Fated (36 page)

He stepped out of the bedroom into a small hallway. Directly in front of him was a bathroom that revealed more flowers on the shower curtain and on the matching towels hanging on a brass rack. Even the toilet seat cover had a big rose on it.

To his right was another bedroom. A dresser, a nightstand and a brass bed—and, of course, more flowers.

He frowned. Would he really hook up with a human who was this obsessed with floral prints—very
bold
floral prints? He didn’t think so—he was admittedly shallow—but anything seemed possible at this point.

He wandered to a living room with swag draperies and ancient-looking velvet furniture. Ben-Gay, hand lotion, Aleve, a crystal bowl filled with mints and a box of tissues were arranged on another doily-covered table beside a tatty-looking recliner. A crocheted afghan was draped over the back.

“Let there be a granddaughter … let there be a granddaughter,” he muttered, even though he’d seen not a single sign of youth so far.

He crossed the room to a fireplace, looking at the framed photos crowded along the mantel. Only one woman kept reappearing in the pictures and she didn’t look to be a day younger than eighty. But he didn’t recognize her. In fact, none of the people in the pictures jogged his memory.

“Maybe I don’t want to remember,” he said, grimacing down at a picture of a group of elderly women on what appeared to be adult-sized tricycles beside some beach.

Then his own shirt sleeve caught his attention—or more accurately his cuff link, deep red garnets set in a charm of a ferry boat: the symbol of his position and job in Hell.

He set down the picture and inspected himself. He was still dressed in his standard work uniform, a white shirt with a tab collar, a black vest and black trousers. He’d taken off his greatcoat sometime during the evening, but he was relieved to see that the rest of his clothing was intact.

A good sign nothing untoward had happened, but it still didn’t give him any hint as to where he was or how he got here.

“Just get out of here,” he told himself. He could just as easily contemplate this bizarre situation in the luxury of his own place.

He closed his eyes, picturing his ultra-modern dwelling with its clean lines and stark colors. Not a single flower to be found anywhere. He visualized the living room with its black leather furniture. The bedroom with its king-size bed and dark red walls. He especially visualized his black granite bar and the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Whisky sitting on it.

A nice glass or two of fifty-year-old scotch and a little xBox 360 on his big screen television seemed exactly like what he needed after all this strangeness. There was nothing like expensive liquor and “Modern Warfare 2” to get him calmed down. Then maybe he’d recall his lost evening.

Let there be a hot granddaughter, he added again.

Then with his creature comforts affixed in his mind, he willed himself away from this odd apartment and back to his own world…. Except nothing happened.

No whirring sound, no sense of whisking through space and time. No—nothing.

He opened his eyes to find himself still surrounded by flowers and the scent of old age.

Pulling in a deep breath, he closed his eyes again, and really focused. But this time he noticed something he hadn’t the first time. It was a sort of weighted feeling as if leg irons were around his ankles, keeping him in this dimension.

He released the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding pent up in his lungs. What was going on? Why shouldn’t he be able to dematerialize out of the human realm?

But then he realized
shouldn’t
wasn’t the right word. He felt like he
couldn’t.
No, that wasn’t exactly the right word either.

For the first time since waking up in this place, a sensation akin to panic constricted his chest. He forced himself to ignore the feeling, chanting over and over in his head that there was a reasonable explanation for all of this.

“Just go to a bar here,” he muttered to himself. “Have a stiff drink—and relax.”

Things were bound to make sense if he just calmed down. How could he expect to think clearly surrounded by floral chaos?

Just then the cat from the bedroom leapt up onto the recliner, the springs creaking under its massive bulk. It peered at him from its one good eye, then hissed.

“Yeah. I’m outta here.”

He left the living room, striding toward a door at the end of another small hallway. It had to be the exit. But when he reached the door, he stopped. Everything within him told him
to just grab the doorknob, turn it and leave, but again something stopped him. Told him he had to stay right here.

“Just go,” he growled.

But he couldn’t bring himself to move. That was until he heard the rattle of the doorknob, jiggling as if someone was inserting a key from the other side.

