Wicked Fantasy (11 page)

Huge purple eyes outlined in neon pink blinked at Gerry. “Hi.” The eyes shifted to stare at Conall. “She's not human.” The eyes returned to Gerry. “I'm Fo, short for First One. I was created as a demon detector and destroyer, but something happened, and now I'm a sentient being.”

Gerry stared at those eyes. “Sentient being?”

“I have a mate, Gabriel, who's like me. We want to create a little one, so Gabriel gave me one of his microchips.” The purple eyes looked excited. “I'm pregnant.”

“Pregnant? You're going to create baby cell phones?” Gerry shook her head. “No, that's not what I meant to say.”

The purple eyes narrowed before shifting to Kim. “I don't know if I can work with a person so politically incorrect, Kimmie.”

Gerry raked her fingers through her hair. “Sorry. I haven't talked to many . . . demon destroyers.” Then she seemed to realize what Fo had said. “Work with me?”

Conall gently massaged the back of her neck. Fine, so he had no self-control. He had to touch. “Fo can identify nonhuman entities. If it's a demon, she can even destroy it. And she doesn't have to sleep.” Unlike him.

Fo might be able to watch over Gerry when he couldn't stay awake anymore. At least until they found out who'd set the fire.

Gerry nodded. “Handy skills. She could help me find the wife killer.”

“Wife killer?” Fo's eyes widened until they filled the whole screen. “Will I be like a kick-ass bounty hunter? I'll get a black case with a skull and crossbones on it. Oooh, I want spikes and piercings.” She rolled her eyes toward Kim. “Would there be room for a few scary tattoos?”

Kim sighed. “I doubt it.”

Conall looked at Kim. “I'll make sure she's safe.”

Kim turned Fo to face her. Conall didn't miss the real concern on Kim's face.

“Don't you think you should discuss this with Gabriel before you make a decision?” Kim ran her finger along the edge of Fo's case.

Fo considered that as Kim turned her screen to face Gerry again. “I suppose he'll want to know.” She brightened. “Maybe he can come, too. He's more powerful than I am, but I'm a lot more outgoing.”

Brynn grinned. “Translation: Fo never met anyone she didn't love talking to.”

Gerry shifted slightly glazed eyes toward Conall.

He nodded. “Fo, talk things over with Gabriel. If everything's a go, we'll start the search for Gerry's serial killer tomorrow night.”

“I'll have to let Holgarth know I want to stay until the end of the week and then hope Burke takes his time getting here.” Growing anticipation gleamed in Gerry's eyes.

Conall waited until his friends had left before guiding Gerry toward the Sultan's Palace entrance. “Let's have some fun to celebrate our new partnership.” The Sultan's Palace was
not
a good idea. He recognized the fact, acknowledged it, and then ignored it.

Once inside, he waited while Gerry stared wide-eyed at everything.

“Wow, I'm impressed.” She turned to Conall. “The gold dome, the oriental rugs, the super-plush everything. It looks like a real sultan would live here. So what's the fantasy?”

Conall had already beckoned Sonya over. “Sonya will take you to the harem's quarters.”

“Harem's quarters?” Gerry eyed Sonya's wide expanse of bare stomach. “Wait, I don't know if—”

Sonya smiled as she urged Gerry toward a door. “You'll love this. We'll get you some makeup and into an outfit so you'll be ready for the sultan.”

“Sultan?” Gerry threw Conall a panicked glance as Sonya led her away.

Conall smiled and waved at her. Then he turned to Ben, who was manning the ticket counter. “Tell Julio to take this next fantasy off. I'll play the sultan.” Ignoring Ben's grin, he headed toward the men's costume room.

Gerry glanced around warily. She was comfortable in her job. Chasing bad guys wasn't scary.
This
was scary. Sitting on a thick rug, she was propped up by a mountain of colorful pillows.

With all the eye makeup Sonya had slapped on her, she probably looked like a crazed raccoon. And her clothes? Hah. Clothes covered the body. What she was wearing were strategic pieces of cloth. There was the tiny bra with a playful fringe of beads and bells then nothing until well past her navel. A filmy piece of cloth masquerading as a skirt clung to her lower abdomen with brave tenacity. Go, skirt.

