Aphrodite's War (15 page)

He sat back on his heels, watching the perspiration beading on Freya’s
abdomen like tiny stars. A wicked smirk crept across his face with her
desperate panting.

The scent of her drove him mad: a combination of sweat, sex and
Reinroses. Like a rutting beast, he plunged his cock inside.
More.

His pulsing need ached. He collapsed on her torso, grinding against
her clitoris. His relentless, eager movements would make her orgasm
with him. He wouldn’t stop until she did.

He rutted with her for what seemed like hours, growling and biting
until Freya’s screams joined with his in ecstasy. Hephaestus sucked the
sweat off her collarbone as they climaxed together, sliding at last to a
joyous conclusion. He roared his release, snarling with his final thrusts
while fireworks erupted throughout his being.

The rush ended. Hephaestus could not move. He relished the
sensation of his spent cock spilling from Freya along with his seed. How
it would feel to have Poetry tremble beneath him like this?

Freya planted both palms on his chest and nudged him off. With
some effort he crawled off the bed and got wearily to his feet. He sensed
her delighted exhaustion, shared it.

He extended both his hands to assist her, careful to keep his head
respectfully bowed and eyes lowered. This magnificent woman he
accepted as his superior. He would not risk offending her, not when he’d
come this far.

He felt a flicker of respect from her before her delicate hands took his
calloused ones. He pulled her from the mess of sex-stained wolf and
rabbit hides.

Freya’s wet tongue darted across his cheek and Hephaestus raised his
head to draw her into a kiss. Her mouth still tasted fresh and sweet; he
drank her in like a dying man until she struggled for oxygen.

“I enjoyed your visit, Hephaestus,” she said, her gaze sleepy and
dazed. “Come to my hall anytime you wish.”

She crushed his knuckles and yanked him to her chest, the movement
so sudden that he stumbled. The eyes that had twinkled with pleasure
were now secretive slits.

“The magick will activate only when the piece is complete. When
they are worn for the first time, the wearer will yearn for the first person
she sees. Be certain it is you, or your quest is for naught.”

His eardrums popped and Hephaestus found himself alone in his
Edmonton condominium. He shivered from head to foot as his sweat
slicked skin chilled in the summer heat. He opened his clenched fists and
grinned. In pleasing her he’d received his prize. Two round beads of
amber, each the size of his thumbnail nested in his palms, dazzling in
their refinement.

Hephaestus peered through the balcony doors of his living room to the
setting sun. The sky matched the stones exactly. He limped to the
veranda and took in the view. To his left, the River Valley flowed with
streams of headlights along Groat Road. To his right, new apartment
towers clawed the sky.

He felt like a true god for the first time in decades. Invincible. His
heightened awareness presented him with the human vibe he once
shunned. Petty squabbles reached his ears, but their amplified outrage
and heartbreak failed to move him.

Though unlikely anyone saw his statuesque nudity, Hephaestus cared
not. Not if they could see him, nor how it might offend them. Modesty
and emotions were for mortals.

Never again would Hephaestus permit his feelings to get the better of
him. But inevitably, he felt rage sneaking into his soul. He’d long ago
disposed of his hurts in the face of Aphrodite’s and Ares’s duplicity. He
would never surrender to love again.

A breeze caressed him, bringing with it the odor of mutual
gratification that clung to his flesh.

He pushed his fury aside and grinned.
What a woman. Perhaps he would return to her hall someday.

But he must give Poetry the amber. Between Freya’s magick, his
limited abilities, and Poetry’s talent, Hephaestus would have what he
coveted. The human female would belong to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The best thing about living above Vulcan’s Forge, Poetry decided, had
to be the immediate access to the tools she required to create.
Her black roses lay unfinished in a heap, but they gave her the heebiejeebies now. She’d already moved onto something new.

She crouched over a wooden dowel, coiling wire through precise
loops two centimeters apart. She paused long enough to assure straight
lines by making marks with a pencil. She’d only been at it for two hours
but her hands cramped from the strain.

