Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (4 page)

A slight furrow between her brows, she looked away. Her gaze roamed the crowd a moment, then returned to him. Razor-sharp intellect on display, she assessed him with keen eyes. “Are you a gentle lover?”

“When a female wants me to be.”

She treated him to a pointed look. “Willing to cede to a woman’s wishes?”

“In bed—yes.”

“A gentleman,” she murmured, approval in her tone. “No means no.”

“Without question.”

Her eyes narrowed a second before she pursed her lips, as though unconvinced. As though testing his character. As though she owned the book cataloging the entire male species and had memorized every page by heart. After a moment’s hesitation, Trixie nodded, and palming her cell phone, tapped the top of her thigh three times with her index finger, giving him a number. Venom raised a brow. Wow. Three thousand dollars for a female’s time. Some might find the price steep. Not him. All things considered—her powerful connection to the Meridian included—it made for a pretty good deal.

He pretended to think about it, not wanting to seem easy. “For an hour? Or the night?”

“Stay an hour or the nigh
t . . .
you decide. But by seven a.m., it’s over and you’re gone.”

“Deal.”

She blew out a long breath. “Promise to be patient.”

“Of course,” he said, responding to the soft plea in her voice. Venom smothered a frown as intuition whispered. Something about her request didn’t ring true. It was almost as if, wel
l . . .
he didn’t know exactly. She sounded uncertain and protective, as though concerned for someone other than herself. “You have my word.”

“All right, then.” Pausing to smooth her skirt, she uncrossed her legs and got to her feet. With a quick snap, she opened her purse, reached inside, and came away with a keycard. She hesitated a split second. Venom held his breath and, hoping she didn’t back out, started to count.
One. Two. Thre
e
. . .
The card landed on the seat cushion she’d vacated. He watched it settle against the dark upholstery, then met her gaze. Trixie didn’t make him wait. She gave him instructions instead. “Wait ten minutes, then go upstairs. You pay before you get started. Room 301 is on the mezzanine level.”

He nodded.

Without making a sound, she walked away, leaving him tense and needy. Nerves shot to hell, he wanted to ignore the instructions and follow her retreat. He switched seats and picked up the keycard instead, settling into upholstery still warm from her body. Sensation swirled up his spine, urging him to go. Venom locked his muscles, forcing his body into submission. Rushing her wouldn’t get him what he wanted—her nake
d . . .
him deep inside her. Knowing it, however, didn’t help. Anticipation tightened its grip, making impatience rise as time stretched and seconds ticked past. Turning the slim card over in his hand, he distracted himself by watching the human hive buzz a few feet away.

Ten minutes wasn’t that long. Just a slice of time. Hardly worth his consideration at all an
d . . .

Venom shoved up the sleeve of his leather jacket. Lamplight flashed off the face of his MTM military watch. He hummed, the sound more growl than soft roll. Nine minutes down, one to go. Time to get off his duff and make his way upstairs. Pushing to his feet, he stepped around the coffee table and skirted the armchair. Footfalls silent, pace steady, he took a direct route across the lobby. His boots brushed over polished marble. The sweet scent of vermouth and twenty-dollar cocktails teased his senses. He snarled at the male closest to him. The human jumped like a jackrabbit, scurrying out of his way, causing a chain reaction as the crowd between him and the staircase scattered before he got anywhere near them. Thank God. The last thing he wanted was interference. Not with time ticking down and Trixie waiting.

Hopefully in nothing but lace panties and a push-up bra.

The image grabbed him by the balls. Venom upped the pace, eagerness playing its part as hunger overwhelmed him. He was starving, so parched he couldn’t swallow anymore.

Taking the treads two at a time, he navigated the staircase. A couple of females smiled at him as he mounted, and they descended—long legs on display, high heels muffled by the carpet runner, hips swaying in challenge. He ignored the come-hither looks, and bypassing the pair, paused on the top step. His attention narrowed on the wall signs.

