The Real Mrs. Price (15 page)

They drove the hour and a half to Dallas in silence. Plato's music filled the empty space between them, and that was fine by her. Marlowe's thoughts bounced around from all the mistakes she'd made to the conversation she'd had with Lucy Price earlier this morning to what it might feel like to disappear and never be heard from or seen again. If Plato was who the bones said he was, then there was no telling where she'd end up on this trip. But maybe it was better not to care.

Marlowe glanced at his chiseled, tattooed arm stretched out in front of him and holding on to the steering wheel. Plato's legs were so long that he was practically driving from the backseat.

“Are you smitten with me or what?” he asked sarcastically, catching her staring.

It was a hypnotic smile, magical and dirty and vile.

She was immediately offended. “I think you wish I was,” she said smugly.

He laughed. She didn't find it funny at all.

“I do wish it.” Plato was too damn cool. “I am smitten, though.” He glanced at her and licked his lips. “Unlike you, I've got no reservations about admitting it.”

It took everything in her not to shudder.

 

In the Stable

W
ONDER
B
OY RECOMMENDED
to Plato a dude in Dallas who could hack into that thumb drive he'd found at Marlowe's, so the first stop once they hit town was a parking lot in front of a convenience store.

“Why're we stopping here?” Marlowe asked. It was maybe the third complete sentence she'd said the whole two hours that they'd been driving.

A silver Camaro pulled up next to Plato's car, and it took everything in him not to laugh. Geeks watched too much television, and this dude played his role to the hilt, wearing dark glasses, a ball cap low on his head, and sitting hunched behind the wheel, like the feds were watching his ass or something.

“You got something for me?”

The kid couldn't have been more than twenty.

Plato flipped it into the other vehicle's passenger seat. “I need you to pop that open.”

The young guy barely glanced at it. “Meet me back here tomorrow, same time.”

Plato glanced at the clock. It was just after five. The guy sped off without saying another word.

“Is that the thing you found at my house?” she asked.

He casually nodded.

“What's he going to do with it?”

“It's got a password on it,” he explained. “I need him to unlock it.”

That kiss was never far from his thoughts. Marlowe likely wanted to pretend it had never happened, but he would never deny that it had. She'd kissed back with the kind of fervor he hadn't expected at all, which was why he'd been so confounded by it since it'd happened. It was raw, good, soft, tasty, and sensual, like she couldn't help herself. If that's what all this devil business was about, then he might just have to embrace that part of himself and let it do whatever it was going to do.

“Where are we going now?” Marlowe asked.

Plato smiled. “First we're going to check into a hotel, go and get something to eat, and then it's on to heaven.” The irony of his statement wasn't lost on him, considering all this stuff he'd been learning about bones and devils. The statement brought a smile to his face and an evil glare to hers.

The Omni Hotel in Dallas was by far the most popular, but the Joule was elegant in an understated way. He was trying to impress a girl, and for that, he needed the Joule. Plato had reserved the Presidential Suite with an adjoining room. Not because it was the most expensive or the biggest; it was far too much space for two people. He'd reserved it for the floor-to-ceiling windows and the sweeping views of the Dallas skyline.

At the check-in desk, Marlowe frowned, leaned in close to him, and whispered rather sheepishly, “I can't afford this place.”

As if she should have to pay for her own room. The woman behind the desk gave him two separate sets of key cards, and he handed one to her.

“Right down the hall next door to me,” he said, staring into her eyes.

Marlowe's gaze lingered for a moment, and then she quickly turned away. He could feel the romantic in him starting to stir. When was the last time that had happened?

*   *   *

In his line of work, Plato came across so many different types of people, some memorable, some not. But they never forgot who he was.

“Mr. Wells,” the older man said, grabbing hold of Plato's hand and shaking it as soon as the two of them entered the restaurant. “Welcome. Welcome.”

“Nice to see you again,” Plato said coolly. He recognized the man's face, though his name escaped him.

