Tempt Me (25 page)

“They'll schedule one for me.” Wyland's voice sounded hard enough to chip rocks.

He was probably right. Underworld Council member? Check. Vampire Second? Check. Licensed physician with full practicing privileges? Check. Whoever picked up the phone when he called Memorial would trip over themselves to do his bidding.

Crap.

With an exasperated sigh, she plucked her mini out of her purse, tapping it to retrieve her work calendar. Meetings, meetings, meetings, all week long. She’d hardly have time to pee, much less take a trip to the hospital for a medical procedure. Over in the driver’s seat, Rafe patiently waited—or maybe not so patiently. His long fingers tapped the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

No clay in his fingernails tonight. They were going out on a real date—an actual date, at Underbelly. Rafe was dressed to kill, wearing a pair of perfectly draped pants and a bronze oxford shirt that should have looked ordinary but didn’t. Despite the heat burning in his eyes when she’d walked out of the bathroom wearing a pair of Sasha’s leather pants and a duo of silk camisoles, she felt like road kill in comparison.

“I'm waiting.”

She jerked her gaze back to the mini. “I'm looking, damn it.” At her side, Rafe's eyebrow climbed.

She scanned her calendar, honing in on the early morning hours, before her workday officially started—not that she hadn't been on call 24/7 for months now. She gazed at Rafe’s long, lanky form, folded behind the wheel. An evening appointment was absolutely, positively out. “Tuesday morning, 6:30 a.m. Take it or leave it.”

“Taking it.”

Damn it.

“I'll e-mail you the prep instructions. Nothing by mouth after—”

Rafe plucked the phone from her hand and brought it to his ear. “Goodbye, Wyland.” Hanging up, he set the phone on the dash.

Her jaw dropped. “You... hung up on him.” Rafe had hung up on the Vampire Second.

“He can monopolize your time on Monday. Tonight...” He reached over and caressed her tender inner wrist. “Your time...” He brought the wrist to his lips. “Is mine.” After a quick, teasing nibble, he returned her hand to her lap and got out of the Jeep. Once at the passenger side door, he helped her from the seat, much as he had the night they'd gone to Chadden’s restaurant. Tonight, she wore flat black boots rather than heels, and there were no snow banks for her to slip on, but she enjoyed the sensation of Rafe's hand at the small of her back nonetheless.

“I can hear the music already,” she said as they navigated the busy underground parking ramp. The concrete under their feet practically vibrated. As they entered the vestibule where the elevator and stairs were located, they passed posters of Underbelly’s coming attractions. The club featured an eclectic mix of acts in all musical genres—both live bands and DJs—and was a favored venue for unannounced secret shows. Foo Fighters had test-driven some new material here just last month. Unfortunately, she'd missed the show because of a long-scheduled network upgrade.

“I think Sasha’s in the booth tonight,” Rafe said.

“Is that good news or bad news?”

“Depends on what she plays.” Dropping a soft, clinging kiss onto her unsuspecting lips, he waited until the vestibule emptied before escorting her into the private elevator that would allow them to enter the club between the kitchen and the back bar, bypassing the line out front.

“Hey.” Flynn, the club's night manager and mixologist extraordinaire, greeted them as they approached, but didn’t lose focus as he draped what looked like a curl of grapefruit peel on the rim of a tall, sugar-rimmed glass. A trio of regulars sat at the bar. Two of the women avidly watched Flynn, but the third had eyes only for Rafe—or rather, Rafe’s hand, and how it rested lightly on her hip.

If looks could kill.

“Rafe,” the woman said—just his name, but her tight expression and flaring nostrils said everything else. Succubus, and definitely pissed.

“Shane.” Rafe smiled politely, but his hand tensed.

The low-grade churning in her stomach kicked up a notch. Obviously he and the beautiful redhead had some history.

“I haven't seen you here in a while.” The woman took a sip of smoke-colored liquor from her lowball glass.

Rafe’s hand slipped down to her hip. “I've been busy.”

“Work, I imagine,” the succubus said, glancing at her dismissively. “When will you be sending the invitations to your gallery show?”

She’d received hers weeks ago.

“I'll ask Brooke to make sure you get one.”

The woman's eyebrows beetled together. Incubi and succubi were pros at subtext, and the exquisitely made-up Shane clearly did not like what she was hearing.

“Where's Jack tonight?” asked the short, curvy brunette sitting next to Shane. “He owes me a dance.”