So far the pattern seemed tight enough, a testament to Poetry’s
patience. The links were forming a snake-like chain the width of her
finger.

She’d woken early and set to work before breakfast or showering.

Her stomach complained, but Poetry didn’t dare stop now. She might
lose her rhythm. Third loop, pull, turn the peg. Fourth loop, little tug,
shift again.

“What are you working on?”

Poetry gave a yip of surprise, spinning to face her mentor. How did a
man with such a pronounced limp manage to sneak up on people like
that? He’d told her it was from a long drop from the sky, but never gave
her details about the parachuting accident. Sometimes she wondered if it
was the truth. He was pretty stealthy for a guy with a crippled leg.

“You scared the crap out of me.” Poetry placed her project on the
counter with a trembling hand.
“Sorry,” Hugh said, not that he looked apologetic with his lazy grin.

Poetry rubbed her face, using the unexpected break to unwind
muscles she hadn’t realized were so tense. Her shoulders, back, and feet
began a throbbing chorus, and she did the hokey pokey to relieve it.

Hugh glimpsed over Poetry’s shoulder at the intricate metal weave
she’d been working on.

“Interesting,” he said. “What’s it going to be?”
“It’s a torque.”

Hugh grimaced, an expression Poetry knew to be disapproval or
irritation. “Since when do you create Viking art?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d try something else.”

Poetry glanced over her shoulder at the sleek ribbon of interlocking
wires. For someone who didn’t do this kind of metal work often, she’d
done a pretty good job, she thought.

“It’s a far cry from flowers,” Hugh said.
“An artist should strive to grow and experiment with new things.”

She caressed the ridges she’d so lovingly crafted and the sharp slopes
of Adrian’s face appeared in her mind.
Along with their odd agreement.

Hugh cleared his throat, and Poetry realized a conspiring smile had
crept up her face. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment and she dropped
her gaze.

Poetry zeroed in on Hugh’s meaty paw. “What do you have in your
hand?”
He brought his fist into the light and opened it.

Poetry caught her breath. Among the lines and cracks of Hugh’s palm
lay two exquisite orbs the color of tangerines. Inclusions bubbled within
them like champagne frozen in time.

“Are those real?”
“Sure are.” He pushed them toward her. Poetry could smell the warm
metal heat of iron on him. “Here. Take them.”
“What?”

“You heard me. Take them. I got them from a friend, and I figure the
person who could do the most with them is you. They’d make a great
pair of earrings, wouldn’t you say?”

Poetry plucked the stones from his hand, trying to contain her
excitement. Her reverent sigh betrayed her. “Stones this gorgeous,”
Poetry choked on her heart, “are so rare. They must have been expensive.
Are they Baltic?”

The breeze from Hugh’s chuckle tickled her ear and Poetry glanced
up to find him sharing her space as they leered over the gems like a pair
of pirates. The visual seemed so absurd she almost burst into a
Spongebob Squarepants sea shanty but Poetry squelched her laughter.
She didn’t want to come across as immature or ungrateful.

“I have connections in high places near Sweden,” Hugh said with a
wink. “Mutual back scratching, that kind of thing.”

The semi-precious spheres glittered, even under the harsh fluorescent
lights. They reminded Poetry of their ancient beauty and future potential.
An unwelcome thought occurred to her. “Why give them to me?” Was it
a gift or was she working on commission? Poetry caught his startled
expression before he could replace his mask of grim cynicism.

“No reason. You’ve had a hard time of it lately and I thought you
could use some cheering up.” He grasped one of the jewels between his
fingers and brought it next to Poetry’s head. “They’d make lovely
earrings.”

“You mentioned that. Not a bad idea.”
Suddenly, Hugh’s intimacy lost its appeal, and Poetry couldn’t explain
why. She took a subtle step away.
Hugh seemed to detect the change and also moved for greater
distance. His features never changed from their brooding stoicism.
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just make something great with them. Something for yourself.” He
pivoted on his good foot and hobbled away.

