Lure of the Wicked (2 page)

The Church said kill.

She’d get right on it.

She took one step toward the bedroom and froze as the oiled metal doors of the suite elevator hissed open behind her. Sudden, visceral awareness lifted every hair on the back of her neck.

Nerves prickled; a circle of fire searing through the tattooed seal low on her belly.
Witchcraft
.

Instinct took control of her body, launched her to the side as pain and power converged inside her skull. Sheer adrenaline ate away at the last vestiges of confusion, and she hit the ground rolling.

She collided with a polished end table, saw boots and a sage green uniform in the corner of her eye, and swore as a lamp crashed to the floor by her head. Pain made her slow, sticky under the hammering of magic and the protective burn of the Mission tattoo. The edges of her vision wavered in black and excruciating red.

“What the fuck,” she gritted out as she struggled to get to her feet. Her knees wobbled, shredded by the witchcraft drilling through her skull.

“Jesus, she wasn’t kidding.” A masculine voice, gritty. Focused. “You’re tougher than I thought.”

Sucking in air, her lips peeled back from her teeth and she came up swinging.

His curse fractured as her fist found his ribs; she cursed hard enough for both of them as her knuckles collided with bone. He bent double with the impact and she stepped in, grabbed his wrist, and slammed him viciously against the back wall. Naomi locked her forearm against his throat, panting with the effort.

A painting swayed, crashed to the ground in the sudden silence of his constricted airway. The pain receded.

He was old, she realized. Older than she’d thought, underneath stocky muscle and hands made of calluses. The fingers he locked around her arm in desperation were work-scarred, nails clipped to the quick. His hair was cut in severe military lines, liberally peppered with gray. A full bar mustache covered his upper lip, but it couldn’t hide the scar puckering the skin just by the side of his mouth. His bulbous nose and bushy gray eyebrows should have conspired to give him a harmless, kindly demeanor.

The wild glint in his deep blue eyes betrayed the truth.

Even as one part of her brain cataloged his description, the rest of her battled back the too-fast surge of her own heartbeat. Too much adrenaline. Too damn fast. Pins and needles prickled at her face.

Not now.
Scraping her attention together, she bared her teeth and gritted out, “Who are you?”

“Fuck y—” He choked as she flexed her shoulder, driving the edge of her forearm harder against his throat.

The fragile bones in his neck grated together as he turned purple. She thrust her face into his. “You have about thirty seconds before— Shit!”

Harder, stronger than she expected, the witch seized her sweater and shoved. Seams stretched, popped. Her feet tangled in the one he locked behind hers. She flailed, hit the floor on her ass. He stepped in immediately, cocked a leg, and rammed one booted foot into her ribs. Again. She rolled with the momentum as pain screamed through her chest, but she couldn’t see past the colors swimming through her head. Vibrant reds and bruised purples.

A rough hand closed over the back of her neck, shook hard, and sent her sprawling. Pain rocketed through her body as she collided into the settee. Ass over skull, her knees buckled over the low cushions and sent her flailing over the back of it.

The back of her head slammed into one unyielding corner of the small end table beside it and the scene flickered, a synaptic overload of pain and magic.

Naomi shook her head hard; her chest squeezed, labored to inhale the oxygen that wasn’t making it to her brain. She tensed, teeth clenched as she forced her muscles to move. He didn’t come at her again. When the onslaught of magic ceased, it ended so completely that it left her reeling.

She clung to the back of the elegant couch, gasping for breath as her lungs constricted. Hysteria. It wrapped around her chest and made it too damned hard to breathe.

Her peripheral vision flickered. Naomi launched herself out of the way, hit the table again, and clutched it for support as the room whirled.

Nothing came at her.

Forcing air into her struggling lungs, she dragged herself to her feet as the suite elevator doors closed. Leaving her with the impression of sharp blue eyes and the lingering snap of killing magic.

“Son of a
bitch
,” she snarled, and lunged for the control button. Her palm slapped down too damn late. She sucked in a breath, held it. Let it out. Another. Calm.

Controlled.

