He growled. What did he have to do to convince the demon world that the babe had one purpose and one purpose only? Let Tearloch and Sergei destroy this dimension?
“Fine,” he rasped. “What if I promise merely to capture the babe and return it here where I can protect it?”
She refused to back down. Predictable.
“Even if I was foolish enough to trust you, which I’m not, I’m still bound by my contract with the Oracles.”
His hands traced the line of her shoulders and down the sleek muscles of her arms. His gut clenched at the cool slide of her creamy skin beneath his palm.
“I don’t believe you’ll turn me over to the Commission,” he said, his voice thickening.
She stiffened, but oddly she didn’t pull away from his lingering touch.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you couldn’t bear to have me destroyed.”
She made a sound of disgust. “I can’t decide whether you’re just arrogant or suicidal.”
“Experienced.” A wicked smile curved his lips at her faint tremor. “I know enough about females to recognize when one is desperate for my touch.”
She took a sharp step away, her expression defiant. “Definitely suicidal.”
He pulled in a deep breath that did nothing to ease his throbbing erection; then with a muttered curse, he was headed toward the door.
To hell with it.
It was obvious that Jaelyn intended to remain an uncooperative pain in the ass.
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Where are you going?”
His steps never faltered. “Things to do, people to see.”
“When will you return?”
He headed out the door, refusing to give in to the impulse to glance over his shoulder. She would be there waiting for him when he was done with Tearloch.
“The question, poppet, is not when I’ll return,” he taunted, “but whether I’ll return.”
There was a rattle of chains followed by a low, wholly feminine hiss of fury.
“Damn you.”
Chapter 3
London, England
Dusk shrouded the narrow streets of London as the two men halted near a high hedge.
One was a slender, impossibly beautiful man with skin the color of rich cream and long copper hair he kept tamed in a tight braid. He might have passed for human if not for the metallic shimmer to the sterling silver eyes, and thick scent of herbs that clung to his tattered robe, which blended into the green bushes behind him.
The other was equally slender, although he didn’t possess the same unearthly grace, or beauty. He was of an indeterminate age with high Slavic cheekbones, and an icy blue gaze that held a cunning intelligence. And under normal circumstances he was stylishly dressed in a Gucci suit with his shoulder-length silver hair smoothed from his narrow face.
But these were far from normal circumstances.
After nearly three weeks hiding in the Florida swamps, Sergei Krakov was tired, filthy, and wishing to the gods he’d never become involved with the child he held in his arms.