IRENE
New York City. Roof Party. Sunday, May 26, 1:45 AM ET
IRENE WAS ON HER third glass of champagne when she turned away from the bar and lost her footing, slamming hard into a solid wall of muscled man. Her champagne flew up and out of her glass in a spectacular bubbly spray, splashing them both. Assessing the damage, she wished for a black hole to come swallow her up.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, mindlessly rubbing her cocktail napkin over her chest. “¡Hijo de puta!” she said, cursing under her breath. She needed to slow down on the drinks.
“¿Siempre usas groserias en español?” he asked her.
“No, I don’t always swear in Spanish. It just depends on my mood. Sometimes I pick Farsi,” she replied as heat rose up her neck. Swearing in other languages somehow seemed less rude. Unless, of course, the person you swore in front of happened to speak the same language.
Her gaze slowly traveled up the tall tree of a man standing inches in front of her, over the wet patch of champagne on his shirt, up to the amused face of the caramel-colored god she’d seen at the concert sitting a few seats down from her. She’d overheard Cara call him Paco earlier. The same height and build as Simon, he was massive and gorgeous with short, dark hair and molten brown eyes the color of dark chocolate.
“Ay Dios mío,” she mumbled and shook her head, continuing to wipe away the wetness from her chest. Of all the people she could have spilled her drink on, did it have to be the hottest man at the party? And that was saying something, considering the amount of hard muscle per square foot jamming up the roof deck.
He laughed. “Can I get you another drink, niña bonita?”
Irene blushed at the warmth in his voice and at being called a pretty girl. “Sure, why not?” She smiled at him shyly, hoping he didn’t notice her rosy cheeks.
Placing his large hand on the small of her back, he gently turned her back around to face the bar. Resting his body up against hers, he put one arm on her shoulder while he waved the other over her head to get the bartender’s attention.
Leaning down, he asked, “Another champagne?”
She nodded. The warmth of him behind her and his lips close to her ear nearly sent her into apoplectic shock; her body quivered at his closeness. Typically, she kept company with the DC milquetoast variety of male. This guy was definitely on the other end of the spectrum. Built like a WWC wrestler, he oozed enough sex appeal to combust her panties.
“Champagne for the señorita, and a Dos Equis.” His voice had a silky, smooth quality.
Maybe I’m drunker than I thought, she mused, because this guy is making me swoon.
With the two drinks in his hands, Paco directed her over to a pair of chairs at the side of the deck and waited for her to be seated before handing her the glass of champagne.
Sitting down next to her, he tapped his beer bottle to her glass. “To a pretty girl with a sharp tongue,” he said with a twisted smile.
After taking a swig of beer, he put down the bottle and reached his hand out to introduce himself. “I’m Paco.”
She smiled as her hand disappeared inside of his. “Irene.”
“You speak Spanish… and Farsi.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Those are two of the ten languages I speak.”
He tipped his head in admiration. “That’s a lot of languages.”
“I’m a linguist for the State Department. You could say it’s what I do for a living.” She took a sip from her glass. “Do you work for Simon?”
Paco stifled a laugh, and shook his head no. “I’m retired, but freelance through Angel Benitez. I’m currently working on Brett King’s security team.”
“You look a little young to be retired…”
He just shrugged.
“But you know Simon?”
He shrugged again. “Of course. But I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting him recently.”
Hmm, she thought. Sounds like he hasn’t known Simon any longer than Cara. She filed that tidbit away.
“So, you live in California with Brett?” she asked.
Attempting a little more intelligence couldn’t hurt, could it? Maybe she could find out something that would help Simon and Cara. As for Creep and Creepier, Caswell had called this morning to let her know neither of the tracking devices seemed to be working, suggesting the penthouse could be protected by a sophisticated signal jammer. Beyond what she’d planted in the library, she hadn’t had the desire to plant anything else—that was tomorrow’s task. Since Cara didn’t seem to be in imminent danger, Irene left all of her spy equipment back at the penthouse. Alcohol definitely helped her to relax as she pushed off the execution of her plan. Giving herself a small pat on the back for waiting, she gained an added benefit: chances were low that a satellite was trained on her right now from space, capturing the scene of her mooning over someone who the NSA might consider associated with terrorists.
