Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book (12 page)

Ten

Oh, for the days when women were meek and biddable . . .

I
vak was so angry he could scarce hold his fangs in.

The woman stood before him, exactly where he’d told her not to go, and dared to shoot darts of her own anger at him. Was she so stubborn that she would put her life in danger just to prove a point? Did she have any idea what he could do to her?

“There are mules with more sense than you have,” he snarled.

“There are asses with more sense than you have,” she snarled back.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“What are
you
doing here?” she countered, and stepped around him and proceeded to walk down the stairs.

“Where else would I be?” He followed her to the bottom of the steps, where they both stopped. Deciding he’d had enough of her mulishness, he picked her up by the waist and lifted her against the wall so that her feet dangled above the floor. So shocked was she, and thankfully silent for the moment, that the leather briefcase in her hand dropped to the floor with a thud.

She soon regained her voice, however. “Let me go, you big oaf. I don’t appreciate being manhandled by some obnoxious Viking wannabe.”

“Obnoxious, am I? A Viking imposter, am I? Have a care, wench, you are pushing the bounds of my temper.”

“That’s another thing. Are you aware that
wench
is an insulting term to use for a woman?”

“It is?” That surprised him. Somewhat. He shrugged. There were more important issues at hand here. “I do not know if you are truly my soul mate, or not. God knows, I would prefer that you are not. But, on the off chance that you are, that makes you my responsibility, and that means I cannot have you strolling into danger like a willful child.”

“You . . . you . . .” she sputtered, and raised a fist.

He kissed her lips quickly, before she had a chance to hit him, and set her back on her feet. “Now, where are you off to that is so important?”

“My office. I have work to do.”

“I will go with you.”

“You will not!” She turned and leaned down to pick up her briefcase and some papers that had fallen out.

He noticed then that she was wearing braies today, black pleated, linen-like pants that hugged her hips and long legs. On top, she wore a silky white blouse tucked into the waist with a wide silver linked belt. Her black hair was loose, in waves, to her shoulder and held off her face with two pearl combs. “I like your ass,” he remarked.

She glanced up at him over her shoulder and then shot up straight. “Are you really so clueless you don’t know how obnoxious you are?”

“Huh? I just paid you a compliment. I would not be insulted if you said you liked
my
ass.”

She shook her head as if he were a hopeless case, then opened the door and stormed out to the sidewalk.

He followed, of course, checking right and left to make sure there were no Lucies about.

At first, she ignored his presence, but then she made a snide remark. “Don’t you ever dress normal?”

“What’s wrong with my attire?” He could understand her comment about his apparel at the prison, or his cloak last night, but today he was wearing an open, long-sleeved denim shirt over a white T-shirt with denim braies and lightweight ankle boots. No priestly dog collar.

“It’s ninety degrees today. You must be sweltering.”

He shrugged. He needed the outer shirt to hide the weapons strapped to his back and tucked into his waistband, and the boots held several knives.

Now that his anger had subsided, he tried to make conversation with her. “Why do you live in New Orleans? Why not somewhere closer to the prison, like Baton Rouge?”

“This is where my work is. I need to be with a firm that understands about my brother and allows me to work flexible hours so I can take care of his business. A big law firm wouldn’t be so compassionate.”

Maybe he should offer her money to alleviate her hardships. He would save that suggestion for later. If she was so stubborn about his care for her physical safety, she would surely balk about financial help.

“Besides, I love this city with all its history and quaintness. The architecture, like those iron lace railings over there, and the many preserved buildings in the old Quarter. The food. The traditions. Mardi Gras. Jazz. Oh, I know it’s seedy in parts, and I certainly grew up in the section that was downright dismal, but it’s where I want to be. For now.”

He nodded. “I was here before the war, and it was a grand place, even then. You should have seen opening night at the Opera House. The men in perfectly tailored suits with silk shirts adorned with ruffled lace, waistcoats of brocaded satin, even gloves. And ladies were beautiful in their hooped dresses and daring décolletages.”

“What war?”

