Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay)

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Jillian David.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8940-2

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8940-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8941-0

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8941-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/Piotr Stryjewski and Igor Zhuravlov

Thank you again to editor extraordinaire Gwen Hayes for helping take this book from its earliest stages to something so much better. Thanks also to Devin Govaere, Bev Rosenbaum, and Annie Seaton and her mystery editing associate for improving this manuscript. And special thanks to Julie Sturgeon, my editor at Crimson, who will return an email literally at any hour of the day. It’s still a mystery when she sleeps.

I appreciate my supportive hubby who is still gunning for a short, bald guy to grace the cover of one of my novels. Next novel, I keep telling him.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• About the author
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

Dante entered his seventh bookstore to case since he’d arrived in Portland, Oregon. Smoothing his Armani slacks, he folded himself into the worn reading chair at Cover to Cover Books and fingered the worn chintz fabric. He relaxed, taking in the clusters of scarred wooden chairs around oddly paired tables, several upright upholstered chairs like the one he occupied, and three threadbare loveseats. The smell of old books and wood polish lulled him into a state of nostalgia for quaint shops from his homeland, Sweden. The images almost distracted him from the mission. Almost.

Of course, he could have telephoned each store, but a strange man asking for Jessica Miller might have driven her to ground. That might not even be her name anymore. With what little he knew about her past, he wouldn’t blame her if she tried to disappear.

So he’d been patient and systematic as he performed this different kind of stalk, but a stalk well within his forte. He’d honed his tracking skills over centuries of hunting devious criminals; finding a woman trying to hide in plain sight would take only a fraction of his talent. And time? Who cared how long it took to find her? He had all the time in the world. He was an Indebted—cursed and long-lived. Weeks, months, or years meant nothing to him.

In response to curious glances from customers, he rotated his wrists in his lap to hide the shiny gold cufflinks. He needed to blend into the population, quite a task for such an impossibly sexy man like him, standing at over six and a half feet tall. He didn’t even have to be dressed to impress, come to think of it. Thankfully, modesty was one of his many exceptional traits.

Exceptional traits like killing?
Kristus
. He forced himself to relax his hand, lest he splinter the arm of the chair like he’d splintered the limbs and heads of criminals for centuries.

Thankfully, the citizens didn’t realize a murderer lounged among them in this genteel business establishment. An Indebted killer. Quite the title to go on a business card. Despite his expertise with his weapon of choice, that godforsaken foot-long knife, truth be told, he’d prefer to have a luscious
flicka
’s legs wrapped around him any day of the week. Thankfully, he was proficient at both activities.

Clenching his hands into fists, Dante fought the urge to stretch his fingers toward the handle. For 300 years, whenever he killed a vile criminal, he supplied the energy needed to feed his boss, Jerahmeel’s, soul. He’d have to find a criminal soon and satisfy the blade’s hunger, or innocent citizens would begin to attract the weapon’s attention.

A few sideways looks from customers of the female persuasion reminded him that he was, as usual, looking spectacular today. He flexed his shoulders, pleased when several sets of eyelashes batted. Not that he doubted his charm. A particularly luscious blonde and long-legged
flicka
had casually dropped her card off at his table at a restaurant yesterday. He licked his lips, anticipating a rendezvous this evening. Par for the fantastic course of his unnaturally long life.

Recently, though, his powers of attraction did not satisfy like before. What was missing? He patted his shirt pocket, reassured to feel a heavy bond paper still stored there.

Too bad the thought of a tryst didn’t hold his interest right now. Since when was he indifferent to sex? Since never. Maybe he had fallen ill?

Flipping through the Bedier translation of
Tristan and Iseult
, one of his favorites, Dante glanced around the store. Despite the modest street entrance, the comfortable bookstore sprawled into a labyrinth of stacks, which enticed him to wander and explore. They even used library ladders here, which added to the shop’s charm and reminded him of bookstores long gone. But that wasn’t why he sat here, near the hissing espresso machine as an aproned worker brewed another cup. It was all about his objective.

Jessica.

And then what?

He’d decide later. Improvisation was one of his strong suits. Well, improvisation, a massive physique, and sexual magnetism, of course.

When a customer entered, the breeze wafted a scent of early fall trees mixed with the coffee and musty books, lulling him into a rare state of calm. He would sit here for hours if necessary.

A diminutive woman appeared at the register and murmured in a low voice to a customer. How had he not seen this worker before? It was as if she’d materialized out of the bookshelves, with a dull, gray sweater that hung off her frame and allowed her to blend into the walls. She kept her movements understated, wary, like a mouse trying to remain undetected. It was this deliberate effort to disappear that caught his attention.