His gaze snapped to the left. Room 30
1 . . .
that-a-way.

The curved banister swung him around its high-polished contour and into the double-wide corridor. Dimmed down, the wall sconces cast odd shadows across the pale carpet. Sounds drifted up from the lobby below. Venom barely noticed. Focused on the doors marching down one side of the hallway, he read the room numbers an
d . . .

Bingo. Objective acquired. One high-energy female on tap.

He stopped and faced the door. With a quick twist, he rotated the keycard in his hand and pushed it into the slim slot in the reader. The light on the mechanism went from red to green. Heart hammering, need set to apocalyptic, Venom unleashed his magic and, opening the door with a mental flick, stepped over the threshold. His eyes adjusted to the low light. His gaze found the female standing across the room, staring out the window and—

She turned to look at him. Dark eyes found his from across the room. Venom’s breath caught in the back of his throat.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, not understanding the switch-up.

Feet rooted to the floor, he swallowed and, unable to take his eyes off her, tried to make his brain work. A hard sell. One made more difficult by the fact she wasn’t the female he’d met downstairs. Not Trixie. Someone else and—oh, baby—even higher energy than her friend in the lobby. Venom swallowed a growl as his dragon half rose, fixating on her, urging him to get closer and see if he got zapped by the Meridian. Eternal. Beautiful. Power pulsed in her aura, a soft green that made her glow from the inside out. Making him
want
so hard his mouth started to water.

Oh God. She was going to taste good.

Allowing his gaze to roam, he skimmed her silhouette, undressing her with his eyes. Slim but curvy. Absolute perfection with ink-black curls framing her face, falling to her shoulders, causing her to shimmer with vitality. Five feet eight—maybe five seven without her stilettos—she owned a pair of long legs, the kind made for wrapping around a male’s waist. Venom frowned. N
o . . .
strike that. Forget the generic word
male
, replace it with his name, ’caus
e . . .
umm. He’d just hit the jackpot. The female across the room was even better than Trixie. Mocha-colored skin, gorgeous brown eyes, and a full mouth meant for kissing, she hit every note on his sliding gotta-have-her scale. Arousal hammered him like a closed fist. His body responded, absorbing the shockwave as Venom stepped farther into the room.

The door clicked shut in his wake. Silence stepped into the void, an
d . . .

God forgive him. So much for his promise.

He’d lied to Trixie. Patience was no longer part of the plan. He wanted the female standing across the room too much. The cascade of desire overwhelmed him. Rational thought ceased to exist. Forget the surroundings and his usual caution. Only one thing held sway. He needed to be skin-to-skin with her. And he needed it now.

She should say something. Really. She should. Right now—before the heavy silence grew any thicker. But as Evelyn held her mysterious date’s gaze from across the room, words failed her. So did brainpower. Her mind had shorted out or something. Gone haywire the instant his eyes settled on her. She swallowed, trying to calm the chaotic flutter behind her breastbone, but, well . . . might as well give up the effort. Righting the arrhythmia was wishful thinking. Her heart had gone ballistic, thumping hard, making her blood rush, her ears ring, and her mind splinter. Now she couldn’t catch a thought. Except for one . . .

God be good to her, he was gorgeous.

Tall. Sculpted. Big, blond, and beautiful. One of God’s great gifts to womankind—the sort created for the cover of
GQ
magazine. And not the kind of man who paid for sex. Ever. Pure supposition? Evelyn released a pent-up breath. Not even close. The conclusion was bang-on accurate, supported by an inescapable fac
t . . .

The guy oozed sex appeal. Not the tame kind either.

His allure was more lethal than that. Pure, unapologetic animal magnetism wrapped up in an incredible package that ticked all her boxes. Well, at least, under normal circumstances. Not that it mattered. Her body was too busy reacting to his presence. To the tug and tangle of physical attraction, making her go through the usual checklist against her will. Thick, shoulder length hair—check. Biker jacket over a wide-shouldered, long-limbed, muscular body—double check. A face every male supermodel on earth would envy an
d . . .