He glanced at her. “The Civil War, of course.”

She stopped and stared at him.

Belatedly, he realized that she still did not believe his vangel story. With a sigh, he took her hand as they continued walking. For a moment she resisted his hand holding, but gave up under his persistence. He continued talking, “The Vieux Carré, that is what the French Quarter was called then. It was just as busy as it is now, but instead of cars and buses, there were horse-drawn wagons . . . the milk wagon, the water wagon, the kerosene wagon. Then there was the Waffle Man, and vendors in wagons selling Roman candy and flavored snowballs.”

Her eyes were wide with amazement, but not yet belief.

So, he continued, “It was not uncommon to see black women carrying baskets or wooden bowls on their heads as they rhythmically sang out their wares for sale. ‘Strawberries, fresh and fine!’ ‘Calas! Calas! Get them while they’re hot!’ Shutters would fly open and servants or housewives would invite vendors over to display their wares.”

“You could have read all that in a book.”

“I suppose, but I am not much for reading. I am more of a doer.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You make it sound like a better time than today.”

“Not at all. There was also yellow fever, hurricanes, floods, dueling, unbearable heat and humidity, body odor like you wouldn’t believe, and of course slavery, the biggest abomination.”

She still frowned.

He decided that now was not the time to inform her of his having owned slaves himself at one time. “Then, of course, there were the fancy girls in the sporting houses.”

“And you know all about them, I’ll bet.”

“Of course. I saved many a soul about to be taken by the Lucies in the red-light district. Dominique was not established here then, but there were Lucies drawn by the decadent lifestyle.”

They had arrived at Gabrielle’s offices by then and she put up a halting hand. “You are not coming in with me.”

He stiffened. “Are you ashamed to be seen with me?” After all, she had commented on his clothing.

“I don’t want to have to explain you.”

Just then a woman of forty-some years came up to them. “Are you going in now, Gabby? Hey, who’s your friend?”

He could tell that Gabrielle didn’t want to introduce him. Tough! He extended a hand and said, “Greetings. My name is Ivak Sigurdsson. I am a chaplain at Angola Prison. And you are . . . ?”

“Estelle Johnson,” the woman replied with a warm smile and squeeze of his hand.

“Ah, a good Norse name! Johnsson. I am Viking, too. A friend of Gabrielle’s.”

He could tell that Gabrielle wanted to refute their connection, but Estelle spoke first, “Are you coming inside to wait for Gabby? I’ll put some fresh coffee on.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” he said, and stepped through the doorway before Gabrielle could object. Tapping a fingertip on her frowning mouth, he whispered, “I do not like the name Gabby. You shall always be Gabrielle to me. Or sweetling. Although you are not looking so sweet at the moment.”

She growled. She actually growled.

The sound zapped him with an instant shot of arousal, almost as if she’d grabbed his male parts and given him a little squeeze. He must have been gaping because she said, “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

Truth be told, he feared he
was
getting a little sick. Lovesick. But what he said was, “Hurry up with your meeting, love, and I will show you my side of the Old South. The best side.”

So, this is what it’s like to date a vampire . . .

Love? Had the man really called her “love”? Not for the first time, she saw Ivak as a player, pure and simple. Did he think he could charm her with such throwaway endearments? Hah!

To Gabrielle’s chagrin, however, Ivak did charm every one of the women who entered the offices. He obviously loved women, and he showed it in the complete attention he gave each and every one of them and the way he constantly touched them, the innocent squeeze of a shoulder when Lisa O’Dell, the secretary, told him of her disabled child, or the brush of hair off the face of the newly widowed Georgia Lane, their lead attorney. She also noticed the appreciative scrutiny he gave the good-looking ones, or those with ample curves. A testosterone-oozing horndog, she decided. One she needed to avoid.

But, truthfully, the men were impressed, too. He could discuss the New Orleans Saints or local jazz musicians with equal ease. His size and physique impressed the men, as well as the women. Steve Mason, who managed their office, even asked him if he was a professional athlete.

