Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(106)

was straight from her playbook. For all of her life, she had always relied on her ability to ghost out of things, leaving behind no explanations, no trace, nothing but thin air.

Served her well as an assassin.

"John . . ."

His head swiveled around and his stare burned with regret as she met

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it in the leaded glass.

As he waited for her to speak, she was supposed to tell him it was best that she go. She was supposed to toss over another limp-ass apology and then dematerialize out of the room . . . out of his life.

But all she could manage was his name.

He pivoted to face her and mouthed, I'm sorry. Go. It's okay. Go.

She couldn't move, though. And then her mouth parted. As she

realized what was in the back of her throat, she couldn't believe she was going to put it into words. The revelation went against everything she knew about herself.

For God's sake, was she really going to do this? "John . . . I . . . I was .

. ."

Shifting the focus of her eyes, she measured her reflection. Her

hollowed cheekbones and pasty pallor were the result of so much more than lack of sleep and feeding.

With a sudden flash of anger, she blurted, "Lash wasn't impotent, all right? He wasn't . . . impotent--"

The temperature in the room plummeted so fast and so far, her breath

came out in clouds.

And what she saw in the mirror made her swing around and take a

step back from John: His blue eyes glowed with an unholy light and his upper lip curled up to reveal fangs that were so sharp and so long they looked like daggers.

Objects all around the room began to vibrate: the lamps on the bed

stands, the clothes on their hangers, the mirror on the wall. The collective rattling crescendoed to a dull roar and she had to steady herself on the bureau or run the risk of being knocked on her ass.

The air was alive. Supercharged. Electric.

Dangerous.

And John was the center of the raging energy, his hands cranking into fists so tight his forearms trembled, his thighs grabbing onto his bones as he sank down into fighting stance.

John's mouth stretched wide as his head shot forward on his spine . . .

and he let out a war cry--

Sound exploded all around her, so loud she had to cover her ears, so

powerful she felt the blast against her face.

For a moment, she thought he'd found his voice--except it wasn't

vocal cords making that bellowing noise.

The glass in the sliders blew out behind him, the sheets shattering into thousands of shards that blasted free of the house, the fragments bouncing on 273

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the slate and catching the light like raindrops. . . .

Or like tears.

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FORTY


Blay had no idea what Saxton had just handed him.

Well, yeah, it was a cigar, and yes, it was expensive, but the name

hadn't stuck in his head.

"I think you're going to like it," the male said, shifting back in a leather armchair and lighting up his own stogie. "They're smooth. Dark, but smooth."

Blay flicked up a flame off his Montblanc lighter and leaned forward

for the inhale. As he took the smoke in, he could feel Saxton focusing on him.

Again.

He still couldn't get used to the attention, so he let his eyes wander around the place: vaulted dark green ceiling, glossy black walls, oxblood-color leather chairs and booths. Lot of human men with ashtrays at their elbows.

In short: no distractions that could come close to Saxton's eyes or

voice or cologne or--

"So tell me," the male said, exhaling a perfect blue cloud that momentarily eclipsed his features, "did you put on the pinstripe before or after I called?"

"Before."

"I knew you had style."

"Did you?"

"Yes." Saxton stared across the short mahogany table that separated them. "Or I wouldn't have asked you to dinner."

The meal they'd had at Sal's had been . . . lovely, actually. They'd

eaten in the kitchen at a private table and iAm had made them a special menu of antipasto and pasta, with cafe con leche and tiramisu for dessert.

The wine had been white for the first course, and red for the second.

The topics of conversation had been neutral, but interesting--and

ultimately not the point. The thread of will-they-or-won't-they was the real driver of every word and glance and shift of body.

So . . . this was a date, Blay thought. A subtextual negotiation

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slipcovered in talk of books read and music enjoyed.

No wonder Qhuinn just went for straight sex. The guy wouldn't have

had the patience for this kind of subtlety. Plus he didn't like to read, and the music he pumped into his ears was metalcore that only the deranged or the deaf could stand.

A waiter dressed in black came up. "Can I get you guys something to drink?"

Saxton rolled his cigar between his forefinger and thumb. "Two ports.

Croft Vintage 1945, please."

"Excellent choice."

Saxton's eyes returned to Blay's. "I know."