Spirit Song Page 11

  His kiss on her forehead woke her. Funny, she should’ve stirred more when he crawled out from under the covers and tucked the blankets around her. One lazy hand had grasped blindly for any part of his anatomy she could find, her eyes refusing to fully open.

  “Stay, Bastian. Please.” Or at least, she hoped her tired pouty words did form that idea. Warm fingers clasped hers, his lips brushing her knuckles softly as he returned her arm beneath the thick comforter. His rough cheek rubbed against hers, and her silly smile couldn’t be stopped.

  “You need sleep, my angel.” Shivers that had nothing to do with the winter cold outside tickled her skin, triggered by his husky voice. Sleep seemed determined to drag her back into its dark embrace. His breath fanned her hair as he whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry, Miranda. I won’t be far away.”

  She smiled, her cheeks cramping as she thought of the tender sentiment in his rough tones. The thick terrycloth robe was like sandpaper against her overly sensitized skin, her body exhausted after their marathon love-making session. After round one against the wall, he carried her to the shower, where round two depleted all the hot water. His kisses were the air she needed to survive, but that need paled in comparison to the pleasure of his mouth on every part of her body. She remembered the devoted and erotic attention he paid to the two dimples above her ass. He had muttered something in that intoxicating language, his tongue tracing her spine before he plunged into her. He teased orgasm after orgasm from her, and she willing begged for more.

  Hours passed in a haze of ecstasy, and when he carried her to her narrow bed, tenderly tucking her in, she had truly found heaven. She pleaded with him to stay with her, and he held her until sleep was too strong to resist.

  Humming to herself, she slipped into her warm and comfies, an oversize sweatshirt and equally roomy black sweatpants, before she moved into the kitchen, starting the coffee pot as her thoughts once again strayed to her mystery lover. All she had was his name. Sebastian. Her fingers had traced silvery scars that decorated his powerful body, the most terrifying circling his throat. How had they happened? Was he just as dangerous as her boss? Maybe even more so, considering the pull he had over her.

  She halted, her hand hovering over her favorite mug, the faded words of Hamlet’s soliloquy blending to Old Blue Eyes’ adlibs in “Strangers in the Night.” She let a complete stranger into her home, gave him access to her room, not to mention every part of her body. Never had she been so reckless in her life. What was she thinking?

  Gripping onto the countertop, she sucked in quick swallows as she fought back the surprising rise of panic. They didn’t even use any kind of protection. Did she catch something? Or worse? Her mind spun in dangerous circles, each new fear playing chase with the next. The unexpected push of tears sprang behind her closed lids and she choked back a sob.

  Her skin on her neck tingled, the remembered sensation of his fingertips brushing in soothing circles along her tense muscles. Warm air tickled her ear and that heady, purely masculine scent from last night filled the room. Her imagination must be working overtime since even his voice accompanied the spontaneous sensory memory.

  “Would you feel better if I told you the results of my last blood test?”

  She squeaked out a strangled laugh, a couple tears slipping free as she shook her head. “Come on, Andy. Now you’re just being silly.” Steadying herself with a few needed cleansing breaths, she filled her coffee mug, a hint of a smile still warming her lips. Three sips later and she was ready to face the day. She crossed to the small stereo, nothing more than her iPod connected to speakers, and pressed Play. Harry Connick, Jr. tickled the keys as she dressed in more than a robe and set about to restoring order after sex-nado Bastian.

  Yet, as she moved through her tiny apartment, rearranging the scattered furniture and straightening out the skewed pictures on the walls, she sensed his lingering presence in the corners of her mind. A caress on her cheek at the couch. The brush of lips along her shoulder by the bedroom door. Giggles poured from her lips as she nearly danced around, taking joy in the simple happiness long absent from her waking life.

  Time slipped by at a pleasant pace and she almost missed the soft, polite rapping on her front door and would have, if she hadn’t passed close by. With a perplexed smile on her face, she peeked through the peephole, half expecting to find her brother without his keys while the butterflies in her stomach hoped it was another male just beyond the barrier.

