Black and Blue

Six

THE WINDOWS IN EVIE’S car were tinted so dark, Blue didn’t have to hide in back during the drive home. He sat up front, marveling that the world had continued on without him. It was morning, so people strode along the sidewalks, rushing off to work. Lines formed in front of the coffee shops. A team of pickpockets swept through the crowds, liberating wallets and jewelry.

For the first ten minutes, neither Blue nor Evie said a word, and he was glad. They’d argued all the way into the garage.

“Be on the lookout for tails,” he’d said. “Before and after you drop me off.”

“Duh. I do know what I’m doing, bluebonnet.”

“And make sure you do a visual sweep of your entire property line when you return, just in case someone—”

“Dude! I know.”

Now he was too busy battling his body to spar with her. Her honey-almond scent saturated the entire vehicle. He kept imagining easing her to her back and pinning her with his weight. Sliding his hands under her shirt . . . then her jeans. Touching every inch of her. Kissing and tasting every inch of her.

He cursed. He needed to buy her a new body lotion. Maybe one called Dog Crap and Old Sneakers. Or Locker Room Man-Sweat.

At the fifteen-minute mark, Evie broke the silence. “Hey, Sir Sexalot. We’re almost there.”

Thank God. Escape. “Notice I don’t threaten you when you call me ridiculous names.”

“Brilliant. Let me give you a medal.”

He scowled at her. Going to win one day.

“But the difference is,” she added, “the names I give you are steeped in truth.”

“Well, then, why don’t I just call you Judgmental Bitch from now on? That’s about as truthful as I can get.”

No response from her.

Finally. Victory.

But it felt kind of hollow.

He gave her the code to his security gate. “Park in the garage and close the door, sugar tush,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. Any spying neighbors . . . or hiding paparazzi . . . or lurking bad guys . . . would just assume she came looking for him or even her father, the owner of the Invaders.

She obeyed without protest—or another smart remark. A true miracle.

Problem was, he was actually . . . disappointed.

“Tomorrow,” he said, exiting the vehicle.

“Tomorrow,” she confirmed.

Was that anticipation in her tone?

“By the way,” she called. “Your new nickname for me? I like it. Because you’re right. It fits. But I think I prefer JB.”

And this round goes to Honey Badger as well.

He waited until she pulled out of the garage—why did it feel like he was losing an appendage?—before he slipped into the backyard, remaining in the shadows as he checked for tracks. He found none. His heart rate jacked up and his muscles tensed when he unlocked the back door and turned the knob.

Hinges creaked, but nothing exploded.

Still he didn’t relax. He inspected the inside of the house for any signs of tampering. He’d always liked the place. It was three times as large as Evie’s—stop obsessing about her, moron—and decorated with dark browns, like Evie’s eyes, and pure whites, like her skin, and deep reds, like her lips, and if he didn’t wipe that girl from his mind, his temper would get the better of him and he would start ripping the brick from the walls.

At least there was nothing out of the ordinary; the house was exactly as he’d left it.

He took a heated enzyme shower, the mist cleaning him more thoroughly than water, and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. His skin had grown back, but he was now without any of his tattoos. He’d liked those tattoos. More importantly, women had liked those tattoos. For some reason, they’d enjoyed tracing the edges with their tongues.

To do: Get new tattoos.

What would Evie like? he wondered, then promptly cursed. What did he care what she liked? Wasn’t like he’d ever give her a peep show. Or a taste.

Yeah. He wanted her to taste.

Enough!

After he dressed in a black tee and slacks, he sat at the desk in his office to watch the security feed. Pagan had come to the door about a thousand times and had even tossed a rock at the (unbreakable) window during her final visit, but the alarm had scared her off. No one else had so much as approached the property line.

So, again, the person responsible for the explosion either thought he was dead or never really had a beef with him.

He thought back. While lying broken and bleeding in the rubble of Michael’s home, he overheard bits and pieces of a conversation. He hadn’t recognized the speakers.

—with this one?

—fetch a decent price.

He’ll fetch a decent price. Where, though? On the black market? As a sex slave?

—this one?

—ashing him.

Finish ashing him. That was Blue, no question. For sure, he was thought to be dead.

—last one?

—keeping him.

I’m keeping him. Or maybe: We’re keeping. Or even: They’re keeping him.

That meant one of Blue’s friends had been sold and one had been kept.

Solo was unnaturally tall and cut with the kind of muscle earned only on the bloodiest of battlefields. When he was angry, his skin reddened and his bones thickened. He became the monster of grim fairy tales.