Relax. We're having fun here, right?
But for the life of her she couldn't remember ever having even one fantasy about being a member of some sultan's harem. Conall should've asked her opinion.

“Men don't have a clue, do they?” The amused female voice reminded Gerry that there were three “harem girls” with her.

“About what?” All three women were beautiful and blond with pale eyes she'd seen somewhere before. Where had she seen . . . ?

“About what a woman wants. From your expression, I'd say a man chose this fantasy for you.” The woman shrugged. “This is a guy fantasy. I bet he's even arranged to be the sultan.”

Gerry smiled. “Probably. And yeah, I don't fit the harem mold. Definitely not soft, sweet, and simpering.” But a male harem? Now
that
was a fantasy. “Do you work here all the time?”

They all laughed. “No, we're just filling in for the regulars. They all ate at the same place and came down with food poisoning. Oh, and I'm Tullia.” She nodded at the other women. “These are my sisters, Fulvia and Varinia.”

Unusual names. “So what will happen next?”

Tullia shrugged. “Your man will come in dressed as the sultan, send us away, and try to seduce you.”

Varinia looked contemptuous. “So predictable.”

Gerry had her doubts about the seducing part. He was an O'Rourke, and she was still a Kavanagh.

“Didn't I see you last night with Conall?” Fulvia sounded almost gleeful.

“Uh, yeah.” She glanced at the door. “He brought me here.”

Fulvia leaned close. “Poor you. He can only get women to have sex with him who don't know.”

“I'm not going to have sex . . . Know what?”

Varinia shook her head and looked sorrowful. “He roots and grunts on top of a woman like a wild boar digging for turnips.”

Well, that was certainly a sensual image.

Tullia chimed in. “He has a foot fetish. Sucks on toes. Sometimes even chews on them.” She shuddered. “Gross.”

“Foot fetish?” Eww.

Fulvia didn't let her get any further. “And they don't call him the Rocket for nothing.”

“The Rocket?”

“Five seconds.”

“But that's not even time enough to . . .”

“It is for him.” Fulvia looked triumphant. “There's much much more, but we don't have time to tell you.”

Varinia smiled. “Why would any woman want to inflict
that
on herself? Personally, we're all virgins.”

“Virgins?” Offhand, Gerry couldn't remember the last time she'd seen three virgins in one place at the same time.

Whatever Gerry might've said vanished from her mind as the door to the harem was flung open and the sultan entered.

Conall was big, beautiful, and oozed erotic magic. The robe he wore did nothing to hide the sheer size and power of him. He glanced at the other women. Recognition flashed in his eyes and was gone. “I won't need you tonight, ladies. You may go.”

Tullia cast Gerry an I-told-you-so look before silently leaving with her sisters.

Conall sank to the rug beside Gerry. “You look as lovely as a ripe pomegranate, my sweet.”

Gerry almost choked on her laughter. “A ripe pomegranate is this big, round red fruit. Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

A smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. His incredibly yummy mouth. “I assumed a sultan would give his chosen woman a regional compliment.” He frowned. “Where do pomegranates grow anyway?”

“Got me.” As long as he was being playful, Gerry didn't feel threatened. “And what else would a sultan say to his favorite harem girl?”

Suddenly the moment was charged with something hot and intense. “Nothing. If he was a sultan worth his salt, he'd pounce on his chosen pomegranate.” The light come-back didn't dispel the thick layer of sexual awareness surrounding them.

“Pouncing is so not sexy.” She tried to match his tone. “His chosen pomegranate would probably spit seeds at him.”

He studied her, his eyes seeing more than she wanted him to see—her nervousness, her uncertainty. “This isn't an X-rated fantasy. The park gets really cranky if the customers do any consummating during their fun time.” Reaching out he flicked the fringe on her bra and listened to the tinkle of the bells. “Just had to do that.”

She hated to be the opener of worm cans, but she needed to get the rules straight. “Look, I get that this is a sensual fantasy. I mean, the harem thing was the first hint. Oh, and if you'd asked me, I could've told you a male harem was a much bigger turn-on for me.”

