Darynda Jones - First Grave on the Right

He pulled me back against his chest, and I melted against him. It was like falling into fire, his heat blazing against my skin, everywhere at once.

“You’re him,” I said, my voice shakier than I’d hoped. “You were there when I was born. How is that possible?”

His mouth was on my neck, searing my flesh as his hand reached under my sweater and trailed flames over my stomach. Cautiously, he tested the area where the tip of his blade had sliced. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was grateful for his concern.

Then his mouth was at my ear. “Dutch,” he said, his breath fanning across my cheek. “At last.” I turned into him, but he pulled back, studied my face, and I finally had a clear, undiluted view of the magnificent being known as Reyes Farrow.

He did not disappoint. He was the most glorious man I’d ever seen, solid and fluid at once, his lean muscles sculpted from a stone that could liquefy between heartbeats. Coffee-colored hair tumbled over a strong brow and curled behind an ear. The deep mahogany of his eyes, laced with spikes of gold and emerald green, shimmered with barely controlled lust. And his mouth, full and masculine, parted sensually. I now recognized his attire; a prison uniform, as Elizabeth had said. The sleeves had been rolled up to expose his forearms, long and corded with sleek muscles.

With infinite care, he slid his fingertips over my bottom lip, his expression severe, like a child who’d just discovered fireflies and wanted to know what lay behind the magic that illuminated them.

When his finger brushed along my lower teeth, I bit down softly, enclosed my lips over the tip, and suckled the taste, earthy and exotic, off his skin. He hissed in a sharp breath, rested his forehead on mine with eyes closed, and seemed to struggle for control as I drew more of him into my mouth. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or for him, but he braced an arm on the door and pushed me back against it with a groan, his other hand suddenly around my throat, holding me captive as he fought for control over his body.

It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me. My body responded to his every touch with a jolt of arousal. A hunger — so hot, it ached — pooled in my abdomen, swirled and expanded with the white heat of desire. I wanted him forever, and in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he died. Would I still get to have him? Would he come to me after he passed, or would he cross over and leave me to navigate the earthly plane alone? I was so afraid I’d lose him if his physical body expired. I wanted him to wake up, to be mine in flesh as well as in spirit. I was selfish that way.

“Reyes,” I said, my voice breathy with need as his mouth found an especially sensitive spot behind my ear, “please wake up.”

He leaned back with brows furrowed as if he didn’t understand; then his head descended and his mouth covered mine, and I lost all sense of reason. The kiss started soft, his tongue drifting across mine, tasting and teasing with infinite care. It grew quickly like a wildfire, intensified, became savagely fierce and demanding as he plundered my mouth, explored and invaded with a driving primal need. The kiss siphoned every last bit of uncertainty I’d tucked away. He tasted like rain and sunshine and flammable substances.

He stepped closer, pushed into me, and a spark ignited between my legs. Just as my hands dipped in search of the hardness pressed against my abdomen, he stopped.

In a movement so quick it made me dizzy, he broke the kiss and spun around. His robe materialized instantly, a liquid entity that encased us both, and I heard the sing of metal coming to life, of a blade being drawn. A sinister growl, deep and guttural, thundered from his chest, and I blinked to awareness — so weak, I could barely stand. Was someone in the room with us? Something?

I couldn’t see what lurked beyond Reyes’s wide shoulders, but I could feel tension solidify every muscle in his body. Whatever lingered near, it was very real and very dangerous.

Then he turned back to me, wrapped his free hand around my waist, and pulled me against him, his mahogany eyes glowing as they searched mine, begging for understanding. “If I wake up,” he said, his voice an agonized whisper, “they’ll find me.”

“What? Who?” I asked, alarm seizing my heart.

“If they find me,” he continued, his gaze lingering on my mouth, “they find you.”

Then he was gone.

About three seconds later, I hit the floor.

Had I been asleep for the last twenty-seven years? Were there beings and entities I’d never seen? Beings so dangerous and savage that only something supernatural could fight them?

I sat in the conference room with Uncle Bob, unable to fully focus after last night. Garrett was there, too, as well as the DA, the lead detective on the Price task force, the lawyers, and a very fidgety Angel. We were finalizing the plans for the evening. It was tricky making plans when not everyone in the room was in the loop, but Uncle Bob sold it. I knew he would.

Garrett and Angel had been surprisingly quiet. Garrett, I could understand. He was against the whole thing. But Angel had a prime opportunity to flirt with a hot, departed lawyer in a miniskirt, and he didn’t take it. In fact, he hardly looked at her. I couldn’t imagine what ate at him. Was it Reyes? Did he know I had fantasies about him that bordered on criminal?

After the detective and the DA left, Uncle Bob turned to me. “Okay, what’s the real plan?”

Back to reality. A weak grin slid across my face. “I go in with my ridiculous video and fabricated evidence and get Price to confess everything.”

“You can do that?”

“I can do that.”

“Damn,” he said, impressed already, “you really are a whisperer.”

Garrett shifted in his seat but refused to say anything.

“What if we can’t find him?” Barber asked in reference to their search for Father Federico. “What if the task force doesn’t know about all of Price’s holdings? Maybe they’re keeping him somewhere else?”

“Or they’ve already killed him,” Sussman said.

“That’s always a possibility,” I said, “but Price is Catholic, through and through. I just think he’d have a hard time offing an ordained priest.”

“So, Barber and I are searching his holdings,” Elizabeth said, “while Sussman and Angel assist you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“What’s the plan?” Uncle Bob asked. I summarized our ideas, and he gave us a thumbs-up. Good thing, ’cause we really didn’t have a Plan B.

“Angel,” I said as everyone was taking off, “are you going to spill, or do I have to resort to the torture techniques I learned last year during Mardi Gras?”

He smiled and added a bounce to his step for my benefit. “I’m good, boss. I can do this with my eyes closed.”

“Only ’cause you can see through your lids.”

“True,” he said with a shrug.

I checked my phone. Cookie’d left me a message. “You just seem so sad,” I said, dialing voice mail. “Like someone stole your favorite nine millimeter.”

“I’m not sad.” He started down the hall, then turned back. “Least not when I look at you.”

Aw. That was sweet. He was totally up to something; I just couldn’t put my finger on what it might be.

“Guess what? Guess what?” Cookie chimed happily into the phone. “I got her name. I called that cell mate of Reyes’s, that Amador Sanchez, and threatened to have him picked up on a parole violation if he didn’t spill. I got her name and address. She’s—” The voice mail beeped; then another message started. “Sorry. Damn phones. She’s still in Albuquerque. Her name is Kim Millar, and she’s still here.”