When most considered
fight or flight
, my brain went straight to fight. We stopped in front of a single set of elevator doors.

“U-um,” I stammered as the idea of being locked in a hotel room with him raced through my mind. A closed in space with no way out but the front door?
Like Hell!
He gripped my hand tighter and my heart raced. “Where are we going?”
I’m up for this. I’m up for anything. I want him to like me. Don’t panic. Jesus, don’t fucking PANIC!

“It’s a surprise,” he said with a glint in his eye like the cat drowning in cream.

The elevator doors opened, and our images reflected back at us in the wall of mirrors lining the inside of the elevator. His dark eyes and hungry smile met my suspicious gaze, sending a shiver up my spine. His gaze felt more intimate, more meaningful than it should have. Stepping inside the elevator, he watched my face, watched my body move in the mirror as he tugged me behind him. I imagined what Patrick’s face would have given away if he’d seen Detective Salazan holding my hand. I had an image of Patrick and Dean tearing Detective Salazan to shreds and enjoying every minute of his demise. The thought of them, working together—even if it was to kill someone—made me smile in a sick kind of way. Detective Salazan squeezed my hand at my smile and his heart beat a bit faster, pulsing through his palm. Good.

Stepping inside, the doors closed with a ping. My hand moistened with sweat from our combined heat as he clasped my hand tight in his grasp. My gut clenched with anticipation, and I reached with slow, deliberate movements into my bag. Clutching the silver letter opener in my hand. I waited and watched as the numbers lit up on the panel, 1, 2, 3,
ping
. Stroking my thumb across the cold silver, the doors opened.

A chalkboard easel with large loopy letters sat just outside the elevator with ‘Specials of the Day’. The sign over the quaint, aged-wood door read
Bouchon,
and I breathed a sigh of relief. A restaurant. He’d brought me to a nice restaurant.

“I love this place,” he whispered, his breath a warm caress along my skin. Close against my ear, his words fluttered a strand of hair from my neck and tingled the translucent marks at the base of my throat.

His fingers trailed across my shoulder blades, tracing a delicate line down my bare back until his hand rested warm and possessive just above my ass. I needed him to feel comfortable, talking, so I didn’t argue. I turned an inviting twitch of my lips up at him and stepped from the elevator.

The Maître D, who knew Detective Salazan by name, ushered us into a secluded corner of the darkened French Brassiere. My night vision was better by leaps and bounds since Danny’s death, but the flickering candles on the tables made shapes in the shadows that weren’t there. I hadn’t been honing my new abilities in the last five months. I realized now, how crippled I’d allowed myself to become.

He ordered for me, which was pretentious. Then he added a $100 bottle of wine, which set my mind back to my original question. How does a man on Detective Cordero Salazan’s salary pay for thousand-dollar suits and hundred-dollar bottles of wine?

“So,” he said with an easy confidence. “What did you do back in Columbus?”

Easy. Volley question. I could do this. I could be on a date and not crumble into a ball of shame. I was only providing half-truths anyway. I just had to keep my focus. Look comfortable and not be a bitch.

“I was an office manager at a University,” I answered as I took a sip of water. I didn’t see a reason to bring Dean into this. “And you? How long have you been with LVPD?” I asked as the sommelier appeared with the bottle of wine. He uncorked the bottle, poured a small portion into the wine glass, and stepped back.

Detective Salazan swirled the wine around the glass like a seasoned professional. He took a sip, swishing it around in his mouth before he gave a nod of approval to the sommelier and swallowed the wine. Appreciating the finer things in life wasn’t a crime but this guy raised all the hackles on the back of my neck.

The sommelier filled my glass and disappeared into the darkened restaurant. Detective Salazan was quiet for a moment, as if he’d forgotten that I’d asked him a question or maybe hoped that I’d forgotten.

“So?” I asked, picking up right where I left off. “How long have you been with LVPD?”

“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “It’s been about five years.”

“What did you do before that?” I asked. Maybe that’s where the money came from, inheritance, investment banker, something.