  Both dreams were shattered in a heartbeat, her hand trembling as she turned the deadbolt, the security chain still in place. She swallowed hard before opening the door a fraction. Just beyond stood Slick Sal, teeth bared in what passed for a smile, his hair perfectly smoothed without a trace of the wicked weather outside. Caramel wool draped his bulky frame, concealing the weapons she knew were there. His two black-clad goons flanked him on either side, their faces deadly stoic as they waited for the order to strike. The excited butterflies morphed into venomous snakes, and her legs turned to limp spaghetti.

  “Heya, doll. Hope I ain’t interrupting.”

  Her blood ran arctic, words failing her in an attempt to keep the devil from entering her meager home. “Uh, no. I was just…”

  The flimsy chain was no match for the tree trunk leg that pistoned forward. She squeaked and ducked for cover as she scrambled away, twisted rings and splinters pelted her as the menace outside stepped in. Her tiny space filled with malicious energy, Sal’s silent shadows clearing a path for their boss. She tugged her baggy Blackhawks sweatshirt tighter around her, shuffling out of range until her legs bumped into the corner of her couch.

  “What is the meaning of this?” She forced the fear out of her voice, outrage taking center stage. “You have no right—”

  Emotionless eyes like pools of pitch froze her words. Hastily, she shifted her gaze away from the quiet pair and leveled her eyes toward the orchestrator of her current woes. “I have a right to privacy in the room you let me. The contract I signed defined this room as my personal space, or have you decided to change my contract again without even speaking to me?”

  She folded her arms across her chest, locking her trembling muscles in place. Her chin tilted up a notch, defiant in her fear. Inside, her stomach twisted in knots as she secretly prayed for her knightly lover to stay away while the damsel in her wished she was cowering at his back. This isn’t his business; it’s mine and mine alone. C’mon, Andy. You can do this.

  She held her ground as Sal approached, grinning with viscous intent. “Now, doll. Is this how you greet your boss when he comes to visit and see how you’re doing?” His beefy hands clamped around her shoulders. Her body tensed, anticipating some further violent response. “I sent a car for you last night, but my guy said you was already gone when he was waiting for you. I know you didn’t leave early. You ain’t never skipped out before.”

  She kept her eyes trained on her boss as he moved to stand beside her, his arm slithering around her shoulders as he steered her toward the small sofa. Her feet shuffled across the thin rugs covering the worn wooden floors until her ass found the sprung cushions, the rusty coils groaning as Sal lowered himself next to her.

  “You didn’t skip out, did you, doll?” Blunt fingers rested on her arm, drumming out a languid tattoo. The dull green ice in his eyes sharpened the longer he held her gaze. His lips curled into the mocking facsimile of a smile, devoid of humor or warmth.

  “I sang my full set, if that’s what you’re asking, Mr. Francciolli. After my obligations have been met, what I do with the rest of my night is my business alone.”

  Farcical chuckles oozed from her boss, his head shaking as he slipped out of his coat. “You got that all wrong, doll. See, what with the added money your brother owes, we’re gonna need to be renegotiating your contract.” She sat statue-still as dread filled her, terror dripping down her back and freezing her spine. “So, it looks like what you do after singing is gonna be my business after all.”

  Bile rose i
n her throat, her heart rate picking up the pace to catch up with her spinning head. “What do you mean by that?”Her voice was thready and weak. Her legs twitched, the flight-or-fight urge kicking into high gear. Panic bounced her gaze from corner to corner, desperately searching for some new escape route. Her current vantage point gave her only one option: out the window. Half-remembered formulas popped into her mind as she quickly calculated her chances of survival.

  But any equation had one major variable and that was getting past Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum’s evil big brothers.

  Sal scooted closer until the stray thread poking from his shoulder seam tickled her nose. “That means, doll, you and me are gonna be spending lots more quality time together.” Meaty mitts clasped onto her arms, and he smashed his face into hers. Her eyes flared wide as she struggled against the unwanted affection. Her efforts gained momentum once his tongue attempted to pry her lips apart. Her fist flew and her legs thrashed about until a lucky shot to the meat of his thigh gave her the chance she needed.