The man immediately ushered them to a romantic table near the window in the back of the room. As he was leaving, he leaned over to Plato and said in a low voice, “Anything … it's on the house.”

“No,” Plato protested. “That's not necessary.”

The man turned a strange shade of gray and nodded. “Whatever you want, Mr. Wells. I insist,” he said in a strained tone and walked away. Things like this happened sometimes. Plato never asked for a free meal or a handout or favors, but people felt compelled to shower him with them regardless. It was a perk. But tonight, an unwelcome one. Because after all, he was still trying to impress a girl.

“If it didn't involve six different toppings, something processed, and a beer, I didn't think you could stomach it,” she said sarcastically.

She looked beautiful tonight. Marlowe had set her full head of hair free into an explosion of curls framing that lovely face of hers. It was impossible to hide curves like hers, so she put them on full display wearing a simple red dress, painting the lines of that body in celebration of every glorious inch. He wasn't the only man in the room to notice.

“Too much good living is bad for me,” he said. “So I meter it. Every now and then, I even take a vitamin.”

She laughed. He couldn't recall ever hearing her laugh before. She immediately reeled in that brief episode of frivolity and sank back into that dark shell of herself.

“I, um, appreciate all this,” she said, expressing reluctant gratitude. “Thank you.”

“It's my pleasure.” He meant it and hoped that she'd believe that he did.

She looked sad all of a sudden, which was absolutely unacceptable. Plato made a mental note to do everything in his power to remove that expression from her face once and for all, at least while she was here in town with him.

Plato ordered the prime New York strip, baked potato, and asparagus. Marlowe ordered the pan-seared sea bass, house salad, and rice. At the end of dinner, the waiter reminded Plato that the meal was on the house. Plato pulled cash out of his wallet and left it on the table.

“No,” he said defiantly. “It's not.”

*   *   *

Dallas was filled with hidden treasures. He'd discovered this one a few years ago on his last job here. Plato turned down a dark street with a large building at the end of the block, pulled the car up to the front of it, and waited. Moments later, a man appeared at Plato's window.

“Welcome, sir.”

Plato got out of the car and handed the man his keys. Another man appeared at Marlowe's door and helped her out. Plato held her hand and led her up the stairs and down a series of hallways until they arrived at a red door at the top of a flight of stairs.

“Plato, where are we?” she asked, trying not to sound as panicked as she looked.

On the outside, this place looked like an abandoned building with metal doors and dead-bolt locks. He stared into her eyes. “Courage, Marlowe.” He smiled and leaned in close. “Trust me.”

That look in her eyes, fearful and yet yearning, was seductive as fuck.

Suddenly, the door opened, music and lights flooded into those long corridors, and a tall, skinny brotha greeted Plato with a hug.

“'Bout damn time you got yo' ass here!” he yelled, stepping aside to let them both in.

“I told you I'd be back!” Plato yelled back.

“That was a year ago, man.” The man looked at Marlowe and grinned. “Goodness gracious!” he said, eyeing her like she was peach cobbler. “Who is this?”

Plato surprised her and pulled her possessively close, wrapping an arm around her waist. “You just keep your damn distance.”

The other man laughed. “Don't blink,” he said, bowing at the waist. “Welcome to A Little Piece of Heaven, lovely lady, the coolest club in town in the underground.”

It was a warehouse, with warehouse-high ceilings and walls, and warehouse-expansive concrete stamped floors, and a massive stage with a funk band, horns and all, playing old-school music that had the dance floor packed.

As he led her to the bar, Plato glanced back at Marlowe. She was awed, smiling, and excited by this whole rollicking scene. She looked impressed. He was doing good.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

Plato waited for her to order.

“Vodka tonic?” she asked sweetly.

“Beer,” he said.

