Immortal (28 page)

Like she was going to say no to him when he looked at her like that?

As Jim drew her over to the bathroom, Sissy followed, because her body wanted exactly what was in his eyes. Her mind, though . . . her instincts? They were popping red flags all over the place—something was off about him, that hard glint in his eyes the kind of thing she hated to see.

But what could she do? It was late and everyone had had an exhausting day and there was always tomorrow morning. She'd talk to Eddie and Ad then—maybe they could help.

Jim let her go in first, and then he shut and locked the door behind them while she blinked and winced. The crane-arm light fixture over the old-fashioned sink was on, the clinically bright illumination on all the white tile about as romantic as an eye exam—but he took care of that. Reaching up, he unscrewed two out of the three bulbs and then draped a towel over the remaining one, careful not to get the terry cloth too close to the heat.

“Better?” he said.

As she nodded, for some reason she felt shy—although, come on, it wasn't like they hadn't gotten down with it before. This felt different, however . . . maybe because it seemed so planned and intentional. Or, no, maybe it was the fact that with the evil out
of her, she felt as though she was about to be with him for the first time. Before? Even though everything had been intense and amazing, that contamination had clouded her—

Holy . . . shit, she thought as Jim lifted his T-shirt up over his abs, his pecs, his thick neck, his head. Even in the now-diffused lighting, his muscles stood out in sharp relief, carved rather than born, powerful even though he wasn't fighting anyone at the moment.

Leaning to the side, he started the shower, his body flexing in a coordinated series of movements while he twisted the knobs to get the right combination of hot and cold.

As far as she was concerned? He could futz around with the temperature for the next twenty hours.

Except then it was time for him to work on her. Straightening, he came at her with a burning look on his face—like not only did he want her, but he needed the connection they were about to have.

“You're beautiful, you know that.” Not a question. A statement—and how great was that? “But you have way too many clothes on.”

“Are you going to fix that problem?” Check her out with the come-ons. “Or make me do it myself.”

“I'm going to take care of it.”

She put her hands over her head as he pulled her sweatshirt off, and then his touch was all over her skin, running up from her waist to her simple white bra. Dropping his head, he nuzzled the white cotton out of the way and latched onto her nipple—

With a hiss, she went lax, her body curving against the hard bar of his arm at the small of her back. As he continued to work her, her clothes disappeared, pants and panties gone, bra off, nothing but naked skin left for his eyes, his hands, his mouth.

She was up and over the edge of the huge Victorian claw-foot
tub a moment later, and he joined her under the hot spray, his body already primed and raring to go as he pulled the curtain around them. But instead of lifting her up around his waist, or pulling one of her legs high and going in? He went for the soap, rubbing that bar over and over in his hands until the sudsy froth fell in fragrant lots into the swirl around the drain at their feet. His hands were slow and thorough, and she wished she were lying down so that the only thing she had to concentrate on was the way he caressed her, lingering over her neck and her collarbones, her breasts and her stomach, her thighs and her backside.

And when he finished going over every single square inch of skin she had? He got the shampoo and went for her hair—which of course meant she had to get flush with him, the soap making her slip and slide against his hard body.

Naturally, she had to amuse herself as he worked at the long lengths.

She went for his erection, taking it into her palms, making him curse and lose his rhythm.

“You sure you wanna do that?” he asked in a guttural way.

“Oh, yeah. Yup. Very sure.”

As she worked her hands up and down his length, the soap was the perfect lubricant, and, God, she loved how he felt. Hard and hot, with that ridge and the blunt head. It wasn't long before his body slammed against the wall, his great weight pulling the shower curtain out of its graceful fall of folds.

His eyes were stoned and hyper-alert at the same time as he stared not at what she was doing, but right at her face—as if the physical friction was nice and all, but what really turned him on was the fact that she was the one doing it to him. And then he closed his lids and gritted his teeth, his breath going short as he got closer and closer. . . .

He came all over the front of her and she loved it.

But he didn't recover for long.

He kissed her deep and traded places with her, shifting her under the spray, the rush hitting her hair and drawing her head back. When there was a squeak from the tub, she looked down and saw that he was on his knees in front of her.

His hands were like the warm water, all over her body—his mouth, too, his lips traveling to her hip bones, the tops of her thighs—

The top of her sex.

And then he licked her, his tongue extending, tasting.