Rafe glanced at Bailey. She shrugged in response. She used to know what Jack was doing on Saturday nights, and with whom.

Flynn set two Greyhounds in front of the women with a flourish. Wiping his hands on a snowy white towel, he stepped out from behind the bar and wrapped her in a hug. “Hi there, sweet stuff. Long time no see.”

She hugged him back, giggling when Flynn pretended to nibble on her neck. “I've been busy.”

Rafe stiffened. “Careful with those fangs.”

His scent strengthened, intensified, wrapping around her like a cashmere shawl. He didn’t sound like he was joking.

Flynn lifted his head, released her, and took an obsequious step back.

“Do you know where Sasha is?” Rafe scanned the room. “We should probably say hi to her while there's a break in the action.”

The music had stopped? She hadn’t even noticed. Pheromones drifted through the air like sweet chloroform. She’d taken a pill before they left Rafe’s place, but...

Flynn activated outgoing audio on his headset. “Sasha? Rafe and Bailey are at the back bar.” A pause while he listened to her response. “Okay.” He flicked it off again. “She'll be right here. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

Rafe glanced at her inquiringly.

“Malibu and pineapple juice, please. Very light on the Malibu.” She didn't know whether her stomach would appreciate the libation, or reject it—violently.

“Rafe?”

“How about a Guinness.”

“One Malibu pineapple and one Guinness, coming up.” As Flynn turned to make their drinks, Rafe drew her away slightly, wrapping his arms around her. “Don't mind Shane,” he said quietly. “She's—”

“A former lover?”

A very interesting shade of red started creeping up Rafe’s neck. He inhaled, relaxing slightly when he realized that she wasn't pissed off. How could she be? Two beautiful sex demons, having sex. It was as logical as IF-THEN-ELSE.

“We... enjoyed each other’s company for a short time, a long time ago,” he said. “It wasn’t serious.”

Bailey looked at the other woman. “I think she begs to differ.”

“Not my problem.” He laid his forehead against hers. His loose hair stroked over her bare shoulders, and she couldn't control a reflexive shiver.

“Has he ever fed from you?”

“What?”

Rafe jerked his head towards the bar. “Flynn. Has he ever fed from you?”

She burst out laughing. “No. What makes you ask?”

His hands, looped around her waist, drifted several inches lower. His long fingers flexed into the leather. “You looked really comfortable for a woman who had vampire fangs so close to her jugular.”

“His fangs were nowhere in the vicinity,” she scoffed. A wild thrill jolted her. “Are you jealous?”

“Yes,” he rumbled, so softly she could barely hear him. “Jealous of any man who touches you.”

Sound collapsed on itself. Laughter and conversation hushed, and the clink of glasses and bottles receded into silence. But she heard their rough breathing, and the rasp of his fingertips against her sensitive scalp as he tipped her head up, and lowered his lips to—

Rafe’s body suddenly jerked. “Damn it.” He whirled around to where Sasha stood behind him, grinning. He rubbed his right butt cheek. “When will you outgrow the pinching?”

“Bailey can kiss it better,” she responded wryly. “I’ve been standing here for almost a minute, but you were so busy playing caveman that you didn't notice.” Sasha’s thigh-skimming trapeze dress, worn with black shadow-striped tights and platform Doc Martens, barely covered the essentials. “Those pants fit you really well,” she said, giving her an approving glance. “I thought they might.”

“Thanks for the loan.” The butter-soft leather felt wonderful against her skin, and rubbed just the right way against the lacy La Perla thong she wore underneath. Over the last few days, her underwear collection had near-doubled in size, the new lingerie more silky, slinky, and decadent than she'd ever buy for herself. When she’d asked Rafe for an explanation, he’d blamed it on underpants gnomes.

The gnomes had exquisite taste.

“Are you here to dance?” Sasha asked them. “What are you in the mood for?”

“You know,” she said with a vague wave of her hand. “The kind of music you usually play here on a Saturday night.” Slow. Melodic. Throbbing. The kind of music that caused people to pair up, to cling together, to drift into the shadows along the edge of the dance floor for something more than dancing.

Sasha grinned. “Got it.”

