Текст книги "The darkest seduction"
Автор книги: Gena Showalter
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GENA SHOWALTER
THE DARKEST SEDUCTION
At long last, New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter unveils the story of Paris, the darkest and most tormented Lord of the Underworld….
Possessed by the demon of Promiscuity, immortal warrior Paris is irresistibly seductive—but his potent allure comes at a terrible price. Every night he must bed someone new, or weaken and die. And the woman he craves above all others is the one woman he’d thought was forever beyond his reach…until now.
Newly possessed by the demon of Wrath, Sienna Blackstone is racked by a ruthless need to punish those around her. Yet in Paris’s arms, the vulnerable beauty finds soul-searing passion and incredible peace. Until a blood feud between ancient enemies heats up.
Will the battle against gods, angels and creatures of the night bind them eternally–or tear them apart?
Praise for the novels of New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author
“ The Darkest Surrenderis another sure-to-please hit…Gena Showalter knows how to keep readers glued to the pages and smiling the whole time.”
– New York Timesbestselling author Lara Adrian
“Showalter gives her fans another treat, sure to satisfy!”
– RT Book Reviewson The Darkest Passion
“The Showalter name on a book means guaranteed entertainment.”
– RT Book Reviewson Twice as Hot
“If you like your paranormal dark and passionately flavored, this is the series for you.”
– RT Book Reviewson The Darkest Whisper
“Talk about one dark read…If there is one book you must read this year, pick up The Darkest Kiss…a Gena Showalter book is the best of the best.”
– Romance Junkies
“A fascinating premise, a sexy hero and nonstop action, The Darkest Nightis Showalter at her finest, and a fabulous start to an imaginative new series.”
– New York Timesbestselling author Karen Marie Moning
“A world of myth, mayhem and love under the sea!”
—#1 New York Timesbestselling author J.R. Ward on The Nymph King
“Sexy, funny and downright magical!”
– New York Timesbestselling author Katie MacAlister on The Stone Prince
Other sexy, steamy reads from
GENA SHOWALTER
and HQN Books
The Lords of the Underworld series
The Darkest Night
The Darkest Kiss
The Darkest Pleasure
The Darkest Whisper
Heart of Darkness
“The Darkest Angel”
Into the Dark
The Darkest Passion
The Darkest Lie
The Darkest Secret
The Darkest Surrender
The Atlantis series
Heart of the Dragon
Jewel of Atlantis
The Nymph King
The Vampire’s Bride
Tales of an Extraordinary Girl
Playing with Fire
Twice as Hot
Other must-reads
The Stone Prince
The Pleasure Slave
Animal Instincts
Catch a Mate
From Harlequin TEEN
Intertwined
Unraveled
Twisted
From Harlequin Nonfiction
Dating the Undead (with Jill Monroe)
GENA SHOWALTER
The Darkest Seduction
Dear Reader,
At long last, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity. Yes, I finally feel as though I’ve tortured him enough. After all, since the Lords of the Underworld were first introduced, Paris has
1) Lost the only woman he was able to bed more than once
2) Given up his chance to find her by choosing to save one of his friends instead
3) Formed an addiction to an illicit substance
4) Choked out any light of goodness inside himself
5) Turned into a war/fighting machine
His road to happily ever after has been paved with blood, sweat and tears. Mostly mine. Fine. Mostly his. Whatever. Semantics.Anyway, I knew he deserved something, and someone, special. In fact, I had an idea for him and sat down to write it. Four tries later—with three hundred pages in the trash—he showed me exactly what he wanted. Okay, fine (again). I finally gave in and did things his way. And you know what? He got the “special” I wanted for him.
The characters had so much more depth than I expected, and as they interacted the puzzle pieces began to fall into place—I saw why he wanted what he wanted, and for the first time in a very long time I heard Paris laugh. (I heard this in my head, of course, but laughter is laughter.) He’d found his “mine,” and she was and is exactly what he’s needed all along.
Will I ever stand in my characters’ way again? Well, yeah. (Hey, at least I’m honest.) But this one time, giving in proved to be the best thing I could have done.
I hope you are as satisfied with Paris’s story as he is.
All my best!
