Enslave Me Sweetly (Alien Huntress #2)(20)
Author: Gena Showalter

Most likely.

That man wouldn’t leave anything to chance. But more than that, I doubted he trustedme to see to it. He was just like every other agent I knew, thinking women weren’t as competent as men. I looked forward to proving them all wrong.

Most importantly, I looked forward to proving Lucius wrong.

Lucius…His picture formed in my mind. Cheekbones cut from glass. Aquiline nose. Piercing ice-blue eyes. Even in my mind, he regarded me with something akin to superiority. God, I despised him. I desired him. I hated him. I craved him. My teeth bit into my bottom lip. I hadn’t seen him in seven days. I missed him. Yes, I hated him.

With one kiss, he’d consumed my mind, my good intentions, my common sense. He’d taken my sanity and scorched me to the core, somehow branding his name into my every cell. Most days, I thought of nothing but him. I saw his face when I bathed. I heard his voice when I slept. I felt his heat when I walked.

In the whole of my life, I’d had two lovers. Neither of them had affected me so strongly. So deeply. And that Lucius did, a man I wanted out of my life at the earliest possible moment, irritated me. Yet I still wanted to see him again. I hungered for the sight of him. And my hunger had nothing to do with the case.

What was he doing right now? What was he thinking? Had I passed through his mind even once?Stop it, Eden. Just stop. Lucius’s thoughts didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d renewed his acquaintance with Jonathan Parker and that our plan ran smoothly.

“There,” the esthetician said. “Your legs are finally done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“A knife woundisn’t so bad, ” I grumbled and sat up. My gaze traveled the length of my legs, examining the supple, golden skin. “Being chained to a wall and awaiting my enemy’s arrivalisn’t so bad. ”

She uttered a humorous snort. “You’re acting just like a man. No, actually, most men would at least pretend to be tough.”

“Go ahead. Laugh it up.” I smiled darkly, leaning close. “But make sure you sleep with a weapon tonight.”

Unperturbed, she returned my smile. “We haven’t even done the bikini area yet.”

I scowled.

Twenty minutes later, she laughingly waved me away. “I have never heard so much screaming.”

I grabbed up my pants and tugged them on. Then—God, would the torture never end?—I strapped on a pair of high heels. My feet had grown used to boots. I stalked (okay, hobbled and stumbled) from the room. With the torturous waxing complete, I spent the rest of the day inside my room being fitted for a new wardrobe. My feet ached constantly. I didn’t mind wearing dress suits and flowing gowns, as long as they hid my weapons. I wouldnot go without protection for any reason. Ever. The shoes, though…

“Don’t forget,” I said to the seamstress, “to make room for my weapons.”

She rolled her eyes and knelt at my side, sticking her pins in the ice blue material. “You want me to add a codpiece, too?”

I leveled an irritated stare at her. “Only if you can make it extra large.” Did no one find me menacing? Damn it, my hands were stained with blood; I’d spent my lifekilling people.

“Funny,” she said dryly. “I’ve worked for Michael for many years. I know the drill.”

I at last found myself alone, but it didn’t last. I didn’t have time to change or sprawl across the bed before Michael knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

The door slid open, and he entered hesitantly. “Don’t hurt me,” he said, tiptoeing to the seat by the window and sinking into the plump gold cushions.

Laughing, I removed my shoes and tossed them on the floor with a thump. Relief! “I can’t believe I used to do this stuff all the time. Fittings, waxings. High heels.”

“I remember those days.” He grinned fondly and leaned his head against the chair’s edge. “So how are you feeling?”

I eased into the white velvet settee across from him. My dress puffed around me. The seamstress had given me orders to remove it and hang it the moment she left. I took a small bit of pleasure in disobeying. “I feel like the pampered princess I’ve always been accused of being.”

He slid a long, thick cigar from his jacket pocket and placed the tip in his mouth. He didn’t light it yet but savored the flavor as he studied me. “I meant, how are your injuries? I’m worried about you, sweetie.”

“One hundred percent healed.”

His brows winged up, and his eyes gleamed with doubt. “Not even a slight twinge of pain or weakness?”

“No,” I said, total deadpan. I didn’t feel guilty about lying to Michael about my lack of injury. I wasalmost one hundred percent. But I didn’t want him to worry about me. Or worse, doubt me.

The cigar rolled between his fingers as he said, “Would you tell me if there were?”

“No.”

Another grin lit his features. “That’s what I thought. Stubborn, girl. That’s what you are, and that’s what you’ve always been.” His smile faded slightly. “You know, I never wanted you to be an agent.”

“I know,” I said, my tone soft.

“You came and asked me to let you train, and I…” He shrugged. “I just wanted you to learn how to protect yourself. Your kind is hunted. And my kind, well, you could have been abducted and used to get to me. I wanted you prepared. You proved stubborn, though, and wouldn’t let me keep you behind the scenes.”

I chuckled. “I remember how you had me play doctor to injured agents to show me exactly what kind of pain I was asking for. ‘See the blood,’ you said. ‘See the pain in his eyes because that’s what you’ll get if you choose this line of work.’ ”

“But you never wavered.” There was pride in his voice.

“No. I never wavered. I wanted you to see me as strong and capable. Like your men.”

“I know.”

“I love that you trust me now, that you’ve given me another chance. I don’t think I can ever express just what that means to me.”

Michael pushed to his feet and strode to the mini-bar. I insisted one be installed for my own personal use in every one of his homes. Sometimes it was the only way I could relax.

“You’re my daughter,” he said. “No matter what blood runs through your veins, you’re my daughter and I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Silence settled around us for several minutes before he said laughingly, “What kind of killers are we, having such a mush fest?” After clipping the end of his cigar, he claimed the nearest lighter and puffed. Smoke soon billowed around him. Cigarettes and cigars were illegal because they were air pollutants. But Michael lived in a world where he followed no rules but his own.