Demon of Vengeance: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 4 Page 15

  That smile made every second of their grueling hike worth it. His chest swelled as she brought the canteen back to her mouth and took another series of long, greedy gulps.

  “Thank you,” she said when she finished, capping the canteen. “That was a rare treat out here.”

  “Anytime,” he said, falling into step close behind her, closer than he’d been for the last mile or so. “Really,” he reminded her, softly so the others wouldn’t hear. “All you have to do is tell me what you need, anything you want, and I’ll conjure it for you.”

  “I already have everything I need,” she responded, just as quietly, and picked up her pace.

  Sebastian hitched his backpack up and fell in line. But the silence had stretched on too long between them. The sound of her voice and the stories she told took his mind off the heat, so he moved closer again and asked, “Talk?”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me about the region some more. Tell me a story.”

  She went quiet for a moment as she climbed over a fallen tree. Sebastian reached up and took her elbow, balancing her until she was safely over. She smiled back at him, watched as he hopped over the tree, and then resumed walking.

  “The Toltec culture, lead by Quetzalcóatl, rose up in this region around, um, 987 CE, I believe.”

  “The name sounds familiar.”

  She nodded. “Toltec became the dominate culture before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadores.”

  She fell silent for a moment. “There is one interesting story that comes to mind.”

  “Tell me,” he encouraged.

  “The first Spaniards to visit the region were actually survivors of a shipwreck. Only two survived. Jerónimo de Aguilar and Gonzalo Guerrero. In time they were considered members of one of the tribes. Guerrero later married the daughter of a Chetumal tribal chief. De Aguilar was eventually rescued during the Spanish explorer Hernán Cortés’s expedition.”

  “Did they have children?”

  “I believe so, yes. A son.”

  “So he was sort of like the father of the Mexican nationality?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. And, the proper name for a child of mixed race, particularly of Mexican and Native American descent, is Mestizo.” She reached up and scrapped sticky hair from her cheek, hooked it behind her ear. “Actually, you could offend some by referring to them as Mexican in general, rather than Mayan for the Indigenous population or Campechanos for the Hispanic population.”

  Was there no end to what she knew? Even her brain fascinated him. And the way she came alive in the telling, there was just a way about her.

  Geez, he was turning into a dope.

  “I’m probably boring you,” she said at length.

  “I like listening to you lecture.”

  “I’m not lecturing,” she argued, stopping to shoot him a frown.

  “Okay, you’re telling stories then.” He couldn’t resist. “I bet all your classes were packed, weren’t they?”

  Her frown deepened. “Usually. But why would you say so?”

  He smiled. “Just a feeling.”

  She eyed him for a moment longer. Then, with a shrug, she turned to the trail. “You know, you’re welcome to walk at the front of the line with Ricardo,” she offered. “He could probably tell you a few more interesting, less academic stories about the region.”

  “Nope. I’m fine right where I am.”

  She shot an exasperated glance over her shoulder. “Dare I bother asking why?”

  He grinned, unabashed, and let his focus wander south. He cocked his head to make it very obvious where he was looking. “The view from where I’m standing is killer. If I haven’t mentioned it, I really like your ass in those pants, just in case you were wondering.”

  Her mouth fell open. She blinked. And then she sputtered.

  He chuckled and gave her his best, wicked smile. “Suppose they’d notice if we slipped off the beaten path for a while?”

  Phoebe gave a little harrumph, color brightening her cheeks. She spun away and nearly smacked into a tree trunk. Righting herself, she hastened her steps to catch up to the others. Sebastian’s mood soared. He even took up whistling.

  Could he help it if the only song that came readily to mind involved pouring sugar on him in the name of love?

  They broke into a clearing a short while later. Once there, Sebastian stood back, out of the way as directed, and watched as Phoebe hustled around the camp, inspecting, nodding approval, pointing and redirecting. She darted into one of the tents, then came back out a few moments later, sans her backpack. He made a mental note which tent, just in case, then observed as she launched back into motion. It was almost exhausting to watch. One would never be able to tell she’d just spent the better part of her day tromping through the jungle.

  The ease with which she interacted with Ricardo, relied on him, was testament to their relationship. The way the six workers responded, respectfully and efficiently, attested to Ricardo’s judgment. And, confident woman in her element that she was, Phoebe took their behavior as her due. Just watching her boss people around—not that she actually bossed, it was more like politely and firmly instructing—was a turn on. As she had informed him in the heat of their battle, this wasn’t her first camping trip. If he had any doubts before, they were history now.

  Eventually, she directed Sebastian to the second in a hodgepodge cluster of tents. The same one she’d ducked into before. Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief. He really hadn’t wanted to have that argument all over again. Especially not out here with an audience.

  He lifted the flap and stepped inside. “Home sweet…” His voice trailed away as he looked around in dismay. He dropped his bag on the canvas floor and, resisting the urge to spit the now sour taste out of his mouth, he finished, “Home.”