Alone once again, Poetry slumped. The strain in her muscles no
longer had anything to do with how hard she’d worked. Since when did
she react like that to Hugh? Shame warmed her cheeks. After all, they
were friends and he was just trying to help.

But the expression on his face suggested something she didn’t want to
think about. He didn’t expect me to ask that. He had to think up a lie.
Poetry pushed the thought from her mind. Hugh was like a father to her.
Why would he lie to her about anything? She gave her head a shake and
returned to her bench, rolling the amber around in her palm.

Her silver rope waited to be completed. She had a lot of work left to
do before she went to visit Adrian.

Poetry placed the round stones on the surface next to it, careful not to
let them spill to the floor. As she lifted the dowel, she noticed the
circumference and an idea struck her. Grasping one of the jewels, she
placed it on the end of the stick where the daisy anchor began.

A perfect fit.

Didn’t it make sense to use Scandinavian stones on Viking necklaces?
Nothing else would do. These glistening fossils would never become the
earrings Hugh hoped for, but once he saw how she’d used them, Poetry
knew he’d understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Adrian suppressed a grimace as Frank Fleisher used a toothpick to
flick gunk from his teeth to the charcoal carpet.

His client slouched in a chair with one knee crossed and an arm
draped along the back. The arrogant body language brought Adrian’s
hackles up.

Why had he taken the case again? Right. To further his career.

At first he’d been flattered when chosen for the high profile case.
Especially with him being one of the youngest at Bailey, Bailey &
Wallace. It was a credit to his knowledge of law and quick thinking. Or
so he thought.

But when he got to know the rancher from Grey, Adrian realized he
got the job solely based upon his appearance. Frank Fleisher had
probably hand picked him from a sea of Indian, African, and Asian faces.
In a quilt of diverse cultures, he had the whitest skin in the firm. Pure
Caucasian.

The idea left the rot of resentment in his mouth. Adrian believed
racism to be an idea for the uneducated, uninformed, and close-minded; a
refuge for those who flatly refuse to think for themselves in favor of
antiquated dogma.

“So you had no prior knowledge of the bombings?” Adrian’s head
hurt, but not from the previous night’s beer. The bright white walls
seemed to close in; the relentless clacking of keyboards outside his office
tapped at his temples. Reporters had harassed him all night. After a few
terse ‘no comment’ statements he’d turned off every ringer. Still, he’d
dreamed of hounds that bayed for blood. He awoke to sheets damp with
sweat and a throbbing brain.

And here he sat, cooped up in the air-conditioned chill of his office on
a beautiful day trading lies with the man whose bail he’d negotiated,
while reporters camped outside his building.

“I give you my word,” Frank said, “I can assure you I didn’t put the
folks of my town up to this.”
That didn’t mean much to Adrian.
“There have been arrests, police interviews,” Adrian pointed out.
“Suspects have openly admitted to doing this in protest of your charges.”
Frank shrugged, dipping his head so Adrian couldn’t see his eyes
under the cowboy hat.
“There you have it. But I can swear on a stack of bibles that I knew
nothing about it. I was in custody at the time, as you might remember.”

Adrian dignified Frank’s answer with a snort. It was most likely the
truth. Leading a mob took more organization than could be done over the
phone from a jail cell. But Adrian couldn’t dismiss the itch telling him
Frank Fleisher took pride in the savagery his community performed.

Adrian’s first impression of the man had been fine. Frank’s nononsense attitude and rugged quality reminded him of Rick Simon from
Simon and Simon. And he wore Brut 33, just like Adrian’s dad.

But after weeks alone with him, listening to his racial and
homophobic slurs while he proclaimed his innocence, Adrian had his
doubts.