Gena Showalter
Throughout the years I’ve learned that family matters. I’ve been blessed with one of the most amazing families EVER. They love me, support me, and they are always there when I need them. The bond you see between the Lords, as well as the bond between the Harpy sisters? That’s what I have with my family, and I am beyond grateful. So this one is to my husband and children, my mom and dad, sisters and brothers, in-laws (who are so much more than that), nieces and nephews and crazy aunts and uncles. I love and adore you all!
Acknowledgments
From family to friends, I am blessed. To Jill Monroe, Kresley Cole and P.C. Cast. I love you, ladies!
Contents
EPIGRAPH
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
GLOSSARY
I speak, and the humans tremble in fear. I speak, and my people rush to obey—and yet still they seek to destroy me. My salvation rides the wings of midnight, and my burden she carries. My rage she unleashes, delivering damnation to all with a single swing of her sword. I speak.
–A passage found in the private journals of Cronus, king of the Titans
Speak all the hell you want. I’m taking what’s mine.
–Paris, Lord of the Underworld
PROLOGUE
“HIS RAGE…”
“I know.”
High in the heavens, Zacharel watched the world below him. Watched as the once genial Paris murdered yet another of his enemy, the Hunters. How many victims that made in the past hour alone, the angel could not say. He’d long since lost count. And even if he paused to do the tally, the answer would have changed a second later as yet another body fell to the slick, blood-coated blades the warrior wielded.
Of course, the panting, sweat-soaked Paris spun to engage two others, his motions fluid, lethally graceful…as unstoppable as an avalanche. At first, he played. A punch, cracking bone. A kick, smashing lungs. Laughing, spouting the worst of curses. Soon none of that was enough for the demon-possessed soldier, and he danced his blades over the tendons in their ankles, hobbling his prey for easier elimination.
Paris had made himself Bait to purposely draw these Hunters to him. They’d come eagerly, happily, intending to steal the vile demon tethered inside him and finally end him. So Zacharel could not fault the warrior for what he did to defend himself, even as several new bodies joined the already mountainous pile enveloped by a sea of crimson and black. And yet, he could not commend the warrior, either.
These were not mercy slayings or even carried out in the name of a cold and calculated vengeance birthed in the bowels of an equally cold rage. No, these were a spew of fire, hate and desperation hotter than anything hell had ever created.
“He is like a poisoned apple,” Zacharel said to the angel beside him. And because Paris was bonded to the demon of Promiscuity, his pruning belonged not to the humans he lived amongst but to the Deity’s angels, who policed different realms of evil. “Poison of this nature spreads slowly but corrupts absolutely.”
Beads of ice fell around Zacharel, as they always fell around him these days, his breath misting in front of his face. Every crystal was to be a reminder of his own crimes, so recently brought to his attention. But unlike Paris, he did not wear misery like a winter coat, hugging it close to his body, relying on it, feeding it, helping it grow. Zacharel cared for nothing, not anymore.
In his quest to destroy the demons that had ruined his life, he had slain “innocent” humans, and this was to be his punishment—to carry his Deity’s displeasure with him always.
“As succulent as others consider this particular apple,” Lysander proclaimed, “they will be willing to taste anything he offers.”
Zacharel moved his gaze to the man who had taught him how to survive on the battlefield. The elite warrior was a muscled tower of unwavering strength. He wore a long white robe, his majestic wings like rivers of molten gold. Zacharel’s ice raged around him, too, though not a single flake dared land on the man. Perhaps, like myriad other creatures, the crystals feared him—and rightly so. In their world, he was judge and jury, his word law.
“Do we remove temptation?” Zacharel asked. For centuries he had acted as Lysander’s executioner.
“I will not order his assassination, no,” Lysander said, resolute. “At the moment, Paris is redeemable.”
Unexpected. Even with the great distance between the heavens and the earth, Zacharel could hear the grunts and groans Paris elicited, the screams of his enemies. The pleas for mercy that would echo into eternity, forever unheeded. And as determined as this Lord of the Underworld was, this was only the beginning.
“What will you have me do, then?”
“Paris searches for his woman, intending to free her from the Titan king’s enslavement. You will aid him, protect him and protect the girl. The moment her ties to Cronus are cut, however, you will bring her here, where she will live out the rest of eternity.”
Even more unexpected. The command smacked of leniency, something Lysander had shown to only one other demon-possessed immortal in all the millennia of his life: Amun, Paris’s friend. And only because Bianka, Lysander’s Harpy mate, had asked.
