Taking the Stage: Soulgirls, Book 2 (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Roseâtre said little as they crossed the parquet of the Arcana Royale’s lobby. Overhead, the statue of the Great Sphinx gazed dispassionately at the ebb and flow of normal and paranormal alike. The lobby was a crossroads, populated by arrivals, departures and those unlucky few who had nowhere else to go.

The fashion changed, the hairstyles adjusted and the shoes were always evolving, but the lobby appeared much as it had upon her arrival with Cerveau all those years ago. It was startling to realize she had no idea when she’d arrived. After Pandora, sure, but the exact year seemed to bleed into so many other memories that she couldn’t pinpoint it.

Winter. Of that, she was certain. They’d been on a quest, one Cerveau, the librarian, had been determined to complete and for which Roseâtre cheerfully volunteered. Cerveau’s hunger for knowledge was a constant source of amusement for Roseâtre. They enjoyed the debate, the hunt and the dig.

Unfortunately, the lust for knowledge led them in the front doors of this very casino, colliding with an obstacle that Roseâtre couldn’t simply slay. Beyond the front door lay an entire city, an ever-changing, ever-evolving city where humans thrived on vice. But inside the Royale…life stayed the same. Her heels clicked decisively against the tiles. Behind her, Anthony was a warm shield at her back.

Shield.

It was a strange term to apply to the descendent of a blood-sworn enemy, but it fit. Like the tiger he became, he prowled on silent feet, shadowing her steps. If she stopped too suddenly, she imagined he would brush right up against her back.

Tempting as the thought might be, she forced her legs to keep moving. Cool air brushed her legs and slid under his shirt to tease her overheated skin. The lack of clothing didn’t bother her, nor did the wolf whistles and the catcalls. She was used to being noticed and she managed her walk the way she managed her stage performances—as though they were merely battles to be overcome.

At the bank of elevators, she paused. She had no idea what floor Anthony was housed on or if he was even staying within the casino. She suspected he must be, but it didn’t matter. Unlike Cerveau and the other dancers, Roseâtre wouldn’t turn to dust at sunrise if she were outside. They didn’t hold her soul, only her body and her will.

But the consequences would be less than ideal.

A long, golden arm came around her to punch the up button, but instead of retreating, the hand firmed on her hip and drew her against him. The heat of his skin burned through the cotton of the shirt. The rasp of his jeans brushed against her bottom.

It would be so easy to lean back against him. But the spoils of war went to the victor.

She wasn’t ready to surrender yet. The dampness between her thighs decried this pledge, but she ignored it. The doors opened and she tugged free of the contact, but he was right behind her, crowding her into a corner and planting himself between her and the other guests who filtered on.

Roseâtre’s eyes skimmed over his bare back, the muscles taut and tense as though prepared for battle. Would he be smooth? Would the skin be hot? Would the muscles ripple as the cat’s had?

Would you get your mind out of the gutter?

Folding her arms, Roseâtre tucked her hands under her biceps. She focused her gaze on the pips of the elevator detailing their passage up to the eighth floor, then the ninth, pausing again on the twelfth and thirteenth, but even though many passengers exited, Anthony remained still, watchful.

Awareness flared along the back of her neck. Glancing to the left, she saw a man leaning against the wall, his dark eyes hot and openly staring. He smelled of limes, salt and the barest hint of tequila. Tipping her head to the side, she lifted her eyebrows.

In front of her, Anthony growled, a full-force, rumbling, chest-thumping, growl. She didn’t laugh. But she wanted to.

Because Mr. Lime and the Coconut paled and pressed back against the wall of the elevator as though he wanted to fall right through the steel carriage. When the elevator paused on twenty-one, the man bolted, leaving behind a waft of bad cologne to mingle with the tropical scents.

The doors hadn’t even closed when Roseâtre started laughing.

Alone finally, Anthony twisted to look at her. His dark scowl was completely undone by the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Enjoy that, did you?”

“I thought he was going to piss his pants.” The mirth bubbling in her chest flexed rusty muscles as she laughed. The sound barked through her, but rose in pitch as his lips twitched.

“He did. A little.”

“Poor man.” Still, her laughter doubled at Anthony’s derisive snort.

She had her amusement firmly in hand, other than the occasional snicker, when they arrived at the fortieth floor and the doors opened. She nearly swallowed her tongue as the call of a bird and the rich, loamy scent of earth swished into the elevator. Anthony stepped into the doorway, bracing his back against the sliding door so it couldn’t close as Roseâtre gaped.

How the hell did they get a jungle into the casino?

She exited slowly, heels sinking into damp soil. The sound of falling water echoed through the underbrush. Overhead, trees seemed to stretch higher than the visible canopy. The air was moist and rain drifted on the wind.

“Wow.” She stopped, her gaze skating over the impossible. Despite her initial jungle impression, it was more like a rainforest, with thick-bodied trees, exotic plants, birds flying overhead and in the distance, the echoing rumble of cats yowling a welcome.

“It smells weird because it’s magic, but it’ll do.” Anthony nudged her forward. Roseâtre turned in enough time to see the elevator doors wink closed behind the bark of the largest tree she’d ever seen.

“They did all this with magic?” Apprehension shivered over her skin. The thump of the doors left her alone, in a mystical forest, seemingly so far from the stage of the Midnight Mystery Lounge that she might as well be on the far side of the planet.

“When you’re as insanely wealthy as the Royale, I suppose you can create whatever playground you like.”

The brush rustled and a familiar white tail flickered into view before vanishing again. The cats were pacing closer to their location.

“And your cats stay here?”

“Yes, they do.”

Her stomach clenched. Did tigers climb? Weren’t they one of the few species that preferred the ground to the trees? Or was that lions?

