Tall, Dark and Divine (5 page)

Annie had to clear her throat twice before Harry looked up. And then he appeared blank, as if he had no idea who she was or what she wanted.

Smile
.

She could almost hear Eros’s voice. The grimace she came up with didn’t have much in common with the smile he’d complimented earlier, but it was the best she could do. “Hi.”

Harry blinked. No return smile, no return greeting. Just a blink.

“You’re Harry, right?”

She waited for him to respond or at least nod, but when several seconds passed and he didn’t, she added, a little desperately, “I’m Annie. From the dog bakery on Steinway Street?”

His face cleared. “Yeah. Sure.”

Thank you
.

“I haven’t seen you lately. I hope everything is okay with…” Gah, what was the name of the schnauzer? “Fiona?”

“Fiona’s fine,” Harry said, and glanced over his shoulder at Brita. His gaze seemed to get stuck there, almost as if she were some sort of ocular flypaper, and Annie had to clear her throat to get his attention back on her.

“You should bring her by sometime. I’d love to meet her.”

“Who?” Harry said.

“Fiona. Your schnauzer.”

“You wanna meet Fiona?”

“Sure. I love dogs.” She smiled. Brightly.

“You do?” Harry said.

“I make the dog biscuits, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” He looked over his shoulder again.

“I’d be happy to walk her sometime, if you needed it.”

“What?” Harry said, without taking his gaze off Brita.

“Fiona. If you ever needed help with her.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

“So you’ll bring her over to the dog bakery sometime? And let me meet her?”

“Who?” Harry said.

“Fiona. Your schnauzer.”

“What about Fiona?”

He was either slow-witted or the sight of Brita actually blew every coherent thought out of his head. Annie decided she might as well eschew subtlety, since it was wasted on him anyway. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to take Fiona to the dog park sometime.”

“I take her to the dog park all the time,” Harry said.

“I thought maybe we could take her there together.”

“Together?”

Annie nodded.

“You and me?”

“If you’d like.”

“No,” Harry said, “I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, without sounding like he meant it, “but you’re not really my type, you know?”

“I’m not?” She wasn’t Brita, certainly, but then again, Eros had said Harry didn’t stand a chance with Brita. Brita wanted Dion, and Harry, though reasonably handsome, certainly couldn’t compare to the bartender’s rock ‘em, sock ‘em sex appeal.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I mean, you seem nice enough, and you’ve got a pretty face and all, and I think Fiona would like you, but personally I like my women a little less meaty, you know what I mean?”

Meaty?

It was hard to get the words out around the ball of anger rising in her throat, but she managed. “Did you just call me fat?”

He mumbled something unintelligible and turned back to the Brita show. For a moment, Annie contemplated seeing whether it was actually possible to stab someone to death with a stiletto heel, but then she thought better of it. The hassle would be incredible. The blood and the police. Dion would probably ban her from ever coming back to the bar, and that was if she managed to stay out of jail. It felt like justifiable homicide, but chances were the police wouldn’t see it that way. And what would be the point? Harry couldn’t help it that he didn’t find her attractive. He didn’t have to be mean about it, but it wasn’t his fault she didn’t look like Brita.

He’d already stopped looking at her—at least he hadn’t been deliberately cruel; he wasn’t watching her maliciously to see if his jabs made her bleed—and was back to staring, googly eyed, at Brita. Annie took a breath and, before the tears gathering in her eyes could overflow and roll down her cheeks, turned on her heel and stalked toward the door to the outside, the only thing on her mind getting away from Harry before anyone realized what was going on.

…

“That didn’t look good,” Dion said.

Eros shook his head. Dion had had a better view of the proceedings than he had; Dion had actually been looking right at Harry and Annie while Eros watched in the bar mirror. But the outcome of the conversation had been hard to miss. She’d done her best; he’d give her that. She’d chattered. She’d smiled. She’d persisted, even while Harry had had a hard time keeping his eyes off Brita. But whatever he’d said to her that last time had obviously been too much. Eros had watched her spine stiffen, the way she’d done when he’d been too quick to reject her earlier, and it had taken everything in him not to stalk across the floor and grab Harry Mitchell by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.