Fuck.
Naomi kicked the steel doors until the suite echoed with it. Her toes throbbed in protest.

She watched the light buttons as the elevator descended with the powerful witch inside. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen. . .

Should she try to outrun it and take the stairs? Hell, he could get off at any floor before he reached ground level. She’d never catch him.

By the time the elevator made it all the way back to her suite on the top floor, she’d scuffed the hell out of her knee-high leather boots and knew her assailant would be long gone.

The doors slid open with an expensive
whoosh
. She limped into the elegantly mirrored box and barely kept herself from putting her fist through the reflective glass.

No gun, no bullets. She’d thought this bullshit operation was going to be as witch-free as Sunday Mass, but the lingering prickle around the skin of her abdomen proved her wrong.

Dead fucking wrong.

T
he woman who shot out of the residential elevator and into his arms rang every bell in Phinneas Clarke’s head, and then some.

Most were alarms.

Trouble. Capital T kind of trouble, with long, long legs and a taut, trim body that fit against him like a custom suit. Plastered to the wall by her surprised momentum, the back of his head rebounded from the wallpapered panel and knocked a peal of thunder through his skull as he found his hands suddenly full of warm wool and soft curve.

She buckled, slid against the front of his body until his brain shorted out, and caught herself against his chest. One knee jammed between his legs—mercifully shy of wrecking Phin’s vulnerable flesh—and her fingers twisted into the lapels of his suit jacket, providing an awkward angle of support.

Warm, denim-clad curves filled his palms, and he realized he’d caught her by the definitely taut muscles of her ass. For a long moment only the whispered lilt of the created spring behind them filled the shocked silence.

His lips twitched.

Naomi Ishikawa. According to the dossier he’d compiled from her people, his newest guest was an heiress who couldn’t stay out of the kind of trouble that got rich girls put on a very short list.

Phin could see what her handlers meant.

Her hair was sleek and black, reminiscent of the Japanese heritage that defined her cheekbones and shaped the almond tilt of her eyes. She was fine-boned, slender, but tensile; clearly a woman who enjoyed a good workout. The easy strength he felt in her slim body was proof enough of that.

The rest of her was pure American supermodel, right down to the wildly long legs that tucked her at just about his eye level.

His gaze centered on her flushed face, and the raw-looking scab slashed diagonally across the bridge of her fine, straight nose. Miss Ishikawa looked as if she’d stepped into the ring with a prizefighter and lost.

The elevator doors eased shut beside them. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”

He wasn’t sure. Were his fingers still curved around her rear? Did having a beautiful woman plastered against his chest count as all right?

He shook his head. Hard.

“Shit,” she said, a husky snort. Sharp eyes searched his face as one warm, long-fingered hand slid around the back of his neck. “What’s your name?”

“Phin,” he managed, and shifted. Just enough. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but could you remove your knee?”

The hand at the back of his neck stilled. Desperately he tried not to smile as she looked down at his chest. At the locked press of her hips against his and the sleek, denim-clad leg she’d braced between his knees in the confusion.

He hoped to God she couldn’t feel his pulse against the curve of her thigh.

Her gaze flicked back up to his. Crinkled just enough to let him know she did. “Sorry,” she said lightly. “Tell you what. You move your hands from my ass and I’ll move my leg from your—”

“Got it,” he said hastily before the heat uncurling through his veins could get any hotter than the pressure at his crotch. Carefully he pulled his all-too-eager hands away from her body. She eased from the tangle of balance and limbs, and as the warm weight of her withdrew, Phin was absurdly grateful that he could breathe again without inhaling the raw, clean scent of her skin.

“Sorry about that,” she said, readjusting the loose neck of her sweater. She frowned down at the fraying threads at the collar. “I should come with a warning.”

And how.

He straightened, prodding gingerly at the back of his bruised skull. “I can think of worse ways to make your acquaintance, Miss Ishikawa.”

Her shoulders stiffened, subtly enough that he would have missed it if he wasn’t watching her. Her gaze slammed to his in sudden, razor-edged acuity. In that split second, Phin felt as if those strange blue-purple eyes had taken him in, cataloged every inch from his expensive shoes and newly rumpled suit to his brown, curly hair, and shelved him neatly under a label he wasn’t sure would be flattering.