Killian glanced around, trying to decide what to do. He noticed the kitchen to his right and side-stepped into the narrow little room, leaning against an avocado-colored refrigerator as he listened. He heard the whoosh and creak of the door opening.

“Where is he?” a female voice said. A young female voice. The granddaughter?

“He’s got to still be here,” another female voice said.

Hmm, he hadn’t considered there might have been more than one granddaughter. That certainly made things more interesting—and worth remembering.

Killian decided there was no point in hiding. After all, they were expecting him to be here. At least, he thought they were talking about him, and they were the ones who could likely offer him the information he wanted.

He stepped out of the kitchen to see three young girls. And
girls
was definitely the operative word.

Dear Lucifer, was there
any
middle ground here?

As soon as they saw him, in almost comical unison, the girls screamed. And with the familiarity of that piercing sound, all his lost memories rushed back. The screaming girls, the flying snack foods, the thwack to the head.

Killian raised a hand, frowning down at his, for all practical purposes, abductors. Surprisingly, his gesture silenced them.

“Why did you bring me here?”

If his memories of the night before were any indication, he needed to get an answer as quickly as possible, before another candlestick-wielding woman appeared.

He shot a quick look over his shoulder, just for good measure.

The girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose and dark brown eyes moved out of the doorway, waving to the other two to join her. The other dark-haired girl joined her inside the apartment. Only the cherubic blonde hesitated behind them. But finally, and clearly against her better judgment, she followed, although Killian noticed she didn’t release the doorknob.

Ready for a speedy escape. Smart girl. He was not in a good mood. And he was a demon. Never a great combination.

“Who are you? And why did you bring me here?” he demanded.

The girls all shifted, nervous.

Then to his surprise, the freckle-faced one straightened to her full height—maybe a whopping 5’2”—and met his gaze directly.

“I’m Daisy.”

Killian tried not to make a face. Of course,
more
flowers.

“This is Madison,” Daisy said, gesturing to first one girl, then the other. “And Emma.”

Madison surprised him by meeting his eyes too. She sported that ennui that all kids seemed to master as soon as their age hit double digits. Killian was tempted to point out to her she hadn’t looked quite so bored just moments earlier when she was squealing, but he remained silent. Emma still clutched the doorknob, managing none of her friend’s cool boredom. Quite the opposite. As soon as his gaze moved to her, she tensed as if she was ready to dart—or pass out. Her blue eyes widened and seemed to eat up half her face.

A twinge of sympathy pulled at him. He ignored it.

“I was the one who conjured you,” Daisy said, her expression neither blasé nor frightened. This girl was simply direct and calm.

A girl with a mission.

“We all conjured you,” Madison corrected her, giving Daisy a pointed look.

“Yes.” Daisy acknowledged her friend, but remained undaunted. “We all did. But we conjured you to fulfill my wish.”

“Which we should have negotiated,” Madison muttered, collapsing against the wall in a perfected slouch of disgust.

Daisy didn’t even glance at her friend this time. She stayed focused on him. “We called you to—”

“Do something impossible,” Madison interjected.

This time Daisy did shoot a censorious look at her friend. Then she said, “No. It might be a little tricky but not impossible.”

Madison rolled her eyes. Emma swayed. Apparently passing out was still an option for the silent friend.

“What is this tricky—possibly impossible task?” Killian asked, growing tired of the teenage bickering.

This wasn’t his usual thing. Hell, he’d never been conjured before, and he had very little experience with teenagers. But even with his admittedly limited experience, he wasn’t prepared for what the earnest girl in front of him said next.

“I want you to find my sister a boyfriend.”

Here’s a peek at
INVITATION TO RUIN,
the debut novel from Bronwen Evans,
out now!

T
hat evening, the entourage walked into the Cavendish’s ballroom and joined the queue waiting to greet their host and hostess. As they descended the stairs, the whispers behind twitching fans started. Melissa could well imagine what the other guests were saying. She had her arm through Lord Wickham’s, and on his right, so did Cassandra.

