Personal Demon (Otherworld 8)

"Save it," Guy said.

Jaz's head whipped around, eyes narrowing, lip curling as if ready to spit something at the interruption. Then he went still, his eyes half closing, the look fading.

"Yes, boss." He lowered his lips to my ear. "What a spoilsport, huh? Expects us to work." His finger slid up my jawline and tickled my earlobe. "Later?"

I twisted to look up at him and our gazes locked.

"Please," I said.

A sharp intake of breath and a final glimmer of frustrated lust. Then he dodged a second smack. We started forward, following Guy.

We found our target by the punch fountain. Cleo's father stood there, alone, fists clenched, glaring around the room, as if that could fix matters, too enraged to even think of protecting his daughter.

Jaz's hand slid from my waist and he was gone, circling wide around the man.

Guy stopped in front of the girl's father. Not so much as a glance around to make sure Jaz was in position, trusting he'd be there when needed.

"You!" The father waved a hand, as if clearing the fog. "You won't--"

"Get away with this?" Guy sighed. "So unoriginal. And, sadly, so wrong."

"The police are probably on the way right now."

Guy cocked his head. "I don't hear any sirens." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "Do you know why? Because we're using the best soundproofing money can't buy."

A thought flew from the father, as fast and sharp as a knife blade, and I only had time to start a warning, but Guy was ready and grabbed the man's hand as he went to throw a punch.

The man stiffened as the barrel of a gun dug into his lower back. He glanced over his shoulder at Jaz.

"So you know what that is?" Guy said. "We normally avoid guns. Too easy to misuse. But this one came courtesy of your guests. You really should have tighter security. These days, you can't be too careful."

"What do you want?" the man asked through gritted teeth.

"We already have what we want." Guy lifted the bowl he'd been casually toting in one hand. "Before we go, though, I wanted to congratulate you on raising such a philanthropic daughter."

The man's face screwed up. "What?"

"Philanthropic. It means--"

"I know what it means."

"Do you? That's not what I hear. Your family isn't known for sharing with the less fortunate, but that's about to change."

"What the hell are you--?"

"Tomorrow, in the Miami Herald, you'll find a small piece announcing your daughter's decision to donate half her sweet-sixteen party money to women's education in third-world countries."

"You're crazy. My daughter isn't going to--"

"Oh, but she is." He hefted the bowl. "You have my word that the charity will receive half the money in this bowl come morning...unless it's reported stolen."

"What?"

"If you report the robbery, I can't donate the money, can I? But that article will still run, saying your daughter intended to make the donation. That won't look good to the police--you saying someone 'stole' the money that your daughter promised to charity. They're going to think you took it, especially if they get an anonymous tip claiming you weren't happy with your daughter's plan."

"You--you can't--" he sputtered. "Everyone saw you take that bowl. I have over a hundred witnesses--"

"--to performance art gone horribly awry. You will apologize profusely to your guests and swear to put this troupe of actors out of business. Then you'll give your daughter her half of the money--from your wallet--and have a heart-to-heart with her on the obligations the wealthy have to support the less fortunate, which is why you contributed half the gift money in her name."