Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)

Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1) Page 38

“Ah” Wolfe cleared his throat, careful to avert his gaze from Serra’s lush body shown to perfection in the skintight leather pants and lacy bustier. “She looks like a woman on a mission. I think I’ll leave the two of you alone.”

“Traitor,” Fane muttered, composing his expression to hide the familiar sense of frustration and raw, aching desire.

This woman was his greatest temptation.

And the promise of his doom.

Chapter Twenty

Duncan eventually called for the BBQ. He even allowed Callie to get dressed so they could eat like a civilized couple in the dining room with real forks and plates.

See ... he wasn’t a complete barbarian.

And astonishingly, he found amazing pleasure in sitting at the table arguing about music and movies and whether ice cream should be chocolate or vanilla while he fed her the finest brisket in the world.

This wasn’t about heat and lust and fireworks.

Instead it was fun and peaceful and so damned . . . right . . . that a part of him knew he should be terrified.

Snatching the last square of corn bread, he was busy buttering it when the ring of his phone broke the easy atmosphere.

Automatically he reached to answer it, then his gaze was snared by the faceted sapphire blue of her eyes and he deliberately returned to buttering the corn bread.

The ringing stopped. For all of two seconds.

“Ignore it,” he muttered as it started again. And again.

She reached to snatch the bread from his hand, a teasing grin tugging at her lips.

“I can if you can.”

His libido stirred as she took a bite, the butter shimmering on her lower lip. He should turn off the phone and haul her back to bed.

Or even sweep aside the dishes and indulge in his fantasy of eating dessert off that pale, satin skin.

The delectable image began to form in his mind.

Callie’s naked body stretched across the table. Her crimson hair shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he ...

His phone once again intruded.

“Dammit.” Huffing out a resigned sigh, he reached to pluck the phone off the table. He was a Grade A idiot. It was no wonder Susan dumped his ass. “I’m sorry.”

Before he could answer, Callie reached to lightly touch his hand. “Duncan.”

He grimaced, bracing for the familiar lecture. “Yes?”

“Don’t ever apologize for being good at your job.”

Okay. That was the last thing he expected.

He studied her pale face, which revealed a calm acceptance that he was fairly certain he didn’t deserve.

“I think I’m apologizing for letting it consume me,” he muttered. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

He shrugged. “My ex-wife, my mother, my sisters, the old lady next door—”

She held up a hand. “Yeah, I get it. They’re worried about you. But that doesn’t make your love for your job wrong.”

He reached to grasp her fingers, searching the depths of her stunning eyes for the truth.

Could she actually understand?

“I don’t want you to feel as if I’m putting you in second place.”

“I don’t” She leaned across the table to brush a light kiss over his mouth. “Of course, there’s a difference between being obsessed with your career and using it as a barrier to keep people at a distance.”

She did understand.

All too well.

“How did you know?” he demanded, grudgingly recalling the dates he’d broken because it was easier to stay at the station than spend a few empty hours trying to act interested. Or the Sunday family dinners he’d skipped because he didn’t want to be the target of his meddling sisters’ attempts to set him up with their endless parade of friends.

“Because I’ve used my fear of being rejected to do the same thing.”

He smiled with rueful amusement. “So what you’re saying is that we’re a match made in heaven?”

“Or we’re both so screwed up no one else could stand us.”

He chuckled, pressing her fingers to his lips. “I’ll go with that.”

On cue, the phone started its insistent ringing. Callie smiled, giving his arm a squeeze.

“Answer,” she commanded softly. “It might be important.”

He pressed the phone to his ear, knowing she was right. This wasn’t about burrowing himself in work so he could ignore the barrenness of his life. There was a crazed necromancer out there who had to be stopped.

“O’Conner,” he growled, his brows lowering as he listened to the crisp voice of his chief. “Where? I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He ended the connection and met Callie’s curious gaze.

“Who was it?” she demanded.