She knew the men were praising Lord Wickham’s skill in keeping the ravishing beauty on his right as his mistress, while marrying the plainer, quiet, demure cousin on his left. A raving beauty to bed for pleasure and a wife to bed to provide the much-needed heirs.

Melissa lifted her head high and kept her eyes looking directly ahead, hoping her cheeks had not colored. Never had she wished so fervently for the floor to open up and swallow her. Cassandra played up her part and was spitefully pleased with the ton’s interpretation of events. To reenforce the perception, Lady Sudbury stroked her hand down the arm of Anthony’s jacket until he bent his head and let her whisper something in his ear.

At his gruff laugh there was a surge of activity; the array of fans were fluttering wildly.

This evening was going to be torture.

The line of guests shuffled forward until, with the pleasantries completed, they could move fully into the ballroom.
Letting go of Anthony’s arm, Melissa began scouring the room trying to see if Anthony’s mother or brother were present.

“Are you looking for anyone in particular?” he asked, his voice radiating about as much warmth as a snowflake.

Melissa turned to look at him. Her traitorous breath caught in her throat. How did he do it? She tore her gaze away from the intoxicating sight of him, trying to quell the fluttery sensation developing in her stomach. He was so handsome this evening. The white on black ensemble set his physique off to perfection. The material was tight enough to be considered indecent. Yet Melissa would wager every woman in the room longed to run their hands over the ebony velvet. She longed to feel the hidden strength beneath the soft fabric, the urge as overwhelming as the man himself.

This evening, in his finery, he screamed Lord of Wicked. His silver-gray eyes seemed to deliberately issue an open invitation, a temptation sent to make her sin. Every married woman in the room envied Cassandra, while the young debutantes were miffed they’d not been as brave as Melissa and caught him in matrimony. Her legs felt as if she’d just ridden at full gallop all day. She didn’t dare return his avid gaze. She wasn’t brave or courageous or fearless enough to accept—yet. She let a satisfied smile curve her lips. But she was his.

He leaned nearer, the tantalizing scent of expensive cologne mixed with raw maleness made her dizzy, and as he placed his large hand at her back, guiding her toward a chaise upon which Lady Millington sat, she wondered if tonight would be the night she’d finally swoon.

“Remember my warning. I trust you will conduct yourself appropriately. You are to be my wife.”

The sudden bolt of awareness flashing down her side—the side he’d touched—had nothing to do with the anger his harsh warning provoked. She could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living force beside her.

His nearness was pure pleasure. She glanced at his face, but he’d already turned to see to Cassandra.

He must have felt her gaze though, because his eyes swung back to her. He saw her studying him intently, and his gaze grew direct; his eyes searched hers.

Her lungs seized.

The introduction for the first waltz cut through the hypnotic moment. She heard Cassandra stir.
Please do not disgrace me by dancing the first dance with Cassandra.

His eyes still held hers, and perhaps he read the desperation there. His fingers closed about her hand, and he lifted it fleetingly to his lips. He then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. “My dance, I believe?”

She let out a huge breath, gratitude beaming from within her smile. At that precise moment he truly was the most wonderful man in the world, her knight in shining armor. She inclined her head and let him draw her to the floor.

Her body responded as soon as he gathered her close and steered her into the swirling throng. Her chest felt tight, and her skin came alive. She became a young giddy schoolgirl, taut with anticipation, expectations. This man would soon be her husband. She remembered his naked body lying next to her, and her gaze dropped to his groin.

Even in his nonaroused state he was large, she could see the bulge quite clearly. A sweet tremble filled her being. What would it be like to have him make love to her properly, to feel those large hands caress her naked skin?

She swallowed. This man wasn’t going to stay her imaginary lover. He would become her husband. Since their last dance together, everything had changed. The planes of his face seemed harder, more chiseled, more austere. His body seemed more powerful, and there was something in his eyes as they rested on hers—something … was it regret? Whatever it was, her instincts recognized enough to make her shiver—either in fear or anticipation, she wasn’t sure which.