Custo stalked from the room, casting a glance over his shoulder to catch Annabella dragging on a pair of sweatpants, blue washed to pale gray. Lovely, pale legs, quickly, furtively hidden.
As she’d kissed him, her body moving against him, he’d caught her single, stressed thought: wolf.
Anger had every nerve snapping. What was he thinking? Not twelve hours ago the wolf had assaulted her. Without the intervention of Talia, who knows what might have happened?
Annabella was coping with so much. The least he could’ve given her was a little space. A little self-control. Even now, the thought of her under him had him adjusting his pants.
Custo sat at Adam’s computer console in the living area and touched the screen to activate the monitor. He stared at the list of credit card charges for gala ticket sales, but the names and numbers were a blur of black and white. He flexed his hands hard to burn away the memory of Annabella’s satiny skin. Her sexy, slender body.
Besides, he had plenty of business to take care of, old and new, before he could linger with her the way he wanted—the memory would have to last an eternity. Soon he would be caught, if not by a seriously pissed-off Shadowman, then by some holier-than-thou avenging angels, and dragged out of this world. He had a lot of work to do before that happened.
Custo forced his concentration onto the screen, tabbing to the contact addresses and telephone numbers associated with the credit card accounts.
He put in an earplug so he could talk as he worked. “Tommy?”
“Here,” Tommy’s gruff voice buzzed across the line. “Good to have you back, man.”
“Good to be back. I trust you’ve been brought up to speed?”
“Yeah, I got it. Adam gave a general security briefing this morning, told us that we were all at your disposal. Says there’s some scary shape-shifting Shadow monster after your girl.”
His girl? Not yet, but Custo didn’t correct him. “I want to get Segue operatives into as many seats as possible. Put together a team. You have whatever funds you need to buy back what you can. I’m sending the credit card list to you now. Be discreet.”
Custo ended the call and selected another file, the Segue personnel manifest highlighting staff members from before and after his death. One of these trusted people was a traitor, a wraith collaborator. Adam had gotten a head start on reviewing the profiles, tagging names with thoughts and background information.
The gala was the night’s priority, but the traitor was Cus-to’s past life’s unfinished business. Spencer, the asshole who’d killed him, had been so smug with his ridicule about the traitor, so confident in the success of the back-stabbing shithead who wanted to bring down Segue. It had to be somebody close to Adam to get Spencer off like that.
But who? These were all trusted men: Tommy, Jens, who’d apparently lost a lot of hair in the past two years, Gomez, Jackson…The list went on.
Setting up a team had never been this difficult.
Maybe Tommy could buy up the tickets, but someone else should head the security around the stage. Tommy’s smooth, affable style would have been perfect for the gala, but Jens could take point. Break up and overlap the duties for double coverage.
Custo himself would be with Annabella at all times.
And Gomez? Jackson? How much did he really know about them?
Damn it. Custo gripped his skull in frustration. He didn’t know whom to trust.
Chapter Eight
CUSTO smothered a smile as Annabella chanted “lashes, lashes, lashes” while she tore apart her cubby of a bathroom.
Lashes? Well, okay…but he restrained himself from commenting on his willingness to participate in any and all of her unusual sexual fetishes and surveyed her apartment with hungry interest instead. He wanted to know everything about her.
Her studio was a narrow space jumbled with colorful…stuff. The kitchen sink behind him was tidy, a short fridge snugged under the counter. A coffeemaker and hot plate cluttered the other side of the sink. A futon ran along one wall, reclined in sleep position, sheet in a twist, bold patchwork blanket still in the half-cocoon shape of her body. Pillows littered the area in deep reds, blues, greens, some with fussy tassels, and a small old TV-DVD combo unit took one corner. Clothes were everywhere, but mostly piled on one of her two chairs. The place smelled sweet and feminine, no one scent predominating.
Photographs sat on every surface, glass fronts glinting as the afternoon sun poured in her window. The one nearest was of her with a middle-aged woman and a young man wearing a graduation gown. The three shared Annabella’s coloring, and the way they squeezed one another’s shoulders, faces angling for space in the photo, told Custo they were her family.