Proof of Life (The Potentate of Atlanta #4) - Hailey Edwards Page 0,3
in deep.
“I don’t care what you wear.” His lips brushed the side of my throat. “As long as you’re mine.”
The urge to correct him—I was my own person, thank you muchly—faded when his teeth found my skin.
“I love the way you taste,” he whispered in my ear, his voice husky and body hard against mine.
Dizzy from the potent words as much as the tender caresses, I asked, “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No indecision. No qualifiers.
Gulp.
“Oh,” I said sexily, you know, if I were a frog croaking its mating call.
Hands sliding back to my hips, he turned me toward him. “Are you okay with this?”
The date, the seduction, or the chocolate, I don’t know which he meant, and I didn’t care.
Head bobbing, palms sweaty, I forced my mouth to work. “Yes.”
“Ready?” He took my hand, but my brain had gone numb. “We don’t want to be late.”
The heat in his gaze caused my stomach to quiver and tingles to spread through my fingertips.
“Let’s do it—this.” I bit my lip. “Do this.” I tried again. “Let’s go make bonbons.”
As Midas led me from the loft into the elevator, I got the impression my earlier wish to get into his pants was about to be granted. I was as stunned as Aladdin must have when the genie popped out of the lamp he had been rubbing.
Midas was seducing me.
And he was off to a damn fine start.
Two
Outside the air-conditioned bliss of the Faraday, the night fell on the right side of lukewarm. Midas and I skipped the Swyft fare and walked the five blocks to Choco-Loco with our fingers meshed and our arms swinging like we were two teens out with our first crushes.
The city hummed around us, alive with traffic and voices and music, and I relaxed into the rare chance to spend time with him outside our jobs.
“Do you smell that?”
A few steps later, I sneezed into my elbow. “Smoke.”
With the night off, we didn’t have to rush into action, but it still made me twitchy.
“Call Bishop.” Midas, who knew me too well, slowed his pace. “You’ll feel better if you report it.”
From there, Bishop could locate the origin and call the proper authorities.
“We’re on a date.” I already had the phone in my hand. “He would call if…”
An urgent flash lit up my display, and I groaned, letting my head fall back on my neck.
“It’s okay.” Midas released me. “Answer it.”
The number was as familiar as my reflection. “What’s up, Bish?”
“We got problems.”
“I was about to call you anyway.” I watched the blaze lighten the sky. “There’s a fire—”
“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think you and lover boy are having that date night.”
Fear spiked in my heart. “What’s burning?”
“Choco-Loco.”
Standing beside me, Midas had no trouble following the conversation. “Daaé?”
There wasn’t much gwyllgi ears didn’t hear, which made cohabitation awkward to the extreme at times.
“We were meeting Chef Daaé.” I started walking again. “Do you know if he was there? Or if he got out?”
“An anonymous tipster called in the fire,” Bishop explained. “They didn’t give details.”
“We’re almost there.” I picked up the pace. “I can see the flames.”
“Daaé’s cell is going straight to voicemail,” Midas reported. “No one is answering at the restaurant.”
“I’ve ferreted out a home number for him.” Bishop clacked a few keys in the background. “I’ll start there and work my way up, see if I can get a bead on him.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
Tucking the phone into my pocket, I broke into a sprint, and Midas kept pace with ease.
Red and white lights strobed the night, bouncing off thick plumes, and sirens screamed bloody murder.
Chef Daaé was a vampire, a Last Seed, who had dedicated his immortality to chocolate as an art form. He was a local celebrity in foodie circles, a humble genius, and an all-around swell guy according to what I had gleaned about him during the past year.
The shadow I cast wilted as the potential ripple effects of the blaze on his sweet tooth hit Ambrose.
Two gleaming fire engines skidded to a halt across the street, and I didn’t have to check the patches on the men pouring from them like militant ants—ick—to know Station Thirteen had arrived. As the unit responsible for responding to paranormal emergencies of the flaming-inferno variety, I wouldn’t have expected anyone else.
Midas and I held our ground, our hands clenched in fists at our sides, giving them room to battle the fire.