“Same thing,” he said. The gleam in his eye and the soft lilt of his voice set my teeth on edge. He was placating me. “I transferred in from Phoenix.” He took a long drink of the red wine, taking half the glass into his mouth. I guess the subject was closed.

This wasn’t going well at all. I didn’t have these problems with Dean or Patrick. Conversation just seemed to flow, whether I wanted to or not. Idle chitchat with Detective Salazan was awkward, uncomfortable.

I sucked my bottom lip in between my teeth and bit down hard to keep from running out the door.

Sliding his large, warm hand over mine on the table, he said, “Don’t do that.” His thumb brushed my lips. “You’ll ruin those.”

Releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth, I cleared my throat and retreated, sliding my hand back to my lap. He hadn’t earned that familiarity or the permission to touch me.

“Tell me more about you?” I said, eager to divert him from physical contact.

Leaning back, he slid his hand back to his side of the table. His dark eyes focused on me and the amber flecks in his irises seemed to swirl as he gazed at me.

“We have more in common than you know,” he said, his accent growing thicker with what I could only understand as distress.

“Oh?”

Pain filled his eyes, longing, and anger.

“As you know, my wife and daughter were killed years ago.” He huffed as if just saying the words was painful. “I tried to keep my life together for almost two years after that.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But every time I turned a corner, I saw my daughter’s toys or a pair of Juliana’s shoes in our closet. I couldn’t take it. So, I left everything. Started over. I think that’s what you’re doing right now.” I knew all too well about the pain of loss and the heavy weight of guilt and grief, about the lump in your throat that never seemed to go away.

“Does it get better?” I asked before I realized the words were out of my mouth.

“Maybe it will for you,” he answered with a hopeful air. We were both quiet for a long moment as the waiter placed our salads on the table.

“I would love to see that,” I said with a bright smile that was as close to genuine as I was going to get. Our conversation had lightened up over dinner and after as he drove me home until we caught on a common interest. Weapons.

“We can go to my place now,” he said, a sly grin lighting his dark eyes with intent as we drove down the strip.

It was the modern version of
come-up-and-see-my-etchings
and I’d seen it coming a mile away as we’d started talking about swords.

I had the distinct feeling, a prickling along my spine, that Detective Salazan knew a little too much about me. And not just the type of things that you could find in the public record either. He happened to have a 2300-year-old Roman sword? I’d had a katana I’d swiped from the Midnight Ash’s cold dead hand, before she’d disintegrated into a fine blue ash. I’d relished the feel of a sword in my hands, the sound of metal moving breathlessly through the air. I missed that damned sword.

It wasn’t the shared love of weapons that got under my skin; anyone could love a double-edged blade. Or even the shared grief. I believed him wholeheartedly when he said he lost his wife and daughter. No one was that good at faking grief and anger. It boiled in your blood like lava from the mouth of the volcano. I knew real rage when I saw it. I felt it in my bones and tasted it in the air with each word he spoke.

No, the thing that really bothered me was his instant attraction to me. ME. Patrick and Dean loved me. The power had drawn Patrick first and he fell in love with me later. And Dean? Well, Dean knew me, and that scared me most of all.

Detective Salazan, however, wanted me. I could smell the arousal on him like a strong musk cologne as his testosterone surged through his system. The scent of something unidentified mixed in his arousal was just as potent. The mixture swirled around the inside of his Escalade like an air freshener, making my synapses crackle and fizz with the sensation. It was intoxicating and made me remember what that first thrill of seduction felt like.

“Sure,” I purred. “Let’s see that sword.”

Chapter 9

I watched as Detective Salazan slid the key into the front door of a single story home. A long window along the front door allowed me a glimpse of the inside of the house where a soft blue light flickered inside. Swinging the front door open, he revealed a work of architectural art. The modern contemporary structure had a wall of floor to ceiling windows along the back and the living spaces were open and airy. The entry way was elevated a few steps up from the stone slab floor reaching into the sunken great room.