Dante sat up straight when she spoke. Something about her rich intonation that flowed like silk across his face, the smooth sound at odds with her bland appearance, sent a frisson of excitement into his chest. He glanced at her over the top of his book.

Her strawberry blonde hair brushed her shoulders, and freckles dotted a cute button nose. She ducked her head shyly at the customer and bit her lip. When she made eye contact to run the credit card, those soft lips tensed. But then she smiled at a comment from the customer, and her entire face lit up, transforming an average countenance into a radiant one. A jolt of longing froze Dante in place.
Where had that emotion come from?

Soulful chestnut eyes behind black frame glasses flitted toward the door. That warm gaze slid over him like she didn’t acknowledge his presence.

Vad i helvete?
What the hell? Since when did a woman not stare at him or resist his beauty? It must be because her glasses weren’t calibrated properly. No other explanation made sense.

When the door opened, she startled like a frightened deer and pulled the gray cardigan around her. He tensed, ready to dart over to her. How odd. In his hundreds of years on this Earth, he’d never experienced that strong of an urge to safeguard someone, especially not a woman he hadn’t even properly met.

What would she look like beneath that shapeless sweater? The alabaster skin of her neck was cruelly hidden from his view by the sweater’s modest neckline. Were her curves lush or subtle? Would her breasts fit easily in his hands or did she hide more bounty? Damn it, he couldn’t tell, and that limitation only made him grit his teeth in frustration.

Another customer, a middle-aged man, wandered between Dante and the cashier. No longer able to hide behind the book, Dante craned his neck to continue studying the woman.

Her delicate hands as she worked the register made him wonder how those hands would feel on him. Would they drift like silk against his hard lines and angles? Desire tightened his groin, and he shifted to relieve the unexpected pressure.

How could he be this interested in a woman without her reciprocation? Yet here he sat, responding like a randy schoolboy. Was this the woman he searched for? Or was he just on another of his
kvinna
hunts, led by his overactive libido?

If this twenty-something woman was Jessica, she stood in stark contrast to her stepfather. Raymond Jackson had been large boned and full of burly cruelty. Sharp rage speared Dante.
Ja
, if this were Jessica, she wouldn’t have stood a chance against that monster.

When she slipped out from behind the counter, Dante nearly missed the movement. He couldn’t resist following her thin frame, clad in a flowing pale pink skirt, as she floated down the aisles.

She sidled around customers, adroitly melting into the bookshelves to avoid contact. When she took several swift steps, her hips swayed unevenly and one foot scuffed against the hardwood floor.

As she stopped and cocked her head to the side, he dove into the next aisle and grabbed a book at random. Opening it, he flipped through the pages, pretending to study the content.

From a row over, her smooth voice rolled over him as she directed a customer. The soft rustle of her skirt brought back unbidden memories of homespun cloth and whispers of parishioners in his village’s Lutheran church. So strong was the memory that he smelled tallow candles and wood polish. He blinked.

As he heard her walk away, he inhaled the faint scent of coffee, flowers, and book pages.

When he stepped out of his aisle to follow her, she ran into his leg, squeaked, and stumbled. Dante wrapped his hand around her slim upper arm to keep her from falling. Her head didn’t even come to his shoulders, and he fought an overwhelming need to fold her into his arms.

When she tilted her head up, the color drained even more from her pale face, enhancing the delicate freckles over her nose. He devoured the view of her alabaster skin from her cheeks, over her jaw, and down her neck—until that damned sweater impeded his ability to explore further.

She tugged against him again, and when he let go, she darted away like a frightened rabbit, her hands fluttering as though she couldn’t decide where to place them.

“Can ... can I help you?” Her soft voice, laced with a hint of a quaver, couldn’t have shocked him more if she had yelled.

As her warm espresso gaze darted to him and away, her cheeks reddened beneath the freckles. There, that response was more like it. Now that he stood close enough for her to see him properly, she was clearly overwhelmed by his handsomeness, like every other woman.

“Just browsing the
stacks
,” he said.

He gave his suave words just enough innuendo and mentally patted himself on the back when the red flush crept down her creamy neck.
Fullstandig
. Perfect.

For someone more than 300 years of age, he still had the goods to impress the ladies.

“Did you find something interesting?” Her voice cracked as she indicated the book he held. She must be overcome with nerves, so great was her attraction to him.