Lure of the Wicked Part 13

The elevator doors slid open, that near-soundless hiss of air and oiled mechanics. Naomi stepped off the elevator, and it was as if she'd crossed some sort of sound divide. Suddenly engulfed in utter quiet, she couldn't help her automatic effort to keep her shoes from clicking on the tile. It was as hushed as a tomb.

As stifling as the sauna, with none of the steam.

The layout mirrored the beauty spa one floor above. Open area, doors set into the walls, but there were no windows here. No pools. It was darker, more enclosed. Sand and sculpted rock took the place of plants, and the gleaming floor was midnight black marble veined with brilliant violet and gold.

The surrounding doors were shut, solid panels of dark wood inlaid with a strange collection of minerals, stones, sh.e.l.ls, and metal.

It smelled different here. Thick, heavy, like incense. Musky, spicy instead of floral. Smothering. Warm, but not humid.

A handful of people spread out on the black floor, towels under their heads or digital books in hand. They looked content. Relaxed. Heat pushed up through the soles of her boots, warmed her feet even in heels.

Feeling overdressed in her dark wash denim and sky blue silk blouse, Naomi frowned and backtracked quickly before someone tried to stuff her into another robe.

Small hands braced her as she nearly backed into a brunette wearing the spa's typical green. "Excuse me, sorry," the short woman whispered quietly, raising a finger to her lips as Naomi whirled. "My name is Liz, are you here for a ma.s.sage appointment?"

Flicking her gaze to the people on the tile, Naomi barely managed to keep her lip from curling. "No," she murmured. "Wrong floor, sorry."

"No problem." Liz gestured over her shoulder. "If you ever want to visit, simply turn left upon entry to store your clothes, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks."

h.e.l.l would freeze before she locked herself in this soundless tomb. Naomi turned, reached for the elevator b.u.t.ton, and tensed when the doors slid open without her help. She fought back an uncurling tendril of anxiety.

She had every right to be here.

Naomi Is.h.i.+kawa did, anyway.

Inside the elevator, Phin leaned against the railing, effortlessly casual in his crisp gray slacks and forest green b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt. He'd worn a tie this time, something patterned in abstract shades of olive, gold, and bronze.

It brought out the sudden wary gleam of his dark eyes. The flash of awareness as Naomi's cool smile froze to brittle crystal.

"Just who I wanted to see. Shall we?" The tone of Phin's voice carried a warning. The gesture he made to the quiet floor behind her went ignored.

Naomi's palm slammed into the frame, blocking the sensor and sending ripples of shock from wrist to shoulder. She ignored that, too. Her mouth dried to bitter cotton as the woman beside Phin glanced her way, blue eyes raking over Naomi in silent, preoccupied inquiry.

She was beautiful.

Still beautiful, even after all the years she fought off with surgery and restoratives. Her chin-length, wavy hair was as icy blond as Naomi remembered, not a thread of gray to ruin a carefully cultivated appearance of agelessness and impossible youth. Her eyes were expertly lined, deliberately lashed, and her makeup flawless.

But Naomi could pick out the tiny surgery scars by her ears. The nearly invisible lines marring the perfection of her eyes and bracketing the mouth that was almost as full as her own.

When she said nothing, Naomi read indifference, complete lack of recognition, and subsequent dismissal a single nanosecond before an empty, insincere smile shaped her mother's cosmetically plumped lips. "We are going down," she said clearly, and turned her lovely, timeless gaze back to Phin. "The rudeness of some people just-"

Phin moved. As if released from a spell, he surged out of the elevator, wrapped one hand around Naomi's upper arm as he said breezily, "Excuse me, Mrs. Montgomery."

Naomi's crack of bitter laughter broke on a curse as he spun her away from the elevator, whirling her hard against his chest. Around the hand he slid against the back of her head, pus.h.i.+ng her face into his shoulder, he muttered, "Be quiet."

She smelled warm soap and male as she sucked in a breath to say something, anything. As she struggled to pluck coherent words from the soundless litany of fury drilling through her ears.

The doors closed on Abigail's puzzled frown.

Adrenaline surged through Naomi's veins. It rocketed from the sudden vise in her chest through her blood, pounding in her skull. Her body shook; rage, bitter laughter-f.u.c.k, disappointment-fueling her as she shoved at Phin's chest. "Let me go," she spat.

Features set in hard lines, determined edges, Phin glanced over her head. Naomi didn't give a d.a.m.n about the curious eyes probably aimed their way. She hoped they fell out of their G.o.dd.a.m.n skulls.

