Darkness Hunts (Dark Angels 4)

Lucian shrugged again. “Thoughts of a sexual nature are easier to pick up. Anything else is very muddy.”

“Muddy” didn’t mean he couldn’t read them, just that they were harder to hear. Fabulous. Not.

“When and where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a lovely little bar down the Paris end of Collins Street—Maxwell’s, it’s called. Shall we say midnight?”

“Fine. Now, if you don’t mind, get the hell out of here so I can go home and get ready for work.”

“Your grouchy side is showing, my dear.” His gaze swept to Azriel. “Understandable, I guess, given the company you’re forced to keep twenty-four/seven.”

Azriel took one step forward, then stopped. Other than the slight tightening in his jawline, his expression remained as impassive as ever. But the emotional turmoil that exploded through my being just about sent me staggering.

Lucian was a dead man if he ever gave Azriel the slightest reason to attack.

He will not, Azriel said. He is not that stupid. Nor am I that rash.

You might be if you hang around me for too much longer.

Many things might happen if I hang around you too much longer.

It was a comment that sparked an avalanche of questions and possibly some hope, but before I could say anything, Azriel winked out of existence—neatly avoiding said questions—and Lucian stepped closer. His scent was an enticing mix of lemongrass, suede, and musky, powerful male.

“Until tonight.” He caught my hand in his and raised it to his lips. The kiss was light and teasing, and oddly erotic. “Wear something sexy.”

“I have no intention of wearing anything sexy—either for you or for this dark sorcerer.” I ripped my hand from his, but the warmth of his lips lingered, making my skin tingle.

Amusement played about his mouth. “I can’t still be in the bad books for previous behavior, surely.”

“You can, and you are.” I shrugged. “It’s going to take some pretty stellar behavior to get you out of the bad books.”

“Ah, a challenge. I like that.” He hesitated, then added, “One thing, though.”

I raised my eyebrows in question when he didn’t immediately go on, and he half smiled. “This may seem a strange request, but do not wear your demon sword when you meet our sorcerer. They tend to be sensitive to demon magic, and it would create the wrong impression.”

I snorted. “I’m not really caring about the impression I give to a sorcerer.”

“You might if you want a solution to your problem.” He caught my hand again and dropped a soft, sweet kiss on it. My toes curled in delight. “I promise to protect you from any harm the sorcerer might offer.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to protect me from you?”

“Ah,” he said, his voice filled with mock distress. “You’ve uncovered my evil plan to have you helpless with desire by the evening’s end.”

Despite the annoyance—at both myself and him—I couldn’t help smiling. “Amaya’s presence won’t stop that from happening.”

“No, but it may stop the sorcerer from helping us. Will you leave her behind? Please?”

I eyed him for a moment, then said, somewhat reluctantly, “Okay.”

He bowed lightly. “Until tonight, then, when the games will commence.”

He gave me another smoky smile, then turned and walked away. And I knew that if I didn’t end up in his bed tonight, it would be a goddamn miracle.

* * *

It was just after three by the time I arrived at the café we’d named RYT’s, an acronym for rich young things, which was precisely what we’d been at the time we’d started the business. Though I was a good fifteen minutes late, the café wasn’t that busy, with only a couple of regulars sitting at the bar drinking Irish coffees and a third at one of the tables reading the newspaper. The article, I noticed with amusement, was one of Jak’s, but I resisted the temptation to peek over the customer’s shoulder to see just what he was reporting on this time. He might have stepped back into my life, but that didn’t mean I now needed to keep up with everything he was doing.

Even if that wistful, not-quite-over-him-no-matter-what-he’d-done piece of me desperately wanted to.