He gave her an intense look. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”
She blushed again and looked away. “Sorry, I’m just making conversation.”
It surprised her when he reached out and gently touched her cheek sending a flood of heat through her body. “It’s okay. I haven’t had the pleasure of spending time with such a pretty lady in a long time. I’m forgetting my manners. Forgive me?”
It should be illegal to look that edible, she thought. Suddenly shy, she said, “I don’t want to keep you if you’re working tonight.”
“I’m off-duty until tomorrow morning unless Brett decides to leave the building.” He cocked his head and gave her a rakish smile. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Absolutely not,” she said and took a long drink of her champagne to drown some of her schoolgirl butterflies.
His eyes softened as he looked at her. “Can we start again? I think you were wondering what I do in my retirement when I’m not working in private security.”
She found the warm lilt in his voice soothing. She smiled back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
He gently shook his head. “No, really, it’s okay. I’ve just been spending too much time with a bunch of hombres groseros.” Paco lifted his beer bottle to a large biker with his same caramel-colored skin. “Like my friend, Angel, here.” Angel looked down at them and chuckled as he shuffled past. Impolite men, indeed, she thought.
No doubt Paco was charming, and getting more irresistible by the minute as she got drunker and bolder. She batted her eyelashes back at him. “You have my undivided attention.”
“Angel and I, we own a few dance clubs in southern California. It allows me to spend my time however I like, so I consider myself retired.”
“No family?”
Paco’s jaw tightened and he looked away.
Her heart jumped to her throat. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”
He reached for her arm and shook his head. “No, you’re asking normal questions. To answer your question, there is no one, no señorita in my life right now.”
She didn’t press further. It was bad enough that she’d been this nosy.
“So what other languages do you speak?” he asked, steering the discussion away from him.
Plunging in with both feet, she recounted to him how she’d grown up traveling the world and living in different countries as the daughter of a diplomat. They spoke about his childhood in Spain, and then his relocation to France and finally to California. He was pretty vague in his descriptions, but she got the sense that he’d lived a lot in what looked like maybe thirty-five years. He couldn’t be more than that… Regardless of the fact that he was probably eight years her senior, he was downright sexy, and who was she to stand on ceremony? Her father was older than her mother and it never mattered to them. Funny, the fact that Paco could be under suspicion based on his association with Simon didn’t bother her in the least.
PACO
Angel sidled up to Paco at the bar. “Amigo, you smell worse than Brett. You got it bad for that little redheaded señorita?”
Paco all but growled in response.
“I mean no disrespect, my friend.” Angel threw up his hands in surrender. “You deserve some happiness. It’s just been a long time, that’s all I’m saying to you.”
Paco rubbed his face, glad his back was turned to Irene. “She’s a very good woman. That’s all I’m saying back.”
Angel touched his friend’s arm. “We’ve known each a long time and I love you like a brother. Enjoy yourself, you deserve it. Isabella… she’s been gone for a—”
Paco snapped his head around to look at Angel. “Benedictine, don’t say her name!” His jaw was set in a hard line. True, he and Angel had known each other for over four centuries, but some topics were unwelcome, even among friends. To be reminded of his Isabella was like a stab in the heart. He’d lost her to cancer in 1976 at the age of fifty-five after an agonizing eighteen-month battle. Every drop of life sucked from her bones as he watched… helpless to do anything but outlive her and drag the pain like an albatross around his neck.
Angel’s eyes grew hard and the line of his mouth nearly disappeared. He dug his fingers into Paco’s biceps and whispered harshly into his ear, “You listen to me right now. Isabella wanted you to move on, and she made me promise that I would make you. You’ve had almost forty years to grieve for her. End it. Even if she had lived, you would’ve eventually watched her die. She loved you too much to see you suffer this long.”
