Made for Sin (5 page)

“If you say so,” he said finally, and stood up, glad for the chance to get away. “I'll be right back.”

“You're welcome!” she called after him, but he ignored it. He had to get a clean shirt on and he had to figure out some way to get rid of her, for a little while at least.

Which was another problem: Should he take her back to the Wheel, or back to her place, or what? His house was protected; even if their would-be assassins knew where he lived and made the trip out there, they couldn't get past the guardian spells forming a barrier across his doorways. As long as he stayed in the house, they couldn't get him.

“Hey,” he said as he walked back down the hall. The sensation of having to fight the beast had faded some, but it hadn't gone away entirely. “Is your place protected? Will you be safe if I take you back there, I mean.”

“I know what ‘protected' means.” She'd poured herself another drink, and one for him, too, which she held out to him. “Eager to get rid of me, huh?”

Everything was some kind of battle of wits with her. “Like I said, I've got shit to do.”

“Shit that's more important than finding the demon-sword or figuring out who shot at us?”

Shit that would save her life, because if his time ran out and she was still there, the beast would go after her immediately. And it would make him watch.

He couldn't tell her that, though. He sipped his drink. “Maybe. Is that a problem?”

“My house is protected.” She started wandering around his living room, looking at the books in his bookcase and then moving to the couple of pictures on his walls. She picked up the Allegar Stone on his desk, examined it, and set it back down, then did the same with the silver Baelliary and the bezoar. Touching everything. Evaluating it.

She was just bending over in front of the display case in the corner—those jeans really were tight—to inspect some of his more valuable magical items when he spoke. “Hey, maybe you can case my house sometime when I'm not right here?”

“Oh.” She straightened up, giving him a small but completely unembarrassed half smile. “Force of habit, I guess. You've got some good stuff.”

“I guess.” No, he knew. He did indeed have some good stuff—some great stuff. Too bad none of it had managed to get rid of the beast, or even help him control it without further condemning his soul, but it was still good stuff. “You would know.”

Her smile widened at the compliment—a compliment he hadn't planned to make. “I would. I could get you a shitload of money for that Rinaldi Gem you've got there. High five figures, at least. It—”

“No thanks,” he said. “I'm not looking to sell. Anything. I kind of like it all where it is.”

What was she thinking when she looked at him like that? An evaluating sort of look, cool and distant, yet soft somehow. Curious. “Your place isn't what I expected.”

“Oh?” The bottle still stood on his desk, behind and slightly to the right of where she'd resumed her lean. He headed for it and reached out to grab it, realizing too late that the movement placed him right in front of her. Close to her. That perfume she wore was going to drive him crazy. So was the way her breath caught, just a tiny, almost-unnoticeable hitch when his arm started to curve around her. That sound was going to keep him from falling asleep for a while, he imagined. Or maybe it was more accurate to say it was going to keep him up.

Okay, that kind of thinking was going to get him nowhere. More alcohol was what he needed. He yanked both the bottle and himself away from her, as smoothly as possible.

Her voice sounded like she was trying to be smooth, too. “It's not very seductive.”

“What?” Glass clinked against glass. Jesus, he felt like an idiot. And probably looked like an idiot, unable to keep the bottle steady as he poured.

“Seductive. Like, used to seduce people and—”

“I know what it means,” he said. “I just don't know why you're talking about it.”

That cool, evaluating look again. “Your place. I'd expected it to be different. More…more pickup artist, I guess. Given how many women you—”

“Okay.” Fuck this. His temper flared; he turned to face her again and set the bottle and his glass on the desk with two decisive slams. If she wanted him to be a sleazeball, he could be a sleazeball. And if she wanted to be smug and superior, well, maybe she'd learn there was at least one thing she'd never be able to best him at. “Enough of this. You want to tell me why you're so fixated on how many women I sleep with? Why it matters to you so much?”

She opened her mouth, but he wasn't in the mood to let her talk yet. The beast was definitely not in the mood to let her talk; it started growling with pleasure when he advanced on her, invading her personal space enough that she had to lean her head back to look at him. Good. Her eyes widened when they met his, and that was good, too.

He plucked a lock of soft, shining hair off her shoulder, caressing it between his fingers as he lowered his voice and injected a confidential, just-between-us tone to it. “Do you want to be one of them, is that it? Are you wondering just how good I am? Have I wounded you somehow by not trying to get you into my bed?”

He leaned in even closer, forcing her to tilt her head back and to the side to make room for his. Her pulse raced in her throat. The beast could hear it, and he could see it. He let his lips barely—barely—brush her earlobe as he said, in a tone that was almost a whisper, “Don't take it personally, sweetheart. You're just not my type.”

Lie. That was a huge damned lie. That was the kind of lie they called congressional hearings to investigate, it was so big.

For a long moment she didn't move, so long he almost started to feel bad. Then she pushed his hand away. The suspiciously dazed look in her eyes disappeared. “Hardly. I just don't like working with little-boy men who treat women like cheap toys. And I don't trust people whose lives revolve around anonymous sex and have never had an actual relationship. Is it your hatred of women that keeps you single at an age where normal men have at least lived with someone, or are you defective in some other way that ought to worry me, if I'm trusting you?”

That hurt, a deep pain right in what was left of his soul. Did she think he
wanted
to be alone, to never have someone to call his own, to never look into a woman's eyes and see that he was important to her? Loved by her? Did she think he wanted to spend his life sinning with random women, being just another notch on their belts and having them be the same to him? Did she think he was proud of it?

The words started to form on his lips. He almost said them. But then he realized, of course she did. Of course she thought that, thought all of those things. She thought he loved using and being used.

And he needed her to think that, or at least some variation of that. He sure as fuck couldn't tell her the truth, that he was indeed defective in ways she could never even imagine.