The walls were white, stark white, with an antiseptic feel. Bland, impersonal pictures lined the walls; a store-bought landscape signifying nothing and providing no insight to a man that I knew hid so much. The floors were rich honey-colored hardwood, opening up the space and drawing my eye to the wall of windows in the rear of the house. Beyond the glass was a sparkling, well lit, and intricately landscaped pool. The still water, the perfectly placed lawn furniture, and the spotless stainless steel grill didn’t look like it had been used in - well - ever.

The door clicked shut behind me and I turned. Watching me, Salazan didn’t say a word. It was quiet. Much too quiet. He just watched me.

My heels clicked on the stone slabs as I took the first step down into the great room. “Your house is beautiful,” I said, running my hand along the back of the white leather sofa, soft as silk. As I glanced around the great room, everything had its place. There wasn’t a dish out of alignment or a speck of dust on the glass end tables.

It reminded me of somewhere but I couldn’t put my finger on where. The house was beautiful, stunning really, but something was missing. Warmth. The place looked like a decorator had come in and designed his life. The entire place shouted,
Look-at-me
,
I’m-fine
,
I’m-not-broken
. Yeah, right!

I glanced around for any personal objects, a picture, a pair of shoes lying where they weren’t supposed to be, a magazine or a book half open but there was nothing. It was like he didn’t exist in this space. He spent time there but he didn’t live there.

The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. It was Dean’s house. Dean’s house was tricky, having all the trapping of being a home but it felt like a tomb. Piecing all signs together, I understood what the underlying scent beneath the arousal had been . . . despondence. Cordero Salazan wanted something desperately. I just didn’t know what.

It wasn’t like this guy couldn’t get any woman he wanted either, probably had his pick of them. Much the same as Dean. Cordero Salazan looked like a
GQ
model walking around in real life but there was something determined to his interactions with me that set my teeth on edge.

“I thought you had a sword you wanted to show me?” I said with a coy, seductive smile as he stepped closer. The double entendre of my statement wasn’t lost on me.

Smiling as if he, too, understood the underlying insinuation of my words, he said, “It’s through here.” His accent thick, rolling his ‘r’s with lust making his lids heavy. He put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through his house as his fingers only strayed once or twice onto my ass.

His palm was hot, pressing through the material of my dress and sat like a heating pad just above my rear end. His pulse raced against my skin, thumping a strong cadence across my flesh.

He led me through the kitchen to one of the back bedrooms he’d turned into an office. Facing the pool with another wall of windows looking out over the back patio, the room seemed Spartan. Blue light reflected into the office from the pool, shimmering on the mounted blades like a strobe light on the wall to my left.

A glass top desk, a chair, and a computer sat in the opposite corner. A big black leather armchair sat along the wall, seeming more like it was there to fill up the room than to serve any real function. The cushions were too pristine and stiff, showing lack of use. The only thing that seemed personal in the entire house was the display on the wall. In the center was a gleaming sword, sharpened to a fine edge that glinted in the light. Surrounding it on both sides, above and below were pistols of varying age; a flint lock musket, several knives with jewel encrusted handles, and one scimitar with an ivory handle that had an intricate design etched in it. He really had brought me in to see his etchings.

I sauntered over, mesmerized by the gleaming blade of the sword. It wasn’t fancy. There were no jewels in its handle, and nothing engraved in the blade. He’d lied to me. The weapon wasn’t just a Roman sword; it was a
Gladius Hispaniensis
. The blade, more than two feet of sparkling, gleaming metal curved in and out for damage and destruction to penetrate flesh like a hot knife through butter. I was sure it would cut fabric through simple friction alone. The entire weapon couldn’t have weighted more than two or three pounds total. Filling my eyes with the glittering metal blade, I realized how much I missed the katana strapped to my back. I reached out, instinct moving my hand toward the blade without thought. I managed to halt my fingers only centimeters from the swords edge.

“May I touch it?” I asked with a hint of trepidation-laced excitement, like a little girl on Christmas morning.

“Be careful,” he chuckled. “It’s sharp.”

I took a step closer to the wall, stretching my hand out to stroke the cold steel. Trailing a delicate line down the blade with my feather-light touch, I stroked the swords edge. It hummed with magic, sending a pulse up my arm that went right to my groin.
Oh, Jesus!

