Mysteria Nights

“Thanks a lot, Tawdry,” he heard one of the fairies murmur. “You scared Hunter away, just like you always do.”

Genevieve growled. “If your greatest wish is to be bitch-slapped, color me Genie in a Bottle because I’m about to grant it.”

Hearing the embarrassment in her tone and the shame she tried so hard to hide behind bravado, he stilled. Another wave of guilt washed through him. He’d rejected this woman at every turn. He’d embarrassed her in front of the entire town more times than he could count. And she’d never been anything but sweet to him.

He knew she was shy around men. The way her cheeks pinkened, the way she sometimes stumbled over her words and gazed at anything but him, proved that. Yet she’d worked up the courage to approach him time and time again. How could he hurt her yet again?

“I, for one, am glad Hunter left,” Falon said, his tone seductive. “I’ve wanted to get Genevieve alone for a long time.”

Get her alone? That poaching bastard. Stop. Don’t think like that. Hunter rolled his shoulders and drew in a deliberate breath. Still, the thought of Falon and Genevieve together flashed through his mind again, the two of them naked and writhing. Rage seethed below the surface of his skin.

Maybe his psychic abilities were wrong. Maybe Genevieve wouldn’t be the death of him. Maybe—He ran his tongue over his teeth. His instincts were never wrong, and he knew better than to fool himself into believing a lie. He had to keep pushing her away.

Except, pushing her away might send her straight into another man’s arms. Something he’d always feared.

Yes, he’d always dreaded the day she would stop coming to him. That would mean she was ready to move on and accept another man. His hands fisted at his sides. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d cultivated a tentative friendship with her to keep such a thing from happening. Was it wrong of him? Yes. Did he care? Hell, no. The idea of her with another man always blackened his mood and set him on killing edge.

If she went to someone else tonight, to Falon, he’d—he’d—no way in hell he was letting that happen, he decided.

Determination rushing through him, he spun on his heel. Genevieve still sat at the bar, her shoulders hunched, her face lowered toward her empty glass as Falon spoke to her. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, shielding her delectable cleavage.

“Genevieve,” he called before he could stop himself.

The music skidded to a halt, the band members too interested in what was happening to play. In fact, everyone present went silent and locked eyes on him. Everyone except Genevieve, that is. She continued to stare into her glass, her gaze faraway, lost.

“Genevieve, you beautiful thing, I need your attention.”

Finally her chin snapped up and she faced him, shock filling her luscious hazel eyes. “Did you say beautiful? Are you talking to me?”

“Is your name Genevieve?”

“Well, yes.”

Oh, how she enticed him. She was all innocence, yet she possessed a wild, sex-kitten allure. It was a lethal, contradictory combination that always intrigued him. “Why don’t you have a seat at one of the tables, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Thanks a lot, Hunter,” Falon said, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his tone. Scamming bastard.

Genevieve’s nose crinkled and her brow furrowed, the planes of her face darkening with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer. What do you want to talk about?”

He flicked a pointed glance to their avid audience. “It’s private.”

“I don’t understand.” Then her lips—her lush, kiss me, lick me all over, fuck me all night lips—pressed together. Comprehension dawned in her eyes. She smiled slowly, seductively, yet somehow she appeared even more sad.

Now he was the one confused. What had made her happy and sad all at once? What did she comprehend?

“I would love to ‘talk’ with you,” she said.

He gulped. She made it sound like they’d be going at it like wild animals on the tabletop. Maybe they would. If only she didn’t tempt him on every level. Why did the Fates have to be so cruel? He desired this woman desperately, but he couldn’t have her as anything more than a friend.

She eased to her feet, and he choked back a laugh when she flipped the rose-colored pixies off. His laugh died a sudden death when he saw that her dress barely fell below the curve of her bottom. His fingers itched to touch.

None of the tables were empty. Everyone watched her curiously as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You have five seconds to give me a table or I’ll conjure your spouses into the bar. They’ll find out what you’ve been doing and—”

Before the last word emerged, everyone at the tables jolted to their feet—everyone except Barnabas Vlad, the art gallery owner. He didn’t have a spouse. Chairs skidded, drinks sloshed over rims. “Here, take mine,” rose in disharmony. Satisfied, Genevieve skipped to the table hidden in the corner, partially covered in a shadowy haven. “I’ll take yours, John Foster. Thank you.”

The town pervert was too busy staring at her cleavage to respond.

“Move out of her damn way!” Hunter shouted.

John nearly jumped out of his skin as he leaped away from Genevieve.

“And play some music. Now.” Hunter scowled at the band leader. “That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?”

A few seconds later, soft, romantic music drifted from the speakers. His scowl deepened. Resisting Genevieve was hard enough; throw in a romantic atmosphere . . . God help him.

The three fairies were frowning, he noticed, and Falon was leaning his hip against the bar. “You’re putting on quite a show tonight,” his friend said.

“I’m glad you find it entertaining.” He paused, looked away. “I’m taking a break.”

“That’s nice.”

“You’re still in charge.”

“That’s nice, too.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole and if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face, you’re fired.”

Falon’s deep laughter followed him as he stormed to Genevieve’s table and plopped down across from her. Once again, her delicious scent enveloped him. He shouldn’t have instigated this, but now that he had he was helpless to stop.

“What did you want to talk about?” She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, granting him another spectacular view. Sweet heaven above, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Had he suggested they talk? Perhaps a better suggestion would be that he shoot himself here and now and just get his death over with. “We’ve known each other a long time,” he began, fighting past the friction of sexual need working through him.

“Yes.”

“And we’ve never discussed—” What the hell was a safe, nonsexual topic?

“Yes?” she prompted, grinning.

Her teeth were two rows of pearly white perfection. And she had a dimple. Why had he never noticed it before? Probably because you’ve rarely given her a reason to smile at you, moron. He yearned to nibble on the delectable little morsel.

“We’ve never discussed—” He paused yet again. The weather? No, he’d only picture her naked in the rain. Favorite places to shop? No, he’d picture her shopping naked. Favorite books? No, he’d picture her reading naked.

Ah, hell.