Gunmetal Magic (Kate Daniels #5.5)(39)
Author: Ilona Andrews

“She wouldn’t know the meaning of the word,” Raphael said, his face flat.

“Oh, she isn’t a jealous type?”

“No, she actually wouldn’t know what the word meant.”

Ha!

The woman in the blue dress in front of us stepped aside and Anapa approached us.

“Mr. Medrano.” Anapa offered his hand.

Raphael shook it. “Happy birthday.”

I batted my eyelashes and did my best to appear dumb as a board.

“Thank you, thank you.” Anapa looked at me, still smiling, an appreciation in his eyes. There was nothing at all sexual in his gaze. He examined me more the way one would examine a rare good-looking dog. Or a horse. “And you would be his lovely companion.”

I slipped into my Texas twang and offered him my hand. “Good evenin’. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

Anapa took my fingers into his. He raised my hand, as if to kiss it, and paused, inhaling the scent instead, savoring it. “Mmm.” He chuckled softly. “You have the most intriguing body.”

Okay, that was freaky.

Raphael moved, subtly inserting himself between me and Anapa. His hand covered mine and the other man let go. “Dear, say good-bye to Mr. Anapa. He has other guests to meet.”

“Bye.” I wiggled my fingers at him.

Anapa grinned at us again. “For now.”

Raphael steered me into the crowd.

“What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” he growled. “He seemed normal before.”

Apparently I had a special gift for bringing out the crazy in men.

We moved to the refreshments table and turned, scanning the room. A man on the staircase to our right. Two guys by the exit, a woman by the balcony, but no guards in the hallways radiating from the main room. I plucked a small piece of toast with pine nuts and mushrooms heaped on it from the appetizer tray and took a bite. Hmm. Yummy.

“Second floor,” I murmured.

“Mhm,” Raphael agreed.

If the office had been on the first floor, it would have a guard restricting access to it.

“Ready?” Raphael asked.

“Sure.”

We stepped to the right in unison and began weaving our way from one group of people to the next. The second floor would have to wait. We had just come in and the guards were still watching us, and if they were good, they had probably nailed my identity by now. We had to circulate until they focused on someone else.

Forty minutes later, we had made a complete circuit of the room. The old Raphael used to be expert at small talk. He spoke to men about business, paid women subtle compliments, and everyone loved him. The new Raphael at my side seemed grimmer and less willing to chitchat. Despite his looming at my side like a dark but gorgeous shadow, we managed to ferret out the location of the office from a clueless older couple who had been invited there before. Anapa’s lair of doom was on the second floor on the south side of the house. Coincidentally one of the first-floor bathrooms was on the south side too, a fact I discovered when I went to fix my hair.

The music grew louder. Couples were dancing, in the middle of the floor, swaying back and forth. The alcohol was going as fast as the waiters brought it out. A few people looked good and sauced on Anapa’s superior grog. The small talk went from weather and harmless gossip to spicier topics and meaningful stares as the booze lowered inhibitions.

Raphael took my hand and led me to the middle of the floor.

“What are you doing?” I asked through my smile.

“If I have to listen to another recount of how Malisha from Accounting hooked up with Clayton from Legal, I’ll lose my mind.” He turned me, still holding on to my hand, maneuvering me into a classic dance pose. His arm slid around my waist and I shivered.

“So you thought dancing would be better?”

“Yes.” He began swaying. “Pretend to enjoy it.”

“A handsome man, a great party, lovely food. What’s not to enjoy? Oh wait, the man is you.” I began swaying, too. I was really good at swaying. He would regret ever pulling me on this floor. “You like screwing with me, don’t you?”

“Well, since we decided not to screw each other anymore, I have to get my fun somehow.”

Since we’re playing that game… I tilted my face up to his and gave him a lovesick gaze.

“Do you have to sneeze?” he asked.

“Be quiet. I’m pretending to enjoy your company, just as you said.”

“Try not to strain anything.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m very good at faking it.”

That shut him up.

We kept swaying. Standing close to him like this, all but wrapped up in his arms, was pure torture. I leaned closer to him and made a small noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr, made from desire and lust. Raphael focused on me, like a hungry cat on a mouse.

“You should take me to the bathroom to make out,” I told him.

A flash of ruby fire exploded in his irises and melted. He leaned closer, pulling me to him. “What?”

“You should take me to the bathroom to make out,” I repeated into his ear. “There is no way we can make it up that staircase. We can use the bathroom window to get to the second floor.”

Raphael’s hand slipped from my waist to cup my ass. A little electric zing dashed through me.

“Wow, straight for the goods, huh?”

“Can’t just make out right out of the blue.” Raphael’s grin was pure evil.

We swayed for a bit more.

Raphael squeezed my butt.

“Seriously?”

He shrugged a little. “Faking it, honey, you remember.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, stretched against him, like a lazy cat wanting a stroke.

At the other end of the room someone shattered a glass. The room collectively turned toward the sound. Raphael took my hand and we quietly slipped away into the left hallway. It was mostly deserted. Two guys milled about at the wall, engrossed in a discussion that involved phrases like “asshole” and “like he runs the damn place.” They didn’t pay us any mind.

A small sign on the door to the right said, BATHROOM.

Raphael tried the door. The handle didn’t turn in his hand. Occupied.

A security guy stepped out from the room down the hallway, a severe unsmiling block of a black suit complete with an earpiece.

Raphael pushed me against the wall and braced my body with his, catching my right arm above my head and pinning it against the wall with his left. The oldest cliché in the playbook.