Jessica Andersen - Blood Spells

Cancún, Mexico Six years ago Hel-lo, handsome, Patience thought as a salvo of salutes flash-banged overhead, lighting the sky and shortening her breath. Or maybe it wasn’t the fireworks driving the air from her lungs. Maybe it was the guy she’d just locked eyes with, picking him out of the crowd because he was a half a head taller than everyone else, and he wasn’t looking at the fireworks. He was looking at her.

It wasn’t like she’d never been stared at before. She was tall, stacked, and blond, and years of fight training had honed her movements in a way that drew attention—especially that of the Y chromosomes. So yeah, she was used to being looked at, used to being wanted.

But she wasn’t used to immediately wanting in return. She recognized the warm, liquid shimmy in her stomach as desire, but had never felt it like this before, as an instantaneous chemical response that lit her up and made her yearn for an entirely unknown quantity. Always before, she’d liked her boyfriends before desiring them, gotten to know them before taking the physical plunge. But there was nothing gradual about this; it was like being hit between the eyes with a big cartoon hammer labeled LUST.

He was built big, which was an instant turn-on given that she towered over lots of the guys she knew. He was flat-out, hands-down gorgeous, with spike-cut hair she thought would be dark brown in better light, and eyes a shade lighter. His dark, unadorned T-shirt was stretched across a wide chest and ripped abs, and tucked into faded cutoffs that were practically painted onto narrow hips and massive thighs. His calves were corded with muscle, tan and hairless, his feet encased in beat-up boat shoes. But it was more than just the way he looked. He seemed to radiate a quiet, watchful strength along with a punch of charisma she wasn’t used to from guys her age, or even a year or two older, as he appeared to be.

Her body flashed from hot to cold and back; she felt dizzy and a little drunk, though she’d had only two rum-and-whatevers since dinner, holding off the serious tequilaing for later after the fireworks, when she was supposed to be going barhopping with Casey and Amanda. Who, she suspected, were going to be on their own now, because he was coming over.

Normally, she would’ve felt a flare of feminine triumph that he’d lost their eye-lock standoff by making the move. Now, though, all she felt was anticipation.

As he came through the crowd toward her, the inebriated human sea eddied. The women turned toward him, faces lighting and then falling when he moved past without noticing them. The men shifted to let him through while they kept their eyes on the sky, subordinates giving way to the alpha. Then he was squaring off opposite her with his weight evenly balanced, leaving him ready to move in or away with equal ease. A fighter’s ready stance.

Her pulse kicked higher. Oh, yeah. Thanks to growing up with Hannah, she was culturally programmed to want herself a warrior. Not for keeps, of course. She’d promised her winikin she wouldn’t commit to anything until after the end date. She hadn’t promised not to sample the wares, though. And thank the gods for that.

He held out his hand. “Brandt White-Eagle.” His voice was as rocking as his face and bod, smooth and masculine, with an orator’s resonance.

She pressed her palm to his. “Patience Lazarus.” How odd that, of the two of them, he was the one with an animal in his name. Hannah had modernized her bloodline name from “iguana” to “lizard,” and from there to “Lazarus”; the winikin was a Heinlein fan. But White-Eagle . . . if he’d been a Nightkeeper, his bird bloodline would’ve outranked her terrestrial one. As it was, the name—and his looks—suggested Native American blood, which was pretty damn sexy in its own right. She’d take Dances with Wolves over Heinlein any day.

“Are you here with someone?”

Casey and Amanda had noticed the exchange and were openly gaping. When Patience glanced in her friends’ direction, she got a quadruple thumbs-up. She looked back at the guy. Brandt. “What if I am?”

She got a long, slow smile with lots of eye contact. “Then he’s out of luck.” A pause. “Unless you’re not feeling it?”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s something.” In fact, the air seemed to be buzzing with that

“something.” Her skin tingled almost to the point of itching, making her want to rub herself, touch herself, do something to ease a sudden surge of restlessness.

“You want to get out of here?” He tipped his head away from the water. “We could head up to El Rey.”

Yearning tugged at Patience. Gods, yes, she wanted to go there with him. El Rey was the only major Mayan ruin located in the Cancún hotel district. Its original name and most of its history were unknown; the modern name, which meant “the King,” came from the discovery of several royal artifacts. The small site encompassed the ruins and footprints of some forty structures, including a large pillared palace and a high, flat-topped pyramid . . . which nowadays offered views of the boat-

clogged lagoon and the entire hotel district, and overlooked the Hilton’s golf course.

El Rey wasn’t as important—or impressive—as the ruins of Tulum or Chichén Itzá; it had held Casey’s and Amanda’s attentions barely long enough to justify the thirty-peso entrance fee. Patience, though, had visited the site every day since the three girls had arrived the week before, until it’d turned into a running joke among them, how she was hoping the magic pyramid—that was the rumor, anyway, that it was magical—would grant her three wishes.

The friends had discussed those wishes with sotted intensity, finally deciding that she should wish for wild success in her yet-nebulous career aspirations, a long, healthy life, and true love. They had figured if she had those three biggies covered, she could handle the rest. Privately, she’d amended one —maybe all—of those wishes to an inner prayer that the barrier would stay closed, that she would never need to know most of the things Hannah had taught her.

“Too fast?” Brandt asked when she didn’t answer right away. “Or are you wondering if I’m a Creepy Stalker Guy?”

She didn’t—couldn’t—tell him what she’d really been thinking, but she’d had a lifetime of practice avoiding some questions, outright lying in response to others. “The park closed at dark.”

“I paid one of the guides to show me the back way in.”

So had she. That he’d done the same made her take another, longer look at him. “Are you trying to get me alone?”

A challenge glinted in his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not for me. But then again, I’m a fifth-degree black belt.”

“Figured something along those lines.” He tugged on the hand he hadn’t yet let go of. “Come on.”

Behind him, fireworks burst in chrysanthemums of red and yellow, and cometlike arcs lit the sky.

She was dimly surprised to see that the show hadn’t ended yet, that they’d been talking for only a few minutes. How was that possible, when she felt like they’d known each other for way longer than that?

Don’t try to make this into more than it is, she cautioned herself, hearing an inner echo of Hannah’s warnings, which contrasted with Casey’s and Amanda’s recent lectures urging her to cut loose. He’s hot, you’re horny, and it’s spring break. Go with the flow.