You Slay Me (6 page)

Heat burst through me the second his lips touched mine, the flames of his desire scorching me, licking along my skin until it started infernos within me. Pinpricks of sweat formed along my brow and spine as his fever consumed us, wrapping me in a searing cocoon of fire that stripped the air from my lungs. His tongue touched mine, and the heat that swept through me started to boil my blood. My flesh caught fire. Smoke from my body and the incandescent shimmer in the green eyes before me obscured my vision. I was dying, burning from the inside out, Drake's fire setting every atom within me alight.

Just as I knew I was literally going to burst into flames, something miraculous happened. A door within my mind opened, a door
I
didn't know was there, one tucked away in the dark recesses of my consciousness. The door opened, and suddenly I had leashed the fire, controlled it, changed it from a destructive element that was meant to consume me into something that added fuel to the desire that flared between us. I turned the fire back on Drake and began to kiss him in return, reveling in the power that was flowing through me as if I were a conduit. He jerked but didn't stop the torturously wonderful touch of his mouth.

Everyone was still watching us, I knew, but that didn't stop me from leaning into Drake and rubbing my hips against him, fitting all my soft curves to the hard planes of his body. I wanted him, all of him, his fire and his body and his soul, right then and there, and I hate to imagine what would have happened if Drake hadn't had the strength of purpose to pull back from me. Unable to look away—let alone
think
—I stared into his eyes, seeing the flickers of our shared fire in their emerald depths mingled with something that looked very much like surprise, surprise that quickly changed into speculation. Slowly, atom by atom, the fire he'd started within me dropped down to a simmer.

"I believe that round goes to you," he said softly, his voice thrumming through me, threatening to stir the newly banked embers.

I untangled my fingers from his hair and took a step backwards, extremely aware of the voyeurism that I had paid no mind a moment ago. "Yeah, well, maybe you'll think twice about messing with me again," I said with bravado I didn't feel, gritting my teeth over the shakiness of my voice.

The man Ophelia had named the Venediger appeared at my elbow. I turned to face him, grateful to have someone else to concentrate on. He didn't look at all the tyrant sort, as the sisters claimed, nor particularly powerful. Self-assured and confident, yes, but a tyrant? Hardly.

"Drake, you will do me the honor of introducing me to your companion."

It wasn't a question; it was a command. And with it a wave of his power washed over me, making me gasp for air. Maybe
tyrant
wasn't such a bad description after all. As I caught my breath, I couldn't help but notice that with his words, life in the G & T returned to normal. The music resumed. People started talking again. Waitresses floated through the crowd with trays of drinks and food. The wave of people swelled around us again, leaving us an island of three.

"Aisling Grey, may I present Albert Camus, better known to the immortal community as the Venediger. Aisling is newly arrived in Paris."

The Venediger made an odd sort of formal bow over the hand I reluctantly held out. "I bid you welcome. It is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Aisling. It is not often my humble premises are graced by a wyvern's mate, especially not one who is also a Guardian."

"Do I have a great big
G
painted on my forehead or something?" I asked, rather peevishly, true, but I really had been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours. "I don't even know what a Guardian does, let alone why you people think I'm one, but this I do know—I am not anyone's mate,
especially
not Drake's, so you can just get that idea right out of your head."

"You withstood the dragon's kiss," the Venediger said mildly, but as his pale gray eyes settled on me, I squirmed uncomfortably. An aura of power surrounded him, a leashed power not unlike what I felt with Drake, only the Venediger's was ...
harsher.
Less refined. Cruder and much, much more scary. "Only a mate could do that. It is clear to everyone what you are."

"I'm glad someone thinks they know what's going on, because I sure don't," I grumbled.

He made another little bow. "As I said, you are welcome at Goety and Theurgy. I am in your debt for providing my patrons with such an entertaining show. It has been a very long time since we've had the opportunity of seeing a wyvern claim his mate."

I blushed at his reference to our little smoochy session, but didn't have time to set him straight before he moved off.

