Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

43

Bowe woke to find his arms empty of warm, curvy witch. This displeased him.

When he had trouble shaking his grogginess, he realized she'd made him sleep, had cast another sodding spell on him. Damn it, why? He scented the air to locate her, and shot upright.

She was gone.

Had he been too rough with her? Frightened her again? Why else would she run?

Then he saw an area just to the side of him that she'd very purposely cleared of brush. In the mud, she'd written him a note with precise letters.

head:

The name's MariKETA.

Go to hell,

The WITCH, doing a creepy spell somewhere right now.

He sank back on the ground, throwing an arm over his face as he swore low. Had he called her Mariah last night? Oh, bloody hell.

Ach, Bowe, you've ed up this time.

She must be furious. Or worse, hurting. The witch had given him inconceivable pleasure, and this was how he'd thanked her?

He'd loved everything about Mariketa and the way they'd been together. The taste of her flesh was addictive, as was the feel of her wet little tongue lapping his skin as she boldly licked him all over. She'd bitten his shoulder in abandon, screaming against his muscles, and her nails had dug into the backs of his thighs as he'd taken her from behind... he hardened even now to recall that.

She'd given him the pleasure he'd waited for his entire long life...

And I showed her my gratitude by calling another woman's name.

When he removed his arm, he blinked his eyes. Above him, he spied his jeans and boots hanging in the upper limbs of a five-story-high hardwood.

He rose, determined to find her, to make her forgive him. And then, gods help him, they'd start where they left off last night. He scented the air and might have caught a hint of her toward the southern coast.

Mariketa had magically covered her tracks—and her scent—well. But she didn't understand. He didn't have to have her trail. There were only so many places she could be. He'd run back and forth to the coast a thousand times, and he'd relish every step as one closer to her.

He looked up at his jeans again and was startled by his own deep laugh. He grinned in her direction.

Ach, he liked the games they played.

"Lemme get this straight. Getting hunted down in the jungle by a lust-crazed Lykae was one of the safer extracurriculars of your trip?" Carrow asked.

"That's what I'm saying." Mari adjusted the resort courtesy telephone against her shoulder, then took another gulp of her drink—a bourbon rocks with a pink, paper umbrella.

In seriocomic fashion, she'd somehow gotten herself to a Belizean beach resort, then actually enchanted the manager until he was all too happy to extend a hotel-wide tab.

Magick... good.

"I told you not to go by yourself, didn't I?" Carrow demanded. "What'd I say?"

As Carrow repeated herself, Mari obediently mumbled in unison, "Darwin says people like you need to die."

"Yep, that's what I said. And after everything that's happened to you, I'm surprised you're still ticking."

Not only was she ticking, she was showered, dressed in beachy new clothes and sandals from the resort gift shop, and enjoying an unlimited bar tab as she awaited her flight home. "Well, let this serve as my call-in to the House to avert disaster. Only a day late. I hope you told everyone I've never been on time for anything in my life."

"Disaster averted. Already got a call from some dude named Hild. And then a demon named Rydstrom showed up here a couple of hours ago."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yeah, uh-huh. I wasn't here, but I heard that wherever he turned his green-eyed gaze, witches dropped trou and proffered panties."

"Carrow, that's how rumors get started," Mari said in a chiding tone. "Did he say anything about the rest of his group?"

"Said everybody on his end came out okay." As Mari sighed with relief, Carrow added, "He left a number for you. You know I could tell him you're okay—over dinner and drinks."

She couldn't help but grin. Rydstrom would either love Mari or curse her for this, but she said, "Yeah, you call him. Tell him both MacRieve and I were standing as of this morning."

"So are you gonna fly out before the big, bad—with names—wolf finds you?"

"Damn straight." Bastard had called her... Mariah. Was that all Mari was to him? A substitute? A second choice? B team! The idea of that outraged her even more because last night...

Bowen MacRieve utterly ruined me for other men.

She almost wished she didn't now know that sex like that existed—or that what she'd thought in the past was great pleasure had been a mere toe touch in a vast ocean. She irritably rapped on the bar with her knuckles and signaled the bartender for another round.

"I don't suppose you found a big plane?" Carrow asked. "Or that you managed to score some Xanax?"

"No, and no," Mari was so sick of B team, she was actually about to fly out on a baby plane. "But I'm lucky to get a flight out at all. Besides, I'm self-medicating with whiskey. I'll land around seven, so come get me—if you still have your driver's license—and peel my drunk ass from the plane."

