Darker Than Any Shadow

CHAPTER ONE

“Be still,” he said, his mouth at my ear.

His hands moved around my neck and lay lightly against my shoulder blades, powerful and deceptively elegant. They had killed, those hands. I remembered this at unfortunate moments, like when his fingers brushed the nape of my neck—suddenly, from behind—when I’d barely had time to register his presence let alone prepare for his touch.

I stood very still. The effort unstrung me. I closed my eyes, but even then my thoughts galloped irresistibly into dangerous territory, taking my body with them.

Trey exhaled in exasperation. “You’re still fidgeting.”

I opened my eyes. There we were in the mirror, I in my scarlet cocktail dress, he in his immaculate Armani suit, black with a white shirt. My grandmother’s pearls nestled in the hollow of my throat, tracing the path his hands had followed as he’d slipped them around my neck. The string of tiny orbs glowed against my freckled skin, cool as moonlight, but warming with each heartbeat.

I thought red made me look like I had a fever, but since Trey was the one with the AmEx Plutonium and the thing for Italian couture in various vermillions and crimsons, I wiggled into it occasionally. He had an eye for cut, and I had to admit that this particular dress—a halter top with a plunging back and draped skirt—balanced my broad shoulders and sleeked up my hips quite nicely.

I tried to meet his eyes in the mirror, but he was focused on the clasp tangled in my hairline.

I yanked away. “Ouch!”

“Tai. Be still.”

He was so close I could smell his evergreen aftershave, plus the mint of toothpaste, the talcum scent of soap. He had his French cuffs fastened, Bulgari Diagano watch in place, black hair brushed back. My Manolos weren’t even out of the box yet, and the back of my dress was still unzipped.

Frustration tinged his voice. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. Somehow it caught on the . . . what are these things keeping my hair up?”

“Hairpins.”

“The stylist called them something French.”

“Épingles à cheveux?”

“Yeah that.”

Trey finished unknotting the stubborn tangle and zipped me up. Then he hooked the dress at the top and eyed me in the mirror, adjusting the left strap a millimeter to the left. His fingers brushed the skin there, and the resulting tingle rippled across my shoulder blades.

He checked his watch, which was a formality. Even if he had to haul me out the door unzipped, pearls dropping behind me like breadcrumbs, hair tumbling from my épingles à cheveux, we would be on time.

I scurried to collect my fancy purse and fancy shoes. He held the door for me, a dichromatic vision perfectly complemented by the blank white walls and black hardwood floor of his almost-penthouse. His clear blue eyes were impatient now, the little wrinkle between them digging in deep.

I smoothed it out with my thumb. “Chill out, boyfriend. We’ve got plenty of time.”

He cocked his head. “Boyfriend. Interesting.”

I laughed, stepped into the Manolos, and kissed him, not even having to stand on tiptoe to do it. It was one of those kisses, the kind that sneaks up like a rogue wave. I closed my eyes, inching my hands along his rib cage, skimming his torso…

Until I hit warm leather and cold metal.

I tilted my head back and looked him right in the eye. Armani suits were usually good for concealed carry—something about the cut and break of the jackets—but Trey’s H&K was not exactly an easy hide, especially not from a handsy girlfriend.

“Did you forget to tell me something?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“So you’re packing your nine-millimeter because…”

“Because Rico asked me to.”

Rico. My best friend.

I put my hands on my hips. “And you didn’t tell me because . . .”

“Because Rico asked me not to.”

“We’re going to a debut party for a bunch of poets! Why does that require firepower?”

Trey checked his watch again. “Can I explain in the car?”

“Oh yes.” I pushed past him toward the elevator, trying not to teeter in the ridiculous heels. “You can absolutely do that.”