She must have requested this second favor, as well, for it was widely known that Lysander was powerless against her wiles. But even a besotted groom, tasked as he was with governing the heavens, responsible for all that transpired there, should not have asked another angel to do this deed. Aid a demon? Bring another here to live? Horrifying.
Zacharel offered no objection. And despite the fact that he had never experienced desire himself, he would do his best to cure Paris of his so that, when the inevitable break with the female came, the warrior would not return to his rage.
“Paris will protest her loss.” After everything the warrior had done to find and save her already, everything he would soon do…oh, yes, he would protest—using those dripping blades to make his case.
“You must convince him that he will be better off without her,” Lysander said.
“Will he be?”
“Of course.” There was no hesitation in the pronouncement, lending it an edge of fiery truth. An unnecessary edge, for Zacharel knew Lysander would not, could not, lie.
“And if I fail to convince him?” He had to ask, needed the penalty riding heavy on his shoulders, driving him to succeed.
Eyes of pitiless navy frosted over, revealing the iron depths of Lysander’s warrior core. “We are lost, for the greatest war the world has ever known now brews. The girl will lead us to our victory—or our enemy to theirs. It’s as simple as that.”
Very well, then. When the time came, Zacharel would take her. No matter how Paris was affected.
Paris would hate him, and would, perhaps, do more than rage. There was no stopping that, not when so much darkness swirled inside him, a rot in his soul, far worse than any spiritual poison. But that wouldn’t stop Zacharel from fulfilling his duty.
Nothing would.
CHAPTER ONE
PARIS TOSSED BACK THREE fingers of Glenlivet and signaled the bartender. He wanted an entire hand and by right or might, he’d have it. Except soon after the single malt was poured, he realized an entire hand wasn’t going to cut it, either. Fury and frustration were living entities inside him, frothing and bubbling despite his recent fighting.
“Leave the bottle,” he said when the bartender made a move to help someone else. Hell, suddenly Paris doubted every drop of alcohol in a ten-mile radius would do the trick, but hey. Desperate times.
“Sure, sure. Anything you say.” Shirtless Boy Wonder released the bottle and beat feet.
What? He looked thatdangerous? Please. He’d washed off the blood, hadn’t he? Wait. Hadn’t he?He looked down. Shit. He hadn’t. Crimson streaked him from head to toe.
Whatever. He wasn’t in a human bar, so no “authorities” would have a beef with him. He was in Olympus, though the heavenly kingdom had recently been renamed Titania. Once only gods and goddesses had been allowed here, but when Cronus reclaimed the realm, he’d changed things, allowing vampires, fallen angels and other creatures of the dark to come and play. A nice little screw you to the previous king, Zeus.
Call the bartender back,Promiscuity said. I want him.
Promiscuity—the demon trapped inside him, driving him. Irritating him. Remember when I wanted fidelity? Monogamy?Paris replied in his mind. Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?
A familiar growl sounded in his head.
Whaa, whaa, pout, pout.He downed the second alcoholic offering and quickly chased it with a third. Both scorched so good he enjoyed a fourth. The potent alcohol razed his chest, burned holes in his abdomen, and flooded his veins. Nice.
And yet, his emotions remained as dark as ever, the edges of that bone-deep fury and frustration unsmoothed. His inability to save a not-so-innocent woman he should hate– didhate, at least a little—but also hungered for, body and soul, drove him, a constant whip against his flank.
“If I asked you to leave, would you?” a monotone voice said from beside him. A voice accompanied by a blast of arctic air.
He didn’t have to look to know that Zacharel, warrior angel extraordinaire and infamous demon-assassin, had just joined him. They’d met not long ago, when the feathered axman had come to Buda to off Paris’s friend Amun. Had old Zach actually succeeded, two crystal blades would have been drilling into his spine at that very moment.
I want him,the demon said.
Screw you.
Finally. We’re on the same page.
Really hate you right now.
Once upon a time, the demon had spoken to Paris with annoying frequency. Then the stupid sex fiend had stopped, merely urging Paris to bed this person or that person, no matter their gender or Paris’s own feelings toward them. Now, the talking had started up again and it was worse than before, because he wanted everyone, especiallythe ones Paris felt no desire for.
“Well?” the angel prompted.
“Leave, when I had to beg Lucien to bring me here and I know he won’t be so accommodating next time? No, but I’d damn sure want to know why you gave a crap about my location.”
“I do not care about your location.”