“Fucking faggots were there to siphon gas and God knows what the
hell else,” Frank had ranted. “Not enough for them doin’ each other up
their assholes. No telling what other perversions they had in mind. Man’s
gotta protect his property and livestock.”

The prosecution disagreed. A Toyota Camry registered to one of the
victims had been located not two miles from Fleisher’s property with an
empty gas tank. One of the men had been carrying a jerry can, but there
wasn’t any evidence to prove Fleisher’s claims. No cutting instruments
or makeshift tools were found on the bodies. Since that area was a
cellular dead zone, it seemed more likely they’d approached the ranch for
help.

Thinking about his client murdering innocent people for seeking
assistance made Adrian’s stomach curdle. He no longer liked Frank. He
loathed him. Representing Frank Fleisher made him feel unclean.

“Fine, I believe you,” Adrian said. “But this is going to make the jury
less sympathetic.”

He rubbed his aching eyes. This is stupid. I can’t work like this.
“Look, why don’t we call it a day? It’s almost lunch time anyway.”
“If you think that’s best,” Frank said.

“For now. I’ll escort you to the door and we’ll see to it you get to your
truck without being eaten alive.” He stood and forced himself to shake
Frank’s calloused hand. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The walk to the main desk was awkward. Staff stared openly and the
hum of cooler talk ceased. Even the keyboard clatter tapered off. Some
gave Adrian sympathetic looks. Other sneered and whispered, glaring at
Frank, who clomped along in his shit kickers without shame. No one
envied Adrian the plum case anymore.

Once in the lobby, flashbulbs blinded them and the din of shouted
questions built to a crescendo, driving new spikes of pain into Adrian’s
head.

As soon as I get home I’m taking a twelve hour nap.
A displaced patch of blue moved at the corner of his eye.

“Adrian. Adrian.” Poetry jostled her way to the front of the surging
crowd, using her ivy-covered elbow on other people’s chests. Adrian
shook his head. He didn’t want to meet her in a mosh pit. “Let me in.”

What was she doing here? Poetry squeezed inside.
“Hi,” she said, her teeth gleaming in a smile meant to sweeten the
unexpected surprise, no doubt. “Are you busy?”
“I wasn’t really expecting you,” Adrian said, trying not to grind his
teeth. Her timing sucked.

“I came to bring you treats.” She hefted a Kokanee beer bag that
bulged and clinked, then directed her attention to Frank. “There’s enough
food and beer for three.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Frank said. Poetry didn’t notice, but Adrian
had enough experience with Frank to recognize condescension coming
from his client.

“I’m Poetry.” She extended her hand.
Adrian stole her away before Frank could soil her with his touch.
“Poetry, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
He took her by the arm and led her back to reception. He dragged her
around the corner away from the curious staff before hissing in her face.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s noon. I thought it would be fun to have lunch together. You
know, sort of like a date.”
“Couldn’t you have let me know ahead of time?” he asked.

“It’s supposed to be unexpected,” she said. “A real girlfriend would
do that kind of thing. And maybe you should tell me I look nice. That’s
an appropriate boyfriend response.”

Adrian wiped a hand down his face in exasperation. He took a quick
glance at her sapphire bangs and Wal-mart sundress with her personal ink
poking out from under the straps. It wasn’t the kind of outfit he imagined
her wearing, and it didn’t suit her. Maybe she’d borrowed it from her
roommate trying to be something she wasn’t in order to be pretty. Adrian
didn’t know if he should be flattered or embarrassed for her.

“You look nice,” he said, and changed the subject. “You know, I
haven’t even drawn up the paperwork for this project yet.”
“Paperwork? Oh my God, you are such a lawyer.” Her robust laughter
echoed down the corridor, drawing attention. “You’re so lame.”

“I’m not kidding. We need to set boundaries and establish rules. It’s
not just for my protection but...” The pungent perfume of garlic slapped
him in the nostrils. It smelled so delicious his stomach ached with
longing. “What is that?” he asked.

