Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11)(47)
Author: J.R. Ward

More effective than yelling at them or kneeing them in the balls.

"Out," she said. "Now."

Eduardo sighed again, deeper and longer this time, the sound a confirmation that her manipulation had once again truly found home.

He wouldn’t give her the money she was owed, however. Over-the-top office decor and flashback to his childhood dynamic aside, he was tighter than a bank vault. That being said, she was confident that she’d effectively ruined his evening, so there was satisfaction in that…and she was going to take care of what Ricardo owed her.

He could do it aboveboard. Or, as he had chosen, he could force her hand.

That came with a surcharge, of course.

Yup, it would have been so much cheaper for him just to give her the contract price, but she was not responsible for the decisions of others.

"Ricardo will be upset," Eduardo said. "He hates being upset. Please just accept the money – this is not right."

The logical part of her brain suggested that she take the opportunity to point out the unfairness of being cheated out of what she was owed. But if she knew these brothers, silence…oh, the silence…

As nature abhorred a vacuum, so did the conscience of a well-raised, well-bred South American.

"Sola…"

She just crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead. Cue the Spanish: Eduardo broke into his native tongue, as if his angst had stripped him of his English skills.

He finally gave up and let her out about ten minutes later.

There would be roses on her doorstep at nine a.m. She wasn’t going to be home, however.

She had work to do.

"What do you mean, they didn’t show up?" Assail demanded in the Old Language.

As he sat back in the seat of his Range Rover, he held his cell phone tight to his ear. The red traffic light up ahead was hindering his forward progress, and it was difficult not to see it as a cosmic parallel.

His cousin was factual, as always. "The pickups did not arrive at the prescribed time."

"How many of them?"

"Four."

"What?" But there was no need for the male to repeat it. "And no explanations?"

"Nothing on the street from the seven others, if that’s what you mean."

"What did you do with the extra product?"

"I brought it home with me just now."

As green flashed overhead, Assail hit the gas. "I’m making the interim payment to Benloise, and then I’ll meet you."

"As you wish."

Assail turned right and headed away from the river. Two blocks up, a left had him approaching the gallery again; another left and he was going behind it.

There was a car already parked in the back, a black Audi, and he eased in behind the sedan. Reaching into the foot of the passenger seat, he took the silver metal briefcase by its black handle and got out of the SUV.

At that moment, the rear door of the gallery opened and someone emerged.

A female human, going by the scent.

She was tall and had long legs. Dark, heavy hair pulled back. Chin was up, as if she were ready to fight – or had just been in one.

But none of that was material to him. It was her parka – a camouflage white-on-cream parka.

"Good evening," he said in a low voice as they met in the middle of the alley, he on his way in, she on her way out.

She stopped and frowned, her hand sneaking into the interior of that coat of hers. In a flash, he wondered what her br**sts looked like.

"Have we met?" she said.

"We are right now." He put his hand out and deliberately enunciated his words. "How do you do?"

She stared at his palm, and then refocused on his face. "Anyone tell you that you sound like Dracula with that accent?"

He smiled tightly so his fangs didn’t show. "There have been certain comparisons made from time to time. Are you not going to shake my hand?"

"No." She nodded to the gallery’s back door. "You a friend of the Benloises?"

"Indeed. And you?"

"I don’t know them at all. Nice briefcase, by the way."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked over to the Audi. After the blinkers flashed, she got in, the wind catching her hair and blowing it over her shoulder as she disappeared behind the wheel.

He stepped out of her way as she pulled forward and sped off.

Assail watched her go – and found himself thinking with disdain about his business associate Benloise.

What kind of man sent a female to do that kind of business?

As the brake lights flared briefly, and then rounded the corner, Assail sincerely hoped that the line that had been drawn earlier in the night was respected. It would be a shame to have to kill her.

Not that he would hesitate for an instant if it came down to that.

Chapter Twenty-four

As Zypher lay on hard concrete, his many years as a member of the Band of Bastards meant he was well familiar with the lack of accommodations he was currently enjoying: his ass was numb from the cold as well as the absence of a mattress beneath his heavy body. Likewise, his head was cushioned only by the rucksack he had used to bring his few belongings to their new HQ in this warehouse basement. Further, the thin, rough blanket that covered him was not long enough, leaving his socked feet exposed to the chilly, damp air.

But he was in heaven. Absolute heaven.

Coursing through his veins was the blood of that female, and oh, the sustenance. Having gone without a proper feeding source for almost a year, he had become inured to the fatigue and the restless muscles and the aches. But that was over now.

Indeed, it was as if he were inflating with strength, his skin filling out again to its proper dimensions, his height returning once more to its feet and inches, his mind both logy in the aftermath, and sharpening moment by moment.

Now, if he had had a bed, he would have enjoyed it, of course. Soft pillows, sweet-smelling sheets, clean clothes…warm air in winter, cool air in summer…food for an empty stomach, water for a dry throat…all of these were good if one could get them.

They were not necessary, however.

A clean gun, a sharp blade, a fighter of equal skill to his left and to his right. That was what he required.

And of course, during downtime, it was good to have a female willing and on her back. Or her stomach. Or her side with one knee up to her br**sts and her sex exposed and ready for him.

He wasn’t fussy like that.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was…bliss.

Not a word that he used very often – and he didn’t want to sleep through this awakening. Even as the others lay sunk in the repose of the dead, each in the same spacey recovery that he, himself, was buffered in, he remained utterly aware of his glorious internal glow.