True story. Zacharel didn’t care about anything, a fact you learned real fast in your dealings with him. “That’s my point, so get lost.”
As Paris nursed a fifth whiskey, he studied the smoke-stained mirror in front of him, covertly panning the area behind him. Bejeweled chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls were rose-colored marble, veined with glittering ebony, the floor a sparkling stretch of crushed diamonds.
Throughout the room, men and women talked and laughed. From minor gods and goddesses to fallen angels trying to work their way back into their saintly fold. Good luck with that in a bar. Morons.Anyway. There was probably a demon or two sprinkled among the masses, but Paris couldn’t tell for sure.
Demons were as sneaky as they were evil. They could skulk around in their own scales, proudly showcasing their horns, claws, wings and tails—and getting decapitated by warrior angels like Zach. Or they could possess someone else’s body and skulk around in theirskin.
Paris had thousands of years of experience with the latter.
“I will leave, as you so succinctly suggested,” Zacharel said, “ afteryou answer another question for me.”
“All right.” Something else Paris knew from experience: angels were freakishly stubborn. Better to hear the guy out, otherwise he’d find himself with a new shadow. He turned, facing the dark-haired stunner with eyes the color of jade, and sucked in a breath. Never ceased to amaze him, how magnetic these celestial beings were. No matter their gender—or how mind-numbingly dull their personalities—they drew and held your attention, every damn time. For some reason, Zacharel did so with more intensity than most.
But the magnetism wasn’t what caught Paris’s attention this time. Majestic wings arced over the angel’s broad shoulders, a turbulent fall of winter clouds with streams of gold winding and curling throughout, snowflakes raining from the tips like glitter in a globe.
“You’re snowing.” Captain Obvious, that’s me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I can answer you, or I can ask my question and leave.” Dressed in the long white robe that was customary for his kind, Zacharel should have looked innocent and prissy. Instead, he looked like the Grim Reaper’s evil twin: emotionless, as frigid as the snow he shed and ready to kill. “Your choice.”
No thought necessary. “Ask.”
“Do you wish to die?” Zacharel said it as simply as he’d said everything else, mist crystallizing in front of his mouth, creating a dreamlike haze and reminding Paris of the breath of life. Or death.
Definitely ready to kill, Paris mused. “What do you think?” he asked, because honestly? He didn’t know the answer anymore.
For centuries he’d fought to live, but now, now he constantly threw himself into the fire and waited to be burned. Likedbeing burned. What kind of sick prick had he become?
Unflinching, the angel held his gaze. “I think you want one particular woman more than you want anyone—or anything—else. Even death…even life.”
Paris pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. One woman in particular: the not-so-innocent one.
Her name was Sienna Blackstone. Once a Hunter and always his enemy, for Hunters were an irritating army of humans who hoped to rid the world of Pandora’s demons. Then fleetingly, she’d been his lover. Then dead, gone. Thenshe’d been brought back from the grave, her soul merged with the demon of Wrath. Now, she was out there. Somewhere. And she was suffering. Cronus had enslaved her, thinking to use her demon to punish his adversaries, and now that he’d lost control of her, he thought to torture her into submission.
Paris might dislike the things Sienna had done to him, and yeah, as he’d already admitted, part of him might even hate the woman herself, but even she did not deserve the cruel, vicious—eternal—punishment being meted out.
I will find her, and Iwill save her.From Cronus…from himself. Right now, Paris simply couldn’t get past the fact that she was suffering. Once that part of the equation was dealt with, he would stop thinking about her. He had to stop thinking about her.
“So I want her,” he ended up saying to the angel. Sienna was not up for discussion. “BFD.”
“I will pretend I know what that means.” Zacharel shook his wings, more of that pure, glistening snow raining down. “As for you, I think that, despite your own desires, your demon wants anything with a pulse.”
“Sometimes even a pulse isn’t a requirement,” he muttered, and damn if that wasn’t the truth. Sex, as he’d taken to calling his dark companion, wanted anyone and everyone—but only ever once. With the exception of Sienna, Sex would not allow Paris to harden for the same person twice.
Why could he have Sienna again? No damn clue. “But again, so?”
“I think, even though you crave this particular woman, you slept with your friend Strider’s future wife. He is the demon of Defeat, and your actions made his courtship of the Harpy very difficult.”
“Hey. You’re entering dangerous territory here.” Not that Paris had anything to apologize for.