Bing-bam-boom. The trifecta of sexiness was complete.

Hitch that to the hard-core vibe he threw off like pheromones an
d . . .
holy crap. No doubt about it. Mr. Sexy didn’t belong in an expensive hotel room with a desperate temporary call girl. He belonged at the center of attention. Surrounded by willing women who’d give both eyeteeth—maybe an arm and a leg too—for a chance to sleep with him. For free. Scrap the three thousand dollar price tag and—

Ah, frig. That cinched it. Something about him was all wrong.

The thought collapsed into another. Mental dominoes fell, raising serious red flags. Evelyn frowned. What the heck was going on? Was Mr. Sexy on the up-and-up? Had Trixie really sent him? Or was his arrival rooted in something more sinister—like the Russian mob and a man named Markov. A shiver rolled down her spine. Goose bumps followed, making her skin prickle and her instincts buzz. Oh, no. Not good. The power play had Markov written all over it. The psycho liked games and making other people squirm. Which meant he was more than capable of letting her go in the parking lot only to send another man after her inside the Luxmore. With one purpose in min
d . . .

To catch her off guard. To get her alone. And teach her a lesson.

Lacing her fingers, Evelyn pressed her damp palms together and forced herself to think. All right. No sense letting panic out of the bag. Not yet anyway. She didn’t know what she was dealing with and until she did—well, calm and collected would get her further than freaked out and fearful. Smoothing her expression, she squared her shoulders. A game plan and something to hide behind. She needed bot
h . . .
this instant. Maybe a weapon too. The ashtray sitting on the antique desk to her left, perhaps. The lamp to her right on the side table. The sharp tip of her stilettos. Anything would do, just as long as it slowed him down when he decided to come after her.

Stepping away from the window, Evelyn slid behind a couple of boxy club chairs. Her foot bumped the side table sitting between the deep-seated duo. The free-standing lamp swayed. The light shade wobbled like a bobble-head, casting odd shadows over light-green upholstery, and—

Mr. Sexy stepped away from the door and into the room.

Evelyn flinched.

“Relax,
mazleiha
.” His deep voice rolled, bridging the distance between them, calming her with surprising swiftness. Strange, bu
t . . .
he sounded just right. His slight accent—eastern European maybe—along with his gentle tone tugged at her tension, urging her to do as he asked and relax. Not that she would. Sex might be part of the deal. Trust, however, was not. “Trixie sent me.”

The knots in her stomach loosened a little. “Prove it.”

“The keycard not enough for you?”

“No.”

He grinned, the approval in his eyes unmistakable. “Good for you, love. Never take anything at face value.”

Unimpressed by his praise, she gave him a pointed look.

“Green eyes. Brown hair. She’s dressed to the nines in Chanel and Gucci tonight. More interested in her iPhone than the crowd. She asked me to be patient with you,” he murmured, his gaze wandering over her. The slow, heated perusal made her skin prickle an
d . . .
oh Nelly. Call her cooked and then call it a night. Mr. Sexy knew what he was doing. A master of the game, he stripped her with a look, leaving her defenseless as he undressed her with his eyes. He growled, the low purr full of promise. Evelyn tensed, finding pleasure in the soft sound against her will. “Good enough?”

“Good enough,” she said, repeating his words. Unable to find her own.

With a flick, he tossed the keycard on the dresser across from the king-size bed. As it slid to a stop beneath the flat screen TV, he reached inside his jacket pocket. He fished for a moment. Her heart slammed into her breastbone. Panic thumped on her, urging her to run. And yet, she couldn’t move, never mind look away. Like a spectator at a train crash, she bore witness to her doom—the reality of the horrific situation transfixing her as she watched him pull a roll of cash from behind his leather lapel. He tipped the bundle in his hand, letting her look before setting the money down beside the keycard.