Oh, shit, this was so embarrassing. Piers would love this. She’d been practically begging for it. Given a little more time, she’d have tossed him across the table and taken him by force.
But he didn’t look amused. He looked pensive, and she decided that was even worse. She didn’t want him thinking about her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She gritted her teeth. “Yes.” Apart from the frustration clawing at her nerves, she was fine.
He studied her a moment longer, then straightened. “Come in.”
The door opened and Jonas entered carrying a bottle of scotch. Nothing had ever been so welcome. Then she peered past him—he wasn’t alone. Just what she needed—more people to witness her total humiliation. Could the night get any worse?
…
Her pale, creamy skin was flushed, her breathing heavy, and her arousal scented the air. She wanted him. Badly.
Which was good, because she could have him. And hopefully soon.
As he watched, she pulled herself under control, though not before shooting him a glance filled with resentment. She didn’t like the way he made her feel. Why was that? It was obvious they’d be good together. Once they’d sorted out just who and what she was.
Could she really be more than five hundred years old? She appeared no more than twenty. And such a contradiction of sweetness and toughness. And she’d said she’d been tortured before. Where and who by? And why did he have the sudden urge to find whoever it was and rip him limb from limb?
That was unexpected.
And unwelcome.
He wasn’t in the business of protecting people, however much he wanted to fuck them. At least the thought had a welcome effect on his libido—his cock had been rock hard since he’d kissed her, but now the sting of desire subsided.
Tara entered the room behind Jonas and Christian, filling the space with her own exotic blend of sweet and bitter. “Tara, how lovely to see you. What the hell are you doing here?”
She grinned. “Lovely to see you too.” She sounded just about as sincere as he had. He studied her for a minute, searching for outward signs of her demon-fae heritage, but she still looked exactly the same—maybe even prettier. Living with Christian obviously agreed with her. Who would have thought it?
He had an inkling as to why Christian had brought her here today. To take care of the sisters perhaps, take them under her wing, protect them from his evil ways. Well, she could have Sister Maria, but Sister Rosa was his.
“Hey,” he said to Sister Rosa. “What is your name?”
“Rosamund Fairfax. Roz will do.”
Tara crossed the room and put the glasses she was carrying down on the table before holding out her hand to Roz. “Hi, I’m Tara. Christian’s wife.”
Roz grasped the hand almost gingerly and shook it.
Piers took the bottle of scotch from Jonas and poured out four glasses. He hovered the bottle over the fifth glass, and glanced at Tara.
Christian shuddered. “Don’t you dare.”
A teasing look passed from Tara to Christian. “I thought you liked me to drink.”
“Maybe when we’re alone and can lock all the doors, shutter the windows, lock away anything breakable…”
Roz was glancing between them, her expression confused. Piers decided to take pity on her.
“Tara is part demon,” he said.
If anything, Roz’s frown deepened.
“Don’t you know anything?” he asked.
A scowl replaced the frown. “No,” she snapped. “So why don’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. If she was more than five hundred years old as Jonas had hinted, where the hell had she been all that time that she understood so little of their world? “Demons tend to have a rather extreme reaction to alcohol—it makes them lose all their inhibitions. Demons can be quite restrained, but give them a drink and that restraint goes straight out the window—or wherever.”
“All demons?” she asked.
“Some more than others. The more powerful can control it and even the less powerful can learn—like people, I suppose. But Tara’s a little new to all this—”
She was studying Tara now. “Why? Why is she new?”
“Perhaps she’ll explain all that to you later, but for now, I think you’re supposed to be telling us something.”
It was Roz’s turn to shrug. “There’s not a lot to tell.”
“How about starting with who you are, what you are, what that thing on your arm means, and what the hell you were doing in a convent dressed like that when you’re no more of a nun than I am?”
“She’s not?” Christian asked. He sounded surprised, so obviously Jonas hadn’t had time to fill him in.