“The chief.” He absently gathered the dirty plates and took them into the kitchen. “She said that a man appeared at the station claiming that he was the rightful owner of Calso’s coin.”

He hadn’t realized Callie had followed him into the kitchen until she spoke directly behind him.

“Where are you supposed to meet him?”

He turned, frowning down at her expectant expression. “Callie, it’s too dangerous—”

She reached up to pinch his lips together, effectively halting his protest.

“Don’t go there,” she warned. “We’re in this together.”

He nipped the tips of her fingers before pulling them from his mouth.

“Stubborn.”

The aggravating female smiled, knowing she’d won. “Determined.”

“Same thing,” he muttered. “Come on.”

He led her out of the apartment and to his car, silently promising himself he’d go hunting for a new apartment on his first day off. He had high hopes that he could convince Callie to spend more than one afternoon with him. She deserved better than this run-down complex that’s only saving grace was that it happened to be close to the station.

Maybe he’d even look at a house, he decided, as he pulled out of the parking lot.

With a yard and dog and swing set . . .

He was just getting to the white picket fence when Callie thankfully yanked him from his ridiculous train of thoughts.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going.”

He cleared his throat, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. Christ.

“The police station.”

She frowned. “Why did you say it might be dangerous?”

“Any place can be dangerous.”

She snorted. “You were just trying to keep me from going with you.”

It was true, but not for the reason she suspected.

The mere thought of the reception she was likely to receive at the police station was enough to make him grind his teeth.

Time for a distraction.

“Hey, the only time I got shot I was in a church.”

His tone was teasing, but her sapphire eyes widened with a genuine horror. “You were shot?”

“A grazing wound from a teenager who was trying to steal the silver candlesticks from the altar.” He hastily minimized the incident. His ma and sisters were still convinced he spent his days dodging bullets. “If I hadn’t startled him he would never have shot.”

She frowned. “Or he might have taken better aim.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not,” she muttered, reaching into her purse to pull out her familiar reflective sunglasses. “But I suppose it’s who you are.”

Halting at a stoplight, he watched her slide on the glasses. The sight sent a tangle of emotion through him.

Fury that she had to hide who she was, combined with a sharp, aching need to return her to his apartment where he could protect her from the world.

“I could call Molinari back and tell her to reschedule the interview for tomorrow,” he said roughly.

She tilted her head to the side, her glasses making it impossible to read her emotions.

“Tempting, but Fane will be returning in the morning,” she reminded him.

“All the more reason to enjoy our rare time alone.”

She paused, as if sifting through the various reasons for his sudden urgency to return to his apartment. Then, a slow, achingly sad smile curved her lips.

“We’ll have tonight,” she promised softly.

He gripped the wheel, ignoring the jackass behind him that was blaring his horn as the light turned green.

“You do realize I just volunteered to forget work?” he asked. “That’s a first for me.”

With an obvious effort she managed a teasing expression, leaning across the seat to stroke her lips along the line of his jaw.

“I’m very proud of you.”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing the warm, apple scent of her to ease his strange sense of foreboding.

“How proud?”

“I’ll show you,” she whispered in his ear before settling back in her seat. “Later.”

With a growl, he stomped his foot on the gas pedal.

Later couldn’t get there fast enough.

Zak knew that his body was lying on the floor of the temple. In a distant part of his brain he could feel the hard pebbles that poked into his chest and the fine grains of dirt that drifted from the ceiling to land on his face.

He could even feel the blood that trickled from his wound to pool at the base of his skull.

His consciousness, however, was traveling through the darkness, heading deep beneath the ziggurat, as if lured by a siren’s call.

At last he came to a halt, the shadows shifting to reveal that he hovered in front of an ornate sarcophagus.

He studied the elaborate symbols etched onto the gilded wood, knowing without a doubt that they had been created just for him.

He could sense it in his very soul.

Just as he could sense a presence that filled the barren tomb.

With no corporal body, he could only use his thoughts to try and communicate.

“Who are you?”