“Homemade hummus. And pita bread, some salad. Oh, and some cold
chicken. I thought we could find a park somewhere.”
Adrian’s stomach agreed so audibly he placed a hand on his torso as if
to shush it.
“Fine. You win.” He didn’t want to be there anyway. “Just wait here,
and let me finish up.”
“Rule number one, Adrian.” Poetry grinned and batted her eyelashes.
“I’m a girl. That means I always win.”
Adrian didn’t bother answering. Why did women always assume they
were in charge?

He‘d work that out later. First, he had to get rid of Fleisher. Summers
in Edmonton were too short to spend indoors. Besides, he loved
hummus.

The rancher hadn’t moved. He waited with that same smug posture
Adrian had grown to loathe.

“Listen, our security guys will escort you out. I’ll call you later.”
Frank tossed his head in Poetry’s direction. “Got plans with the lady?”

Not that it’s any of your business. “Just a quick lunch.” Adrian
checked his watch, demonstrating his impatience. Go home already,
buddy.

Frank made no attempt to hurry, even though a security staff member
huffed behind him. “You’re not seeing that girl, are you?”
“Poetry?” Adrian tugged at his silk tie. It seemed he tied it too tight
this morning. “No. We’re working on a…project together.”

“Well, that’s fine. Just you make sure to be careful,” he said.
Adrian paused to make eye contact. “Careful of what?”

“Her kind, you know.” The rancher crumpled his face into a maze of
distasteful crevices. “Spics. They’re dirty. Just look at her, she’s got more
tattoos than a whore.”

Adrian swallowed a lump of rage. With measured words he said,
“She’s not Spanish, she’s Greek.”

“Spic, Greek.” Fleisher waved a dismissive hand, seemingly unaware
how his offensive words carried. Or Adrian’s flinching. “Pretty much the
same if you ask me. Point is they have no sense of hygiene, if you know
what I mean. Dirty.”

Adrian’s stomach did a slow, hot, roll and his appetite waned. He only
thought of Poetry as an acquaintance, but a sense of honor burned in his
ears. Someone needed to tune this asshole in to reality. Lucky for Frank
nobody here was dumb enough to try it.

Instead, Adrian kept his composure. “It’s not that kind of
relationship.”

“Didn’t think so,” Fleisher said. “You’re a smart lad.” He clapped
Adrian on the shoulder and meandered out of the building with two
guards in tow.

Adrian eyed the sanitizer on the front desk. He resisted the urge to
slather it over the tainted body parts Fleisher touched, and instead
stormed away.

Poetry waited where he’d left her.
“Your client seems very nice,” she said.

Adrian thanked God she didn’t catch that exchange, but when anger
burbled to the surface, he tempered it yet again. He shook with the effort,
hiding his hands behind his back. “Can we just get out of here?”

“Sure.” From the corner of his eye Adrian noticed her studying him
while they walked. “How’s Hawryluk Park sound?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He straightened and softened his tone. It wasn’t
her fault his client was a slime ball and the media wouldn’t leave him
alone. “I mean, there’s nowhere we can go that they won’t follow us.” He
gestured to the dense throng of men and women packed outside the
entrance.

“Aw, that sucks.” She slumped until her arms went slack but her
dejection didn’t last. “Guess we’ll have to go with Plan ‘B’.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Poetry congratulated herself. Thanks to quick thinking, she’d saved
their lunch plans.

As Adrian predicted, the press dogged them at every twist throughout
downtown, into alleys and one way lanes. Now she knew how Princess
Diana must’ve felt; freaked out and cornered. No green peace in a park
today.

At Poetry’s suggestion, Adrian drove to his condominium. They
darted inside before anyone could catch up and barge their way through,
pulling the security door shut and racing for the elevators. They made a
quick pit stop so Adrian could shed his suit for a tank and shorts, grabbed
a spare blanket and sound dock, and headed for the rooftop.