And she did. The music Sasha played over the next hour was everything she’d asked for. Moving her feet was completely unnecessary; a sway was movement enough. Rafe's chest was warm, the fabric of his cotton shirt not quite as crisp as it had been when they entered. They were plastered together from chest to hip, Rafe anchoring her to his body with one hand against her back, and the other draped on the northern slope of her ass. Under the soft drape of his pants, he was more than half-erect.

She inhaled deeply, dreamily. It wouldn't take much effort at all to bring him to full, raging hardness. One, maybe two, strokes of her hand. Or her mouth. She glanced past Flynn's bar to the Employees Only door. Right back there. Or maybe the private elevator...”Whoa.” She wove on her feet. The room was cloudy with pheromones—Rafe’s, and everyone else’s. “I need to take a bio break.”

She needed to take another pill.

Holding her hand, Rafe led her off the dance floor and back to Flynn, who’d tucked her purse under the bar for safekeeping. She left the men talking and made her way to the ladies’ lounge, the music hushing as the door closed behind her. The opulent oasis, painted a deep, plummy purple, made her think of pitted fruits and harem tents. Over at the makeup mirror, a woman blotted freshly-applied lipstick. Shane’s friends sat, chatting, on one of the pomegranate red settees. Nodding to them, she entered one of the small private stalls, each individually and lavishly decorated and with a heavy door that went all the way down to the floor. Closing the door and locking it behind her, she sat on the tiny upholstered stool and rooted around in her purse. Finally locating her pillbox, she plucked out two half-tablets, popped them under her tongue, and waited, cursing at the fiery sting in her stomach.

Yeah, she probably had an ulcer.

No doubt the prep for Wyland’s procedure would involve dietary restrictions of some type...nothing by mouth after midnight or some such thing. How would she pull that off with Rafe around? He seemed to have appointed himself her personal dietitian, making sure she ate healthy meals for dinner and didn’t leave the house in the morning without eating breakfast first.

Grimacing as the pills slowly dissolved, she dragged lightly-scented air into her lungs, waiting for the mental clouds to disappear.

The pill sure was taking its own sweet time. She looked down at the hot pink pillbox, still open in her hand. After a slight hesitation, she reached for another sliver of pill, slipping it under her tongue before the others completely dissolved.

And she waited, rubbing the sore spot just below her sternum.

“Hey.” There was a soft knock. “You okay in there?”

She’d fallen in love with a sex demon, and someone was chipping away at the inside of her stomach with a goddamn ice pick. She was just peachy. “Yeah, thanks.” Giving her stomach one final, comforting scrub with her knuckles, she opened the door. The inevitable ladies’ room waiting line had formed, and a woman with a face full of piercings brushed past her to get in the stall. Shane’s friends were still there, chattering away.

How long had she been sitting in the stall? She’d better get back to Rafe.

Tugging on the door, she was smacked by a wall of fast-paced, raucous sound. Death metal? Celtic thrash? Sasha was the expert, but...damn. During the time she’d been in the bathroom, Underbelly’s vibe had undergone a radical transformation. The atmosphere felt slimy and vile. A mosh pit had formed, and dozens of muscle-bound men careened off each other in a testosterone-fuelled scrum.

Up in the DJ booth, Sasha, holding her headset so it covered one ear, glared down at the dance floor, where her brother danced with Shane—if you could call their near lack of movement dancing. The lithe succubus twined around Rafe’s body like a stubborn Kudzu vine.

He saw her, and his guilty expression was a sucker-punch. She about-faced, stalking back to the lounge, her boot heels rapping angrily against the floor.

“Bailey!” she heard him call from behind her. “Wait!”

Ignoring him, she shoved the door open with her shoulder. “Whoa, Speed Racer,” Shane’s brunette friend said, quickly stepping back.

“Sorry,” Bailey muttered, chancing a quick look back.

Rafe was right behind her, his broad shoulders filling the gap left by the open door. “Ladies,” he greeted the room as he entered, not looking at them.

His eyes were locked on hers—concerned, and very pissed off.

Her simmering anger threatened to boil over. What right did
he
have to be pissed off?

“Hey, Rafe,” someone at the makeup mirror sang out.

Bailey rolled her eyes. It figured that no one was the least bit surprised to find Rafe Sebastiani in Underbelly’s ladies’ lounge. Hell, he probably had a favorite stall for his assignations.

“Can we have a moment?” he asked the women.

The brunette shook her head, murmuring, “Shane strikes again.” Shooting Bailey an apologetic glance, she touched Rafe's forearm as she left.