Hannah Jayne - Under Attack

I drew a bath as hot as I could stand it and upturned a bottle of cucumber-melon bath goo under the tap. Then I positioned my wineglass next to the remaining marshmallow Pinwheels and eased myself into the tub.

“Ahh,” I moaned, closing my eyes, breathing in the heady scent of cucumber and chocolate as the hot water washed over me. “Much better.”

I dunked a washcloth, wrung it out, and placed it over my eyes, then sipped contentedly at my wine. I was reaching out for another Pinwheel cookie when I heard the rustle of cellophane and felt a cold prickle of fear creep up my neck, despite the hot water. I stiffened and froze, arm outstretched, palm upward.

Someone placed a Pinwheel in my open hand and I sat bolt upright in the tub, the washcloth falling from my eyes, the poor Pinwheel reduced to chocolaty, marshmallow ooze as I gripped it. Bits of bathwater-doused marshmallow dripped through my fingers.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Alex said, perched on the side of my tub, his pincher finger and thumb hovering above my half-empty Pinwheel package. “May I?”

Alex Grace was gooey, chocolaty goodness if ever there was. And he had disappeared without a word six months ago.

I felt my eyes bulge and the speedup of my heart was so immediate it hurt. “Alex?” My tone was that rare mix of Christmas-morning excitement, beautiful-man proximity, and ex-boyfriend angst. I felt the burn of anger, the hurt of loss, and the wild rush of pure animal attraction as Alex Grace looked down at me, Pinwheel held aloft, luscious pink-tinged lips pushed up in the cocky half-smile I had started to remember in my dreams.

He was an angel—of the fallen sort—with sky-blue eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate, swirling in wondrous, luxurious curls over his forehead, snaking over ears just perfect for nibbling. He had the high cheekbones and feather-long lashes that women would do naughty things for, and the square jaw and puckered pink lips that could do naughty things. His build was fairly slight but wrought with wiry, rock-hard muscles that made his jeans look mouthwateringly comfortable, and stretched out the chest and arms of his T-shirts mercilessly.

“What the hell—why are you—” I fluttered and floundered, splashing bits of cucumber melon–scented fluff, chocolate pieces, and bathwater all around. Alex just grinned that familiar half-smile that I found so annoyingly erotic; he crossed his arms and relaxed against my towel rack, clearly enjoying my spastic discomfort. That angered me even more so I worked to get my panicked breathing under control. Alex and I had shared some steamy moments and every glance or touch of his skin electrified me. This moment was no exception—but he was bad news. Fallen angels always are. And his whole disappearing/reappearing thing really got on my last nerve.

And then I realized I was naked.

I sunk lower into the water, pushing the bubbles over my girly bits and glowering at Alex who looked at me, that obnoxious, adorable half-smile still playing on his lips. He helped himself to a cookie.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

He chewed thoughtfully. “I needed to talk to you.”

“I have a phone. Or an e-mail address. Or, hell, a carrier pigeon. Do you always have to show up in the bathroom ?”

“I needed your undivided attention.”

I raised an annoyed brow. “Or you needed a naked-lady fix. And did you lose your ability to knock along with your wings?”

He grinned, took a swig from my wineglass. “Ooh.” His blue eyes looked up, raked the ceiling. “Is that an oh-eight? It’s buttery.”

“Get out!” I screamed, pointing a sopping, bubble-laden arm at the bathroom door. “I’m not going to talk to you while I’m naked.”

Alex’s grin widened. “So you are naked ... ?”

“I’m in the bathtub,” I snarled. “What did you expect?” I was sitting forward now and vaguely aware of the cool air touching my breasts. I hunkered down in the water again. “You’re a pervert.”

Alex shrugged, finished my wine, and poured himself some more. “Hey, I’m no angel.”

I rolled my eyes and snatched my wineglass out of his hand. “Get out.”

Alex’s eyes went puppy-dog round. “I still need to talk to you.”

I held my ground, though it wasn’t easy; my heart—with its sudden, mile-a-minute beat—was betraying me. “And I still need you to get out.”

“Can I have another cookie?”

That did it.

“Out!”

Once Alex was safely on the other side of the bathroom door I slipped out of the tub, hastily dried off, and wrapped myself in my sky-blue bathrobe. I flounced my hair a bit and patted my cheeks, hoping to get a semblance of that innocent-girl pink in my cheeks; instead I had the bright red imprint of my own hands. I swiped on some Sugar Kiss lip gloss in hopes that sexy, glossy lips would detract from my cheeks. I was tightening the belt and padding into the kitchen when I was treated to a view of Alex’s rump poking out of my fridge.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked his butt.

Alex backed out of the fridge, frowning. “There’s nothing in here to eat. Are there any more Pinwheels?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “No. I threw them away.” Threw them down my throat was more like it.

I nudged Alex aside and peered into the fridge, coming out with a half loaf of cracked-wheat bread and a stack of Polaroid-thin cheese slices. “Grilled cheese?”

“Tres gourmet.”

“You’d better believe it.”

Alex handed me a frying pan and got to work buttering the bread.

I slowly peeled a piece of cheese, careful to keep my eyes away from Alex, lest my bathrobe fall off or I find myself climbing him like a stepladder. “So, what are you doing here anyway? I mean here, here.” I pointed with a spatula to the floor. “In this realm. In my kitchen.”

Alex peeled the filmy cellophane from a piece of cheese and crumpled it in his hand, popping the cheese ball in his mouth.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Make yourself at home.”

Alex gave me a sarcastic smile and snagged a couple of beers from the fridge. He opened them both, then handed one over, clinked mine, and took a long pull. I did the same.

“Can’t a guy just pop in to talk to a friend?”

The word friend sent my hackles up, but I pretended it was from a draft and tightened the belt on my robe.

“A guy could. You couldn’t.”

Alex shrugged, smiled, and remained quiet.

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

Alex wasted no time. He put down his beer and looked at me, cobalt eyes piercing and suddenly serious. I pretended not to notice. “I need your help,” he said simply.

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Remember when I told you about the Vessel?”

“The Vessel of Souls? The one that got you banned from Heaven? Stripped of your wings? That Vessel?”

Alex pursed his lips in annoyance. “Are you through?”

I sniffed. “I guess. What about it?”

“I need to find it.”

“I know that. But why now? And why do you suddenly need me to help?”

Alex let out a long sigh. “The Vessel of Souls houses all human souls that are in limbo. If the fallen angels get their hands on it they can take over everything: the angelic plane, the human plane—even the Underworld. We need to keep the Vessel out of the hands of the fallen.”

I looked at Alex. “You’re fallen. Why should I help you get it?”

“You know that if I can restore the balance of the planes and get the Vessel back, I can get my wings restored. I’m not going to jeopardize that ... again.”

I picked up the spatula again, used it to peek underneath my sandwich. “And you need me why?”