Page 36 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Inside the shop, a man stands behind a massive oak counter carved with a relief from Beowulf of warriors on horseback battling a dragon. The man is examining a ring. He holds a jeweler’s loupe to one eye, holds the ring up to the light. He’s of average height and average weight with no distinctive features except an aquiline nose and an air of elegance.
His hair is more salt than pepper. His skin is lined around his eyes. His navy-blue suit is well tailored, but not couture. Judging strictly by appearance, he could be fifty…or seventy. Italian or Spanish. Scottish or Portuguese. Or pretty much anything else. He has no tattoos or scars, wears no jewelry or cologne, and is perfectly forgettable.
He goes by Reynard, a name borrowed from the trickster fox from medieval fables.
He taught me everything I know.
That I love him is irrelevant to our business arrangement. If I said it aloud, he’d admonish me for it, so I keep it to myself.
I step off the curb, avoiding a muddy puddle, and hurry across the street. My heels click against wet cobblestone. The bell over the door jangles cheerfully when I come in. I’m hit with warmth and the sweet, smoky scent of the incense burning next to a votive candle in a cubby on the wall. Amy Winehouse plays softly in the background, crooning you know that I’m no good.
Reynard looks up. Catching sight of me, he smiles. “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’”
“It’s good to see you too, Reynard,” I say drily.
He abandons the jeweler’s loupe and ring to the counter and holds out his arms. “My darling.”
I don’t bother removing my rain-slicked overcoat. I simply go to him and let him enfold me in his arms.
“She’s wet,” he muses to himself, stroking my hair. “Silly child.”
I pull back, grinning because I’m so happy to see him. “People don’t catch cold from being wet.”
“I wasn’t talking about catching cold, my darling, I was talking about your hair.” He smooths his hand over my head, clucking in disapproval. “It looks dreadful. Why aren’t you wearing a hat? Or carrying an umbrella? One doesn’t go about with no head covering in the rain when one has a tendency to frizz—”
“Be quiet, old man.”
He blinks at me, insulted. “Old? Oh dear. You haven’t eaten. You’re light-headed. Shall I make us a cup of tea?”
“That sounds wonderful, thank you.”
I kiss his cheek, smooth as a baby’s behind. Then I have to suppress a rogue memory of the American’s rough cheeks and how delicious they felt grazing the inside of my thighs.
That’s what I’ve started calling him, my first and only lovely one-night stand. The American. It’s more impersonal, therefore less painful. I’m hoping in time the dull ache will wear off his memory and I’ll be able to sigh wistfully when I think of him, but for now it’s like a jagged pill I’ve swallowed that’s stuck just beneath my breastbone, slicing tiny cuts into my insides with every breath.
My body is sore in so many places from our lovemaking. My thighs. My lower back. My behind, faintly bruised by his hand.
My heart, bruised more than faintly.
Reynard intently studies my face. “Something’s happened. Tell me.”
This time, I have to force a grin. “I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. And the trek through the jungle to get to where I hid my bug-out bag. That resort was in the middle of nowhere! I was barefoot, if you can believe it. You should see the sorry state of my feet.”
A faint smile lifts Reynard’s lips. “Hmm. What’s his name?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. What’s that expression your face is attempting? It looks rather comical.”
I must be losing my edge. “Stop harassing me about my face, or I won’t give you what I came here for.”
“You’re in a delightful mood this evening, my darling. Let me go turn the sign.”
Moving with panther-like noiseless grace, he walks to the front of the shop, locks the door, and flips over the small white sign in the window. Then he leads me through the shop to a large bookcase under a staircase at the back.
Neither of us mention that I don’t have a choice about giving him what I came here to give him, but we act as if I do.
“Ladies first,” drawls Reynard, with a flourish of his hand.