“She’s gonna need a shoulder to cry on,” Dion said, looking around. “I’ll find someone to cover for me, and—”

“Over my dead body.”

“You’re immortal.”

So? That didn’t mean he couldn’t be killed. “I don’t want you anywhere near her. The last thing she needs is you sweeping her off her feet tonight and forgetting her name by morning.”

Eros stood and reached for his jacket. “This is my fault. I told her to go talk to that asshole.”

“Way to go,” Dion said. “And you call yourself the god of love?”

No, he didn’t. Other people did. “I’ll be back.”

“No, you won’t. Not tonight, anyway.”

Maybe not. It was getting late, and he didn’t know where Annie lived. “Make sure my girls get home safe.”

“Your girls are immortal goddesses,” Dion said. “They’ll be fine. Brita can take care of herself, and I pity any man who tries to make time with Ari.” His voice was light, but the undertone was a lot darker than Eros was used to hearing from that quarter.

“You know,” he told his old friend, “one day we’re gonna have to talk about that.”

“Over my dead body.”

“You’re immortal, too.”

“Whatever,” Dion said. “While you’re standing here sticking your nose into things that aren’t any of your business, that sweet little thing is outside, crying her eyes out. If you’re not gonna go console her, I will.”

“I’m going.” And not to console her. At least not the way Dion had in mind. But he could make sure she got to where she was going safely, and that she didn’t catch a cold. And he could listen to her and let her rip into him for suggesting she should offer herself to Harry in the first place. She probably needed someone to scream at, and a bit of flagellation was just what he needed. He’d been an idiot.

He lifted her coat and bag from the back of the stool she’d been sitting on and turned to the door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Dion threw after him.

Eros tossed the god of debauchery a jaundiced look over his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Just remember I warned you,” Dion said.

Yeah, yeah. Eros shot a last glare at Harry Mitchell, who seemed to have no idea he’d offended anyone. His attention was still fully on Brita, his mouth open and his eyes glazed. Eros imagined sinking his fist into Harry’s face and watching the blood spurt, and then he shook the vision off and headed toward the door. First things first.

Chapter Seven

He hit the door hard enough to almost get caught on the backswing, fully expecting to see Annie right outside on the street. But when he looked left and right, she was nowhere to be found. The sidewalk was deserted, except for a couple young men in hooded sweatshirts walking away from him. They weren’t carrying a screaming woman, so clearly Annie wasn’t with them.

He raised his voice. “Annie?”

How had she managed to flag a cab so quickly?

He should be grateful if she had, he supposed, since she’d be warm and dry and safe and on her way home. But she’d need her wallet to pay the cabbie and her keys to get into her apartment, and he had both in his hand, inside her purse. Or so he assumed. There hadn’t been anywhere in that dress to hide a wallet and a set of keys.

“Annie?”

And he couldn’t quite imagine her running fast enough to get out of sight this quickly. Not in those shoes. They’d looked fantastic, but they must be hell on the feet. And she’d already been a bit unsteady. No way had she managed to make it far enough away that he couldn’t see her.

“Annie!”

Nothing. But mixed with the soft fall of the rain and the wet hiss of the cars going by a half block away on Broadway, he could hear a rhythmic thumping from the alley.

The torrential rain from this afternoon had stopped, but the air was still misty, the drops soft and so light that they shimmered. In the dark, with the streetlamps reflecting off the tiny droplets decorating her short brown hair, Annie looked like an angel. She was standing in front of a tower of empty cardboard boxes with liquor logos on the sides—the remains of Dion’s inventory—and she was rhythmically and savagely kicking the crap out of one of them. He wasn’t sure whether the moisture on her face was tears or rain or maybe perspiration, or some combination of all three, but either way, his heart twisted. “Annie?”

She didn’t answer, just stopped what she was doing. For a moment she stood there, head bowed and hands fisted, and then she turned to face him. And yes, they were tears. Her eyes were brimming over. As he watched, they overflowed and two fat teardrops slid down her cheeks. “Bastard,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He thought about putting his arms around her—she looked like she could use the comfort—but he was afraid she might maim him if he got too close. She didn’t just look lost and hurt, she looked beyond pissed, too.