Gerry frowned. “Scratch that last comment. No turn-ons needed. But I guess I'm confused. You've made a big deal about how much you hate your curse and the Kavanaghs. And I totally understand. But this?” She swept her arm to encompass the opulent room. “This does
not
say ‘I hate everything you represent.' Have I missed something along the way?”

Conall's smile was slow and so potent she figured she'd need a chaser after it.

“Hey, a guy can be conflicted.” He lowered his lids so she couldn't see his expression as he drew a sizzling line with one finger along the skin just above the top of her skirt. Her stomach muscles clenched. “I hate Morrigan, all of your ancestors, and the curse. But I'm finding it really tough to hate you.”

“My bubbling personality, I assume?”

“Your hot body.”

“Jerk.”

“And your personality doesn't bubble. It kicks butt and takes no prisoners. Very sexy.”

“You're such a sweet-talkin' man.”

His gray eyes darkened. “Besides, you're the first Kavanagh who doesn't think the curse makes them a lottery winner.”

Gerry sighed. How could she keep her mad? She had no trouble seeing things from his side. They'd just met, so he couldn't admire her for her mind. Especially since she seemed to have lost said mind over the last two nights. Maybe Conall would help her find it.

“So what're we doing here? This hot body isn't feeling a whole lot of erotic vibrations right now.”

The darkness left his eyes and something softer took its place. “We can still do the fantasy. Lay back and relax.” He shifted a little closer, and as he did so, his robe slipped open.

Her heart did a giant ker-thud. “Um, I think you lost the rest of your costume.” All bare. Bare, bare, bare. Ker-thud, ker-thud. Her erotic vibrations were back and thrumming at the speed of sound. She expected a sonic boom at any moment. And one glance between those powerful thighs convinced her that his erotic vibrations had been humming all along.

“I pulled some strings to squeeze this fantasy in. The robe was the only thing left in the costume room.”

Did she believe him? No. But he got high marks for creativity. She was suspicious, but since she couldn't stand not knowing what he had planned, she laid back against the pillows. “So what're you going to do?”

“Talk. Just talk.”

She frowned. Bummer.

Conall made no excuses for himself. He wanted her. Damn.

Eight centuries had taught him a lot about reading what was in women's eyes. She wanted him, too. Hell.

But he couldn't do it. As much as he wanted to wipe away the bitterness of all those years by burying himself deep inside her, he couldn't do that to Gerry. He wouldn't become a user. That would make him like all the Kavanaghs he despised.

Besides, if Gerry and he made love, Morrigan would be pissed off in a major way because he'd enjoyed himself with a Kavanagh. And the bitch goddess took out her anger by killing things. In this case, one of his descendants would die.

So he talked. “Live the fantasy in your mind, Gerry. I'm the sultan, master of everyone and everything. Listen as I tell you all that I'll do to please you.”

“I don't know about the master thing.” She frowned, evidently not into fantasy mode yet. “And aren't harem girls supposed to please the sultan?”

Talk, talk, talk. He didn't want a friendly chat. He wanted action. He stomped all over that thought. “I'm one of the very few sensitive sultans. So just enjoy it, okay?”

Her smile was sly and knowing. “Frustrated, are we?”

“You bet.” Conall rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the tension. “Imagine my mouth on yours—hot, hungry.” He lowered himself above her until their lips were mere inches apart.

She slid her tongue across her bottom lip, and the damp sheen of it called to him.

“I'll trace your lips with my tongue, memorizing your taste and texture.”

“What will I taste like?” She parted her lips, teasing, inviting.

He resisted. Barely. “You'll taste of . . .” What in his endless memories brought a surge of happiness? “Ireland. The flavor of peat fires on a cold winter night and sea mist rolling in from the Atlantic.”

The guy part of his brain said that was a bunch of crap. He didn't talk that way. But the tiny section of his mind that understood what would touch her stood up and applauded. Manipulative? Maybe. He really did love Ireland, but he wouldn't have expressed it in that way.