Samael’s only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Nervousness prickling the nape of her neck, Marabella sucked in a deep breath and sent Samael a mute warning before offering Harley another wavering smile. “This is my…friend. Sama—” Oh shit. She couldn’t call him by name. There weren’t that many Samaels out there, and Harley wasn’t a clueless idiot. It wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together.
Harley frowned. “Sama? That’s rather unusual.”
Samael’s predatory stare didn’t exactly inspire warm fuzzies. “Most just call me Sam.”
“Ah.” Still looking confused and flustered, Harley nodded.
Marabella gripped Sam’s arm, desperate to spirit him away before Harley figured out who—and what—Sam was. “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Harley. Please give your mom my regards.”
Leaving a baffled Harley behind, she steered Sam down the hallway and toward the rear service entrance. Once they were safely out of earshot, she skidded to a stop and glared at Sam. “That was incredibly awkward. You could have at least made things easier by not being so rude to Harley.”
“That’s just me, baby. I’m a rude bastard.” He said it with zero apology. If anything, he sounded proud of the fact.
She plunked her hands on her hips. “Maybe I don’t like rude bastards.”
“Good thing you don’t have to like me to have lewd, filthy sex with me, eh?” His teeth flashed with his wolfish grin.
As his silky words shivered over her skin, the damnable part was she didn’t know what she wanted to do more—run screaming from him…or tackle him with another kiss.
Chapter Eight
Two seconds after Marabella started up her convertible, Sam made a disgusted noise and flicked the radio station to another channel. The presumptuous maneuver made her teeth grind as she came up with a third alternative of what she’d like to do to him—namely smack him upside the head. “I happen to like ABBA.”
Sam grunted. Up until then, she would never have guessed so much derision could be loaded into a wordless sound. Clearly he had serious issues if he didn’t like ABBA. How could anyone listen to “Dancing Queen” and not feel the urge to, well, dance?
She shot Sam another covert, sideways glance and tried to picture him shaking his moneymaker. That thought immediately conjured more X-rated images, and she gulped. Banding her grip on the steering wheel, she roared away from the curb.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Sam stroking the top of the leather console. There was absolutely no reason to consider his motions overtly sexual, but her nipples tightened anyway. The traitorous response made her uncharacteristically testy. “Does my car make up for my taste in music?”
“Nothing can redeem that.” He was silent for a moment. “Except maybe a nineteen seventy Chevelle. In electric blue.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
His stare implied she’d just uttered a blasphemy. Shaking her head, she returned her focus to the road. She’d already decided to take him back to Bella’s Boutique, so at least she didn’t have to rack her brain coming up with a relatively safe, neutral place to playact at this seduction. But that didn’t make her feel any less weird and nervous about the charade she was playing. What if he ended up being angry over not being able to do the dirty deed? She wasn’t so foolish to think he might not retaliate. If push came to shove, she had no qualms about using her magic in self-defense, but what if he decided to crash the Samhain ball again? All of this would have been for nothing.
No. She refused to allow her pessimistic thoughts to derail her from this mission. One way or another, she’d keep him from leaving. Even if it meant tying him to a chair and keeping him locked in place with a holding spell for the night. Those worked on demons, right? She nibbled her bottom lip, the butterflies in her stomach crashing into each other as her doubts intensified.
“Who was the bozo that stopped us in the hall?”
Sam’s question was so unexpected it took her a second to figure out who he was referring to. “Harley? His mother is the leader of the North American Alliance of Witches.” She slid Sam a look. “He’s hardly a bozo.”
“He was dressed like Harry Potter. That makes him a bozo in my book.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have a very high opinion of wizards or witches, do you?”
“Baby, that’s the understatement of the century.”
“I don’t understand. You worked for Antoinette Delacroix. Yes, she was a black witch, but a witch nonetheless.”
“Your point?”
She bit back a sigh. “Are you deliberately trying to be aggravating and evasive?”
“You haven’t even seen me at my worst.”
“There’s a terrifying thought.” A strand of hair loosened from beneath the ivy wreath and whipped across her eye. Before she could make a grab for it, Sam curled his finger around the tendril and tucked it behind her ear. His thumb grazed her lobe, and she shivered. Giving a strained cough, she pressed her legs closer together. “What I’m trying to understand is how you could hold such low regard for witches and yet were willingly employed by one.”
“Willing is a relative term.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise at his flatly worded statement. “Are you saying you were Nettie’s familiar against your wishes?”
He remained stubbornly close-lipped, and her frustration ballooned. “Is it so impossible for you to answer my questions?”
“I’m not here to carry on small talk. The sooner you realize that, the sooner we can get to the good stuff.”
“So that’s it? You only want to have sex. Screw the getting-to-know-each-other part.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
I can’t believe I’m going through with this. Even if she really wasn’t. But in the end, she still had to endure an evening with a demon who possessed a caveman mentality and a one-track mind. A demon she just happened to have a raging case of horniness for.
Yeah, this couldn’t end badly. Not at all.
Dragging in a shaky breath, she pulled into the parking garage down from Bella’s Boutique and cut the engine. She removed the keys from the ignition and prayed Sam wouldn’t comment on the constant jingling the keys made as they dangled from her trembling fingers. He joined her outside the vehicle, and after crossing the deserted boulevard, they walked the short distance to her storefront.
She attempted to jam the key into the lock, but her overworked nerves made the task impossible. Without saying a word, Sam gently nudged her aside and freed the bolt. She didn’t fail to notice the sardonic tilt of his mouth as she muttered a “Thanks” and pushed past him. The tumblers clicked, announcing Sam had secured the lock. She reached for the light switch, but he took her hand and led her away from the door. Her heart beating a chaotic mambo, she trailed along, trying not to focus on the fact he seemed to have a definite destination in mind. They pulled to a stop in the entry leading to the French Bohemian bedroom tableau, and her pulse ratcheted up several notches. She stared at the daybed before jerking her gaze to Sam. Immense heat simmered in his sin-filled eyes.
She blurted the first thing that popped into her mind. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of her more intelligent responses. “The bed is only for display.”
Another flash of sardonic humor flickered across Sam’s face. “What kind of saleswoman would you be if you didn’t test out the merchandise?”
“I…” Ah damn. Her tongue-tied state increased a thousandfold when Sam’s hands planted on either side of her head, effectively boxing her against the wall. The way he was looking at her—as if he were mentally devouring her—caused her pulse to stutter. Sure, there’d been plenty of men who’d gazed at her with lust before the curse ultimately knocked them on their asses. Even so, those occasions didn’t hold a candle to the barely restrained hunger riding Sam’s gorgeous features.