“I’ll do it,” I said.
His surprise showed in a blink followed by a beat of silence. “What changed your mind? Last we talked, it was all powder kegs and kowtowing to the heavenly host across the street.”
“Last we talked…” I paused. “I wasn’t sure you could afford my fee.”
His smile returned—thin, greasy, and immediately irritating. “I would tell you to give me a number, but we both know you don’t need money.”
When I didn’t respond, Maslow leaned in and lowered his voice.
“I take it you have another form of compensation in mind? Something a bit more… tangible? Something to keep your bed warm, perhaps?” He gave me a look that made my skin crawl before he sat straight again. “You should know I’m not interested in selling my performers.”
“And I’m not buying.”
Maslow cocked his head. “What then?”
A beat passed. I turned away, letting my gaze drift to the window and the glittering sprawl of the Strip beyond. “Entertainment, maybe?” I said, almost to myself. “Eternity is… eternal. Things get stale; I get bored. I’m sure I’ll think of something. But for now, I’ll settle for an IOU.”
When I faced the wraith again, his features had sharpened. “You’re hoping I’ll change my mind. About the incubus,” he surmised. “I know you want him.”
It was poker all over again, but I was not about to tip my hand. I held Maslow’s gaze, steady and silent while he bluffed with the gusto of a man going all in.
“You’ve got that hungry look, Beckett. Like even nowyou’re imagining the way he sounds with your hand around his throat. You want to get inside his head. Inside hiseverything. You want to hear him gasp your name and pretend it means something.”
He smiled, all teeth.
“That’s the thing about incubi, though. They make you think it’s love when really, it’s appetite. Yours. His. Mine.”
“If I didn’t know better,” I growled. “I’d think you were trying to talk me out of this.”
Maslow’s twitch betrayed a moment of calculation, of reassessment. He thought he’d struck a nerve. Thought I might flinch. I didn’t.
Finally, he nodded. His lips pursed in satisfaction at having outmaneuvered me. “Fairmont for a favor, then. How old-fashioned of you.”
I let him assume. Let him assign it whatever narrative made him feel clever.
Opening the manila folder, I pulled a pen from the desk drawer. Its click was loud in the quiet room. Then I started writing, filling in the necessary blanks while Maslow congratulated himself.
He believed he’d won, and that was fine.
For now.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Beck
“He signed it?”
That evening, back at the Grecian, Zephyr and I were puttering around the suite. He’d paused mid-stretch in front of the picture window, framed by the last blush of twilight. One leg lifted beside his head in a flawless standing split, his body a study in tension and grace.
Holding the pose, he stared at me like he wasn’t the most captivating thing in the room.
I’d been bringing him up to speed on what happened after I’d kicked him and Colette out of my office and into a long lunch. Contractual negotiations weren’t exactly riveting, but since Zephyr had a vested interest in this one, I wasn’t surprised by his curiosity. It flattered me, the way he studied my face with a sort of awe, like maybe I really was the hero he fancied me to be, or at least a devil he could trust.
“He signed it.” I raised my bourbon in a lazy toastbefore sipping. “Every page. Every clause. With a flourish, even.”
Zephyr didn’t have a taste for alcohol, or maybe I didn’t have the kind he liked. Either way, he seemed content with our chatter while watching the city transform under nightfall. I was content watching him.
