Lure of the Wicked (11 page)

“Great. What are we calling her this time?”

“She’s still married to James Montgomery, at least for the moment,” Lillian replied with a sigh. “Mrs. Montgomery will do.”

“Noted. What am I cross-referencing for?”

Her voice brightened. “Good morning, Mr. Rook. I’ll explain later,” she said into the comm. “For now, just check that they aren’t scheduled in the same services, and let’s try to limit their social interaction, shall we?”

“All right.” He sat back at the computer, fingers tapping slowly into the keyboard. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, my love. Oh, and keep Miss Ishikawa away from the dining areas.” She disconnected before Phin could ask any of the questions that leaped to his tongue. Her voice cut off mid-greeting to another guest, another welcome. Another cheerful conversation.

Lillian enjoyed making herself available during mealtimes, talking with the guests, directing events subtly from within the group. A personal touch. She had an eye for people, which meant she had reasons for asking him to keep the two women separated.

He just wished he knew what the hell was going on. Anywhere, for that matter.

“And,” he murmured as he checked both women’s schedules, “they’re good.” Not that it’d matter. Aside from a morning’s worth of pampering, Naomi had avoided her services like the plague. Yoga, relaxation, massage, she hadn’t shown up for any of it.

What the hell did she do all day?

Staring at the monitor, he tapped his fingers on the edge of the inset keyboard in absentminded echo of his mother’s fidgeting habit.

Keep her away from the dining floor. Abigail loved her social time. Phin was absolutely convinced she came here because of the captive audience, so that meant she intended on reigning over them all again. Her Royal Highness, the much-divorced queen of the wealthy city scene.

Keep Naomi away from Abigail.

Why?

Collecting his jacket from the coat rack, Phin shut and locked the door behind him. He kept his thumb pressed to the small scanner until the distinctive sound of tumblers sliding into place assured him it was as secure as it was going to get.

He caught himself whistling as he headed for the elevator.

I
t had taken way too long to clean the suite bathroom, but it would pass muster if anyone came looking. Timeless didn’t leave chemicals just hanging out where any of their elite clients could stumble over them.

Water and frothy shower gel could clean only so much.

Naomi had spent the night cursing the stupid son of a bitch who’d allowed her to slam his head against the shining porcelain toilet. He’d bled out on the tile floor.

Nastier invectives rolled off her tongue when a search of his body revealed only a duplicate of her security card. No ID, nothing other than a Timeless uniform and that fucking card.

She’d wrestled him and the bloody towels into the armoire and cranked the internal temperature of the room to as cold as it would go, but the corpse wouldn’t keep long. She’d have to find Carson before the dead witch started to smell.

Four hours later, what promised to be a foul temper had blossomed into a headache that no amount of Gemma’s numbing cream could cure.

The place was a godforsaken maze. Scouring just two floors left Naomi frustrated, tired, and worse, empty-handed. The place was huge, larger than any single building had any right to be, with hallways that branched off in every direction and stairwells that her key card wouldn’t grant her access to.

Using her comm, she mapped every hallway she could find and didn’t have any excuses when a blue-eyed man in a dishwasher’s apron escorted her back to the public corridors.

On the plus side, she’d seen signs of security where she’d figured there was none. Maybe that meant Phin had more sense than she gave him credit for. Now if she could just get her hands on that security feed.

In the elevator again, she touched the next floor button, glancing up at the camera lens nestled into the corner as the lift glided into motion.

How could she ask?

Better yet, could she patch Jonas into the closed system? Maybe he could find something they didn’t know how to look for. With a hell of a lot less questions.

The elevator doors slid open, that near-soundless hiss of air and oiled mechanics. Naomi stepped off the elevator, and it was as if she’d crossed some sort of sound divide. Suddenly engulfed in utter quiet, she couldn’t help her automatic effort to keep her shoes from clicking on the tile. It was as hushed as a tomb.

As stifling as the sauna, with none of the steam.

The layout mirrored the beauty spa one floor above. Open area, doors set into the walls, but there were no windows here. No pools. It was darker, more enclosed. Sand and sculpted rock took the place of plants, and the gleaming floor was midnight black marble veined with brilliant violet and gold.

The surrounding doors were shut, solid panels of dark wood inlaid with a strange collection of minerals, stones, shells, and metal.