"I am
so
not claimed. I'm not a mate, either," I called after him. He ignored me. I turned back to Drake, dreading the look of mocking assuredness that I knew I would see in his eyes. A man like him—one who knows he's drop-dead sexy—couldn't help but gloat over the fact that he had really rattled my chain.

I gritted my teeth and raised my eyes to his, but he was looking at me with a puzzled expression that was 100 percent gloat-free. His brows pulled together in a little frown. "You are telling the truth. You truly do not understand who you are."

"On the contrary, I know exactly who I am. It's you guys who seem to be confused. In case you need it spelled out to you, I'm a robbery victim. I am also a murder suspect, thanks to you. Since you are responsible for both situations, you're going to fix things, starting with returning my dragon."

He turned toward the bar and signaled the bartender. "What will you have to drink?"

"Dragon's blood," I snapped vindictively.

He tipped his head as he considered me, his slow smile turning my legs to mush. "Really? Guy, two Dragon's Bloods."

I stared open-mouthed as the bartender returned with two wine glasses filled with a liquid so dark red, it was almost black. "You're kidding, right? That's not really ... er... blood?"

"No. It's a beverage favored by my kind, however."

I sniffed at the glass. It didn't smell like anything other than spiced wine. I took a small sip, gasping as liquid flames burned down my throat, quickly warming my stomach, the heat from the wine flowing out through my veins to every point in my body. "Holy cow," I croaked, blinking back the tears that formed. "That's potent. What's in it?"

"You don't want to know," he said, grasping my elbow and steering me to an empty table in a dark corner. "Now, perhaps we can discuss what you desire of me."

I sat, aware of a distinct sense of loss when he removed his hand from my arm. To distract myself from the unwanted temptation he posed, I lifted my glass again, this time just dipping the tip of my tongue into the liquid.

"Oh, great, now my tongue's gone numb. If I find out this has something harmful in it, you're going to be history."

He grinned. "Nothing harmful."

I relaxed and took another sip, braced for the roar of fire that flooded my body.

"Not to dragons, that is. I've never heard of a mortal drinking it and surviving."

The fire from the drink seeped into my blood, pooling low, in my groin. "You know, it's not so bad this time. Maybe I'm getting used ...
What do you mean no mortal has survived drinking it?"

He shrugged. "Just what I said."

I set the glass down carefully. (I had a notion that if it splashed over onto the table, it would eat right through the wood.) "Do you mean to tell me that you let me drink something poisonous and you didn't bother to warn me?"

"You asked for it. It would have been rude of me to deny you what you wanted."

"Yeah? And if I asked you to help me jump off the Eiffel Tower, would you do it?"

He did the cute head tip again. I gritted my teeth and fought the desire to grab his head and kiss him. "Are you likely to ask me to help you jump off the Eiffel Tower?"

"No, but—"

"Then it does not matter what I would do. Why have you sought me out?"

I breathed heavily through my nose for a few seconds, trying to get a grip on the anger and lust and frustration that were all mixed up inside me. "I. Want. My. Dragon. Back."

"It's not yours, though, is it? You told me you were just the courier, delivering it to Mme. Deauxville. She is the rightful owner. What right do you have to it?"

"More than you have!" I snapped. "I want it so I can return it to her family. God only knows why you want it."

He sipped at his drink. "It's pretty. I like it. It's mine now. Besides which, it is the Anima di Lucifer. I cannot relinquish it to anyone who does not appreciate its true history."

I frowned. "The
what
of Lucifer?"

"Anima.
It's Italian. The name means the 'blood of Lucifer.' The aquamanile is one of three objects known as the Tools of Bael."

That could mean anything or nothing—the folks during the Middle Ages were awfully fond of giving impressive, dread names to innocent objects in order to increase the perceived value of the object. I had a sudden, awful thought. "It's not... uh ... a family relic, is it?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"It has green eyes, like you. I thought maybe it was a family heirloom that someone sold and... Oh, never mind." I felt stupid even saying it, noting in a distant part of my mind how far I'd come since the morning before when I had no idea that such things' as dragons really existed.