The one-nighter had happened weeks before Strider and Kaia hooked up. Or had even thought about hooking up. Therefore, Paris had done nothing wrong. Technically. And yet, he now knew what Kaia looked like naked, and Strider knew that he knew, and that meant all three of them knew Sex tossed out naked images of the girl every time they were together. A consequence Paris loathed, but couldn’t stop.
Zacharel’s dark head tilted to the side in a reflective pose, all the more mysterious because of the mist that continued to form with his every exhalation. “I meant only to point out that you have clearly moved on to other conquests and that you are hardly discriminating in your choices, which makes me wonder why you still pursue your Sienna.”
Because Sienna had been Paris’s one and only shot at monogamy. Because he’d inadvertently brought about her death. Because he’d felt like he lost everythingwhen she died.
“You’re annoying,” he snapped. “And I’m done talking to you.”
Still the angel persisted. “I think you feel guilty about every heart you break, every dream of happily-ever-after you crush, and every bit of self-loathing you encourage when your partners realize how effortlessly you overcame their reservations. I also think you are overindulged and pathetic, and that you have no business crying about your problems.”
“Hey! I’ve never cried.” Paris slammed his glass on the counter with so much force the bar split down the center and the cup shattered. Blood welled from the slices in his palm, but the sting was minimal. “And you know what? I think you are seconds away from finding pieces of your body scattered in all the corners of this bar.”
Then, while he’s down, we can have him!
Zip it, Sex.
“Uh, here you go,” the bartender said, Johnny-on-the-spot with a clean rag he thrust in Paris’s direction. His arm shook. He was still afraid of Paris.
I want—
I said zip it!“Thanks, man.” Paris fisted the material, applying pressure to the slivers of torn tissue before anyone could scent him and the oh-so-special pheromones his demon excreted.
One whiff of the intoxicating aroma, and everyone around him would become unforgivably aroused, uncaring about where they were or who they were with. Mostly their hunger would be for Paris,and though that would have been an especially craptastic outcome tonight considering he was operating under a time crunch, he would have enjoyed rebuffing the males with his fists.
Except…the pheromones never enveloped him. He frowned. Sex wanted everyone he’d spotted tonight. Why not take advantage of his ability and force the patrons to want him back?
Paris returned his focus to Zacharel, wondering if the angel was somehow responsible.
Those eyes of the rarest jade narrowed to tiny slits. “I think you hope to save your Sienna, and that is a good thing. I think you mean to keep her, and that is not. No matter how intensely you crave her, no matter that she might be your only chance at forever, your demon will eventually ruin her, for humans were never meant to battle demons, and at heart, she is still a human.”
“What about her own demon?” he snapped.
“If one is bad, two is surely worse.”
“Enough!” If they continued on this path, his fury and frustration would rise up and consume him. He would lose sight of tonight’s goal. “I’m not going to keep her.” He would. He sowould if given a chance, and if she would have him, of course, but hell, she wouldn’t have him.
“Good. Because this particular woman would not like the man you have become.”
Snorting, Paris shoved his free hand through his hair. “She didn’t like who I was.” And now, after he’d irrevocably stepped over the line between right and wrong? Please.
He’d known his actions were reprehensible, and he’d stepped over anyway. He’d killed, callously. Seduced, methodically. Lied, cheated and betrayed. All of which he would do again and again.
“Yet you still rush to save her,” Zacharel said.
Yeah. He was as big a moron as the fallen who frequented this place. Whatever. He knew.Didn’t care. “Look, I don’t answer to you. I don’t have to explain myself. And what’s with all the questions? You said you only had one more.”
“I have asked only the one. The rest have been observations, and I have one more of those to offer.” Zacharel leaned into him and whispered, “I think, if you continue on this destructive path, you will lose everything you have come to love.”
“Is that a threat?” Paris fisted the collar of the angel’s robe. “Go ahead and try something, winger. See what—”
Air. He was fisting and yelling at air.
Little growls sprang from his throat as he lowered his arm to his side. The only reason he knew Zacharel had been here was the temperature of his hands. They were practically frostbitten.
“Uh, who were you talking to?” the bartender asked, faux casual as he cleaned an already clean counter.
If an angel didn’t want to be seen, an angel wouldn’t be seen. Not even by his brethren, fallen or otherwise. So only Paris had seen Zacharel this go-round. Great. “Myself apparently, and we prefer to chat without an audience.”
