Sheesh, I should cut Jane loose on this guy. It’s right up her alley, pun intended.
“I don’t think so,” I say politely. “Too much on my plate at the moment, but thanks for thinking about me.” I manage to keep the lid tight on a kettle working hard to boil over.
Eyes on the patrons, I ignore the berserker and watch as the crowd I’ve been grilling slowly bleeds out into the ruckus around me. When I notice a guy in a black hoodie heading toward the exit, a small wave of gooseflesh feels like a warning, but I shake it off and turn back to the bar.
Alfie, the water sprite, is standing on the other side of my fourth Purple Passion on the bar in front of me. “Maybe you should consider it, Luv. This one certainly has the body and brawn for it. Besides,” he says, pushing the drink my way, “you look like you could use a diversion from the norm.”
I suppose it’s a good thing alcohol, or any intoxicating drug for that matter, doesn’t work on doppelgangers. At least it tastes better than human food. I sigh, shoot the rest of the drink, and pout.
“This,” I say, fanning my hand up and down Jane’s body sitting on the barstool, “is because I’m going to look for the wendigo. I thought it might tempt him, and I’d—”
“Did I hear the word tempt?” a deep, sexy baritone asks.
Jane and I almost fall off the swivel-stool as we whip our head toward the voice.
I plant Jane’s feet on the bar floor and rake eyes over the man. His hair and skin are black, and both shine; his hair gathers a glimmer from the lighting above the bar, and his bare chest is glossy with a fine sheen of sweat. A pristine, white shirt rests over his shoulder, hooked in place by a long, thin index finger. Black Levi’s, no belt and unbuttoned, hang low and show off his muscular thighs and one side of his well-rounded ass. Jane and I both shudder like a wolf holding its prey at paw’s length.
“Yeah, you did. So what? You need some temptin’?” Jane asks, evidently tired of waiting for me to answer.
I sniff and sense otherworld, but it’s rich like creamy chocolate, and dark like spilled blood—carnivorous. The man-side of this shifter has an air of wealth and knowledge about him—aristocratic, yet I sense strength, focus, and a coldness I can’t quite get a handle on.
Mr. Sexy-Dark-and-Deadly answers with a smile and hypnotic eyes. “I heard you speak of a wendigo. Do you know this creature? He is called Gaire?”
I try to weigh my answer carefully, but Jane doesn’t comply.
“Who’s askin’, eh?” she says. Her head bounces and upper lip curls.
The shifter masquerades a scowl with a smile. “I am Vuur Asem, and they say my flames are quite lethal when inappropriately quenched. Right now, I desire an answer. Do you still wish to taunt me?”
“Shit, yeah! Bring it on, babe. I got me some lethal desire, too,” Jane says, “and Taunt is my middle name.”
Jane’s entertaining a totally inappropriate response to what I think Vuur is selling. I can feel her mind check the distance and timing it would take to grab Smith & Wesson, all hard and skin-warmed against our back. “I know the way to a man’s heart, hot stuff. See, right now, I got me a deadly desire to ride you like a—”
I shake Jane’s head like I’m a pit-bull on the other end of a pull-toy. “Hey, let’s start over, okay, um, Mr. Asem?” I try in an able, yet meek, voice. “While the game of seduction is often a fun sport, really, I’m not interested.” Jane isn’t having it. “Bullshit! I’m sprinklin’ my thong.”
Vuur’s facial expression is totally aggressive-assertive—furrowed brow, tight lips, and teeth grinding a firm jaw. “I assure you, I never play games,” the shifter says. “In fact, Ms. … I don’t believe I got your name.”
Although I feel a need to dig deeper into this man’s nature, bad-boy flags are gesticulating with each sentence that comes out of his mouth. He reeks sexy and exudes death.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jane answers. “Ya think that might be because I didn’t give it to ya?” I jump in. “Um, sorry. It’s Jane.”
I believe we’re experiencing a dissociative identity crisis, Jane, I mentally shout. And Jane, sweetie, it comes off as—
So what! Maybe we’re bipolar. Maybe we’re skitzo—don’t matter—deal with it, Chickie. Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, she mentally shouts back, and then glares at me in the mirror behind the bar before shooting snarky eyes at Vuur.
Crap, CeCe was a piece of cake. This host is wracking my nerves. Clearly, I’m having a hard time controlling her. I take a deep breath even though I do not need it. And calmly, I mentally say, Jane, hon, we need to work as a team, not...
Vuur clears his throat—we give him our undivided attention—and even I find that throaty growl a bit sexy … until he opens his mouth.