All right. Enough was enough. He was a demon—a former general in Lucifer’s army, no less—not some spineless Charocté. He didn’t cower from anyone, especially not some tiny Halfling female that didn’t even come up to his chin.
Pushing to his full height, he scowled and pointed a finger at her. “Damn it! Stop throwing things at me,” he thundered.
He might have once been a legendary seducer, tempting even the most stalwart and pious with their darkest desires, but he could also be one scary SOB when he wanted. Usually he reserved this dangerous, dark side of his temper for others of his kind, but she’d hit the limits of his patience. She was bringing his wrath down on her own head, damn it.
“Screw you.” A rolling pin smacked against the center of his chest hard enough to leave another bruise. He gasped in shock. In outrage. Demons trembled in the face of his wrath. He couldn’t wrap his mind around her reactions to him. Her resistance. Her rebellion.
Her pupils had dilated, and he could sense her fear, but she hadn’t backed down. Not one tiny bit.
Admiration swelled inside him. Brave girl.
No! Foolish girl, he corrected. He could not afford to soften toward her. Foolish!
“Calm down—don’t throw that!” He ducked as a hand mixer crashed into the cupboard behind him. “Give me a few minutes, I can explain.”
She paused then, chest heaving, shoulder length brown hair straggling from her lopsided ponytail, beguiling eyes wild and wide, clutching another large knife ominously in her raised fist.
Dear God, she is so damned sexy!
No! Do. Not. Go. There!
“You have two minutes.” She patted at her back pocket with her free hand before pulling out a slim cell phone. Her thumb hovered over a button. “Then I’m calling the police.”
Oh, to hell with this. Focusing, he visualized the kitchen of his plantation. Then, glancing around at the havoc she’d created, he changed his mind, instead visualizing his den.
Heat swelled in his chest, power coalesced. His surroundings blurred, falling away, and were soon replaced with familiar furnishings. The massive stone fireplace on the far wall, with a modern flat screen TV above it. Shelves and shelves of old books running the length of one wall. His big mahogany desk. Everything was in place in his den, clean and organized.
Hmm. His path of destruction must not have reached this room yet.
But he didn’t stop there, didn’t pause. He conjured ropes and darted close to her the moment Maggie solidified. Close enough to intimidate her while she was already disoriented, so close she instinctively stepped back to get away from him. Her face was chalky white, and she gasped, blinking as she tumbled onto the chair behind her. And then she was screaming again. Dazed as she was, he made short work of relieving her of the knife she’d still been clutching, as well as her cell phone, and tied her wrists and ankles to the chair, careful as always not to let his hands brush her skin.
She was already freaked out enough as it was. Imagine how she’d react when she realized his hands could ghost right through her.
Stepping back, he reached over and turned on the lamp. Soft golden light flooded the immediate area, leaving the far corners, the bookshelves and the fireplace in the shadows. And all the while, her shrill screams echoed inside the room, ringing in his ears.
Prowling around her, he stepped close to the back of her chair and bent near her ear. The scent of her, cinnamon and vanilla, made his mouth water. The heat of her skin tempted him as nothing else could. Her ponytail had come undone, and the warm brown tresses tumbled around her shoulders now. Unable to help himself, he reached out to skim the backs of his fingers over her hair, but quickly drew back at the last moment, knowing it would only torment him.
Seeing his hand against her hair, but not being able to feel the warmth, the silken texture, it was just too cruel.
“Stop screaming or I’ll gag you as well. There’s no one here to hear you anyway,” he growled.
The scream quickly morphed into less than helpful—and physically difficult, if not completely impossible—suggestions. He shook his head, conjured a gag, and stuffed it into her mouth. He tied it behind her head, extra careful not to let his fingers come in contact with those tempting strands.
After pulling out the matching chair in front of his desk and spinning it around to straddle it, Gideon sat facing her. That brilliant, furious aquamarine glare cut him to ribbons.
He crossed his arms along the back of the chair and pinned her with a steely gaze. “Do you know who your father is?”
Confusion and panic blinked through her angry eyes, quickly stifled as she turned her stony stare to a point just beyond his shoulder.
He waited a beat, two. Yet she refused to acknowledge him.
“I asked you a question. Do you know who your father is?”