Naughty Karma: Karmic Consultants, Book 7 (30 page)

My cheeks burned. The cooler outside air seemed less a treat and more a necessity now—nothing to do with Mr. Flamingly Handsome Holiday. But of course I was lying to myself.

Didn’t matter. Uncomfortable was uncomfortable. I slipped outside. And stopped when my mandible hit the floor.

The terrace—it was too large and elegant to be a simple porch—was the size of my whole student apartment. Its black basalt surface was swept clean. An artful scattering of potted trees and graceful, discreet statuary merely enhanced the terrace’s stark elegance.

I crossed to the far side.

The edge was safeguarded by a heavily lacquered oak railing supported by worked iron spindles. I ran one hand along the rail’s silky smooth surface. This wasn’t conspicuous consumption supported by a maxed-out credit card. This was a sign of solid wealth. Advertising sizzle apparently paid better than I knew.

The cooler air, combined with the railing’s smooth feel, soothed me. Tensions I’d carried since even before the elevator incident drained out of my muscles. What a mess my life had become, that even that obnoxious incident seemed mostly an annoyance.

Leaning elbows on the railing, I looked out onto the Minneapolis-St. Paul night. Holiday’s penthouse was high enough that the view was rooftops and stars instead of the sides of buildings. Random fireworks burst in the air. Below me, streetlights blazed. The lamps were so distant they might have been stars.

What the heck was I doing here in Rich Man’s Canyon? Despite my runway looks, I was a hometown girl, raised in the small German-immigrant-settled city of Meiers Corners, Illinois. Ric Holiday’s rich penthouse and vast terrace made my tummy shimmy. If I hadn’t heard the desperation in Twyla’s voice, I’d have thought she’d reverted to another of her endless childhood pranks on me.

But she
had
been desperate, and I loved her like a sister. Besides, she invoked
You Owe Me A Favor
, calling due everything from when I’d borrowed her best suit for my med school interviews to covering for me the time I’d broken her Grandma Tafel’s reading glasses using them to magnify bugs. Although I put my foot down when Twyla added twenty years of interest. Favor interest, really. Everyone knows you have to call “Bank” or it doesn’t count.

Twyla was actually my second cousin, our grandmothers being sisters, although Meiers Corners was so insular I was related to half the population. If my father had been a native too, that percentage would have been higher.

But Twyla had a problem. Meiers Corners’s local economy was too local; the city was in danger of going bankrupt. The solution? Tourism. The single benefit of straitjacket insularity is that we’re steeped in local flavor. We have Quaint Local Shoppes coming out Ye Olde Sphincter.

So tourism seemed a natural fit, and was indeed working great, except for getting the word out. After all, tourism without tourists was, um…
M
.

Which was where Ric Holiday came in. Holiday Buzz International was the
Número Uno
ad shop for innovative campaigns. Holiday thought so outside the box that even circles were too square. Meiers Corners needed that desperately. We’re hard workers but tend to think right angles are the epitome of chic.

So Twyla, wearing her city admin hat, called Holiday. But he said no.

So the mayor called him. Holiday said no. Our chief of police called him. Holiday said no. The mayor’s secretary Heidi called, cracking her whip. Holiday said something unprintable that translated to no. Then our top lawyer and prime negotiator Julian Emerson called.

Holiday wouldn’t even speak to him.

Twyla said
enough
. Time to meet Holiday face to face, to find out what the sticking point was. Then she could apply either carrot (the mayor) or stick (Heidi) as necessary.

Time, Twyla said, to confront the lion in his den.

If she’d met lithe, tawny, forceful Ric Holiday in person, she couldn’t have gotten that any more right.

I fingered the expensive material of his suit coat. There was something untamed about him, sinewy strength barely civilized by suit and tie.

A bolt of lust sheared through me, so long and hard that I shuddered.

Which was of course when the French doors behind me opened.

“Here you are. Escaping the heat? I knew you were beautiful, but now I see you’re smart too.”

I spun to behold the owner of that deep voice. He’d changed into another suit, this one a charcoal gray that contrasted sharply with his azure eyes. In even those few moments I’d forgotten how handsome he was—so gorgeous he made my eyes hurt, my only excuse for blurting, “Did you know that seeing a good-looking person of the opposite sex makes the brain release dopamine which triggers pupil dilation?”