Before she could say as much, he seized her wrists and jerked her toward one of the doors. Her boots sc.r.a.ped on bare tile as she staggered over the rim of the heated floor.

Carried by an anger she couldn't think through, she launched herself at his back.

And somehow, he knew.

He spun, jaw hard, and yanked sharply enough on her wrists that she buckled, plucked from her trajectory and cursing. Voices gasped in unison, digital readers. .h.i.t the marble floor, but he didn't stop. Hauling her bodily into his arms, lean muscles like iron bands, Phin carried her inside a small room bathed in gold light.

He ignored the hum of voices behind him, and firmly, gently shut the door.

Seething, Naomi wrenched out of his grasp. She choked on everything she couldn't say, slamming her foot into the bolted ma.s.sage table in the center of the room, and caught her breath as pain fractured through to her brain. She kicked it again, harder. The frame splintered audibly; the candles flickered.

"Go ahead," Phin offered mildly. She spun back, panting, her fists clenched at her sides. He looked cool and unruffled, not a hair out of place, with his hands in his pockets and the metallic threads of his tie reflecting back the candlelight.

Unruffled, except for his glittering eyes, golden points of flame.

"Keep at it, if you want." Angling one shoulder against the door, Phin added, "The room's soundproof. They all are. Clients come here for peace and quiet, so do what you need to do. Yell and scream, if you like."

"Don't you dare," Naomi bit out. Every word snapped from her chest like a coiled spring wound too tight. Ground too sharp. "Don't you f.u.c.king patronize me."

"I'm not." His gaze steady, he nodded at the ma.s.sage table behind her. "Go for it. Kick it until you break something." He paused, then offered quietly, "Or you can tell me what's wrong."

Wrong. What was wrong with Naomi West?

She wanted to laugh, but she knew if she did now, it'd come out a raw sound too close to a sob for her to risk the effort.

To risk his pity.

What the f.u.c.k wasn't wrong?

Her fingers clenched tightly enough to send pain ratcheting through her arms. She gritted her teeth until her jaw threatened to lock. Until she could breathe through the fury and pain and, G.o.d d.a.m.n it, memory that scorched. Blackened to the bone.

Phin sighed. "I'm not going to pry, Naomi. It's your life."

Her laugh cracked loose. "What do you know?"

For a long, silent moment, Phin studied her. Measured her. There was nothing on his face that Naomi could cling to, nothing in his eyes that she could extract and fling back like a weapon. He gave her nothing, d.a.m.n it, nothing to hang her anger on.

Just steady, patient regard.

To her horror, tears burned behind her eyes. She stiffened, swallowing back the knot in her throat in desperate, furious resolve. She wasn't going to cry.

That wasn't a victory her mother would ever claim again.

"Fine." Phin straightened. "Lie down."

She shook her head. "What?"

He deftly removed the cuff link at one sleeve. Tossed it into a small crystal bowl, clink.

Her mouth went dry.

His fingers agile, he unhooked the other with quick, neat precision. It rattled into place with the other one, metal and gla.s.s. "Lie down," he repeated slowly. "On the table, with your s.h.i.+rt off."

"Not even if you-"

"Look," Phin cut in, his tone as calm and conversational as if they only discussed the chances of rain on an autumn day. "You're wound so tight, I can practically see reality bending around you." Briskly he rolled up the cuff of one sleeve, bared a lean, muscled forearm sprinkled with golden brown hair.

Her eyes locked on his hands. Long fingers. Wide palms. Her brain stalled.

As he rolled up the other sleeve, he jerked his chin to the table. "So strip off the s.h.i.+rt, and lie down, okay? I've never met somebody more in need of a ma.s.sage."

Her body jerked. Surprise. Bottled anger. But to her shock, Naomi found herself reaching for the tied hem of her blouse. The silk rustled between her fingers.

For a brief, jagged instant, Phin's eyes met hers as the hem cleared her face. His gaze skimmed over the set of her mouth, her shoulders.

The scarlet lace that cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

All at once, her rage s.h.i.+mmered into something else just as searing. Turned over into an arousal so deep, so tight, it slipped like wine through her blood, made her slow to react as Phin's voice reached across the strained silence.

"And the bra," he rasped. Rough. As taut as the impressive erection Naomi clearly saw straining against his slacks. Clearing his throat, he nodded to the table when she shrugged out of the lacy bra. "Facedown."

Skin s.h.i.+vering, every nerve awake and trembling, Naomi dropped the silk and lace to the floor. She climbed onto the table, settled into place, her breath tight and sharp with antic.i.p.ation. With wired, leashed impatience.

