shook her head. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I’m not playing.”
“And you’re direct. I like that.” He moved closer, smiling, and brushed his fingertips over the ends of her hair. “Your hair smells of oranges.”
She leveled a stare at him and ignored the flutter of pleasure. “You’re beginning to annoy me.”
“You’d like to keep this impersonal.” He nodded and let his hand drop. “Reasonable, from your point of view. But you should know I’m not good at treating a woman I’m attracted to impersonally.”
“Another of those skills you haven’t mastered, I take it. Cheer up. It’s never too late. You can start working on it right away.”
His lips twitched. “I have a ten-thirty appointment, and you’re late for your meeting. Do you work on Saturdays, Detective?”
“I will be. Why?”
“Why don’t we have a nice, businesslike lunch tomorrow and discuss things? Somewhere public, to encourage me to behave myself.”
She’d seen him in public last night at Club Hell, and he hadn’t been behaving himself. But so what if she couldn’t trust him? She trusted herself. “That works. You know Bishop’s, on Eighth?”
“I’ll find it.” His eyes laughed at her as he held out his hand. “One o’clock?”
“Okay.” He might have meant the handshake as a dare. She accepted it for her own reasons—mostly to get a feel for his brand of magic. His hand closed around hers, large and warm and solid.
Her stomach hollowed. Her breath went shallow, her head light, as if she’d lost oxygen. The muscles in her inner thighs quivered, and she stared at his mouth—at the neat, white teeth revealed by lips that had parted, like hers. Lips that looked soft. She wanted to touch them.
Her eyes flew to his. She saw flecks of gold in the dark irises, and the way his pupils had swollen. The pink triangles at the inner corners of his eyes. The dark, thick eyelashes. And the way his lids had pulled back in shock.
He dropped her hand. For a moment they stared at each other. Her heart pounded. His nostrils were flared, his breathing fast.
Dear God. What did she say? How did she put that moment away, unmake it?
He broke the silence. “I won’t be behaving myself,” he told her grimly. And turned and left.
FIVE
THE hall leading to the captain’s corner office was beige—beige walls, beige woodwork, beige carpet. No windows. Lily headed down that beige tunnel with her heartbeat still unsettled, her report in her hand, and her mind in a whirl.
Popular fiction was full of stories about the supposed sexual power of lupi, their ability to entrance helpless females. Most experts believed those were self-perpetuating myths. Wickedness has always possessed a certain glamour, and mystery casts its own spell.
Until a few moments ago, Lily had agreed with the experts.
Now . . . well, whatever had just happened between her and Turner shouldn’t have. No question about that. What’s more, it shouldn’t have been possible. Even if lupi did possess some arcane sexual power, she was supposed to be immune. Magic slid over her surface, prickling along her skin. It didn’t get inside and affect her.
Yet she couldn’t accept what had happened as normal sexual attraction—it had hit too fast, too hard. And he’d looked so shocked. As if he, too, had been blindsided . . .
Lily shook her head, trying to physically throw off confusion. None of that mattered as much as what hadn’t happened. She’d shaken the hand of a lupi prince—and felt not one tingle of magic. For that, she had no explanation at all.
She rapped once on the captain’s door, then opened it.
“Glad you could join us, Detective,” Captain Randall said dryly.
Lily checked on the threshold. The room held three men, not one.
Frederick Randall sat behind his desk. The captain was a short, bald man on the shady side of sixty with all of his features crowded together in the bottom half of his face. He looked like a
“And you’re direct. I like that.” He moved closer, smiling, and brushed his fingertips over the ends of her hair. “Your hair smells of oranges.”
She leveled a stare at him and ignored the flutter of pleasure. “You’re beginning to annoy me.”
“You’d like to keep this impersonal.” He nodded and let his hand drop. “Reasonable, from your point of view. But you should know I’m not good at treating a woman I’m attracted to impersonally.”
“Another of those skills you haven’t mastered, I take it. Cheer up. It’s never too late. You can start working on it right away.”
His lips twitched. “I have a ten-thirty appointment, and you’re late for your meeting. Do you work on Saturdays, Detective?”
“I will be. Why?”
“Why don’t we have a nice, businesslike lunch tomorrow and discuss things? Somewhere public, to encourage me to behave myself.”
She’d seen him in public last night at Club Hell, and he hadn’t been behaving himself. But so what if she couldn’t trust him? She trusted herself. “That works. You know Bishop’s, on Eighth?”
“I’ll find it.” His eyes laughed at her as he held out his hand. “One o’clock?”
“Okay.” He might have meant the handshake as a dare. She accepted it for her own reasons—mostly to get a feel for his brand of magic. His hand closed around hers, large and warm and solid.
Her stomach hollowed. Her breath went shallow, her head light, as if she’d lost oxygen. The muscles in her inner thighs quivered, and she stared at his mouth—at the neat, white teeth revealed by lips that had parted, like hers. Lips that looked soft. She wanted to touch them.
Her eyes flew to his. She saw flecks of gold in the dark irises, and the way his pupils had swollen. The pink triangles at the inner corners of his eyes. The dark, thick eyelashes. And the way his lids had pulled back in shock.
He dropped her hand. For a moment they stared at each other. Her heart pounded. His nostrils were flared, his breathing fast.
Dear God. What did she say? How did she put that moment away, unmake it?
He broke the silence. “I won’t be behaving myself,” he told her grimly. And turned and left.
FIVE
THE hall leading to the captain’s corner office was beige—beige walls, beige woodwork, beige carpet. No windows. Lily headed down that beige tunnel with her heartbeat still unsettled, her report in her hand, and her mind in a whirl.
Popular fiction was full of stories about the supposed sexual power of lupi, their ability to entrance helpless females. Most experts believed those were self-perpetuating myths. Wickedness has always possessed a certain glamour, and mystery casts its own spell.
Until a few moments ago, Lily had agreed with the experts.
Now . . . well, whatever had just happened between her and Turner shouldn’t have. No question about that. What’s more, it shouldn’t have been possible. Even if lupi did possess some arcane sexual power, she was supposed to be immune. Magic slid over her surface, prickling along her skin. It didn’t get inside and affect her.
Yet she couldn’t accept what had happened as normal sexual attraction—it had hit too fast, too hard. And he’d looked so shocked. As if he, too, had been blindsided . . .
Lily shook her head, trying to physically throw off confusion. None of that mattered as much as what hadn’t happened. She’d shaken the hand of a lupi prince—and felt not one tingle of magic. For that, she had no explanation at all.
She rapped once on the captain’s door, then opened it.
“Glad you could join us, Detective,” Captain Randall said dryly.
Lily checked on the threshold. The room held three men, not one.
Frederick Randall sat behind his desk. The captain was a short, bald man on the shady side of sixty with all of his features crowded together in the bottom half of his face. He looked like a
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