Thank God he took control, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder as he went in further, his hands locking on her pelvis to keep her from falling. Now she was the one tangling the shower curtain, grabbing onto the folds, using them to hold herself upright.

She orgasmed against his lips and his face, the sight of where he was and what he was doing pitching her right over the edge within moments. And he didn't stop.

She didn't want him to.

Warm and wet—everything was warm and wet, from the heat in the air around them to the shower down her back to the way he made love to her core—

The crash was a shocker, not just bursting the bubble of sex, but blowing it the hell up.

With a quick surge he was up on his feet, ready to fight—but there was no enemy in the bathroom with them.

Sissy lifted her hands, and the soggy, soaked shower curtain came up with them. “Oh . . . crap. I ripped . . .”

Glancing up, she saw a whole lot of eye hooks with bits of fabric hanging off them still attached to the metal ring that hung from the ceiling.

“Never mind,” he growled as he picked her up and got out of the tub.

He left the water still running as he backed her against the door, put her legs around his hips, and went into her with a strong thrust. Gripping his shoulders with her nails, she gave herself up to the sex, and oh, man, if what had happened in the tub had been good, this was even better.

And it was what she needed right now.

Joined like this? She could pretend that they were going to be together . . . forever.

An hour and one more shower later, Sissy was downstairs in the kitchen, helping herself to the last slice of Eddie's perfectly cooked chocolate cake. Jim had passed out cold in his bedroom—because that was as far as they'd made it. Even though hers was just four or five more doors down the hall, they'd been too greedy and impatient to make the trip.

Funny, there had been a new and different satisfaction in leaving him in tangled sheets, his fighter's body all used up because of how much he wanted her.

Before she'd left, she'd stood over him and watched him . . . even carefully touched the gold dove pendant of hers that he wore around his neck. He'd stirred at that point and that was why she left.

For some reason, she couldn't shake the conception that something bad was about to happen.

“So, yup, chocolate is perfect,” she muttered as she sat down at the table and took the first bite.

Oh, God, it was amazing: All the endorphins in her body from those orgasms, coupled with the chocolate cake and the fake vanilla icing? High-octane euphoria, even with that spiking fear in the center of her chest.

There was a copy of the
Caldwell Courier Journal
on the far side of the table, and she pulled it over so her eyes had something to do. The top half of the front page was all about international stuff. The bottom had a picture of some real estate tycoon who had apparently decided to sell off all his holdings and was creating a stir in town—

Sissy frowned and leaned closer to the black-and-white photograph. Then decided she was seeing things.

Except no . . . that man had a halo: Even with the grainy nature of the image, she could see a faint circle over the businessman's head.

Vincent diPietro. And the photo had been taken the day before, as he'd walked into his lawyer's office downtown to sign papers.

Strange, that he had one, as well. But considering everything else that was going on? Not something she was going to give much thought to.

After she finished her midnight snack, she had a skim-milk chaser, and put her dishes in the sink. Then she was all about the upstairs, ready to cozy up to Jim and have him throw an arm over her—because God only knew what the morning was going to bring.

Except she didn't make it to even the first landing of the staircase.

She ended up in the trashed parlor.

The plywood sheets over the busted-out windows did a fairly good job of keeping the rain out, but they weren't a tight lock, so the room felt colder and even more damp than the rest of the house. And even with the drafts, the piney smell of the fresh-cut plywood permeated the air, like someone had hung evergreen air fresheners off all the sconces.

As her bare feet went silently over the chilly, bare floorboards,
there were no lamps to turn on, because they'd all been sucked away along with the tables they'd been sitting on. There was, however, enough illumination to see by: Thanks to the exterior fixtures mounted on the corner of the house, artificial light bled through the loose seals around the window wells, looking as if maybe the plywood panels were doors you could pass through to other planes of existence.

She found what she was looking for on the mantelpiece over the marble fireplace.

Devina's book barely fit on the ledge, its ragged leather cover hanging off nearly to the point of falling. She figured Adrian must have put it there while he'd been working on the room. Or maybe the thing had climbed up the moldings and taken a seat by itself.

She hated the weight of the tome in her hands, and the old-man-flesh feel of its cover. Hated being near it at all. Before, it had been nothing more than some book; now it felt like she was carrying a severed arm over to the light.

It was two deep breaths before she could open the thing. Two more before she could actually look down and—

“What the hell?”