I slammed my stupid dopamine-dilated eyes shut. This was my
opponent
. I tugged his coat tighter, thought constricting thoughts, opened my eyes and tried again. “If I were smart, I wouldn’t have gotten my blouse torn.”

He glided closer. “The smartest move of all. Not your fault and yet effective, since you’re here to ask a favor. Visual aids are always useful in negotiations.” His eyes, sparkling with sensual intent, dipped to where his coat covered my cleavage. A smile, full of promise, curved his lips.

That wicked smile was a pilot light to the broiler of my body, igniting every cell,
whoosh
. I flushed hot, shivered with it.

But my brain wasn’t all that charmed. “Visual aids? Implying I should use sex to negotiate? That was beneath you.”

His smile pursed. “The bra isn’t a Temptress Siren Special? Retail $199. A thirty-six D unless I miss my guess, but a bit too small for you.” His eyebrows rose. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“I find it disturbing that you observed all that in a glance.” I’d thought his gaze had been on my face in the lobby.

“Good peripheral vision.” He quirked a grin. Devastatingly handsome morphed to boyishly attractive, actually even more devastating.

I squashed a groan. “Then what were you suggesting with the ‘visual aids’ crack?”

“My dear Synnove, I wasn’t suggesting anything. Merely observing.” He handed me a champagne flute. “Housekeeping is bringing you another blouse.”

I clamped the coat with one hand to accept the cut crystal with the other.

“And in observing, I find myself curious.” He sipped his champagne. “A beautiful woman from out of state attends my third annual Christmas-in-July house party, bearing a gift no less, but not because she wants something? I’m not sure I quite believe that.”

I sipped champagne too, ended up with my lips in my esophagus. The stuff was dry. “You invited me.” The words rasped like sandpaper. I coughed and tried again. “Do you always invite strangers to your house party?” Better.

“I’m in advertising. Even the people I know are strangers. But in this case, my admin handled the invites.”

Which reminded me that, though we were strangers, he’d named me on sight. I again opened my mouth to ask how the hell he knew, when he hit me with those startlingly blue eyes and drilled both question and oxygen from me.

He wedged his own question into the gap. “Why go to so much trouble to see me?”

It took a few quick breaths to pump up air for an incautious answer. “You’re a hard man to see.”
Hard
. I clutched my champagne and dredged my brain up from the gutter of my hormones. “You’re something of an enigma, Mr. Holiday. We want to negotiate, so we want to get to know you better.”

“We? I’m disappointed. I was so hoping this was about
you
.” Lean fingers slid under my chin, raising my face.

Our eyes collided. His sparkled with intelligence and confidence and a sexuality so blistering I couldn’t breathe. My body flooded with begging-for-sex estrogen. “M…me?”

“Yes. Your partners have sent the perfect leverage. The perfect female.” His voice deepened, husky. “You.”

“I’m…I’m not…” I cleared my throat.

He bent closer until his mouth hovered over mine. “You’re not perfect?” His breath heated my lips.

Desire arrowed straight through me, sudden and splashing and hot.

Naughty Karma

Vivi Andrews

Double crossing the devil is a dangerous business.

Karmic Consultants, Book 7

Nearly two decades ago, Prometheus sold his beating heart to a devil in exchange for epic power. That contract is about to expire—and so is he. There’s only one woman with the power to help him see his next birthday. And he’s willing to use every manipulation in his arsenal to pry that power from the ice queen’s grip.

Karma, who values order above all else, has had enough of the unscrupulous warlock’s pranks endangering her people. But when she confronts the wily trickster to demand a cease-fire, his terms throw her for a loop. The bastard wants her to save his life—and he wants her in his bed.

Clinging to her hard-won control is the only way Karma knows to keep her abilities from overwhelming her. If anyone can tempt her to embrace the chaos of her magic, it’s Prometheus.
 

One kiss brings her defenses crashing down. But can she trust Prometheus…or has she lost her own heart to a warlock with a hidden agenda?

Warning:
 
This book contains scheming, manipulation, bargains-with-the-devil, and meddling consultants. All’s fair in love and magic.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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Naughty Karma

Copyright © 2013 by Vivi Andrews

ISBN: 978-1-61921-555-9

Edited by Christa Soule

Cover by Angela Waters

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: October 2013

www.samhainpublishing.com