"Will do. But, Mari, I have to say that you might not be seeing clearly on the issue of the werewolf, because, well, you have issues."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you get really chapped over stuff like this. Think about it, the very last time the Lykae was in the same situation—running around with a mate and cavorting or whatever you people do—it was with a female named Mariah. Last night, when he was wolfy and moonstruck and getting laid for the first time in—what'd you say?—a hundred and eighty years, he basically forgot the ket in your name. You might want to cut him some slack. Or, I could cast a spell to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide. But if the sex was truly—"

"Cataclysmic?"

"Yeah, you already conveyed that like thirty times, you little bourbon lush. So you're telling me you don't want to get caught? Not at all?"

Mari sighed. "I might... if he wanted me."

"I do want you, lass."

She jerked around. MacRieve! He was dressed in new clothes, and looked showered and coolly collected. "How in the hell could you have gotten here so quickly?"

"Missed you, witch. Ran headlong. Now hang up the bloody phone."

"Oh, great Hekate, is that his voice?" Carrow cried. "I just had an orgasm! Fudge your name tag if you have to, but get you some of that some-some. Remember, friends let friends live vicariously—"

Click. "How long have you been here?"

"Got here an hour after you did."

"I'm that slow?"

"I'm that fast. Would've come to you sooner, but I had many arrangements to make." His gaze focused on her drink. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"I'm getting tee-rashed on some sizzurp."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Small plane, big scared."

He sniffed. "That's bourbon? Who drinks whiskey on the beach?"

"Sounds like a great drink name to me! How did you find me?"

"You cloaked your trail well. But I'm a great hunter."

"And so modest, too."

"You should no' have left me like that. What the bloody hell were you thinking to put yourself in danger again? I believed we had an... understanding."

"We did. And then you called me by another woman's name." He looked like he'd barely stifled a wince. "And then I realized that I'd misunderstood our understanding."

MacRieve grasped her elbow and steered her to a private hibiscus-lined courtyard. "Damn it, witch, it will no' be possible for me to instantly forget someone who has played such a large role in my life. If you think of someone for so long, a couple of weeks will no' erase it."

She snapped her fingers and said, "Exactly. A couple of weeks won't. A year won't. An eternity won't. You won't ever be happy without her."

"I doona believe that any longer. And I can promise you this will no' happen again."

"I don't know what's more disturbing... the fact that you called me by another woman's name or the fact that now you'll have to make a conscious effort not to. You're still thinking about her either way."

"If you want to leave because you have misgivings or lingering fears about last night, then go. But you canna leave because you think I prefer another over you. It simply is no' so."

"How can I believe you after you yelled her name?" she cried.

"I need to tell you something"—he stabbed his fingers through his hair—"that I doona talk about, ever. But I will with you." He gazed to the right of her as he said, "When Mariah died, she died... fleeing me. Running from me as you did last night. Even as I was thinking of naught but you, always the guilt for her death lingers at some level."

Mari gasped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He finally faced her. "I feared it would only hurt you to reveal this, that it would set up the same situation. I dreaded that."

"It was an accident though. Right? You can't carry that guilt forever."

"Sometimes, lately, I feel it's worse, because... " He trailed off.

"Because what?"

He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Even if I do believe you're of the same soul as her, I never wanted Mariah like I want you." He seemed shamed by the admission, even as she felt herself softening toward him—as ever. "And what does that say about me? How could you choose for yourself a male so disloyal? When I want to surrender this bloody guilt?"

"Of course you do—it's been nearly two freaking centuries! Enough's enough."

"Gods, I was hoping you would believe I've waited long enough." He exhaled a relieved breath. "I want to look forward."

"As you should. Cut yourself some slack."

"Done—if you will do the same for me as well."

She made a grated sound of frustration. "Oh, you sly—"

"Lass, we're going to have problems between us sometimes. We'll both make mistakes and forgive them. This is one of those times."

"You're acting like I've signed on for the long-term deal. And I haven't."

"What would it take to get another shot with you?"

"Nothing you have. My time here's getting short—"

"Nothing? But you have no' seen everything that I have. What if I told you I've an olive branch that the mercenary in you should appreciate?" He curled his finger under her chin. "You've never shied away from anything else, and you will no' regret this now."

She needed to stay strong, to stay furious. But all she wanted to do was get back to being with him.

"Take a chance on me, witchling."

It was then that she made a fateful observation.

Bowen MacRieve was holding his breath.

Damn him! And there went strong and furious, gone with a whimper. Still, she met his eyes. "Don't call me by her name again, Bowen. It hurt."

"Shh, lass." He wrapped those big arms around her, drawing her against the warmth of his chest. "I will no', I promise you." When she finally relaxed against him, he nuzzled her ear. She could feel his lips curl just before he said, "And doona hang my clothes in tall trees."