Was Zacharel still here? Paris wondered. Or had he materialized somewhere else? And what was the purpose of all that talk of Paris needing to stay away from Sienna? The angel shouldn’t care.
Paris dropped the rag and turned the rest of the way to face the crowd. Several warriors were scowling in his direction—why?—dangerously close to ruining the room’s elegance with the blood they were tempting Paris to spatter. He massaged the back of his neck, forcing thoughts of Zacharel and his threat into hiding. He had bigger and badder to deal with. He was here for Viola, the minor goddess of the Afterlife and keeper of the demon of Narcissism. She should have popped in already.
Maybe she’d heard he was coming and bailed, and if that was the case he couldn’t blame her. He and his friends had once stolen and opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the evil from inside. As punishment, they were cursed to host the demons they’d released within themselves. Unfortunately, there’d been more demons than naughty boys and girls to contain them, and when the box had disappeared in the chaos, the leftover evil spirits had needed homes. What better recipients for the Greeks to select than the unlucky, unable-to-run inmates of Olympus’s– Titania’s—immortal prison, Tartarus?
So, yeah, Paris was partly responsible for Viola’s dark side. She’d been one of those unlucky prisoners. He wasn’t entirely responsible, though, considering the girl was a criminal once considered dangerous enough to be forcibly kept away from the very gods and goddesses who were often praised in mythology books for their most vicious deeds.
What crime Viola had committed, he didn’t know and didn’t care. She could slash him to ribbons, as long as she gave up the information he craved. The final puzzle piece needed to at last save Sienna.
According to the Hunters he’d slain just this morning, Viola came here every Friday night to hustle immortals at pool and rave about her awesomeness over a few beers. Apparently, said Hunters had been watching her, intent on nabbing her and “persuading” her to join their ranks. So, in a way, she kinda owed him.
Where the hell is she?he wondered again, searching for the telltale long blond hair, eyes the color of cinnamon and a killer body that could—
Appear in a puff of white smoke.
There, in front of the bar’s only entrance, stood a luscious woman with long blond hair and eyes the color of cinnamon. Paris straightened, his nerve endings zinging with anticipation. Just like that. Prey located. Target acquired.
CHAPTER TWO
I WANT HER,SEX SAID as Paris studied Viola.
Of course you do,he replied dryly.
The tendrils of smoke that had marked Viola’s appearance now curled away from her, thinning out to reveal a slinky black dress. The thick straps on her shoulders veed to frame heavy cleavage before dipping past her pierced navel. The micromini skirt stopped just below the hem of her panties.
Was she even wearing panties?
Paris yawned. He’d been with gorgeous women, ugly women, and everything in between. One lesson he’d quickly learned: beauty could hide a beast, and a beast could hide a beauty.
Sienna belonged to the beauty-hiding-a-beast category—at least to him. While he’d been crazed with desire for her, she’d been plotting his downfall. And maybe he was as bad as his demon because part of him found even that side of her sexy. A reed-thin female had bested a battle-hardened warrior, and he thought that was hot as hell.
And okay, yeah, she considered herself plain and maybe once he would have agreed, but from the beginning, there’d been something tantalizing about her. Something that drew him, held him captive. Now, anytime he pictured her, he saw a flawless gem with no equal.
Concentrate.A command from the demon, who still wanted the minor goddess, and a reprimand from himself.
Viola flipped the length of her silky hair over one sun-kissed shoulder and scouted her surroundings. Men openly gaped. Women tried to hide their jealousy with (unconvincing) blank masks. She paused on Paris, looked him up and down, her lids narrowing, and then, shockingly, she dismissed him and continued her visual sweep.
The last time his demon had failed to attract a potential bedmate, he’d met Sienna shortly thereafter. Could that mean…what if… His anticipation intensified until his bones vibrated. He would get his answers– tonight—no matter what was required of him.
He closed in on Viola, schooling his features to reveal only admiration as he went over his plan. Charm first, if he could actually remember how to be charming. Force second, and yeah, he definitely remembered how to go that route.
Ignoring his approach, Viola bent down and slid a glittery pink phone from inside her black leather boot. Moans of approval erupted behind her, and men high-fived each other, as if they’d just received a glimpse of heaven. Even immortals could be childish. Never me.Unaware or unconcerned, she danced her nimble fingers over the phone’s tiny keyboard.
