Lure of the Wicked Part 39

"To answer your question," he said, sitting on the mattress to pull on his socks and shoes, "I'm extending an offer to you and your group to help with a project."

"A project?" Naomi shot him a curious frown as she filled the old kettle on the stove.

"When Timeless was still operational-" Even saying it was a twist of anger, of pain in his chest. The kettle clattered to the stove.

It was a pain they both carried, he realized.

Phin stood, crossed the small room to slide his arms around her waist as she turned on the stove. "When Timeless was still operational," he repeated, "we ran an underground railroad of sorts."

Her body stiffened. "You were a smuggler?" It wasn't surprise that raised her voice. It was anger. Self-directed, he realized as she turned in his arms. "Why the f.u.c.k didn't I know?"

He laughed, struggled to smother it as she shot him a glare, murder in her eye. "Because we've been doing it for a long time, Naomi," he managed, with somewhat of a straight face. "And we didn't smuggle things, we smuggled people. Witches, or at least those accused as such by the Church."

The conflict in her face made him tuck her hair behind her ears. Made him want to touch her, rea.s.sure her.

"We always checked, as much as we could. The people we ran through Timeless were innocent of wrongdoing. Maybe some were witches," he added, "I'm not disputing that. But they weren't like-you know, like Agatha."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Shaking her head, she sighed and draped her arms around his shoulders. "I just don't even know enough about the difference," she admitted, annoyed and rueful and so gorgeous, it hurt to look at her smile.

"They were like you," Phin explained. "Like my mother. A witch"-her eyes flinched-"but not bad. Not evil. And definitely undeserving of the Church's attentions."

"I'm only a witch because . . ." She hesitated. "Well, I guess I'm a witch now."

"She chose well." He dipped his head, kissed her forehead. "I never, ever once doubted it."

Her lips curved up into that half smile. "Says you. I wonder, though," she mused, her smile fading. "Given I wasn't born with witchcraft-h.e.l.l, I don't even know how to use this d.a.m.n thing. I should run some blood work on myself. If I can get the equipment- s.h.i.+t." She turned as the kettle whistled shrilly.

He let her go and watched her search the cabinets for more mugs, the flex and sway of her body as she reached into the shelves.

He ran his hand over his head. "There's instant coffee on the top shelf," he admitted. "I may have . . . hoped you'd be here."

The look she shot him twisted somewhere between pleasure and stubborn pride.

He bit back a grin. "Anyway, Timeless is up in smoke and we're deflecting the Church left and right. They're looking for you, looking for excuses. We don't have the same kind of safety we used to."

"So how do we help?"

"Silas reached out a couple weeks ago. We haven't hammered out any details, but we're going to." He wrapped his hands around hers as she offered him a mug, held her close. "You, me, and the rest of your group need to meet somewhere when it's safe." Slowly he brushed his lips across hers. A whisper, a breath of warmth. "And I'm warning you now, Naomi. We're going to make this work. Whatever it takes, whatever I need to do, I'll do it."

She stared into his eyes. Searched them for whatever it was she needed to believe. Phin didn't know. "We're going to spend a lot of time apart," she said doubtfully.

"I know," he replied. "But we'll find a way. I promise you, I'm not going to lose you, lose this, to anything. Including your own fear," he added.

She winced, but laughter eased in around it. "You're not pulling your punches."

"You wouldn't like me if I did."

"I love you."

Three words. Offhandedly said and with a but so obviously attached, yet he didn't care. His heart soared. "That's all I need," he said, cutting off the explanation, the excuse, whatever it was that welled in her eyes. "That's all I'll ever need, Naomi."

Frustration shaped her expression, the taut line of her body as she pulled away. Steam rolled off the mug in his hands, mingled with the steam from her own as she clattered her cup to his. "You're going to regret this."

"Never," he swore.

"You'll probably yell at me a lot."

Now he grinned, unabashedly c.o.c.ky. "You'll yell at me just as much. I bet you're a dish thrower."

She sighed. "I'm not good with-"

"Naomi." She stilled. Phin caught her hand, lifted her fingers to his lips, and breathed a kiss so light, so tender over her knuckles that her hand shook in his. "Shut the h.e.l.l up."

Her smile eased into her eyes until they shone. "I give it three months."

"Then we'll be right here again in three months," he promised. She laughed, throwing her head back with the sheer joy of it, and for the second time that night, pottery thudded to the floor. Tea and coffee splattered everywhere, hot and steaming and completely ignored as they collided.

b.u.t.tons parted, zippers hissed. Naomi hesitated, her clever fingers tunneling into the front of Phin's pants. Her skin was cold against his heated erection; shockingly exciting. He gasped.

"Oh, d.a.m.n," she said suddenly, her eyes glinting. Wicked bright. "I just remembered."

"G.o.d, what?" he gasped, sweat slick on his skin. "Stove? Is something on fire? Whatever, it can wait, just-" His mind detonated in pure pleasure as she rolled her palm over him.

"No. You just never got to see the lingerie Andy let me have."

Phin screwed his eyes shut and groaned. She was sheer torture. Pure heaven. "You're going to kill me."

"Maybe," she murmured, sliding down his body like hot silk. "I'm definitely going to try." Before he could wrap his mind around her intent, she replaced her fingers with the wet heat of her mouth.

He tunneled his fingers into her hair and laughed, half amus.e.m.e.nt and half a ragged sound of soul-wrenching need as he collapsed back against the counter and prayed for patience.

Despite everything that had tried to tear them apart, despite the baggage they both carried and the memories of blood and fire, she was his.

Not a missionary. Not an heiress. Not a witch.

Naomi West. The woman he loved.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at ALL THINGS WICKED.

the next book from KARINA COOPER.

and Avon Books Coming Soon There was no such thing as rest for the wicked.

Caleb Leigh opened gritty, burning eyes, giving up on the fitful doze that was all his pain-wracked body could manage for sleep. The filthy motel room came into focus as the neon lights outside the grimy, patchy curtains popped and fizzled, thrusting red and orange knives into his retinas.

How long had he managed to sleep this time? Two hours? Three? It didn't matter. Little twinges burst through his body, h.e.l.lfire sparklers of pain spasming in his muscles. His skin twitched as if it wanted to crawl off his abused body and slink away for a shower.

G.o.d. He'd kill for a shower.

m.u.f.fling a groan, he reached for the s.h.i.+rt he'd left on the floor, caught the edge with his fingers, and froze as a whisper of a breeze ghosted across the sensitive scars on his back.

Off. The room felt off. Unbalanced.

He inhaled, smelled New Seattle's own peculiar brand of acid-tinged summer rain, acrid smog, rotting garbage, and . . . something else.

Get up!

A floorboard creaked behind him.

Caleb threw himself off the bed as a black silhouette loomed out of the dark. Rusted springs screeched, a high-pitched shriek that tw.a.n.ged into a crescendo as his a.s.sailant landed on the mattress. Caleb's grunt of pain as he hit the floor drowned in the raw fury clamping around his head.

He'd had no warning. Not even a whisper of magic.

He should have been less surprised.

The shadow pushed off the bed as Caleb leaped to his feet. Silver winked a deadly promise in the faint glow of the neon lights spilling through the single broken window; serrated steel, a knife gripped in one black-gloved hand.

It pointed at him, wicked edge gleaming. "How the h.e.l.l are you not dead?"

The already cramped motel room walls slammed in tight around him. That voice. Feminine. Breathy with exertion, with fear, but so f.u.c.king familiar that it sucked out his breath on a raw sound.

Memory. Affection. Worry.

Love.

It rose like a dream, a sigh of lazy summer days and laughing secrets, and Caleb fought the slick, blissful whisper back behind gritted teeth. It wasn't his love. It wasn't his affection, his worry, his G.o.dd.a.m.n memory that fisted in his heart.

And Juliet Carpenter had no G.o.dd.a.m.ned business being anywhere near him.

A year wasn't nearly long enough.

The neon lights snapped and crackled in rhythmic chaos outside the window. They slanted lurid color over her black hair, cut shorter than he remembered and in a fas.h.i.+on that suggested she was aiming for edgy and tough. The dark, choppy fringe framed her face, her faintly square jaw and the ghostly green eyes that he'd last seen half closed and luminous as he sank b.a.l.l.s-deep inside her warm, straining body.

Promise me. His fists clenched. He'd done his part, d.a.m.n it. "Get out," he said flatly.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h." Deftly the sawlike blade in her hand rotated as Juliet jumped onto the thin mattress and launched herself at him.

Every muscle in his body locked.

Every G.o.dd.a.m.n nerve in his left side detonated as he plucked her from the air. Her legs swung to his side, knees ramming into his ribs and jarring a painful grunt from between his clenched teeth as he fisted both hands into her jacket collar and used her own momentum to slam her against the wall behind him. Plaster cracked.

The breath left her on a hard, wordless snarl.

His threatened to lodge in his chest, banded tightly under the fiery protest of unhealed wounds lancing through his weakened left side. "I said get out," he growled, glaring through the sizzling edges of his vision.

The knife glinted. He shackled her wrist with one hand and slammed it back against the wall. White dust floated to her hair in a gritty cloud.

Sweat gleamed on her face, echo of the perspiration drying across his shoulders. It wasn't all courtesy of the unusually muggy summer heat that had settled into the deepest creva.s.ses of the city. Holding her in place shouldn't have been as hard as it was, but his body still wasn't recovered from the burns that had nearly killed him a year ago.

Every day was a lesson in pain. Pinning a witch against a wall as her feet thrashed a foot above the floor wasn't helping.

Pinning this witch wasn't something he'd ever expected to do again.

She'd lost weight.

Her jacket was a little too loose, her black s.h.i.+rt baggy where he'd tangled his fingers into the collar of both. The warmth of her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the back of his scarred hand wasn't a reminder he needed, but he couldn't afford to let her go for his own comfort.

b.r.e.a.s.t.s versus knife? He wasn't a fool. Or some teenage virgin who had never gotten a handful of a woman before. Especially this woman.

The dark circles under her eyes couldn't take away from the visual impact she'd always had on him. Her mouth, top-heavy and so d.a.m.n expressive it made him crazy for it, twisted as she struggled in his grip. She managed to gain an inch of momentum as she jerked her hand out from under his, but Caleb locked his teeth and shoved it back. Fragile bones grated under his grip.

Pain flickered. Hers. His.

Promise me. . .

Oh, Jesus. That voice.

Caleb sucked in a breath that seemed harder than it should have to get and drowned out the words echoing through his head. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

He didn't have to ask. The venom spewing at him from a look filled with revulsion was all the answer he needed.

His grip tightened on her collar. "Let me rephrase that. Where's your backup?"

Her teeth clicked together. Her gaze slid away, flicked back as she raised her chin.

She'd never been a good liar.

Caleb stared at her as fury throbbed between his temples. "You don't have backup," he said softly. Then, much less quietly, he snarled, "You came alone? You came after me by yourself? Jesus Christ, Jules!"

With monumental effort, Juliet raised both feet and planted them against Caleb's thigh. He braced on instinct, swore as it raised her out of his grip and threw him off balance. She reached up with her right hand, grabbed the knife out of her left, and swung it back around. Caleb swore again, jerking away, but not before the jagged teeth of the blade snagged the puckered flesh of his left arm. d.a.m.n it!

Raw, red static shorted his vision as he backpedaled into the mattress. His knees collided with the edge, buckled and sprawled him backward onto the springs.

Sensing her intent, he rolled, blood smearing the stained sheets, and grunted as her weight barreled into his back. Her knees rammed into the vulnerable hollow beneath his shoulder blades, dug into his scars hard enough that he threw his head back, forced to lock his teeth against a brittle surge of pain.

"Don't move!" Her fingers twisted in his too-long hair.

Caleb froze.

Her thighs clenched around his waist. They were warm, even through her pants. Warm and familiar. And the press of her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his shoulders shouldn't have mattered more than the knife she held at his throat.

Muscles shaking, taut with the effort to stay still, Caleb waited. It hurt. G.o.d, it hurt, but it had nothing on the clash of memory, fantasy, h.e.l.l, wanting that roiled in his blood now.

They'd never made it to a bed. He remembered that. There weren't that many beds in Old Seattle.

Behind him, on him, Juliet panted for breath. "I just," she managed, "want to know one thing."

"Then what?" His voice grated harshly. "You'll cut my throat?"