The cus.h.i.+on was soft against her forehead, thick and lush against the sensitized flesh of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It cradled her face, blocked her view of everything but the floor beneath her head. She watched the candlelight flicker, dance, and jump with every move Phin made. She heard a drawer open, heard liquid slide as he rubbed something that smelled sharply spicy between his palms.

When they touched her, Naomi thought she'd climb out of her skin with wanting.

He had strong hands, wide, fearless palms that traced her spine, hot skin to skin. His thumbs edged into corded muscle stretched tautly across her back, eliciting a gasp, a groan from her throat.

She couldn't see where Phin stood. Couldn't hear him, couldn't feel anything but the slow, torturous slide of his hands on her back. His strong fingers dug deeply into muscles that all but screamed under pressure; he found every kink, every knot, every G.o.dd.a.m.ned trigger in her neck and shoulders.

And he worked in silence. In eternal, excruciating quiet.

She didn't know how long she held out, but Naomi couldn't keep back a moan of relief, of mingled pain and need as his magical, oil-slick fingers found the taut muscles in her neck. Her toes curled as he thumbed the side of her throat.

Her eyes flew open as he traced the barbell she'd stubbornly left in place at the back of her neck.

"You know," he murmured, and she gasped to feel the heat of his breath fan over her ear, "the first time I saw this, it just about killed me."

Shuddering, she managed, "Why?"

"It's telling, isn't it?" Phin caught the back of her head, smoothed her hair out of the way to dig his fingertips into the vulnerable ache behind her ears. She sighed. "As far as anyone else knows, you're a nice girl. Nice clothes. Nice smile."

Her incredulous laugh caught on a low, husky moan. He tore it from her chest, coaxed it from her lips with every inch of muscle he subjugated under his clever hands. Her skin hummed, burned deliciously from the oil.

From Phin's touch.

"And then one day, you wear your hair up, and-" Naomi tensed as his lips brushed the nape of her neck. As his tongue slid over the small, silver piercing and the flesh trapped between each bead.

Heat scorched like lightning to her belly. Flooded her system with a wave of breath-shortening electrical shocks. "Oh, G.o.d," she groaned. "Phin-"

"No." He flattened his hands on her back, held her when she would have rolled over. Her fingers curled into the table edge, fisted into the plush coverlet. "I'm not done."

"d.a.m.n it," she gritted out, and sighed out another thick, rough sound of pleasure as his lips touched her shoulder. "Phin. Jesus, Phin."

His laughter ghosted across her slick back. Raised every fine hair with a shudder. "What will you give me?"

"What?" Naomi tried to struggle, tried to command her body to get it together, to get off the d.a.m.n table, but he dug his thumbs into that hollowed edge by her vertebrae again. Dragged his fingers all the way down to her waist. To the muscles below, tight and sore with her frustration-fueled workouts. "Oh," she whispered. "Do that again."

He did, drawing another groan, another gasping sigh from her lips.

"A date."

"Whatever," Naomi murmured. "Fine."

"Tonight."

Eyes half closed, her arms limp by her sides, she barely managed to move her head as he hit that sweet, mind-altering slide of muscle at her shoulder blades. "No clothes for it," she sighed. "Spa."

She could hear the grin in his voice as he said, "Meet me at the front desk at four."

Alarm bells began to clang in her head. Muted. Flat. "Wait, what?"

"And, Naomi?" One oil-slick hand edged into her hair. Cupped the back of her head, held her still as Phin bent to take the sh.e.l.l of her ear between the sharp edge of his teeth. He bit down, soft. Deliberate.

l.u.s.t rocketed straight to her soul. She gasped.

"Wear your hair up."

By the time she remembered how to breathe, Phin was gone, the door shutting silently behind him. Her skin all but crawled with awareness, with a current of tactile electricity. One part was the oil. It tingled, warmed her skin.

The rest was all him.

She rolled over on the table to stare at the colorful seascape mosaic inlaid into the ceiling, but Naomi didn't see anything but Phin. His face, edged with the same need that clawed at her. His eyes, banked hard with the same l.u.s.t. He wanted her.

But he hadn't taken her. Not here.

He had plans. "All right, slick," she murmured, her heartbeat echoing the need pulsing between her legs. Through her veins. She'd play his game.

Slowly, deliciously s.h.i.+vering, she spread her palms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Cradled each sensitized mound of flesh and nerves and imagined what it would be like to have Phin's fingers there. His mouth on the hard, tight buds of her nipples.

She'd play, but she wouldn't play it fair.