Marlowe loved to dance, and she got high on vodka tonics and music and him. He'd coaxed her to a secluded corner of the club where she sat perched on his lap, laughing, whispering nonsense in his ear, and teasing him with hints of cleavage and flashes of thigh. This is where Marlowe Brown made her introduction. This was his first glimpse of the woman hidden behind the persona of Mrs. Price since the day he'd met her. Pretty and happy. Carefree. Lovely and loving life. One more vodka tonic and she might even love him.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” she asked passionately, leaning against him and grazing soft lips against his cheek.

What had he done to her? What had she done to him? Getting with a woman was never an issue for Plato. Wanting a particular woman for more than just to do her was the challenge he faced and not a very pressing one because he was never in a place long enough for more than a romp and a good-bye kiss. She intrigued the shit out of him, though. Her and her devil talk, her bone reading, her bewitching and beautiful self.

Marlowe stared at him with a heavy, thoughtful gaze. “You keep saving my life,” she slurred. “You're not supposed to save it. You're supposed to steal it from me.”

He furrowed his brow at the odd statement. “Is that what those bones told you?”

She laughed. “Why do you care? You don't believe in my bones.”

“But you do. Deeply. I can tell.”

She studied him. “Magic is only as powerful as the believer.”

“And you believe I'm evil.”

“At first, I believed that's all you were,” she said thoughtfully. “But now…”

“Now?”

“Lucifer was an angel. And he was beautiful. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Are angels all good? Are devils all bad?”

She was drunk off her ass and fluid in his arms.

“Kiss me, Marlowe.”

Marlowe grinned mischievously, revealing a little devilish behavior of her own. She leaned close and pressed her full lips against his. Marlowe's delicious tongue swept through his mouth, and Plato's cock throbbed in response.

She moaned, pulled back, and whispered, “Yes.” As if in response to the message he'd sent to her with his dick.

“I need to get you back to the hotel,” he said, flushing warm.

She nodded and smiled. “And then what?”

And then … and then. Drunk sex was sloppy sex. Sex with abandon and without inhibitions. Drunk sex with Marlowe and that voluptuous body of hers would be those things and then some, and just the thought was enough to make him damn near come in his pants.

He gently pushed her off his lap to stand and took hold of her hand. He led the way to the door. His imagination began reeling from all the lovely ways he would seduce this lovely creature. Plato smiled.

 

The Faithful

H
IS FULL NAME WAS
Osiris Plato Wells. Growing up, his family and friends had called him O.P. but he preferred Plato.

He was born in a small town in Germany. His father was in the army, and they moved around a lot, so he couldn't settle on a place to call home.

He didn't want to talk about what he did for a living and “suggested” that she change the subject when she'd asked.

Plato was forty-four, six four, had one son, and had been married once, when he was twenty-two. Marlowe's game of twenty questions had come at the expense of a great deal of patience and energy on her part. Plato hid behind a wall of sarcasm and secrets and changing the subjects, so what little information she did get from him, she pieced together to make up the story of his life.

She could've blamed it on the alcohol, but the truth was that Marlowe had wanted to kiss him all night. Plato had been accommodating, polite, and an actual gentleman, to her surprise. He also smelled damn good, looked like an exquisite work of art, and when he wrapped that strong hand and those long fingers around her hand, Marlowe's had unwittingly melted into it like butter.

There was a gray area, a void in the time between when they left that nightclub and when they appeared, as if by magic, back at the hotel.

Her room was next door to his, but Plato had taken her back to his room, and Marlowe didn't protest. He closed the door behind the two of them, and she turned to him, grabbed him by his lapel, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him again. Pressed against his chest, she could feel just how strong he really was. If he was evil, then so was she for wanting him. If she was cursed, then so be it. Marlowe's life had been shredded, and there was nothing left of it worth saving.
Let go, Marlowe,
she told herself.
Temptation is all up in your face, so take it.

Need flooded her veins, and Marlowe nearly went limp in his arms, recovering long enough to break the seal of their kiss. She took a step away from him, untied her wrap dress, slid it off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor.