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Authors: Richelle Mead

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BOOK: Succubus On Top
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This particular story contained a lot of those same elements, but like always, Seth's beautiful writing and quick, witty dialogue kept the material captivating. In another trend consistent with his characters' behavior, O'Neill almost always got involved with some beautiful woman, though Seth's last book had turned this pattern on its head, letting Cady finally see some action. The story I read today fell into old ways, and O'Neill, in his ever suave manner, made the moves on a stunning museum curator:
Genevieve sauntered through the halls, a queen among subjects, surveying people and displays with both calculation and command. With those greenflecked hazel eyes, she put him in mind of a cat sizing up its next meal. He felt exactly like prey as she paused in front of him, favoring him with a languid look that oozed over his body, her tongue lightly moistening bee-stung lips.
Oh God, to be a mouse
, he thought.
“Mr. O'Neill,” she purred, brushing a lock of that shining hair away from her face. Faint streaks of honey laced those pale brown strands, like gold veins in ore. He wanted to bury his face in it. He wanted to taste it. “You're late.”
Despite nearly a foot separating their heights, he felt like the underling here, like he should do penance for his tardiness and kneel in her presence. Not that he would mind that so much, he decided, trying not to stare at the way her dress's thin material molded itself to her hips and full breasts. Those breasts, he decided, were perfect. Definitely impressive in size, but not grotesquely out of control. And their shape . . . ah, even a master sculptor could never have duplicated those exquisite curves . . .
Realizing she expected a response, he filed his base thoughts away under
L
for
Later
and gave her an unruffled smile.
“My apologies.” Now probably wasn't the time to mention the attack back at his hotel. “But I never rush anything. At least not when a woman's involved.”
With that being only the mildest of the suggestive dialogue, I wasn't surprised when things escalated between them near the end of the story. After all, I thought dryly, it wouldn't be a true Cady and O'Neill experience if someone didn't score. And man, did he score. The feline comparisons were right on because Genevieve was a cat in heat. She ended up tying O'Neill up in an elevator, performing an array of kinky acts on him that made even me raise an eyebrow. I was surprised
American Mystery
hadn't edited them out, though I'd be lying if I said it wasn't sort of a turn-on to realize such sordidness had come from mild, complacent—
Elevator?
We do have an elevator, you know
, Warren had told me.
Light brown hair. Hazel-green eyes. Petite. Nice breasts.
“Ahh!” I cried, dropping the magazine as if it might bite me. It landed next to my now-empty bowl, and a passing waitress gave me a startled look. Hastily leaving a wad of cash on the table, I grabbed my coat and purse and sprinted back to the bookstore. Doug was still playing Tetris in our office, but I was too upset to speculate much on what was again an amazing performance.
All those looks. The whispers and smirks. It all made sense now.
“They think it's me!” I told him, making him jump for the second time that day. “Genevieve. They all think I'm some sort of horny, rope-wielding, elevator-fetish dominatrix!”
Doug raised an eyebrow. “You mean you aren't?”
Chapter 4
“
D
oug!”
He shrugged. “It's not a big deal. I mean, it's pretty hot, really.”
“But I didn't do those things. It's not really me.”
“She sounds just like you. Her name begins with a
G
too.”
“But it's not . . .” I swallowed, noting the similarities as well.
Doug watched me appraisingly. “You can't really blame them. Description-wise, you two match, and everyone knows you and Mortensen are chummy—not to mention what a zealous fan you are and all. After they read the story, Casey even made the brilliant observation that you guys came in together yesterday. You should have seen the speculation that started.”
“But . . . that was nothing.” No one at work even knew Seth and I were dating. I hadn't wanted that widely known. “We hadn't done anything.”
Doug shrugged again, rising from the computer. “Too bad. I wouldn't have thought less of you if you had, you know. It's your business anyway.”
I groaned. “Not when it's in print for everyone to see.”
“I thought it was all fictitious,” he reminded me with a sly grin, putting on his coat.
“It is! Doug, what am I going to do?”
“Don't know, Kincaid. I'm sure you'll figure something out. Maybe start with asking Mortensen why he's putting his fantasies on display for everyone to see.” He tweaked my cheek, and I squirmed out of his reach. “As for me, I've got a rehearsal to get to. Big night tomorrow. Later.”
My shift proceeded miserably after that. Now that I knew what the looks were for, the experience moved into a whole new realm of humiliation. I hated idle speculation, hated people thinking terrible things about me. I mean, it wasn't like I
hadn't
ever tied someone up before or had sex in an elevator, but come on. It wasn't the kind of thing I wanted people to consider publicly. I liked to keep my intimate affairs discreet.
I therefore stayed in the office as much as possible, only going out to help when absolutely necessary, and to check if Seth had returned yet. Finally, a couple hours before closing, I saw him back at his table. I sat down opposite him in a rage, not even caring what others would think of us being together.
“Why did you do it? Why did you write me in like that?”
Seth looked up from his laptop, his expression clearly implying whatever writing he was working on still held his attention more than I did. For all I knew, I was at the center of an orgy in some novel now. “What?”
“The story!” I threw
American Mystery
onto the table loudly. “You wrote me in. I'm Genevieve.”
He blinked. “No you aren't.”
“Oh yeah? How come both our names begin with a
G
? How come we look alike?”
“You don't look anything like her,” he countered.
“That's not what half the store thinks. They think she's me! They think you've written up a fling we had in an elevator.”
Realization flashed across his face, and to my horror, he actually smiled. “Really? That's funny.”
“Funny? It's terrible! They all think I'm a bondage freak.”
“Thetis,” he began gently, still damnably serene, “I—”
“Don't ‘Thetis' me. It won't work.”
“I wrote that story, like, six months ago. Long before I met you. The publishing world doesn't move that fast.”
“Well, the others don't know that.” I hovered on the verge of tears.
“I'd never write in anyone so blatantly.”
“Yeah? Well, they don't know that either,” I said, slouching back against my chair miserably, arms crossed.
Seth sighed, his amber brown eyes compassionate as he regarded me. “Look, do you want me to say something? Tell them that it wasn't you?”
“Lord, that would just convince them even more that it was me. Besides, what are you going to do, call a press conference to clear my name?”
“I'm sorry,” he told me seriously. “I never thought anything like this would happen.” A hesitation. “Do . . . do you still want to go out tomorrow night? I mean . . . if you don't . . .”
The old adorable shyness fell over him, and I couldn't stay mad.
“No,” I told him. “I still want to go, but . . . I think we should, you know, show up at the concert separately. Most of the staff will be there, you know.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then reconsidered. I suspected he had been about to accuse me of overreacting, but apparently my radiating fury made him think better of it. Seth wasn't exactly the confrontational type. Or, considering the mood I was in, perhaps he just wasn't the stupid type.
“Okay,” he finally said. “We'll meet there.”
“Georgina?”
Looking up, I saw Paige standing over us, disapproval all over her face. I hadn't even noticed her approach. She wore another of her beautiful power suits, this time in an electric violet that looked stunning with her dark skin.
“Can I speak to you for a few minutes?” she asked, tone grim. “In private?”
I followed her to her office, letting her close the door behind us. Not surprisingly, a copy of
American Mystery
sat on her desk.
“So,” she began crisply, “I've been hearing some rumors—”
“Damn it. It's not me.”
I proceeded to relate to her my own recent discoveries, pointing out Seth's observation concerning how long it took for works to come out in print. When I finished, I think I had mostly convinced her of my innocence, though sordid stories flying around the workplace still obviously distressed her.
Studying nothing in particular, Paige drummed her lacquered red nails against the desk as she thought about what to do. “This will get cleared up with the staff in time. That, or they'll just get over it. What I don't like is the idea of any outsiders drawing conclusions. You
do
sound like that character, and anyone else who reads the story could make the same mistake. I don't want rumors starting that half of Seth's reason for working here is that he gets sexual favors on the side, courtesy of our employees.”
“Oh Lord.” I covered my face with my hands, wondering how celebrities dealt with truly large-scale scandals. This small one was bad enough. I wanted to disappear. It tainted the beauty of what Seth and I were trying to build.
“I think the best way to approach this is—”
Her words dropped off as a grimace crossed her face and one hand clutched her stomach.
I started toward her. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, forcing a strained smile. “It . . . it's nothing.”
“The hell it is. You should call your doctor . . . or at least go home.”
“No, it'll pass. Besides, I've got too much to do. I need to make the new schedule and go over some inventory stats.”
“That's crazy. I can do that stuff.”
She shook her head, arguing again, and I argued right back. At last, Paige yielded, which only verified something must be seriously wrong. Those who went head-to-head with her rarely won.
So, I finished my shift doing her extra jobs and serving as backup. It was exhausting, but I was happy to do it, still worrying about her and her baby. When we closed, I headed straight over to the suburbs, following the directions Bastien had given me.
When I pulled up to his house, I could only sit in my car and stare for a few minutes.
Now, I had a few well-formed ideas about the American Dream. After all, I'd been alive in the days when the term was first coined. I'd seen it arise, seen the mythology that surrounded it, seen the white picket fences and cute, wellkept neighborhoods. I'd even watched
Leave it to Beaver
. Seth's brother, for example, lived north of the city and had a pretty nice chunk of it carved out.
But this? This was an American Wet Dream.
Bastien's house went on forever, expanding ostentatiously beyond its marble and taupe façade. Even if he'd had a wife and family, I doubted they could have filled it up, and anyway, the kind of people who lived in these places didn't have large families. After all, this was the generation that had, what, 1.75 kids?
The garage had three doors, as advertised, and tasteful shrubs and ornamental trees decorated the lawn. Since it was dark now, I couldn't see the rest of the neighborhood in detail, but I suspected I'd find more of the same. One house, next door, was lit up and busy with people. It was even bigger than Bastien's and probably the location of the party.
“Are you compensating for something?” I asked when the incubus opened his door.
Mitch Hunter flashed me the million-dollar grin. “My sweet sister, you and I both know that's not true. Love your haircut.”
I'd come as Tabitha Hunter, lean and blond, though I'd conceded to his earlier complaints and given myself shoulder-length hair. He kissed my cheek and ushered me inside for a quick tour.
After a few rooms, it all started blurring together. Cherry hardwood floors. Gorgeously painted walls. Sleek black appliances. Wainscoting. A hot tub out back. Enough guest bedrooms to house a Girl Scout troop. And cute, cleverly placed knick-knacks everywhere.
“Isn't this going a bit far?” I asked, pointing to a framed copy of the Lord's Prayer in the foyer.
“Tabitha, my love, man cannot survive on bread alone. We can, however, survive on delicious appetizers and hamburgers, so let's head over.”
We arrived considerably after the starting time, since I'd been at work, and the party was in full swing. Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss these suburbanites after all.
“Mitch!” called a loud voice as we shouldered our way through the people. Most were dressed for the barbecue theme in shorts, T-shirts, and Hawaiian prints.
“Hey, Bill,” returned Bastien, extending his hand to a plain yet well-groomed man with silver-streaked black hair. I recognized him from his photos. Dana's husband. “This is my sister, Tabitha. Hope you don't mind me bringing her.”
“No, no! The more the merrier, I say.” He allowed a small, artificial laugh and smiled at me, making his eyes crinkle. “Especially ones so pretty. Makes me wish I was a younger man,” he teased with a wink.
Unable to resist, I looked up at him through my lashes and said demurely, “I've always thought age was kind of irrelevant, Bill.” I held onto his proffered hand. “I know I'm always happy to learn from those with more . . . experience.”
His eyes widened slightly, lighting with both intrigue and alarm.
“Well,” he said after an uncomfortable moment, “I should probably spread myself around.” He remembered to let go of my hand. “Feel free to find something to eat, and don't forget to try the pool.”
He glanced at me and my come-hither smile consideringly, hesitated, and then reluctantly departed.
“Don't ever do that again,” hissed Bastien, steering me toward the kitchen by the arm.
“Do what?”
“Flirt with this group! You're supposed to be bolstering my wholesome image, not leading on my target's husband.”
“I wasn't leading him on. Besides, what's it matter? Scandalize them both.”
“No. Dana only. My show.”
I cut him a look but said nothing. He wanted me as an observer but not a participant. It figured. All the glory for himself, praise from those above. He'd always had this competitive need to make himself shine. It was one of the things that I liked about him—an eager desire to prove himself the best. I guess I'd had it once too, but not anymore. As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to all the fame and fortune of this gig.
“Just play my sweet, angelic sister,” he continued in a whisper. “Possibly my sweet, angelic, and
frigid
sister.”
Moving through the house gave me a chance to take in more of the party's theme. Faux palm trees. Glittering, decorative suns everywhere. Small appetizer tables set up here and there, laden with deviled eggs, cocktail wieners, and cubed cheese. It was silly in some ways, but someone had obviously paid a lot of attention to detail. I appreciated that. All of the guests looked like Bill—and Bastien and me, I realized. Clean-cut, with every hair in place. High quality, conservative clothes (in a tropical sort of way). Upper-class. White.
They freaked me out.
The kitchen proved to be the true hub of food, and I decided to simply gorge myself rather than risk more conversation that might upset Bastien. I loaded up a paper plate with a hamburger, potato salad, and some kind of weird Jell-O-fruit-whipped-cream hybrid dessert.
BOOK: Succubus On Top
13.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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