He didn't have to let her see how much her comment stung, either, and he didn't have to accept her insinuation that he wasn't trustworthy. “Sorry, Mrs. Grundy, but that bullshit isn't going to work here. You know damn well you can trust me, because you wouldn't be here otherwise—Felix wouldn't have sent you to me. So don't use that as an excuse to lecture me about things you know nothing about.”

“I know about men who get what they want and then—” Her mouth snapped shut. She looked away, fast, as color suffused her cheeks. Interesting. Enchanting.

And enlightening. Was that what her problem was—some guy had used her and thrown her away? Funny, she didn't seem like the type who'd be attracted to idiots, and as far as he could see only an idiot would climb out of her bed and never return.

He wanted to say that, to say something kind that might chase away the clouds passing over her face. But his chest still burned from the wounds she'd inflicted, and he wasn't quite ready yet. He settled for, “Yeah, well, I'm not one of those men. And you don't know me at all like you think you do, so unless you want to deal with whoever's coming after us by yourself, I suggest you lay off my personal life. You think you can do that? Or do you want to take your chances alone?”

Oh, she didn't like that. Her eyes flashed cold ice; she moved away from his desk, putting distance between the two of them. “I can take care of myself. And you still need my help to find the demon-sword.”

“You're not the only thief in town.”

“But I'm the best,” she snapped. She looked, standing there, like a princess. Like a queen. Like a woman who could take on the entire world, and would, if she thought it was necessary—and like she would win, too.

For some reason, the thought made the pain in his chest dissipate. Or, well, it changed it somehow, replaced it with some other kind of pain he didn't understand and didn't want to think about. The only thing he knew for sure about it was that it made him tired. Tired of fighting with her. He didn't want to do it anymore. He didn't want to hurt her, or make her feel like she needed to defend herself. That look on her face, like she expected a fist to come at her from out of nowhere…he didn't want to see that look again.

He held up his hands. “So I hear,” he said, trying to sound as neutral—as conciliatory—as he could. “Which is why I'd like your help on this. And you need mine, to find out who's after us. So why don't we call a truce here? There's no need for us to be rude with each other, is there?”

She hesitated long enough for him to start thinking he was going to have to find himself another thief—or another source of information, at least—after all, but finally she gave him a grudging half smile, one of those head shakes that meant yes instead of no. “Mrs. Grundy,” she said. “It can read.”

“
It
has a lot of skills,” he said without thinking. Damn. Quickly he added, “But—”

His phone rang. Majowski, probably, giving him the okay to come take a look—or a sniff, to be accurate—at Theodore's clothes.

Yes, Majowski. A very troubled-sounding Majowski. “Speare…can you come out to Sunrise Manor?”

Uh-oh. “Right now?”

“As soon as possible, yeah. There's another one here.”

Another—oh, shit. Another body. Another of Laz's men. Was his right arm missing again? No point asking. Majowski wouldn't tell him over the phone.

“I can get there, but I've got somebody with me. She's involved,” he added, glancing at Ardeth, who was obviously listening and less obviously taking mental notes on the value of his belongings.

Majowski sighed. “You have to bring her?”

“Yeah.” He sure wasn't going to leave her at his place; he'd probably come home to find she'd cleaned him out.

Maybe that wasn't fair—no, it definitely wasn't fair. But he still didn't feel like being fair. He definitely didn't feel like admitting that he thought she was…well, likable. Trustworthy.

“Okay,” Majowski said. “But get here fast. I can't delay calling anybody else in for long.”

There was something special about driving at night in the desert. Especially in a city like his, so awake and so bright; viewed from Frenchman Mountain—their destination—the Strip looked like a volcano of light rising from the sparkling grid laid out around it, a lone beacon in the middle of nowhere. Funny how a place that bustled twenty-four hours a day could look so lonely. Vegas was the world's most beautiful showgirl, dressed in the wealth of a thousand admirers, dancing for all she was worth in a diamond spotlight on a dark stage. Hard and confident on the outside, but filled with sadness and desperation underneath. And he loved her, and loved that about her.

For a second—only a second—he was tempted to say something to Ardeth, to ask what she saw when she looked at it. What she thought of, when she thought about it. Then he realized he'd probably sound like an idiot. Besides, he had more important things to think about at that moment, like whether or not he could get away with stealing something from a convenience store. That would stave it off a while longer, but…ugh.

Not much choice, though. The beast was squirming in his head; he could hear its occasional growl over the sound of the engine and the Them album he had playing. Ordinarily he'd turn the music up loud, maybe roll down the windows so the sound of the wind would mix in with “Baby, Please Don't Go,” and drown the bastard out entirely, but not with her in the car.

He should probably talk to her. Actually, he needed to talk to her. There was plenty to discuss, and he didn't know how chatty she was going to feel after going to look at a mutilated body. Which he was pretty sure they were about to do.

He'd warned her, of course, but that didn't mean she wouldn't freak out.

Oh, who was he kidding? She'd probably seen dozens of corpses. Hundreds. She'd probably seen worse than that, given the types of objects she dealt with regularly.

Still, might as well get some information from her. “So, who has a demon-sword?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Lots of people have demon-swords. Do you mean to ask me if I recently procured one for someone, or know of someone who did?”

“You know that's what I'm asking.”

“I don't, actually. For somebody who claims not to be a fan of word games, you certainly like to be vague. Try a little precision, Elvis, and—”

“Do
not
call me Elvis.” He glowered at her, unearthly pale in the dashboard light. “
Nobody
calls me Elvis.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, alternating between glaring at her and at the road ahead, “I don't like it. That's why not. Because I don't want anyone to know it, much less use it. That's why not.”

In a softer tone, she said, “I guess there are a few things you don't want anyone to know about.”