John was Rakan, like a priceless work of art come to dazzling life. He was just as tall as Blue, just as muscled, but exquisitely golden from head to foot. And, truth be told, he was the only man in this world or any other capable of making Blue look hideous in comparison.

Ego much?

Why yes. Thank you. Blue was certain his ego was as lovely as the rest of him.

Anyway. The culprit might have hoped to tame the gruesome Solo, perhaps use him as hired muscle. He definitely would have considered John the better sex slave.

John, who hated being touched.

Rakans were so rare, they were always top sellers.

Blue closed his eyes against the horrors his friends might even now be enduring. He had to find the pair. Soon. Then he had to punish the man responsible.

What did he know for sure?

AIR thought Star was involved. But was he?

There weren’t many men with enough connections or cunning to bypass the security Solo had set up at Michael’s. There weren’t many men rich enough to pay someone to set a bomb in such a high-ranking commander’s house, either, without fearing the consequences. Blue still figured that “someone” had to have used someone else—someone like Michael’s former assistant, because that was the only way such a plan could have worked.

Star fit each instance. But then, so did a handful of others. But then, only Star had been a target for potential elimination.

What exactly did AIR have on the man?

Only one way to find out. Blue hacked into the AIR data system for information about Star, the explosion, Michael, the assistant’s death, any recent black-market auctions for a Rakan male, as well as a male matching Solo’s description. To his fury, he discovered a whole lot of nothing. Agent Gutierrez hadn’t even logged his interview with Evie.

It was suspicious.

What was the best way to handle this?

If Blue returned from the dead to confront him, he could be placing a target on his back and giving up a very clear advantage. Although . . . the bomber might not even know Blue was involved. Michael had most likely been the main target, maybe even the only target. Then, when those two men had stepped into the scene—probably to ensure Michael was actually deceased—Blue was already unrecognizable.

But could he put his hopes in, well, hope?

No. So, for now, Blue would stay dead. There would be no confrontation with the AIR agent. Evie, though . . .

Yeah. Having a partner might actually come in handy.

One last task before he worked on a disguise. He deposited a million dollars in the account of the charity he secretly spearheaded, Safe Haven for Otherworlders, using one of his aliases. SHOW was a place where children living on the street could go for long-term food and shelter. The money should last until he returned to the land of the living, and could continue his weekly support.

Blue strode to his private bathroom, and dug through his hidden stash of emergency supplies. Hair dye made specifically for his race. Colored contacts. A voice modifier chip. Studs for facial piercings. A serrated blade that would cause temporary scarring in an Arcadian.

Why deal with makeup that could wash away? Blue preferred authenticity. Also, he thought he remembered Evie telling him that he needed a scar.

He’d never had one, and he’d never imagined a woman would desire one—or that he’d want to cater to her.

Tomorrow, he would test his new look on her—the only person he currently trusted. If she failed to recognize him, he’d know he was good to go.

This could actually be fun.

The next morning Evie made her rounds at the hospital as usual. Then she talked to the chief of staff about taking an open-ended vacation. As expected, there were no arguments. Her coworkers would think she was taking terrible advantage of her status, as Blue had said, and she would have to agree. She totally was. But this was life and death for the only man she had ever loved, and she wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

At home, she strode straight into the kitchen, slammed her purse on the counter, and poured herself a much-needed glass of wine. When would Blue get here?

And he had better get here. If he’d tricked her just to get rid of her . . .

She drained the glass, barely tasting the hints of plum and fig, and poured another. The air was still charged with electric power, she realized, from when he’d been here before, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising—liquid heat rushing through her.

When would it freaking end? She was tired, so very tired, of the rush of sensations he caused, whether he was there or not. The tension in her lower belly. The heat in her veins. The ache . . . oh, criminy, the ache.

“Do you always drink like a sidewalk bum when you get home from work?” The deep, gravelly voice caused every nerve in her body to come alive. The reaction was familiar, though the voice was not. Not really.

In a lightning-fast move, she whisked the pyre-gun from her purse, turned, and aimed. A second later the gun was ripped from her grip, only to hover in the air just out of her reach. But it was never aimed at her. Either the guy was a suckwad criminal, or he meant her no harm.

He’d bypassed her security. He wasn’t suckwad.

Mr. B and E stepped from the shadows, and she stiffened.

He was tall—Blue’s height. He was muscled—Blue’s build. He even smelled like Blue, champagne and fresh-plucked strawberries. Odd for a man, but no less addictive. And yet, he had short, spiked black hair, and eyes to match. Thick kohl rimmed his eyelids, altering the shape. A jagged scar ran from his hairline to his chin. Both of his eyebrows were pierced, and so was his lip. Could be him. But could also not be him.

“Let me see your hands,” she demanded.