  She scrambled backward, tripping over the lamp as she climbed over the arm of the couch only to find an immovable wall of malice behind her. The back of her hand became an impromptu napkin, wiping furiously to remove any residue from the sloppy attack.

  “Mr. Francciolli, I don’t care how much money my brother owes you. You do not own me, nor will you ever. Unless you have professional business to discuss, I have nothing further to say to you.” She hid her unsteady hands under her armpits, her shoulders locked tight.

  Sal grinned, reclining as he lazily rested his arm across the back of the couch. He licked his lips, purring with viscous glee as he eyed her with malicious delight. Fear and defiance kept her rooted to her spot before the demonic Doublemint Twins. She might be terrified, but she was damned if she was going to let him attack her in her own place. Seconds ticked by until he rose to his feet. The room held its breath in the ensuing silence, as if anticipating impending violence.

  He stalked her, each step crowding her further into the goons at her back. She forced her gaze to remain forward, her chin held high even as her heart threatened to jump straight out of her chest. Sandwiched between the three menacing males, she refused to cower. She might not be strong enough to overpower all of them, but she was not about to let herself be a victim. If blood was going to be spilled, she was gonna make damned sure some of it was theirs too.

  Raised voices echoed along the hallway and poured in through the open doorway, the sound of oblivious laughter cutting the tension with surgical precision. A disgusted growl rumbled in Sal’s chest, and he took a begrudging step backward.

  Miranda didn’t waste the momentary opening and she darted out into relative freedom. She took refuge by the door frame, hoping Sal and his goons would take the not-so-subtle hint and leave. Somewhat composed, she offered a forced smile to the two waitresses who lived down the hall from her, waving in response to their questioning looks. They paused, concern mirrored in their eyes, but self-preservation kicked their feet into gear when they caught a glimpse of Sal’s enforcers and they disappeared down the stairs.

  Another voice filtered in from the stairwell, the familiar male flirtatious laugh grated on her already frazzled nerves. Yet, as angry as she was at her brother, she prayed that his presence would make Sal think twice about another molestation. Kyle’s playful banter grew louder until his footsteps thumped along the worn linoleum hall.

  “You know, Rebecca, I’m gonna hold you to that one of these—whoa…Sis? What the hell happened to your door? It looks like—”

  Miranda shook her head slowly. Just shoot me now.

  She stepped back as Kyle scooted around her, his foot hovering above the floor when he spied the rest of the room’s occupants. Moment of truth, she thought. Which side would he show, she wondered, lion or lamb?

  “Oh. Uh, h-hey there, Mr. F.”

  She clenched her jaw, her arm twitching in the urge to pop him, just once. Instead of playing the hero, he chose the path of no resistance, sucking up to the slimeball who held his leash. She needed a real hero, like the one who had swooped in and saved more than her sanity last night. But would he come if she called? Did she dare drag him into this mess?

  She squared her shoulders, digging deep to find the frail fragment of courage still remaining in her heart as she met the eyes of the males around the room. She was not some trinket to be yanked about between angry children. And it was time she let them know.

  “Now, if you all don’t mind, I have things to do today, which now includes replacing my front door lock.” She prayed her voice held more determination and less consternation. Four pairs of eyes stared, and she gestured toward the front door. Her hand remained steady only through sheer willpower.

  A wicked grin smeared across Sal’s face, freezing her blood, but she refused to tremble, relying on anger at the world as an anchor. “Sure thing, doll. See you tonight, and don’t make me come find you after the show’s done, got it?”

  Her face betrayed no emotion as Sal and his goons left. With as much cool as she could muster, she closed the door, the wood sitting crooked in its battered frame. She reached for the chain, the action so routine and automatic her fingers searched for the small rounded latch pin until she reminded herself of its absence. The latch’s housing was a goner, along with a healthy chunk of the door frame. Even the knob gained a new wobble as she turned it.