It smelled different here. Thick, heavy, like incense. Musky, spicy instead of floral. Smothering. Warm, but not humid.

A handful of people spread out on the black floor, towels under their heads or digital books in hand. They looked content. Relaxed. Heat pushed up through the soles of her boots, warmed her feet even in heels.

Feeling overdressed in her dark wash denim and sky blue silk blouse, Naomi frowned and backtracked quickly before someone tried to stuff her into another robe.

Small hands braced her as she nearly backed into a brunette wearing the spa’s typical green. “Excuse me, sorry,” the short woman whispered quietly, raising a finger to her lips as Naomi whirled. “My name is Liz, are you here for a massage appointment?”

Flicking her gaze to the people on the tile, Naomi barely managed to keep her lip from curling. “No,” she murmured. “Wrong floor, sorry.”

“No problem.” Liz gestured over her shoulder. “If you ever want to visit, simply turn left upon entry to store your clothes, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Hell would freeze before she locked herself in this soundless tomb. Naomi turned, reached for the elevator button, and tensed when the doors slid open without her help. She fought back an uncurling tendril of anxiety.

She had every right to be here.

Naomi Ishikawa did, anyway.

Inside the elevator, Phin leaned against the railing, effortlessly casual in his crisp gray slacks and forest green button-down shirt. He’d worn a tie this time, something patterned in abstract shades of olive, gold, and bronze.

It brought out the sudden wary gleam of his dark eyes. The flash of awareness as Naomi’s cool smile froze to brittle crystal.

“Just who I wanted to see. Shall we?” The tone of Phin’s voice carried a warning. The gesture he made to the quiet floor behind her went ignored.

Naomi’s palm slammed into the frame, blocking the sensor and sending ripples of shock from wrist to shoulder. She ignored that, too. Her mouth dried to bitter cotton as the woman beside Phin glanced her way, blue eyes raking over Naomi in silent, preoccupied inquiry.

She was beautiful.

Still
beautiful, even after all the years she fought off with surgery and restoratives. Her chin-length, wavy hair was as icy blond as Naomi remembered, not a thread of gray to ruin a carefully cultivated appearance of agelessness and impossible youth. Her eyes were expertly lined, deliberately lashed, and her makeup flawless.

But Naomi could pick out the tiny surgery scars by her ears. The nearly invisible lines marring the perfection of her eyes and bracketing the mouth that was almost as full as her own.

When she said nothing, Naomi read indifference, complete lack of recognition, and subsequent dismissal a single nanosecond before an empty, insincere smile shaped her mother’s cosmetically plumped lips. “We are going down,” she said clearly, and turned her lovely, timeless gaze back to Phin. “The rudeness of some people just—”

Phin moved. As if released from a spell, he surged out of the elevator, wrapped one hand around Naomi’s upper arm as he said breezily, “Excuse me, Mrs. Montgomery.”

Naomi’s crack of bitter laughter broke on a curse as he spun her away from the elevator, whirling her hard against his chest. Around the hand he slid against the back of her head, pushing her face into his shoulder, he muttered, “Be quiet.”

She smelled warm soap and male as she sucked in a breath to say something, anything. As she struggled to pluck coherent words from the soundless litany of fury drilling through her ears.

The doors closed on Abigail’s puzzled frown.

Adrenaline surged through Naomi’s veins. It rocketed from the sudden vise in her chest through her blood, pounding in her skull. Her body shook; rage, bitter laughter—
fuck,
disappointment—fueling her as she shoved at Phin’s chest. “Let me go,” she spat.

Features set in hard lines, determined edges, Phin glanced over her head. Naomi didn’t give a damn about the curious eyes probably aimed their way. She hoped they fell out of their goddamn skulls.

Before she could say as much, he seized her wrists and jerked her toward one of the doors. Her boots scraped on bare tile as she staggered over the rim of the heated floor.

Carried by an anger she couldn’t think through, she launched herself at his back.

And somehow, he knew.

He spun, jaw hard, and yanked sharply enough on her wrists that she buckled, plucked from her trajectory and cursing. Voices gasped in unison, digital readers hit the marble floor, but he didn’t stop. Hauling her bodily into his arms, lean muscles like iron bands, Phin carried her inside a small room bathed in gold light.

