The red-haired witch, now married to Greyson Masters, Alasdair’s lead witch-hunter enforcing the Syndicate’s laws. Rowan was as powerful as they came. Excepting, perhaps, the man sitting in front of her right now. However, that previous situation had had nothing to do with demons. Or…not directly at least.
Alasdair’s lip curled. Hell, even the man’s sneer was controlled. But then he gave his head a shake, and a glimpse of vulnerability took her righteous anger away in an instant. “You’re right…”
Not exactly an apology, but more than he’d given her in the past.
He shot to his feet. “So why won’t you take me…us…on as a client?”
Interesting slip, and the gods knew she wished she could help them. Maybe a little spell wouldn’t hurt. One to locate—
The second even a whisper of a thought of getting involved surfaced, a tightening sensation, as though metal cuffs around her wrists were clamping down hard, told her she was treading on dangerous ground. If she took it further, her skin would start to visibly chafe and then blister. Good thing her long-sleeved blouse of green chiffon covered the spots.
The same magic that shackled her wouldn’t allow her to speak of it, either, so she couldn’t even explain.
“I just…” She allowed herself the small act of blowing out a long breath. “I can’t.”
“Fuck.” The quietly spat word, even as he held perfectly still saying it, sent a flinch through her.
His desperation was tangible, thick in the air. She regretted teasing him earlier now, because demons were as serious as it got.
“I may know someone else who can help.” Though…because that person could help, didn’t mean she would. The tightness cinched harder around Delilah’s wrists, and she had to school her features not to show the pain, nearly glancing down to see if the skin around her wrists was turning red yet.
“Someone who can help?” He repeated her words in a tone that said he still couldn’t believe she was turning him down.
Sorry, she mentally apologized. Anything else, and I would have stepped in.
Delilah offered him a shrug, for once not meaning to antagonize him, though the way his brows snapped together, she had. She rose to her feet to cross the room. Bringing up her computer, she pretended to hunt for information she already had memorized. Then wrote down an address on a slip of paper.
She straightened to find he’d moved on silent feet to stand across the desk from her. Resisting the need to take a step back, away from all that enticing, leashed energy, she held it out to him. “You’ll find this…woman…is an expert on what you’re dealing with. She may be of assistance.”
He didn’t take it. Just stared at her hard, accusation in the darkening blue of his eyes, turning them almost navy. If she didn’t know him better, she’d say he was taking this personally. As though she’d wronged him somehow.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” Delilah bit the inside of her cheek. Dammit. Rule #1 in her business was no demons. Rule #2 was never apologize. Besides, she was trying here, dammit.
He shook his head, expression confounded. “I expected more from you,” he said softly.
She swallowed.
“My people are in danger. You, the woman who helps everyone with a seemingly unending list of issues, won’t help?” A bitter sort of disappointment filled his eyes, a direct hit to her heart, which usually she did a better job protecting.
Delilah locked her lips against another apology and shook the paper. “A smart man would take this.”
A cauldron of emotion swirled and bubbled in his eyes. The disappointment definitely hit hardest. With another shake of his head, he snatched the paper from her hand and stalked to the door.
“I’ll be sure to pass on this experience to anyone interested in your future services,” he tossed over his shoulder. Then he was gone, leaving the door open between her office and Naiobe’s.
As soon as the telltale thunk of the outer door closing reached her, Delilah waved a hand and her own door slammed shut so hard papers on her desk fluttered to the ground. She sank into her chair and held up her wrists. Sure enough, angry red welts appeared where the magical shackles bound her.
“Fuck,” she breathed.
Because she would have done a hell of a lot more than hand him an address. If she could.
With a shaking hand, she picked up her cell phone and dialed. A sultry voice on the other end answered. “Hello?”
“Mom? A man will be coming to visit you any second. Please do what you can for him.”
Chapter Two
Alasdair prided himself on his ability to read a person, but Delilah—and he still didn’t know her last name—baffled the fuck out of him.
He didn’t like it.
Especially when he’d allowed himself to fantasize about wrapping his fist in that long, dark hair and plumbing those lush lips with demanding kisses as he thrust into her sweet body. She smelled of cherry blossoms. He’d finally pinpointed the subtle floral note in her office the first time he’d “dropped by” for a surprise visit.
That time—which had involved her calling him a control freak and him calling her a rabble-rouser—had gone way better than this one. The woman could make a glacier lose its cool.
And yet his mind insisted on overriding his common sense and providing fantasies of a time and place where they were on the same side.
A weakness, he could see now.
He’d seen the types of clients she handled. Her involvement with Rowan and Greyson had given him the impression Delilah had a guardian angel complex. Someone who liked to use whatever gifts she had in her possession to help the underdogs and lost causes.
After that incident, he’d investigated her. Money and power didn’t seem to be a motivation beyond building her business. No one seemed to know what powers Delilah possessed herself, but she had an impressive network of contractors and supernaturally gifted people who owed her favors. Likely even more impressive than what he’d been able to unearth.
She used that network to fix supernatural problems for paranormal creatures of all types, creeds, and spectrums. Anything from matchmaking, to job placement, to healings, to personal investigations, to relocations and creating alternate identities, and more. There didn’t seem to be any problem she couldn’t handle. Except, apparently, mass exorcisms.
Why? Because she couldn’t stand him? Was she that petty?
Alasdair wouldn’t have thought so. Perhaps he’d allowed a slowly growing regard for what she did combine with a festering need to claim her luscious body blind him to who she was as a person. He’d thought, beneath all that defiance, that she had a heart and a conscience.