  He stepped farther inside the tent. This wasn’t going to work, not at all. First, he couldn’t even stand up straight. Even hunched over as he was, the back of his head still pressed against the top of the tent. And Phoebe wasn’t exactly short. It couldn’t be much better for her. Second, the place smelled like…well, like a tent. An old one. Third, by the time Phoebe had finished stacking her crates in the middle of the back wall, spread the two single sleeping bags on the narrow cots against the opposite sides, and hung the lantern at the tent’s highest peak, there wasn’t enough room to turn around, let alone live for the foreseeable future.

  Which brought his attention back to the cots. The itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie cots. And the ratty, musty looking sleeping bags.

  That shit sooo ain’t happenin’.

  Her backpack had been tossed onto one of those cots. He moved farther into the tent, letting the flap slap closed behind him. Sebastian eased onto the free cot, very cautiously. It creaked beneath his weight, but he didn’t end up on his ass on the floor, so he figured that was something at least.

  He looked around, already missing his overstuffed couch, his big screen TV, and his refrigerator all the more.

  Oh no. Or, in Phoebe’s choice words…oh hell no.

  The figurative light bulb went off over his head, and he smiled. He could do much better than this.

  Much, much better.

  Chapter Eleven

  Supper was a relaxing affair, eaten around the campfire. The fare itself was good, tasty and filling, if a little spicy. Ricardo had found an exceptional camp cook. Phoebe could have lingered longer, listening to the workers, six in all, as they spoke in hushed tones. But she was tired. It had been a long day, and an even longer, grueling trek, and she wanted nothing more than to take a quick shower and to turn in for the night. As she well knew, the first rays of dawn would come all too soon.

  Standing, stifling a yawn, she dug her fist into the small of her back. She’d just dart inside her tent—ugh, the tent she was now sharing with Sebastian, heaven
help her—and snag a change of clothing before taking a go at the camp shower, such as it was. But she caught sight of the smug smile on Sebastian’s face, and she paused. He’d been grinning like that off and on for the last hour or so. Her eyes narrowed.

  What’s he up to?

  Pressing her lips together, she made her way to her—their tent. Phoebe ducked as she pulled back the flap, and stepped inside.

  She straightened, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Sebastian,” she hissed.

  No. She had to be imagining things. The heat had gotten to her. Or exhaustion. Something. What she was seeing just couldn’t be possible. Shaking her head, she backed from the tent, letting the flap fall back in place. Ignoring the strange looks she garnered from her crew, and the smug look on Sebastian’s face, she surveyed the outside of the tent once more.

  Plain, dark, water-stained canvas, patched here and there. It was as familiar to her as a comfortable pair of old shoes. This tent, as well as the one Ricardo was using, were the same tents they used whenever they went on an excavation together. There was no way what she’d just seen could have possibly fit in a tent of these dimensions.

  Perturbed, she stepped back inside. It was exactly as she’d witnessed it a moment before. Gone were the sleeping bags and cots. Gone the rough crates, the lantern, the bare tarp floor.

  The inside of the tent now had to measure twenty-five by twenty-five. At least. The walls were still material, only now they appeared to be made of luxurious ivory silk. The floors were covered with some kind of glossy dark wood. An expensive looking, tall wardrobe, the top lined with lit candles, stood in one corner and in another corner sat a beautiful writing desk complete with antique lamp and comfortable looking chair. In the third corner rested a big, overstuffed couch with a coffee table in front of it and a mini fridge doubling as an end table. A tasteful arrangement of candles of various thicknesses and lengths nestled in the middle of the table. The candles bathed the entire room in soft white light.

  But the focal point of the room was the massive, four poster bed draped in crimson silks. Overhead, a paddle-bladed ceiling fan whirled gently, stirring the air. Air delicately scented with exotic flowers and tropical fruits.

  Air that was at least a full twenty degrees cooler than the air outside the tent.

  It was a room of fantasy and luxury. Something you’d expect to find in a lavish bungalow on some alluring beach with the shush of the tide rolling in nearby.

  It was a room designed for a romantic seduction, right down to the gleaming claw foot tub in the remaining corner. An elegant end table and a silver towel stand draped with two thick white towels stood beside the tub. The top of the table was littered with an assortment of glass jars filled with colorful bath salts, body scrubs, and gels.

  The heavy weight of large hands settling on her shoulders made Phoebe jump.

  She whirled around, ready to blast him, both for startling her and for…well, the room. But he quickly laid a cautionary finger against her lips.

  “Shh,” he warned. “We wouldn’t want Ricardo or one of your crew to come charging to the rescue, now would we? After all, how would you explain all this?”

  Fuming, she shook off his finger, and hissed, “How do you explain it all?”

  “I conjured it for you.” He walked over and dropped onto the sofa with a grateful sigh.

  She rounded on him, planting her fists on her hips. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “I know you didn’t.” He shrugged. “I’m just looking after you.”

  “I don’t need looking after. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Now change it back.”

  He looked around the room, and then back at her. “No.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d just tossed that word out there so casually. As if she’d asked him if he wanted coffee after supper.

