Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

“Sir?” She smiled again but looked hesitant as she did so. Her fear spiked, showing in a slight shifting of shadows that made his heart race.

“I’m not feeling very decisive”—he shot a glare at Gabriel, whose muffled laugh turned into a loud cough—“in terms of the menu here. Could you order for me?”

She frowned and looked back at the hostess, who was now watching them carefully. “If you’re a regular, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember—”

“No. I’m not.” He ran a finger down her wrist, violating mortal etiquette, but unable to resist. She was his. It wasn’t official yet, but that didn’t matter. He smiled at her, letting his glamour drop for a fraction of a moment, showing her his true face—testing her, seeking fear or longing—and added, “Just order whatever you think we’d like. Surprise me. I enjoy a good surprise.”

Her waitress facade slipped a little; her heartbeat fluttered. And he felt it, the brief surge of panic. He couldn’t taste it, not yet, not truly, but almost—like a pungent aroma wafting from a kitchen, teasing hints of flavors he couldn’t swallow.

He opened the black-lacquered cigarette case he favored of late and drew out a cigarette, watching her try to make sense of him. “Can you do that, Leslie? Take care of me?”

She nodded, slowly. “Do you have any allergies or—”

“Not to anything on your menu. Neither of us does.” He tapped his cigarette on the table, packing it, watching her until she looked away.

She glanced at Gabriel. “Order for you too?”

Gabriel shrugged as Irial said, “Yes, for both of us.”

“Are you sure?” She watched him intently, and Irial suspected that she was already feeling something of the changes that would soon roll over her. Her eyes had dilated ever so slightly when her fears rose and faded. Later tonight, when she thought of him, she’d think he was just an odd man, memorable for that alone. It would be a while until her mind would let her process the extent of her changing body. Mortals had so many mental defenses to make sense of the things that violated their preconceptions and rules. At times those defenses were quite useful to him.

He lit his cigarette, stalling just to watch her squirm a touch more. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, once more being completely inappropriate for the guise he wore and for the setting. “I think you’ll bring me exactly what I need.”

Terror surged, tangling around an unmistakable blaze of desire and a bit of anger. Her smile didn’t waver, though.

“I’ll put your order in, then,” she said as she took a step backward, pulling her hand free of his grip.

He took a drag on his cigarette as he watched her walk away. The dark smoky line between them stretched and wound through the room like a path he could follow.

Soon.

At the doorway, she looked back at him, and he could almost taste her terror as it peaked.

He licked his lips.

Very soon.

CHAPTER 6

Leslie slipped into the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and tried not to fall to pieces. Her hands shook. Someone else needed to handle the odd guest; she felt frightened by his attention, his too-intense stare, his words.

“You okay, ma belle?” the pastry chef, Étienne, asked. He was a wiry man with a temper that flared to life over the oddest things, but he was just as irrationally kind. Tonight, kind appeared to be the mood of choice, or at least this hour it was.

“Sure.” She pasted a smile back on her face, but it was less than convincing.

“Sick? Hungry? Faint?” Étienne prompted.

“I’m fine, just a demanding guest, too touchy, too everything. He wants…Maybe you could figure out what to order—” She stopped, feeling inexplicably angry at herself for thinking, even for that brief second, of having someone else order his food. No. That wouldn’t work. Her anger and fear receded. She straightened her shoulders and rattled off a list of her favorite foods, complete with the marquise au chocolat.

“That’s not on the dessert menu tonight,” one of the prep cooks objected.

Étienne winked. “For Leslie it is. I have emergency dessert for special reasons.”

Leslie felt relieved, irrationally so, that Étienne’s rum-soaked chocolate decadence was available. It wasn’t as if the customer had asked for it, but she wanted to give it to him, wanted to please him. “You’re the best.”

“Oui, I know.” Étienne shrugged as if it were nothing, but his smile belied the expression. “You should tell Robert this. Often. He forgets how lucky he is that I stay here.”

Leslie laughed, relaxing a bit under Étienne’s irresistible charm. It was no secret that the owner, Robert, would do almost anything to please Étienne, a fact that Étienne pretended not to notice.