The energy of the blade sang with the blood it had spilled and the people who’d wielded it through millennia. Magic filled me like a rush of adrenaline, burning and rampaging through my system. My pulse raced, my skin heated, and my body tingled from head to toe with its power. It
wanted
to be used,
needed
to be used. It wanted
me
to use it.

Trembling, I reluctantly removed my hand away from the blade, rubbing my fingers and thumb together to try and keep the sensation tingling across the tips of my fingers. The hilt was a smoothed shinbone, polished and etched with markings I’d never seen before with dark walnut pieces to bring the blade and bone together.

I wanted it, and it wanted me.

Her magic called to me as if it already knew me but I wouldn’t steal it. I wasn’t a thief.

Detective Salazan slid up behind me, rustling his expensive suit as he moved. He placed his hands on either side of my waist, making a ruffling sound as his fingers glided across the silky fabric of my dress. Groping around my body until his arms were wrapped me. He pressed me firm against him then leaned in close and nuzzled his cheek against my hair.

“It’s precious to me.” His voice was husky with the desire I felt pressed against my backside. His nose and the edge of his lips skimmed against my skin in a barely noticeable glide of flesh.

“Why?” I asked.

“It belonged to my first,” he purred in my ear.

“First, what?” I asked, suddenly intrigued. His hands glided down my body, over my thighs until his fingers lingered at the edge of my dress, dangerously close to the heat between my legs.

My skin crawled as the thought of his hands on me overwhelmed me, filling my mind. The thought of his body hovering over mine turned my stomach. He wasn’t who I wanted.

Shit.

If I jerked away, he’d know that I wasn’t interested. I needed him to think I
was
interested, to believe I was interested without having to cross that line. I wouldn’t be able to sleep with him, not and live with myself afterward. I didn’t want to betray Patrick, knowing I couldn’t come back from that. I’d hurt both Patrick and Dean enough.

Focusing my mind, I washed all those doubts away. I was still playing a part and needed to regain the upper hand. I had lost control of myself and the situation the moment I’d walked into Salazan’s office and saw that sword.

“I think I’d better go,” I said, hesitant.

“So soon?” he asked in a low, graveled tone. “I thought we could go for a swim.” He clung to me like a drowning man, shoving his erection against my ass as if marking his territory.

“I don’t have a suit.” I laughed, moving my hips back and forth, shifting my weight against him, grinding the fabric over his groin, teasing.
Yeah, I was back in control.

“Do you need a suit?” he begged as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hips. Turning me in his arms with those large, forceful hands until I faced him, he made damned sure my body never left his and took every opportunity to touch me.

“I think it would be a good idea,” I said with a soft laugh ringing through my voice.

He slid his hand up into my hair, brushing strands away from my shoulder and face. My long, blond, silky tresses hung loose around my shoulders, longer than I’d had my hair in years. The strands slid through his fingers in a soft wave before he caressed my face, down my jawline, and over the curve of my lips with the back of his fingers. His expression was confusing, somewhere between pain and longing.

“Juliana was so dark. Dark hair and skin. Eyes the color of obsidian.” His voice was husky and tortured as he spoke of her, his fingers grazing my skin with the lightest of touches. It should have been romantic but all I could feel was the acid churning in the pit of my stomach.

“You,” he breathed. “You’re lightness itself. Your skin and hair shimmer, even in the dark.” He stroked my bottom lip, plumping the soft flesh. “Your eyes are deep and dangerous like a storm cloud just before a tornado. They promise so much.”

Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I bit down hard. Not only didn’t I know what to do, but I didn’t want him touching my bottom lip anymore.

“I find it incredibly erotic that I make you nervous. I don’t think many people make you nervous,” he said with a mischievous half smile.

“You . . . you don’t make me nervous,” I stammered and even I heard the lie in my voice.

“Stop biting your lip,” he ordered with a satisfied grin.

I let my bottom lip go and watched his eyes dart from my gaze to my mouth. He was going to kiss me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Other than kill him but that wasn’t the plan.