Then her mouth curved up; an easy, blinding smile.

Phin’s gut clenched, liquid quick awareness that bit deeper than it should have.

“Naomi,” she corrected.

“Naomi, then.” He offered a hand. “Phinneas Clarke. Welcome to Timeless. Normally we strive not to maim our guests.”

Her gaze flicked to his hand. When she took it, her grip was firm, her skin cool and somewhat damp. Phin managed not to look down in surprise when his thumb brushed over the rough indication of her abraded knuckles.

Trouble. Definitely trouble.

“No harm done.” She extracted her hand a shade sooner than manners strictly dictated polite. He didn’t miss the way she dragged her palm against the fabric of her sweater. “Did you see anyone else go by?”

“Not until you trampled me.”

“Damn.” Her gaze skimmed the interior atrium courtyard behind him, dimly lit by the lampposts scattered under the cultivated trees. “Is your head okay?”

Her eyes were shadowed, too hard to read. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Not that he was sure he’d have any better luck in full daylight, either.

Intriguing.

He smiled, crooked with apology. “I’ve had worse. It’s definitely one way to make introductions.”

She tipped her face to the early night sky, ten floors above them and trapped behind the wide skylight. “You were headed into the elevator,” she observed, tucking stray tendrils of black over her ear. “Don’t let me keep you.”

It had been a long time since Phin had felt so thoroughly dismissed. Challenge rose like a banner in his chest. “Actually I was on my way up to see you.”

One fine black eyebrow arched. “Me?”

“To introduce myself.”

The sound she made was noncommittal.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and Phin couldn’t help but realize how easy it’d be to taste that overly lush curve of her lip. She was tall enough in her boots that he’d only have to tilt his head a fraction to close the distance.

And earn himself a mean right hook, if the condition of her knuckles was any indication. No, thank you. He liked his features exactly where they were.

She watched him, sliding her fingers into the front pockets of her hip-hugging jeans.

“And now that I’ve successfully made an impression,” he added, his voice roughened, “I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing. This really can’t get any more awkward.”

The look she slanted him glinted. A darker kind of humor. Something that bit. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Just the ones who throw themselves at me.”

Her laughter surprised him, rich and throaty. There was an edge to it, a brush of smoke. Just wicked enough to remind him of the warmth of her skin against his hands, the texture of her soft wool sweater, and the curves beneath. Just feminine enough to make him remember it’d been too long since he’d met with anyone for an evening out. Or in. Phin pursed his lips and whistled soundlessly. He made a point to keep his hands off the guests. They weren’t here to be hit on, and that kind of fraternization was bad for business no matter how prettily it came packaged.

But Miss Ishikawa was going to make him work for it.

“I was exploring,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “Point me toward the nearest exits, won’t you? Briefly,” she added.

“Your wish is my command. The lobby is behind me, through the park.”

“Park?”

“Well, it’s not as big as the old parks, but you’re welcome to explore it at your leisure.” He raised a finger toward the wide double doors at the end of the courtyard. “The ground floor maintains the pools and a fully equipped gym. There are personal trainers for your convenience, if you require assistance.” Then he pointed to the elevator doors behind her. “Seventeen residential suites. Each on their own floor.”

Naomi glanced over her shoulder at the elevator. “Is that the only way in?”

“Stairs lead to each floor, but they’re for staff use and emergencies only. Your people got you the top floor,” he continued with a smile. “Best view.”

“Anything else?”

Phin jerked a thumb to his right, where a green exit sign glowed in the distance. “That’s the services center. There are ten floors, ranging from dining to socializing to relaxation and beauty, all yours from that elevator. Did you receive your program?”

“Program?”

“Your people scheduled your services in advance,” he explained, and couldn’t help curiosity from leaking into his voice as her mouth twisted. “If you don’t like the choices—”

“I’m sure whatever they are will be fine and dandy,” she said, her expression so indifferent that he wondered if he’d misread the signs.