Frowning, she flipped through the pages, going back and forth and . . . nope, she recognized nothing. The writing now seemed like something utterly foreign, a hodgepodge of symbols and strange letters that was unreadable as far as she was concerned.

Closing the volume up, she returned it to its place on the mantel.

The relief was so great, she was dizzy.

Hitting the stairs, she was halfway up before something Jim said came back to her. It had been when they'd sat outside and she'd asked him, What happens now?

With you? Nothing.

At the time, she'd been talking about the war, not her future, but his answer had been about her and her alone.

Assuming he won the war—and she had to believe he would, because the alternative of her, and everyone else, going into Devina's possession was too horrifying to contemplate—what then? She had to think that if she'd been welcome in Heaven, she would have ended up there after the ritual in that tub at the loft. But no, she was still here.

Guess eternity on a cloud wasn't in her future.

So what did that leave her? Endless years roaming the earth as some disembodied soul? Because halo aside, that was what she was, for all intents and purposes.

Resuming her ascent, she went to Jim's room, slipped through the doorway, and took off her sweats before getting in between the sheets. As strong arms scooped her up and pulled her into a tight embrace, she needed the warmth and the grounding.

They'd figure it out, she told herself. If they could get Devina out of her, they'd be able to make something work.

As long as they had each other, Heaven was wherever they were.

Jim waited until Sissy's breathing was slow and even—and then he stayed in bed a good twenty minutes past that. When he finally did urge her over onto her back and remove his arms from her, she murmured something, but stayed asleep.

Getting out of bed and dressed without making a sound wasn't a problem. Belting his dagger holster around his waist and tucking a crystal knife into the thing was easy in the dark. Snagging a conventional SIG Sauer and tucking it into the small of his back was a piece of cake.

But leaving her was hard.

As he paused with his hand on the doorknob, he stared at the bed. There wasn't a ton of light in the room, but he knew where
she was, heard her sigh as she burrowed into the pillows, pictured her rubbing her face in her sleep.

Instead of giving him pause to reconsider, it only sharpened his resolve.

Before he left, however, he had an impulse that had to do with her safety, and he gave in to it quickly and efficiently. Then he was out into the night, passing through the glass of the circular window that overlooked the sitting area, Angel Airlines taking him through the air. It was not until he was well away from the house that he dropped out of the sky and sent the summons.

For once, it was answered immediately. As if the demon had been waiting for him.

Proceeding downtown, he didn't fuck around with the hotel lobby's judgmental busybody. He just landed on the terrace of the penthouse and walked over to the French doors. When he tried the brass handles, they were locked.

Of course she was going to make him knock.

As he curled up a fist and put his knuckles to the glass, he kept his cool. The only thing he cared about was getting into the demon's space. Whatever he had to say, to do, to make that happen? He was going to rock that shit.

Now Devina took her own sweet time. With the cold wind blowing hard up this high, he might have gotten chilled to the bone, but he was too pissed off to care whether or not he was in the damned arctic—

Devina finally turned a corner and came into the living room, posing by the bar like she was at a photo shoot for
Vogue
—or maybe
Hustler
was more like it. She was in a bra and panties that were more black lace than satin, a gossamer-thin “robe” falling from her shoulders to the floor. Her hair was loose and curled into big fat ringlets, and her makeup was film noir, all smoky eyes and blood-red lips. And to top it off? Her skin-colored heels were a
mile high, and made out of something that shimmered like diamonds—plus, yeah, there was some kind of garter belt involved.

To him, she was about as sexually attractive as a ninety-year-old woman with her teeth out.

But clearly she didn't know that: Apparently deciding that he'd seen enough, she came forward, her hips swaying, that hair bouncing along with those double-Ds of hers, her tongue licking her lips. As she opened things up and he stepped through, she ran her hand over his chest and shoulders.

And he let her do it.

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” she drawled as she shut them in.

He kept his voice casual as he scanned around the living area, cataloging objects. “We need to talk.”

“Finally,” she muttered as she went over and positioned herself on one of the leather armchairs. “I thought you'd never come back.”

Jim wandered around, putting his hands out and letting them float over the side table, the back of another chair, a lamp. “I've been doing some thinking.”

“Yes?”

He could hear the hope in her voice. “And I've decided you're right.”

“Yes . . . ?”

Okay, now she was downright breathless.

He stopped. Pivoted to face her. “Yeah. I think we should quit.”