A broad forehead pushed aside fat leaves to rub her silver-and-black head against Anthony’s leg. He dropped his hand to rub her ears. The female brushed past Anthony to stroke her furry head to Roseâtre’s bare thigh.

Her mouth went dry.

“Nalini likes you and she’s just saying hello.” Despite Anthony’s assurances, Roseâtre’s palms were damp when she tried to mimic his comforting stroke to the cat’s ears. The female seemed to like it though, butting her head back under her hand and demanding more attention.

“She’s the cat I’ve been practicing with all week.” They did look all the same, but Roseâtre noticed the numerous differences between Nalini and Anthony’s cat. “Are you all weres?”

“No.”

Unlike his normal droll response, the answer was short, clipped and warned against further inquiry. He snapped his fingers and Nalini
mrowled
a noise before bounding into the brush. The half-remembered warmth of her fur on Roseâtre’s hand the only mark of her presence.

“Let’s eat.” Anthony strolled toward the trees, following some path that must be visible only to cat eyes before pausing. “Oh, and lose the shoes so you don’t break that sexy little neck of yours.”

He continued up the path, leaving her to decide whether to follow or not. But she slid out of the shoes. She had no choice in that matter. It was an order.

Damn the key.

The ground was warm and soft under her feet. She padded after him, the tropical setting relaxing the wariness from her spine. The muscles in her legs were sore and tired. The constant rehearsal of a new routine took days for her body to acclimate. The repetitive leg lifts and the need to grip his tiger’s back once she mounted left her thighs quivering.

For more than one reason.

She waved the lusty thought aside. Anthony vanished ahead of her, hidden by the lush curtains of nature. The deeper they plowed, the farther away the casino seemed.

The trees gave way to a grotto housing a large pool of water, agitated by the waterfall spilling into it. Rocks, small and large, sprawled along the shore. Above, next to the falls, Nalini yowled a greeting, and she wasn’t alone. Three more tigers appeared around the pool, rumbling sounds of welcome and looks of curiosity on their faces. This was their land.

Roseâtre was the interloper.

Amidst the tropical paradise, a table-shaped rock sat a few feet from the water, with comfortable chairs surrounding it. Platters of food were set up, each covered by a dull brass lid, rather than silver.

“Oh.” The sound burst out of her and she wanted to slap herself upside the head. No wonder Anthony hated her silver stilettos. “You’re a were.”

He paused, a grin quirking the corner of his generous mouth. “You just figured that out?”

“Yes. I mean, no. The shoes. It’s why you don’t like most of my shoes. They have silver stilettos.”

Patient amusement creased the lines around his eyes. Anthony gestured to the table. “Hungry?”

Despite where his hand pointed and the humor in his eyes, he wasn’t just asking about food. Desire needled through her and Roseâtre sighed.

No more avoiding this elephant in the room.

Or tiger, it would seem.

“What do you want from me?” She stayed at the edge of the clearing, far enough away that even if she wanted to touch him, she’d have to move to do it.

“Is that a trick question?” He fell into one of the chairs, legs stretching out. His pose was a teasing mockery of indolence.

“You know who I am.”

“I do.”

“And I know what you are.”
Well, I do now and lickable abs or not, you’re so far off limits I’m surprised that I haven’t been struck by a bolt of lightning.

“You do.” His tone was deceptively mild.

And maddening.

He hitched an elbow on the back of the chair, the motion stretching the sinuous muscle across his golden chest. Her gaze dipped to his navel and back up.

Damn
.
Why does he have to be sex on a stick?

And when could she beat herself with it?

As if aware of the direction of her thoughts, Anthony just smiled and crooked his finger toward her. “Do you really want to know what I want?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to come over here. Sit and eat.”

Immediate compulsion rippled through her and she started walking before she could fully process it. She had enough presence of mind to take a different chair, even as she wondered what it would be like to sit on his lap.

The stone was like ice against her super-heated bare ass, but she embraced the cold. It brought clarity. Clarity that punched through the lazy atmosphere of sex and pleasure her cat exuded.

He’s not my cat
. But she ignored that churlish inner voice.

Anthony frowned, his gaze skating her over from head to toe.

“What?” She demanded when he said nothing. She’d done what he wanted.

He motioned to the first covered platter and Roseâtre opened it, obediently revealing a heavy selection of roast beef, ham, chicken and pork. Her stomach growled vociferously at the first sweet scent of meat.

She was starving. She spared a glance at Anthony, his firm gaze stabbing at her. His fingers tapped lightly against the stone table.

“Feed me.” It was a command.
Bastard.

She plucked a slice of warm roast beef from the platter and knelt into the gap dividing them. It was that or stretch over his lap. Her fingers stroked across his lips, but his gaze never left hers as he opened his mouth, accepting the bite and then sucking deliciously on her finger until he’d suckled the last bit of juice from it.

She waited until he was done before she reached for another bite. He’d told her to feed him and so she would. She had no choice in the matter, but it didn’t change how sensuous his lips felt on her skin or how the slightest tug of his teeth clenched her belly.

It
had
to not matter.

But her traitorous body didn’t give a damn what the slave bands told her she had to do. It
wanted
to do these things and clung to the excuse.

He brushed his lips against her knuckles as she waited, poised, an offering of chicken this time on her fingertips for his pleasure. His blue eyes widened in slow shock.

Roseâtre sighed.

He’d figured it out.

“Why did you surrender your free will, princess?”

Chapter Eight

Anthony would be lying if he said he didn’t love the image of Roseâtre on her knees, wearing only his blue shirt, coated in his scent and the musk of her own desire. Surprisingly, no matter how tempting a vision she made, face flushed from their exertions on the stage crowned by the swirl of midnight highlighted by that single lock of pure white, he wanted her kneeling because she wanted to be there, because she had no desire to be elsewhere.