He grabbed Paco’s head and physically turned it toward Irene who sat with her back to them. “That woman over there, she’s the first woman you’ve reacted to since Isabella. If you have a chance to live out your life with a human then don’t fuck it up! You hear me? Do you know how lucky you’d be to have that?”
Paco looked into Benedictine’s eyes and saw the naked pain he wore like a battle scar across his heart. He understood. He knew the source of Benedictine’s pain, and it exceeded even his own. It was also the reason behind his friend’s exile.
Paco closed his eyes and spoke softly. “I only just met her. I don’t even know her.”
Angel glared at him. “But I know you, and I’m telling you if you could see the life in your own eyes tonight like I’ve seen, you would do anything…” Angel turned away and wiped his hand across his face. “Do what you want,” he said and walked away.
Irene was an outsider and didn’t even know he was Nephilim. How could he go any further? Was Angel crazy? It was true that Paco was attracted to her. She was smart, bubbly like his Isabella, and pretty like a little pixie. The thought of Irene warming his bed excited him.
He wanted to throw his hands up and scream in frustration. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of his steamer trunk full of personal luggage just as he was having a good and carefree time.
He rested his head in his hands, the drinks on the bar in front of him. A light tap on his shoulder caused him to turn around. Irene stood there with her hands on her hips.
“A girl could die of thirst over here,” Irene said in a sweet and playful voice.
He chuckled. She really was the cutest thing he’d laid eyes on in quite some time. He rewarded her with his biggest, broadest smile.
“Here you go, pretty one,” he said and handed her another glass of champagne.
She looked at him with concern and reached up to tenderly touch his cheek. “Are you okay, Paco? You look sad. That smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.”
The smile faded from his lips and he covered her hand on his cheek with his own as he closed his eyes. A sad smile turned up the corners of his lips. “You are way too observant, señorita. It’s late. Can I walk you down to the car?” He opened his eyes and kissed the palm of her hand.
“No, not if you keep doing that,” she said, amused and breathless. Grabbing the drink off the bar, she drank it down in two gulps.
“What are you doing?” Paco chuckled, “Are you loca, Pelirroja?” He surprised himself when the word passed through his lips. He’d spontaneously come up with an affectionate nickname for her: “Red,” because of her hair.
“No. If I didn’t just do that, I wouldn’t have been able to do this.” She stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his. It took him only a second for the shock to wash off before he wrapped his arms around her back and fully met her kiss with his own. Melting her small body into his, he hungrily searched her mouth with his tongue, exploring her with a more than gentle insistence. His body reacted immediately. He swept her up into his strong arms and carried her through the thinning crowd, down the stairs, and into the guest room where he was staying.
He kicked the door shut behind him. When he reached the bed, she went limp in his arms becoming one hundred pounds of dead weight.
She had passed out.
He laughed deep in his throat and shook his head. Laying her down, he thought, Saved by the bell. In truth, he preferred making love with her when he could be sure she wouldn’t have any drunken regrets.
It was three in the morning and the party was breaking up. He had a decision to make. Either he could load her into the waiting SUV headed back to the penthouse, or he could let her sleep it off with him in the guest room.
No contest. She would stay with him.
Angel was right, although he hated to admit it. He thought long and hard about whether he should change her into one of his T-shirts, but decided to keep her in the dress she wore. That way, when she woke up, she couldn’t accuse him of taking advantage of her. He expected her to have a crippling headache in the morning.
He stripped down to his boxers and threw on a clean T-shirt. Gently removing her glasses, he put them on the nightstand, and then folded her into the covers and lay down next to her. Usually, he slept naked, surrounded by his wings, but that was out of the question. Since temperature wasn’t a factor for him, he didn’t need a blanket.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he watched her sleep. Staring down at her, he took his finger and pushed back a short lock of red hair from her face. He smiled and dipped down to give her a gentle kiss on the lips before he pulled her back, spooning her into his huge body.
“Good night, Pelirroja,” he whispered and turned out the light.