Chapter 1 #2
She rang the doorbell, hearing pleasant chimes echoing inside.
No answer. She tried again, then chastised herself for being too eager.
A few seconds later, the door opened. Several things hit her senses at once: bare chest, the scent of soap, and then the six-and-a-half-foot-tall man standing in front of her.
His white-blond hair glistened with drops of water that continued to drip down the contours of his chest and ridged stomach, all the way to the towel wrapped tightly around his waist.
She pulled her gaze back to his face and forced herself to take a breath. His light blue eyes glittered like sun hitting the snow, as cool as the powder she’d skied on during a weekend trip to Colorado.
“You must have the wrong condo,” the man said, and started to close the door.
“Are you Archer?”
He paused, his face a mask of suspicion. “Yeah.”
Oh, boy. “Obviously this Grayson guy didn’t talk to you yet, I’m guessing because you were in the shower. I’m Lyra Slade.” She held out her hand, but he only eyed it dispassionately. Okay, then. She let it drop.
“Wait there.” The man stalked to the kitchen counter and snatched up his cell phone.
She’d never seen a more perfect male specimen, not a freckle or a mark on him except for the tattoo of dark-silver angel wings spanning his broad back.
He eyed the phone’s screen, then touched the keys and listened to the message.
She wanted to point out his utterly rude behavior, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass how beautiful he was or that he was a la-di-da Caido. It was damned hard holding her tongue. Do it for Pop. I’ll only have to see this guy for, what, a few minutes?
“Are you going to come in or stand there all day?”
She blinked at the droll words coming from the kitchen. “Was that an invitation? Seriously?”
His right eye ticked. “Please, enter. Grayson said you were coming here in regard to my brother.”
She stepped in and closed the door behind her.
The place was huge and open, with beige carpet so thick it made her wobble in her wedge heels.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Biscayne Bay sparkling in the sun and the pier where the cruise ships docked.
A huge sectional sofa in creamy, pale leather curved with the flow of a wall.
A rock song from what she guessed was the seventies contrasted the softness of the space.
While she’d been looking around, he’d gone into the kitchen and assembled a squat, curved glass bottle with light green liquid and a glass urn filled with ice water on the enormous quartz island.
“Drink?”
She eyed the setup as she approached, smelling what she thought was ouzo. Except that stuff was clear. Plus, there were other scents besides licorice going on. “What is it?”
“Absinthe.”
Maybe he was inching closer to being civil. She should accept, even though she didn’t know what absinthe was. It sounded rather exotic, so why not? “Sure, thanks.”
He removed two short glasses from the cabinet and tipped the squat bottle to fill half of each glass.
He placed a silver slotted spoon-type-thing over the top of each glass and set a sugar cube on it with skinny tongs.
Like, seriously, with tongs. As though he were doing friggin’ surgery, with the appropriate focus.
He then positioned the glasses beneath two of the fountain’s spouts and turned the silver tabs to release a slow drip of water onto the cubes.
The sugar melted into the liquid, turning it a milky green.
She didn’t know if he was now looking at her because she was as focused on this process as he’d been while preparing it.
The fountain, with old, engraved silver that matched the spoons, looked like it had come from eighteenth-century France or something.
When the cubes had completely melted, he stirred each drink with the spoon and slid it across the counter to her.
She had the impulse to clap, but his reverent expression dissuaded her of the notion. Nope, this is a serious ritual. Please hold your applause.
But she did lift the glass. “Cheers.”
“Indeed.”
At the first sip, a rush of menthol licorice filled her mouth and nostrils. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she blew out a breath through pursed lips. When she could open her watery eyes, she stared at the liquid. “This stuff is crazy. What’s in it?”
He sipped at his glass. “Grande wormwood, anise, and fennel, along with other botanicals. Interesting, yes?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Interesting.” Or torture?
But he seemed to be genuinely enjoying each sip he took.
She did the same, because maybe he’d be more cooperative, perhaps even friendlier, if she enjoyed it, too.
Or…maybe he was enjoying her discomfort and pretense at actually liking this horrid and very strong drink.
Goodness, it had to be near hundred proof.
She set her empty glass on the island. “Thank you for sharing.”
His mouth quirked. “Want another?”
Ah, definitely torturing her. “Maybe next year, thank you.” She pulled out her cell phone and showed him the picture of the Lamborghini. “I understand this might be your brother’s car.”
His expression remained passive. “Yes.”
Well, that was helpful. “Have you talked to your brother lately?”
“Not for a week or so, but that’s not unusual.”
She removed the felt bag from her purse, loosened the cinched top, and extracted the silver feather.
His gaze riveted on it, pupils enlarging. “Where did you get that?”
“From the last Caido who wasn’t cooperative.”
In a blur, he was standing in front of her, gripping her wrist. “Do not toy with me, Dragon Girl.”
She tried to pull free, meeting his fierce stare with her own. “Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”
His hand felt cool against her skin, tight as a handcuff. Her resolve melted as she looked at his achingly stunning face. It’s the Thrall. Don’t let it get to you.
He loosened his grip but didn’t back up. She pulled away and rubbed her wrist, still holding the feather—and her ground.
“I found it in my father’s bedroom, and it looks like there was an altercation. He’s missing. I need to find out who left this and what happened. That Lamborghini has been parked by the curb near my father’s house since I discovered him gone.”
Archer held out his hand, palm up, and she laid the feather in it. A tremor shook his body, and he grabbed his phone and dialed.
After a few seconds, he said, “Jeremy, it’s Archer.
Call me.” The muscles in his jaw quivered.
Yeah, he was worried. He grabbed a set of keys from the counter and went down the hall.
He reappeared in linen pants, pulling a dark blue shirt over his head as he walked to the foyer.
“I will find him and get to the bottom of this. What’s your number?
” He punched in some keys on his phone and waited for her to respond.
She gave him her number. “But I’m going with you.”
He held the door open for her, but she suspected it was more to make sure she left than out of courtesy.
She paused in front of him. “That dhagger being at my pop’s means something really bad went down, doesn’t it?”
“It could mean several things.” His absinthe-tinged breath washed over her.
“None of which you’re going to tell me.”
“Correct.”
“But it’s not good. Because if you plucked one of your feathers and lanced someone with it, you’d retrieve it. If you could.”
His eyes shadowed at that. Bingo.
He ushered her through the doorway with his hand on her back, then pulled the door shut and jabbed the elevator button. It arrived within seconds. Once closed inside, he turned to her, and her stomach plunged. That’s only because the elevator’s going down, silly.
“You’re not coming with me.”
“Like hell. Excuse me, like heck. This is about my father.”
“I work alone.”
“Do you have a father in your life? Someone who taught you about the world, about doing the right things, and what love means? Do you have someone who matters?” She touched his forearm.
He jerked away as though she’d burned him. Damn, forgot about not touching.
The doors opened to the lobby, and he held his arm against one edge to keep them from closing. “I will let you know what I find.”
He’d let her know only what he wanted her to know. After exiting, she watched the numbers above the elevator door that indicated Archer was going down to the parking garage.
Not knowing what he drove was a problem, but when the silver Aston Martin shot out of the residents’ garage a few minutes later, she was ready.