Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2) (44 page)

Midnight lay over the city like a velvet blanket. The moon waned and only streetlights punctuated the darkness; not even stars could punch through the dense coverlet this evening. JJ parked her dark green Maserati close to the building. The car was a classic stick shift, and her pride and joy. She checked it was locked—twice—before leaving her baby.

Her pumps made the
click-clack
of knitting needles as she strode the chipped pavement towards the nightclub. A two-story building of squat, ugly cinder block had the name,
The Quarry,
carved on the side in three-foot-high letters. Snatches of sound came and went as the front door opened and closed. It attested to the impressive sound proofing utilized, far beyond the standard city building code, but made the club resemble a dodgy car stereo, drifting off the station.

A grotesque gargoyle adorned each corner of the building. Short wings furled tight against their bodies, massive stone biceps jutted into forearms with claws curled around the edge of the roof as they clung in place. They were a curious medieval touch to the industrial architecture and reminded her of the ones adorning her apartment block.

Wonder if they’re related?

The bouncer looked her up and down and emitted a low whistle. She paused, thinking she should return the favor. He was carved from obsidian and covered in silk. Tall and broad, he conjured up images of Turkish guards protecting a harem and sultry nights given over to pleasure. He pulled the door open and beckoned her to enter.

Heat and noise assaulted JJ as soon as she stepped over the threshold. Gilded cages containing nubile women and men clad in only their underwear hung from the ceiling. They gyrated to the deep throb of the music, the rhythmic movements copied by those crushed on the dance floor.

Bodies parted, her no nonsense attitude enveloping her in an invisible bubble. Men, and some women, lingered over her form as she cut toward the bar, but none dared touch her.

No one stopped the diva on a mission.

Jacob didn’t need the heads up from the eyes on the roof to tell him she’d arrived, or the low whistle from Styx over the earpiece. As soon as she stepped across the threshold, his senses started a riot and his dick became a gundog on point.

Starting with the black Louboutins, his gaze travelled north to shapely ankles, encased in the sheerest black silk stockings with a seam. He followed the black line up the back of slender calves until it disappeared under the hem of a black and white hounds tooth pencil skirt.

Thighs moved and hips wiggled with each stride, constrained by the tight fabric. The high waist of the skirt rose into a fitted cream cotton blouse with cap sleeves. The Nehru collar of the shirt framed an elegant neck, which disappeared under long chocolate tresses pulled into a tight and immaculate French roll. Her oval face was dominated by high cheekbones and eyes so blue they would either incinerate a man, or flay open his soul. Her mouth was a perfect red pout any movie starlet would have been proud to possess. His balls ached and he wanted to find out if her lipstick would leave a mark around his shaft.

The Watcher intelligence looked spot on. From behind the bar, he saw the way she assessed the people around her, unconsciously weighing what others called an aura, and skirting those tainted by a dark touch. He would lay money on Jema Johnson being a Natural, one of the few humans in touch with the resonance, the frequency emitted by every single living thing on the planet. How she slipped under their radar for so many years, he didn’t know.

This one must be mentally tough to have kept a tight rein on the constant agony drilling through her brain. If they didn’t find them quick enough, most Naturals ended up institutionalized and heavily sedated, doctors unable to explain the agony shredding through their heads, or the hallucinations marring their vision.

Wardens and Naturals were designed to work together. Wardens protected their Naturals, ensuring the resonance didn’t tear apart their minds. Together, they dealt with the imbalances plaguing the planet. Naturals were identified young and brought into the clan. It served the dual purpose of protecting their minds from the constant noise and pain, and gave them time to grow accustomed to the rougher Wardens. They were gargoyles after all. Stone and granite ran through their veins, they weren’t soufflé making, bichon frise walkers.

In a thousand years, Jacob had never paired with a Natural.

The right one never appeared.

Until now.

The bar stretched along three quarters of one side of the thriving nightclub. A mirror hugged the wall behind, and the only adornment was a top shelf of multi-coloured liquor. Three women in tight, inconsequential clothing and one mammoth specimen of manhood manned a gleaming stainless steel worktop.

The man stood at least six foot four and looked like he ate concrete for roughage. Military short hair left a dark buzz over his skull, his face was chiseled and undeniably masculine with a strong jaw and broad lines. An intricate tattoo wrapped around his right bicep before disappearing under a black leather waistcoat, open to display a bare chest that would have taken a master sculptor months with a block of solid granite to craft. Each line etching his abdominals drew the eye to where they dipped and disappeared under the waistband of black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination. And JJ had a wicked imagination. She had to since her 24/7 work life left no room for actual interactions.

The bartender’s body promised a diverting night’s entertainment, if only she had the time, or inclination, for that sort of thing.

His slate eyes twinkled with amusement at JJ’s obvious assessment.

She leaned on the bar and beckoned him closer with an immaculate French tip. JJ sucked in a breath as he approached; either he was exceptionally pleased to take her drink order, or he was hiding a torch. “Whiskey, straight, one cube.”

He nodded and grabbed a glass from under the bar while her eyes roamed the crowd, seeking out Ariel, intent on her latest suicide mission. Darkened booths lined one wall and she soon spied a familiar neon pink cowboy boot sticking up in the air.