He ignored the hum of voices behind him, and firmly, gently shut the door.

Seething, Naomi wrenched out of his grasp. She choked on everything she couldn’t say, slamming her foot into the bolted massage table in the center of the room, and caught her breath as pain fractured through to her brain. She kicked it again, harder. The frame splintered audibly; the candles flickered.

“Go ahead,” Phin offered mildly. She spun back, panting, her fists clenched at her sides. He looked cool and unruffled, not a hair out of place, with his hands in his pockets and the metallic threads of his tie reflecting back the candlelight.

Unruffled, except for his glittering eyes, golden points of flame.

“Keep at it, if you want.” Angling one shoulder against the door, Phin added, “The room’s soundproof. They all are. Clients come here for peace and quiet, so do what you need to do. Yell and scream, if you like.”

“Don’t you dare,” Naomi bit out. Every word snapped from her chest like a coiled spring wound too tight. Ground too sharp. “Don’t you fucking patronize me.”

“I’m not.” His gaze steady, he nodded at the massage table behind her. “Go for it. Kick it until you break something.” He paused, then offered quietly, “Or you can tell me what’s wrong.”

Wrong. What was wrong with Naomi West?

She wanted to laugh, but she knew if she did now, it’d come out a raw sound too close to a sob for her to risk the effort.

To risk his pity.

What the fuck
wasn’t
wrong?

Her fingers clenched tightly enough to send pain ratcheting through her arms. She gritted her teeth until her jaw threatened to lock. Until she could breathe through the fury and pain and, god damn it, memory that scorched. Blackened to the bone.

Phin sighed. “I’m not going to pry, Naomi. It’s your life.”

Her laugh cracked loose. “What do you know?”

For a long, silent moment, Phin studied her. Measured her. There was nothing on his face that Naomi could cling to, nothing in his eyes that she could extract and fling back like a weapon. He gave her nothing, damn it, nothing to hang her anger on.

Just steady, patient regard.

To her horror, tears burned behind her eyes. She stiffened, swallowing back the knot in her throat in desperate, furious resolve. She wasn’t going to cry.

That wasn’t a victory her mother would ever claim again.

“Fine.” Phin straightened. “Lie down.”

She shook her head. “What?”

He deftly removed the cuff link at one sleeve. Tossed it into a small crystal bowl,
clink
.

Her mouth went dry.

His fingers agile, he unhooked the other with quick, neat precision. It rattled into place with the other one, metal and glass. “Lie down,” he repeated slowly. “On the table, with your shirt off.”

“Not even if you—”

“Look,” Phin cut in, his tone as calm and conversational as if they only discussed the chances of rain on an autumn day. “You’re wound so tight, I can practically see reality bending around you.” Briskly he rolled up the cuff of one sleeve, bared a lean, muscled forearm sprinkled with golden brown hair.

Her eyes locked on his hands. Long fingers. Wide palms. Her brain stalled.

As he rolled up the other sleeve, he jerked his chin to the table. “So strip off the shirt, and lie down, okay? I’ve never met somebody more in need of a massage.”

Her body jerked. Surprise. Bottled anger. But to her shock, Naomi found herself reaching for the tied hem of her blouse. The silk rustled between her fingers.

For a brief, jagged instant, Phin’s eyes met hers as the hem cleared her face. His gaze skimmed over the set of her mouth, her shoulders.

The scarlet lace that cupped her breasts.

All at once, her rage shimmered into something else just as searing. Turned over into an arousal so deep, so tight, it slipped like wine through her blood, made her slow to react as Phin’s voice reached across the strained silence.

“And the bra,” he rasped. Rough. As taut as the impressive erection Naomi clearly saw straining against his slacks. Clearing his throat, he nodded to the table when she shrugged out of the lacy bra. “Facedown.”

Skin shivering, every nerve awake and trembling, Naomi dropped the silk and lace to the floor. She climbed onto the table, settled into place, her breath tight and sharp with anticipation. With wired, leashed impatience.

The cushion was soft against her forehead, thick and lush against the sensitized flesh of her breasts. It cradled her face, blocked her view of everything but the floor beneath her head. She watched the candlelight flicker, dance, and jump with every move Phin made. She heard a drawer open, heard liquid slide as he rubbed something that smelled sharply spicy between his palms.