  Noises buzzed in her ears as she rested her forehead against the weakened barrier. Her breaths grew shallow and sharp, and the first sting of tears dripped off the tip of her nose. She buried her face in her hands, forcefully shoving her momentary weakness back inside. A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, spinning to face the puppy dog baby blues.

  “Sis, I am so sorry. I never meant—”

  “You never ‘mean’ anything, Kyle.” Her voice trembled, thick with the tangling emotions in her gut. “You just do. You go through life like it owes you something.” Her gestures grew more frantic as she paced away from him, afraid she might smack him half on purpose. She angrily snatched up the scattered pillows on her earthen couch, eager to keep her hands busy with useful tasks. “You act and think nothing of the consequences. God, why am I having this same conversation with you? I swear we just talked about this yesterday morning. Remember? You told me everything was going to be fine and it was all going to work out?”

  With her focus diverted on base activity, she set about finishing her cleaning and straightening, her gaze lowered as she reined in her earlier outburst. “I’m sorry if that came out harsh, Kyle, but this really wasn’t how I planned to start my day. Now I have to figure out how to get my damned door fixed and God knows I don’t have the money to replace the whole thing and…”

  A slow tap on her shoulder ground her single-minded whirlwind to a halt. She jerked her gaze up to her brother’s face and found herself staring at his cheek. Frowning, she held her breath as she turned slowly toward the door, wondering what held her brother so enthralled.

  Please don’t let this day get any worse.

  She pleaded with the gods above as a voice straight from the heavens cut through her apprehension, the sound pure male and a very pissed off one to boot.

  “Who do I have to hurt?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bastian had a bad feeling as soon as he stepped out of the shower. He had left his angel sleeping soundly as the sun began to warm the cold winter skies. The drive back passed in a blur, the familiar scenery whizzing by unnoticed. His mind was busy replaying the memories of his more recent surroundings. Specifically, creamy milk-and-honey skin paired with dark auburn curls framing sapphire eyes. Her melodic voice moaned and sighed with ecstasy as her strong and supple legs clenched around his waist.

  Once safely back home without wrapping his car around a tree, he threw himself into research. That bastard Francciolli had struck one hell of bargain to have copper wards around his place. Somehow, Slick Sal had sold whatever the syndicate leader had left of his s
oul to the Rogues. And now, it seemed that the slimy asshat was playing a part in the upcoming coup. The taint of darkness clung to the bricks, dripping down the walls both inside and out. The protective metal might mask the trail past the doorway, but there was no way to scrub away the influence of his nemeses.

  Hours sailed by in relative peace. One phone call to Viktor soon had the Viking working on his own angle with a promise of a meeting of the minds once the sun went down. Two pots of coffee later, and thankfully no visit from his fired housekeeper in her underwear, he had discovered all that the Internet had to give about the history of Francciolli’s. He pinpointed Rogue attacks and cross referenced upgrades to the building dating back as far as the 1800s.

  Yet even as he glared at the screen, his brain refused to remained fixed on any piece of info, drifting back to that tiny room above the club and the slice of heaven he’d left behind. He flipped through page after page, all the while his thoughts returned to her, watching over her from a distant vantage point. He was sipping on his third cup when a tingling flutter of panic brushed against the corners of his mind. Zeroing in on the cause—her concern that she might have caught something from him—he chuckled lightly, responding with a wave of warmth and comfort. Grateful that regret did not figure into the list of her worries, he kept his attentions divided throughout the rest of the day, holding true to his promise never to stray too far from her.

  Viktor’s call a few hours later was an unwelcomed interruption. Not to mention the endless barrage of questions centering on the graphic details of his evening’s events. His forehead ached, the deep furrow cutting a permanent gouge over his knitted brows as he ducked each round of the Sexual Inquisition. Plus, growling and snapping appeared to have the exact opposite of its desire affect, prompting his friend to stroll down an even more uncomfortable street.

  But on a far more serious note, so far his friend’s legwork had revealed nothing new. No tangible connection yet, but Bastian knew it was only a matter of time. His temper had simmered under the surface for the entire phone call, something other than his cackling compatriot raising his hackles. His female was purposefully avoiding thoughts of him, shielding herself.