Dropping cash onto the bar, she picked up her drink and zoned in on the waving boot. Rounding the high padded side, she found Ariel lounging over one man’s lap, while two other bodybuilding types were crammed on the small u-shaped sofa. Ariel’s personality was as loud as her clothing—neon orange micro mini, green boob tube, and those pink cowboy boots. All wrapped up with a blonde bob framing her pixie face. She was as irresistible as a Hersey kiss and knew it.

JJ placed her glass on the small table, crossed her arms, and glared at the men. “Out.”

One syllable, one arched eyebrow, and they scrambled like their moms just caught them smoking in the bathroom. They threw Ariel apologetic looks as they melted back into the crowd.

She slid onto the black leather sofa and glared at her friend, who didn’t look anywhere near as drunk as she sounded on the phone. “You said this was a rescue mission.”

“It is. I’m rescuing you.” Ariel clinked her beer against JJ’s tumbler.

“I don’t need rescuing. I have a stack of work to tackle.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as the headache climbed up her spine and crept into her skull. There were too many people in the club, and one amongst them emitted a dark throb that stabbed into the recesses of her mind.

“You need a night of hot, anonymous sex to remove the stick from your arse.” Ariel accompanied her statement by deep throating her beer bottle, to a roar of approval from her admirers, watching from the dance floor.

“Don’t talk about Simon like that.” A sip of whiskey and liquid heat fought the interloper, and held the pain at bay. Just.

“Interesting you knew I referred to him. Honestly, JJ, he’s not a boyfriend. He treats you like an accessory. You’re just a fancy clutch purse to accentuate his outfit for the latest society function.”

JJ swirled the lone ice cube, clinking against the glass, before downing the rest of the whiskey. She hated it when Ariel was right. Simon wasn’t her boyfriend, he was a lead, and the embodiment of the old adage—
keep your friends close and your enemies closer
. Rot infested the heart of their city, and Simon stood close to it. She could tell by the dirty wash surrounding him. Not that she could ever tell Ariel, or anybody. She learned as a child not to ask about why people’s colors didn’t stay within the lines; the only way she could explain the smudge she saw around everybody.

Her personal mission brief encompassed more than standing up for the underdog. She vowed to bring down Douglas Matthews, the canker destroying her hometown.

The man who killed her father.

At times, her mission seemed insurmountable, and lonely. To compensate for the lack of sexual release in her life, she took out her frustration on hapless prosecutors, chewing them up and spitting out limbs like watermelon pips.

Ariel clicked her fingers in JJ’s face. “Seriously, girl, you’re stressed and not sleeping. You need a wicked screaming orgasm to relax you, works far better than popping a couple of lorazepam.”

She shook her head at Ariel, wishing the solution were so simple. “I have work to do. I assume you’re okay to find your own way home?”

JJ stepped away from the booth and collided with a hard chest, as the bartender materialized behind her. Heat coursed through her cotton shirt as mint, cool rain, and pure
male
scent wrapped around her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Deep inside, something gave a tug. For one second, she wasn’t the courtroom diva, the toughest defense lawyer in town; she was a woman hearing an ancient, sensual call.

“Please tell me those are stockings and not pantyhose.” His voice was whiskey over rocks, smooth but rough, and sent a shiver of heat down her rigid spine.

“I don’t do pantyhose.” JJ answered offhand, as she retrieved her handbag.

“Mercy.” A deep chuckle rumbled through the chest behind her.

He didn’t move, but she had long ago become inured to men who tried to use proximity to intimidate her. It took more than standing close to throw her off balance. She found it was men who had trouble controlling their bodies when close to her, not vice versa. Besides, the bodybuilder types were rarely intelligent. This one was probably as dense as the stone he was carved from, hence why he poured the drinks and collected dirty dishes.

He pressed himself closer, large hands resting on her hips. An even larger erection nudged against her wool-clad bottom. She had to admit it was firmer and bigger than what she was usually offered. For a moment she succumbed, and leaned against him. The instant her back touched his chest, the skull-pounding, pressure headache disappeared and ripples of pleasure skittered down her limbs. Her lips parted and she sighed at the rising desire.

Maybe Ariel was right; this feels better than any headache cure I’ve swallowed.
 

Perhaps the bartender was so big and thick, he blocked out the signals that usually bombarded her brain. Bathing in the luxury of sensation without the associated pain, she made an impulsive decision. Her gaze flicked to the door just along from the booth. She turned her head, so her cheek grazed his bare chest.

His hands tightened on her hips at the brush of contact.

“Anyone in your VIP room?”

“No.” He bit the word out between gritted teeth, as though he skated close to the edge of control.

His hands slid from her body as she headed for the private room. She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, if he was too dense to figure out she just threw him an easy invite, she didn’t want him touching her.

Womb-like comfort and seclusion greeted her on the other side of the heavy door. Flock wallpaper in lazy red and black swirls was complimented by black sofas piled high with deep red velvet cushions. The music was muted nearly all the way down, leaving the barest slick of noise to wash over the room. She slid her hand into a small compartment in her handbag, and palmed a foil wrapped disc. Then she dropped the bag on the floor, next to a glossy end table, as a soft
snick
signaled the door being locked behind her.