Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

died? My condolences. Death is a bitch, isn’t she? You know…I can take your pain away. I can make it feel better. In fact, there’s a whole world I could show you, if you let me.”
    He checked for the watch. His pocket was empty.
    I’m awake.
    He paused momentarily. God, she was beautiful. Temptation at its finest.
    “First, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Second, there is no pain,” he growled, pushing her hands away. “Don’t presume to know what goes on inside my head.”
    “Whatever you say, tesoro. Lie to yourself if you want. I can give you so much pleasure. I know you desire me.”
    With the colors exploding overhead, she tilted her face up toward him and her eyelids fluttered shut. Expecting him to kiss her.
    Looking down at her upturned face, a strange sense of peace washed over him. She was like a child playing at being bad, a little girl playing the villain’s role in a game of dress-up.
    No, wait, he told himself with a shake of his head. Make no mistake about it. This woman is dangerous.
    He did not kiss her, but instead reached down and stroked the curve of her cheek.
    Her eyes popped open, a shock of verdant brightness. She did not wince; her eyes darkened to a cold shade of green, their glitter a menace, hard and rare.
    “I’d seek pleasure with you when hell freezes over,” he said.
    “If you let me go, I’ll make it very worth your while,” she breathed in her sultriest voice, arching upward on the bed to give him a good view of her ample cleavage. “What is it you want, angel?”
    “Nothing,” he said, staring her down. “And there is no way you could tempt me into letting you go. I was sent to collect you, and I intend to complete my mission.”
    She smiled, lowered her eyes demurely, then raised them again to peer out at him through half-closed lids. Very coolly, she said, “I take that as a challenge.”
    Ignore her and keep your mouth shut, he told himself. Just do your job, Guardian.
    It wasn’t as if he had never heard the promises of demons before.
    Hell, it was practically par for the course in his line of work.
    So why was this one so compelling?
    Outside, shouts of appreciation and applause signaled the end of the fireworks. “Uno spettaculo!…Che bello!…Bellisimo!”
    “I could make all of your wildest fantasies come true,” she taunted from the bed. Ran her tongue over her top lip, suggesting what those fantasies might be. “Whatever you desire. However you desire it. Don’t tell me you haven’t imagined coming in my mouth. In my—”
    “Enough,” he ordered, cutting her off.
    Instead of finishing her thought, she laughed, and he realized maybe that was worse.
    Because when he heard that sound, he had an irresistible urge to jump on the bed and take advantage of her, chained there like a medieval maiden, offered to some dragon in order to placate its fiery appetites.
    Only she was not a maiden. Not the princess. She was the dragon.
    Not only that, but somewhere deep inside his gut, a flame was growing within him.
    Ignore it, he ordered himself. Just do your job and don’t let her get to you.
    “Am I seriously supposed to sleep like this?” she said, frowning up at him, her lips set in a pout. “Aren’t you going to let me go?”
    He did unlock her wrists, but only for an instant, to change her position.
    “I’m taking you back to America tomorrow,” he said. Then he ordered, “Lie down.”
    “Make me,” she said.
    He shook his head. “I really wish we could do this the easy way.”
    In two seconds flat, he had her lying on her side, with her hands bound over her head.
    “And where are you going to sleep?” she grumbled.
    He threw a pillow and a blanket on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable, but he’d slept on far worse before. From the floor, he could still see her, even if she was lying flat on the bed. He didn’t dare turn his back on her, but wished to God he could. Momentarily, he thought of turning her over to the concierge for the night. But there was no way he could delegate his responsibility for her. This was his mission. His obligation.
    “Be quiet and go to sleep,” he ordered.
    “No coglioni, ” she muttered.
    “What?”
    “No cajones. You Americans. All talk,” she said coolly, “and no action.”
    He would not let her bait him.
    She turned her back to him, the tumble of her dark curls on the white cotton bedsheet, the exposed curve of her neck so appealing, so irresistible—it seemed to call