Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ I’d spotted a dark angel/demon standing at the edge of my bed, watching me, waiting for me to die. His gaze had seemed to burn into me. Intense. Scorching. I had felt a strange sort of comfort in his presence, though, knowing I wasn’t alone.

      Now that I was awake, I wanted him with me again.

      “Angel, “ I croaked, my wild eyes feverishly searching for him in the darkness. I needed a glass of water, el pronto. I think something had died inside my mouth and rigor mortis had already set in. When I earned no response, I tried again. “Demon.”

      Still nothing.

      Had he left? Oh, he had. Bastard. He’d abandoned me.

      I closed my eyes and a picture of him formed in my mind. He was severely hot—but he wasn’t handsome, if that made any sense. He looked savage and feral, like something you should fear, yet couldn’t because you wanted so badly to tame it. Hair as black as midnight framed his face, and his eyes were so blue they sparkled. I would have said they sparkled like sapphires, but there was a predatory glint in those eyes of his, dangerous and wild, nixing any thought of precious gems.

      He was tall. Six-four was my guess. He’d been wearing black from head to toe, blending into the room’s shadows. The scent of blueberry muffins, ashes and untamed jungle had wafted from him. I rolled to my side, burrowing deeper under the covers as another black web formed in my mind. He had to.

      I must have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, my eyelids were fluttering open and taking in the sunlight. A long while passed before I was able to orient myself. The room appeared hazy at first, everything slowly slipping into place as if someone had wiped my line of vision with glass cleaner. I saw my peeling ceiling … my yellowing walls … my brown shag carpet … my men’s loafers … my—Men’s loafers?

      My eyes blinked open and closed, then traveled up a pair of black pants, a firm butt, a belted waist and a well filled out black shirt. Ah, the Angel of Death, I realized, relaxing a little. He hadn’t left me, after all. Once again he was standing at the side of my bed. He had his back to me as he spoke to someone on a walkie-talkie.

      “Subject is roughly five-six, slim, straight brown hair, hazel eyes—mostly green. Full lips.” He paused. “Uh, really full lips. Small scar on left shoulder. No tattoos … unfortunately.”

      Who the hell was “subject"? I wondered groggily. Me? It sounded like me. Maybe creatures of the other-world preferred to keep things all-business.

      “Subject has stopped writhing, and her skin is no longer tinted green. The bruises under her eyes have faded. Subject seems to be on the mend.”

      His voice was low and sexy. I might be weak, but I wasn’t dead—or was I? I shivered. My gaze swept over him once more. He was as deliciously tall as I remembered, and so wonderfully muscled I would have liked to wrap my hands (legs—whatever!) around his biceps. Obviously, he worked out. A lot. His shoulders were wide, his back broad and his ass total, quarter-bouncing perfection. I bet even Sherridan’s twins couldn’t compare.

      “Are you God’s minion or the devil’s?” I asked, my voice weak and raw. I’d put my money on the devil. (If I had any money, that is.) God had probably banned me from heaven months ago, when I filled my ex the Prince of Darkness’s apartment with rotten fish while he vacationed with the girl he’d dumped me for. (One rotten fish for another, you could say. Not that anything could compete with Martin.)

      The angel/demon spun around, and those crystalline blue eyes pierced me. Hot, so unbelievably hot. I sucked in a breath, my hormones sizzling to life despite my condition. Seduction and danger poured from him. He had golden skin, a chiseled face with the shadow of a beard, and shaggy, windblown hair. The black locks fell over his forehead, almost shielding the arch of his brows. His nose was slightly crooked—from being broken one too many times?

      “Hello, Belle. Glad to see you’re awake.”

      The sound of my name on his soft, kiss-me lips was intoxicating. I fought the urge to reach out and trace my fingertips over that dark stubble dusting his jaw. I fought the urge to grab him by the neck and kiss the breath out of him. I fought the urge … oh, hell. Come to Momma. I tried to reach out, but my arms were too weak and remained at my sides.

      Maybe that was a good thing. He was the first man to enter my apartment in, well, too many months to think about (without crying), so I probably would have done a poor job of pouncing/licking/consuming him.

      “Don’t be afraid. If you’ll answer some questions for me, I’ll leave you alone, “ he said. “Sound good?”

      Okay, so he wanted to get away from me as soon as possible. I had to look like total crap. Before he escorted me through the gates of eternity, maybe he’d let me shower, brush my teeth, apply ten pounds of makeup, slip on a red teddy and mist myself with pheromone perfume. Not that I wanted to impress him or anything. Really. A girl just needed to make a good impression her first day in the afterlife.

      “You falling asleep on me again?” he asked.

      “No questions, “ I said. I’d answered enough of those when Pretty Boy had interrogated me. As I struggled to sit up, the ache in my head roared to full life. I groaned and flopped against the pillow. “I hate to break it to you, but you totally suck at your job. Don’t just stand there looking sexy, take my soul already.”

      “Subject awake but not lucid, “ he said to the walkie-talkie. For a second, only a second, I thought I heard the beat of his heart. Steady at first, then gaining in speed. Or maybe that was my heart.

      “If I’m asked to give an evaluation on the other side, “ I said, “you’re going to score real low.”

      “You must be thirsty.”

      The moment he spoke, I realized just how dry my mouth was. “Yes, “ I rasped.

      “Subject is thirsty, “ he said, then hooked the walkie-talkie, or whatever the hell it was, to his waist. He disappeared. That was the only way to describe it. He moved so silently, so quickly out of my room, he was like a puff of smoke. There one moment, gone the next.

      He returned as quickly as he’d left and offered me a glass of water. I tried to sit up, but the feat proved impossible. Reaching out, he anchored his free hand under my neck and gently lifted my head to the glass. I drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing my throat, my stomach, moving through my overheated blood.

      Calluses covered his hand. My skin began to tingle. Umm, nice. So nice. My increasingly heavy eyelids fluttered open and closed as he eased me back onto the pillow and set the water aside. “Your evaluation scores just increased, “ I said hoarsely. Sleep. I’d sleep a little longer.

      “We really do need to talk.” He gave my shoulder a soft shake.

      My brain wasn’t functioning at optimal levels, but common sense finally slipped past the thick labyrinth of stupidity blanketing my mind. I jolted into total wakefulness. Could a hallucination help me drink a glass of water? Would an apparition have calluses? Would a messenger of death be able to physically touch me? No, no and no.

      The stranger standing in front of me was very real.

      Panic washed through me. “Get out, “ I demanded, my alarm making my voice scratchy. “Right now.” I wore nothing more than the flimsy bra-and-panty set I’d worn under the Utopia uniform I’d stripped out of, and though СКАЧАТЬ