Leaning in to me, he closed the inches between us and brushed his lips against mine. Fighting every instinct I had to step away, I exhaled and relaxed. He pressed his lips against mine in a chaste, gentle caress of a kiss. His fingers stretched into my hair and I let the tension fall away from my body. He had to believe I wanted him. I had to believe I wanted him or he would know I was lying.

I closed my eyes and thought about the last kiss Dean had given me before I’d left, of Dean with his hands clutched around my wrists and nothing more. Dean’s lips crushing mine and showing me how much he wanted me, needed me. His firm chest pressed up against mine in a silent attempt to remind me of what would be waiting for me when I came back. When. Not if.

My hands had moved on their own, running up Detective Salazan’s back, pulling him to me. He opened his mouth, thrusting his tongue past my teeth as he licked the inside of my mouth. Maybe I had done it. Losing myself in Dean’s last kiss, I hadn’t noticed as Detective Salazan’s kiss had deepened. His hands left my hair and trailed over my shoulders, down my arms, and landed square on my ass. The fabric of my dress rose up my thigh and crested dangerously close to my hips as he tugged at the hemline. He dug his fingers into the fleshy part of my rear end, sending shivers of anxiety through my body and alarm bells through my mind.
She
growled low in my mind as his fingers touched places they shouldn’t have. That was enough.

Breaking the kiss, I panted in time with him as I put some distance between us. “Cordero,” I purred, feeling the ‘r’ of his name roll off my tongue. I took another step back. He matched me, taking a step toward me but I held up my hand to stop him. “I’m not that type of girl, Cordero.”

“What kind of girl are you?” he asked with an entertained grin on his face that lit up his eyes like two sparkling dark pools.

“The kind that didn’t sleep with her last boyfriend for six months,” I said. I didn’t mention that I’d slept with Patrick in the back of a limo after only an encounter or two. That wasn’t important information, and he didn’t know about Patrick, hopefully.

His shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, the breath leaving his chest in a heavy rush as I met his eyes, still trying to read me.

“You’re serious?” he rasped.

“As a heart attack.”

A bright winning grin spread across his face and lit his eyes with a sparkle of amber like that was the answer he’d been hoping to hear. He stepped back a good three paces and held out his hand.

“I think we can find something for you to wear in the pool. I’ll be right back,” he said, his tone more formal and rigid as he left the room.

There wasn’t time to look around and I didn’t want to be caught. So, I waited.

Cordero disappeared for only a few moments before his dark figure sauntered back down the hallway in a pair of tasteful and not too obnoxious board shorts. His chest was exposed, showing the definition of his muscles and the tight six pack of abs were sculpted deep into his musculature. The tattoo I’d seen peek from beneath his shirt climbed up his arm in crisp black lines. What I’d thought was a tribal tattoo was actually symbols inked into an intricate pattern across his skin. Interlocking Celtic knots snaked up his forearm until they curled into a bull on the inside of his elbow.

With his hands full, he stepped up to me and said, “I think these will fit.” Handing the bundle over, he strutted to the doors leading out to the pool. “The bathroom is down the hall. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He stepped onto the patio and closed the door behind him. Opening the bundle in my hands, another pair of board shorts and a black tank top sat in my grasp. Black. Not white. I glanced up, catching the sight of his long tanned body diving in the pool with a loud splash of cool blue water. I took the bundle down the hall and into the only bathroom I could find.

The walls were white with a black tile floor that shone like polished granite. Two stainless steel contemporary sinks sat above the countertops, catching the light reflecting from the track lighting above. Dropping my bag, I dug out my phone. The tattoos on his arm didn’t quite match up with the man. I pulled up Google on the smart phone. God love technology! I started searching for Celtic knots. The tattoo resembled the Dara knot, which implied some sense of strength but the bull, that was a different story. The bull, along with the knots was a symbol of power, determination, and stubbornness against all odds. What did all of that mean? Why did a Hispanic guy have a Celtic tattoo? Not questions I could answer right now.