Drake leaned back in his chair, his fingers rubbing along the top of his wineglass. It was a strangely erotic move that had me squirming in my chair. I took another sip of my drink, embracing the fire that roared through me.

"What do you know about dragons?"

"They're big, scaly, four-legged creatures with wings who terrorized small villages until a virgin was offered up as a sacrifice."

His grinned again. "I do miss the virgins."

I had an almost overwhelming urge to kick him.

His grin deepened, but there was something serious in his eyes, another warning. "The most important thing you should know about dragons is that they protect what is theirs. A dragon would never, under any condition, part with any of his treasure."

"Never
is an awfully uncompromising word," I said, my heart sinking. I knew it was going to be hard getting the aquamanile from Drake, but the look in his eye told me it was going to be harder than I thought.

"Not as uncompromising as I," he said, his eyes dancing with silent laughter.

I took a deep breath to lessen my almost overwhelming desire to punch him in his obstinate but sexy jaw. "While we're on the subject of pigheaded men ... dragons ... whatever you are, let's have a little discussion about what you were doing at Mme. Deauxville's house. I know that story about you being with Interpol was a bunch of bull, so don't even bother trotting that out again."

"I was with Interpol—for a bit. They seemed to take exception to the fact that I was using their resources to organize my rare-arts acquisition program." I stared a question at him. He waved it away as if it were no matter. "They couldn't prove the charges, but once you have been tarred with the brush of international thievery, it is hard to regain their trust."

"That goes without saying. Did you draw the Circle of Ashtaroth?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked, neatly avoiding the question. "What did the police say to you?"

I smiled. I was on to him now. He used provocative questions to distract me whenever I wanted information from him, but two could play that game. "Not much. Did you draw the circle?"

His eyes darkened. "If I did not know whether it was open or closed, is it likely I drew it? What happened to the demon that was summoned by the circle?"

I ground away a few more layers of tooth enamel over his nonanswers. "I have no idea. Despite studying a few medieval manuscripts on the subject, I'm hardly a demon expert."

"You are a Guardian, even if you are untrained. It is in your nature to control demons. Surely you could feel that one had been present on the scene?"

I remembered the feeling of dread, that something was very wrong as I approached Mrrie. Deauxville's door. "Maybe," I said, determined not to be distracted by his questions. "If you didn't draw the circle, who did?"

His gaze flickered away from me. "What makes you think I would know that?"

"Call it a hunch. Do you know who drew the circle?"

He shrugged and sipped his wine.

"Look, I know you're all hot on this big, bad, powerful dragon kick, but this is important. The police think I killed Mme. Deauxville, but they can't hold me, because they don't have any proof that I did, and I don't have the time to wait around until they realize that I'm not guilty. I have to figure out who did kill her so I can get my passport back and go home. So would you stop playing the macho games and answer my question?
Please?"

"I do not see the advantage to me to give you what you want. Perhaps if you had something to barter for the information, I might be willing to give it to you."

I clamped my teeth together to keep from calling him every name I could think of. "I had a valuable antiquity, but you stole that."

"Yes," he said calmly. "What else do you have?"

His gaze caressed the low neckline of my dress, where the upper slopes of my breasts swelled above it. I ground my teeth some more, the sane part of my brain not wanting to make the bargain he was hinting at, but not seeing any other choice. We won't go into what the insane part wanted. "I have me."

His eyes shifted to my breasts, blatantly ogling me now. Despite the embarrassment of having to offer myself as a barter, my breasts tightened at the thought of what it would be like to have his hands on them. Or his mouth.

"That is true," he said in a sexy drawl rich with innuendo. "However, I am not sure that what you offer is worth the price you ask."

Fury rose within me, fury like nothing I've felt before. It was all I could do to keep from throwing the remains of my drink in his face. "You arrogant, conceited, egotistical, presumptuous—"