For a moment he gave no reaction. He was too busy peering at her as if he actually saw her, rather than through her. Blue always peered through her. This man’s stare was intense. Steady. Almost . . . magnetic. She couldn’t even bring herself to blink.

Finally, he lifted his arms, palms out.

She knew those hands. She’d cleaned and bandaged one, then watched the other grow—and she’d enjoyed having both on her body, cupping her breasts.

Had secretly prayed they would move lower.

Leaning against the counter, relaxing, she said, “So. You kept your word, bluebird. I’m impressed.”

He blinked in surprise. “You recognize me. How?” As he spoke, the pyre-gun floated back to her purse.

His affront amused her. “Hello. Trained agent. I notice details the average Joe misses.”

“No, it’s more than that.” He studied his hands in the light. “You didn’t know for sure until you looked at these. But why would—” His gaze jolted up, landing on her, heating with black fire. “Because you liked when they were on you. A woman never forgets pleasure.”

She straightened as though yanked by a cord. “Don’t be ridiculous. I forget all the time.” Gah! “I mean, I’ve never experienced pleasure from you.”

Where’s your brutal honesty now, girl?

Silent amendment: Except when he was grinding on me.

Trying again. “Maybe you have distinctive sunspots.”

That wasn’t a lie. She’d said “maybe.”

“I don’t.” He watched her for a long while, whatever thoughts danced through his head hidden from her. His expression gave nothing away. No, that wasn’t true. His features had softened, oh so slightly.

If he tried to prove his theory, she might not have the strength to resist.

She gulped.

“What do you think of my scar?” he asked, rubbing the raised tissue.

It gave him a savage edge, as if he couldn’t decide whether to hack you to pieces or give you the hardest sexual ride of your life—and only time would reveal the answer. He was the bad boy every woman yearned to taste, but only the bravest ever dared approach.

Must regroup.

“Nothing to say? You disappoint me, princess.” He walked toward her, placed his hands—those big, strong hands—on the counter, caging her in, thrilling her. “Or, maybe your silence speaks for you.”

Red alert! “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, blue balls?” she demanded, hating how breathless she sounded.

His gaze dipped to her lips—and stayed. “What would you like me to do, princess?”

Kiss me. Hard.

No!

“I’d like you to move. Now,” she said. Unfortunately, her voice was still raspy with longing.

“Someone’s forgotten her own rules, I think. Just like she claims to have forgotten her pleasure.” He nuzzled her nose, the contact innocent and yet somehow all the more erotic for it. “You sure that’s what you want?”

No, she wasn’t sure. He affected her in a way no one else ever had. He made all her naughty bits tingle, and she liked it. Her breasts felt heavier, ready for his hands . . . his mouth. Her nipples hardened and throbbed. Her legs trembled, and at the apex of her thighs she was warm and wet. Her knees threatened to buckle under her slight weight, a reaction guaranteed to land her in the strength of his arms. And probably on her back, on the receiving end of a good snogging. Or more . . .

Yes, please.

She hadn’t had sex in three years, since she’d spiraled after Claire’s death. And before that, her last sexual encounter had happened at the ripe old age of seventeen. Back then, she’d given herself to too many, desperate for male approval and attention.

The curse of those bloody daddy issues.

But she wasn’t a needy little girl anymore, and she wasn’t going to be some guy’s bang and bail ever again.

“You might be a cheater, Professor Hit It and Quit It, but I am not.” She shoved him, and though he could have resisted and remained in place, he moved backward. A scowl marred the rugged beauty of his new face. A scowl . . . and maybe a little hurt.

I am a judgmental bitch.

“Look. I’m sorry I was mean,” she muttered. “Let’s just forget the last five minutes.” She reached into her purse and grabbed the paper she’d stuffed there. “Here. This is your bill for your stay at Chez Black.”

She expected him to comment on her apology. He didn’t. He acted as if he hadn’t heard it, and she wasn’t sure what to think.

As he read over her notes, she moved to his side to make sure she hadn’t left anything out.

Security system, parts and repairs: $8,000.

New window: $2,000.

New sheets: $1,000.

Water: $10,000.

Time and mental anguish: $3,000,000.

No. Nothing left out.

He eyed her with a strange mix of amusement and exasperation. “Do you accept orgasm? Because that’s my preferred method of payment.”

She puckered her lips, knew she looked like she’d just sucked on a lemon and didn’t care. “I’m sure. And no. I do not accept orgasms.” But I’d like to. “Lucky you, I can get you started on a stellar payment plan. Meaning you have one month to pay or I’ll break both of your kneecaps. Now, are we going to search the explosion site or what?”