“Not you. Him.” She glanced at the bar, and from the heat of her glare, he was honestly surprised the brick wall didn’t turn into rubble.

Good. At least it wasn’t him she was angry with. “We can go back inside and I can hit him, if you want,” he offered.

“Not tonight. I’ll spit in his coffee next time he comes into the bakery instead.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she only now realized how cold it was. “Right now I just want to go home.”

“I’ll walk you there. I brought your things.” He took a step closer to wrap the coat around her and helped her get her arms through the sleeves. When she didn’t reach for the bag, he draped the strap awkwardly across her shoulder. “Where do you live?”

She rattled off the address. At least she was sober enough to remember where she needed to go. Good. And it was only a half dozen blocks. The walk would do her good and the chilly rain would clear her head. He put a hand under her elbow and tugged. “Let’s go.”

She went, teetering along next to him through the rain, swaying, her crazy heels clicking on the wet pavement and the water droplets collecting on her shoulders and hair.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said after a block. “I can make it home on my own.”

“It seems the least I can do. I was the one who told you to go talk to him.”

She nodded, so obviously she thought Eros owed her, as well.

“I take it it didn’t go well?”

She snorted. Or maybe it was a sniff. Hard to tell. But it sounded more like a snort. “Some matchmaker you are.”

Definitely a snort. And directed at him, not Harry. “What happened?”

“I told you,” Annie said. “He isn’t interested in me. He called me…” She swallowed noisily. “Meaty.”

Meaty?

Eros stared at her. “Are you sure he didn’t say pretty?”

Annie sniffed again. This time it was undoubtedly a sniff. “He said meaty. That he likes his women—can you believe that, he actually said ‘his women,’ like he has so many of them?—a little less meaty. He thinks I’m fat.”

“You’re not fat,” Eros said.

“Sure I am. Harry said so.”

“Harry’s an idiot.”

She slanted a look at him. “You’re the one who told me to go talk to him.”

“I’m an idiot, too.” And if Harry had been standing in front of him at that moment, Eros would have yanked the mortal’s tongue out of his mouth until it was long enough to wrap around his neck, and then he would have strangled him with it. “You’re not fat. Or meaty. You’re—”

“Chubby.” She pulled the sides of the coat apart and squinted down at herself. “I probably look like a sausage in this dress.”

Eros dragged his eyes away from the fabric dipping low over her breasts. “You look great. And you’re not chubby. You’re—”

“Overweight,” Annie said. “Obese.”

“You’re not obese!” Gods. “You look exactly the way you’re supposed to look. Like a woman. A beautiful woman.”

“If I looked like Brita,” Annie said stubbornly, “Harry would like me.”

No doubt. However— “Harry doesn’t know Brita. If he did, he might not like her anymore.”

Not that the Cretan goddess of hunting was unlikeable. She wasn’t. But there was a lot more to her than the T&A Harry noticed, and he might not find all parts of her equally fascinating. Including her crush on Dion.

“I don’t think he’d care,” Annie said. “As long as she looks like she does, he wouldn’t care what her personality was. He’s a man.”

She had a point. Harry was definitely the lowest common denominator of human. However—

“Not all men are like that. Some think personality is more important than looks.”

She glanced at him, and he added, quickly, “Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you look. Or your personality. Or anything about you.”

And not that he had any room to talk. He’d fallen in love with Psyche because of her looks. If he’d taken the time to get to know her, maybe he’d have realized she’d get sick of him and leave.

Or maybe he hadn’t had a choice, he reminded himself. It was those damned arrows’ fault. If he hadn’t accidentally pricked himself in the middle of going about his business, he might not have fallen for her at all.

“We’ll find you someone else,” he told Annie.

“I don’t want anyone else,” she answered, with the obstinacy of a drunk. “I want Harry.”

“You didn’t want Harry earlier.”

She stuck out her bottom lip. “Now I do. I want him to look at me the way he looks at Brita.”