To her embarrassment and chagrin, in the brief time before her meeting started, he grilled each of the men, clearly staking his claim on her. “Are you married?” “How long have you known Gabrielle?” That kind of thing.

Gabrielle’s meeting lasted more than two hours.

She and four other lawyers, as well as aides and other personnel who worked for Second Chances, sat around a conference table discussing several dozen new applications for their services; they agreed to take on five of them. There was only so much manpower to go around, and they had to be selective, not just in terms of deservedness, but winability, too. They were a privately funded nonprofit that had to account for its services, just as any for-profit corporation must.

Two new cases were assigned to her. A young woman incarcerated ten years ago for murdering an abusive husband, and a teenage boy who’d been tried as an adult for robbery with a deadly weapon. Those were on top of the twenty cases she was currently handling. She couldn’t complain. Her load was actually comparatively light because of Leroy. Others had as many as fifty cases at one time.

She was shocked when she left the meeting to find that Ivak was still in the waiting room. He was teaching Juan, the seven-year-old son of their young receptionist, Holly Morales, how to engage in swordsmanship using a folded umbrella. Juan was giggling, and Holly along with four other women, who worked in neighboring shops, were clapping their encouragement. Every one of the women was staring at Ivak like he was a sweet praline and they were sugar addicts.

Even while she stood there, transfixed, his smart phone rang. He excused himself to the boy and women and took the call. Rather, a text message, because he sank down onto a folding chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles and propped on another chair while he tapped away on the phone, sending text messages to God only knew who. Maybe God Himself.

“You’re still here!” she exclaimed, as he stood and pocketed the phone.

“By the runes! Of course I am here. Did I not say I would wait? My word is my bond, dearling.”

She rolled her eyes at the archaic language. “Don’t you have work to do? Are you permitted to be away from the prison for so long?”

“I can do whatever I want. I set my own hours. But you are right. Normally I would not want to be absent at such a critical time. However, some of my vangels arrived today, and they will contact me immediately if there is a problem.” He must have noticed the concern on her face because he quickly added, “You are not to worry about Leroy. One of my men is watching over him closely.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Are you hungry?”

Any denial she might have made was negated by the rumble of her stomach.

He laughed, and she smiled.

“I think that is the first time you’ve smiled at me,” he said. “Do it more often and I would do anything for you.”

“Anything? How about feeding me?” she surprised herself by asking.
Where did that come from? I’m supposed to be putting some distance between us. Aren’t I?

He took her hand in his, an action she could no longer evade, or wanted to evade, and said, “Come. I know just the place. I am so hungry myself, I could eat a boar.”

“A boar, huh? Do they serve boar at this place you recommend?”

“No, but they do have alligator on the menu. Alligator and mushroom pizza. Yum!”

She didn’t know if he was kidding or not, but she liked this playful demeanor of his.
Charm, charm, charm, sex, sex, sex, player, player, player. Keep reminding yourself, Gabrielle. I should tell him to get lost right now. This minute.

Maybe later.

Instead, she said, “Did you know Tante Lulu has a pet alligator in her backyard?”

“Do I know it? Hah! I almost stepped on its tail when I carried you in last night.”

She didn’t want to think about how that image made her feel. Not the alligator, but him carrying her. And the dream. That awful, wonderful dream. So she changed the subject. “Do you want to drive or shall I?” When they got to the car, Gabrielle said, “Meet Lillian. Tante Lulu’s Purple Princess.”

His eyes went wide before he burst out laughing. “Oh, I will definitely be driving Lillian.” When he sat behind the wheel, he turned to her and smiled. “This vehicle is as big as a longboat.”

“I like that,” she said, smiling back at him. “A longboat of the highways.”

“You could say it was a longcar.”

“A lavender longcar.”

They both laughed as he cruised slowly down the busy streets of the French Quarter. Once outside the city, he stepped on the gas and Gabrielle enjoyed the breeze blowing through her hair and the pure freedom of being out on the road on a beautiful, sunny summer day. Later, she would put up her defenses again, but for now she just wanted to relax and forget all her problems.