  She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t going to work, you know.”

  The look he turned on her was entirely too innocent. “What won’t work, sweetheart?”

  She ground her teeth. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. This”—she swept her arm around the room—“is not normal on a trip like this.”

  “Why rough it when you don’t have to?”

  “Because this is a jungle. This stuff doesn’t belong here.”

  “I say it does, and I can provide it, so…” He shrugged again. Damn him.

  She drew a long breath, counted to ten, then counted to twenty, before letting it all out slowly. Somehow, she managed to find a patient, reasonable tone. “I don’t need all this luxury. I’ve made due with what was here before just fine, many times.”

  “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,” he quipped, throwing her own words back at her.

  Phoebe gasped, outraged. She snapped her teeth together, clenched her fists at her sides, and growled, “Change. It. Back.”

  He only smiled. That irritating, obstinate, infernal smile. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. She wanted to stomp her foot.

  “You might as well get used to it, sweetheart. I can give you all this and more.”

  “I don’t want all this,” she snarled. I don’t want you. But she couldn’t speak the lie aloud. That he would do this? That he would think to provide this oasis, this tiny slice of paradise in what could potentially be a very physically demanding search drove her crazy. It maddened her.

  It also touched her, deeply.

  Not the luxury. But the thought—the intent—behind it. The idea that he wanted to make her comfortable, take care of her. Even if a portion—however small or large—was driven by lust.

  And it was more than she felt she could deal with.

  “Please, change it back.”

  Finally a flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes. But it was gone just as fast as it had appeared, and all that easy charm was back in place. And so was that wicked smile. Seduction on steroids. “Are you sure?”

  His stare never left her, didn’t waver for a second, as he slowly stood. The spell wasn’t broken until his face disappeared for a split second while he pulled his shirt off over his head.

  “Why don’t you give it a night? Sleep on it, love,” he said, drawing her unwilling attention to the decadent bed. She snapped her focus back to him, only to curse herself because she knew she was weakening. His muscles rippled in the soft candlelight luring her closer. “Think it over. If you’re not completely…satisfied in the morning, then I can always change it back.”

  Realizing how close she’d been to drooling—literally drooling—Phoebe swallowed and forced herself to blink. But she got all caught up again when his long fingers began slowly working the button at his waistband loose. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She waited on pins and needles until that tiny round piece of metal finally popped free.

  “Would you like me to fill the tub for you?” His softly spoken question barely registered.

  She stood trapped, frozen in place, lusting, craving, as he eased his zipper down, down, down, seemingly one tooth at a time.

  “Fill the—” What was he talking about. Why was he talking? “Fill what?”

  She couldn’t track the conversation. Honestly, couldn’t even remember the words that had just come out of her own mouth. And then his thumbs slipped into the sagging waistband of his pants and, bit by bit, began working them down, one stingy inch at a time. Right. Left. Right. Revealing a patch of short curling hair. Her eyes widened. She moistened her lips. And giddy flutters spun through her womb when the thick root of his manhood was revealed at last. How much further would he go?

  “The tub. With water,” he clarified, and chuckled.

  Water? What the hell did water have to do with anything? She finally managed to drag her gaze up, up over the luscious muscles roping his stomach, the heavy slabs of raw strength that formed his chest, and over those broad, powerful sho
ulders.

  He tilted his head down, just a little, and he peered at her with startling intensity, with knowing that shook her to her core. His sculpted lips tipped up at the corners.

  Phoebe sucked in air like a drowning woman, and spun around. The room tilted. Oh, God! She was going to pass out.

  “What are you doing?” she squawked, unmindful, uncaring if anyone heard and came to investigate.

  “I thought that was obvious,” he said. The dark desire in his voice made her tremble.

  “Well, stop it.”

  “But I prefer to bathe without clothing,” he said, the damned tease.

  The slosh of water pricked her ears. Knowing it was a bad idea, knowing she had no business doing it but drawn against her will, she peeked over her shoulder. Soon her whole body followed suit, turning to fully face him. She was blatantly staring, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. He’d already gotten in the tub. Water lapped at his small, puckered nipples. His strong arms rested along the rim as he leaned back, an iniquitous grin on his sinful lips.

  If she went up on tiptoe, could she see through the water?

  No! She bit the tip of her tongue. Bad, Phoebe! Bad!

  “I should probably warn you,” he drawled, dipping a finger into the water, sending tiny ripples over the surface, “I sleep naked as well.”

  Her vision blurred. Her knees nearly buckled. Oh sweet Mary, I’m going to have a stroke.

  “You’re welcome to join me,” he coaxed, drawing slow figure eights in the water with the tip of one finger. She couldn’t look away. “The water’s perfect, nice and cool. Though I can make it hotter if you like.”

  She just bet he could.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  “Oh God,” she whispered aloud, nearly hyperventilating. Phoebe cleared her throat, and still, all she could get out was a hoarse, “Get out of there!”

  His grin widened. “Okay.”