hailed a cab, but he could see the river Seine from here. One thing he’d learned since arriving in Paris: if a man could locate the river, he’d never get lost. There was the left bank and the right bank, and the river. And he knew the island where he was staying was to his left.
It would be about a twenty-minute walk. He could use the fresh air. It was July and even nearing midnight the air was sultry. But not as sultry as the sexy handful he’d just held up against the wall.
“Blyss,” he murmured.
And yet.
“What happened back there?”
Earlier this evening he’d donned a borrowed suit, met Blade on the street before the chocolate shop and entered the gallery with hopes to view some interesting artwork. A couple of rednecks mingling with the snooty set. It was supposed to be a kick. Stryke hadn’t expected to pick up the hottest chick in the place.
And to have sex with her.
Blade and his miniskirted twins had nothing on what he’d scored.
But the craziest thing of all? There had been something about her. And it wasn’t her beauty or her bold tease or the quick but satisfying liaison. He toggled the cuff link she’d returned to him. Her scent had been... Well hell, he didn’t know how to categorize the uniqueness of her. Beyond the sweet flowery perfume, he had scented something deeper. Intriguing. Familiar?
“Crazy,” he muttered as he strolled along the river. Lights on the buildings cast a spectacular show across the Seine’s darkened waters. He marveled that tourists were out in full force. The City of Light truly never slept.
“I was caught in the moment. And what a moment.”
Would he ever see her again? If he returned to the gallery would she give him the time of day? Acknowledge they’d shared that moment?
Probably not. A woman like Blyss probably picked out a man to please her then tossed him aside without a glance over her sexy, bare shoulder.
Yet she hadn’t gotten off. He’d come so quickly. Hadn’t been able to stop himself. He felt bad about that. Normally he tended to a woman’s pleasure before allowing his own. But the moment had jumped on him and he’d been swept away. He should have dropped to his knees and...
The assistant had banged on the door, ruining the whole thing.
Stryke paused at an intersection and glanced back the direction from which he’d come. A brightly lit Ferris wheel spun through the Paris sky to his left.
Why had he walked away? He should have waited around for the guy to leave and then got her phone number.
Was his hasty retreat because he’d felt as if she’d rejected him by pulling away from him so quickly? Probably. The woman defined classy. So out of Stryke’s universe. Probably ate caviar and champagne for breakfast, then skirted around Paris in a Lamborghini painted pale pink, the color of her lips.
Rubbing his brow, Stryke shook his head and walked across the street on the green light. Smirking, he shook his head again. “It was a hookup,” he muttered. “Let it go.”
But with the lingering scent of flowers imbued on his skin, letting go was easier thought than done.
Torsten Rindle was an interesting fellow. Stryke met him in a parking lot on the left bank down the street from a vast city park. The man drove an olive-green van, and he’d opened up the back doors to reveal some boxes sitting in the stripped-to-the-framework interior.
Tor was tall, slender and dressed in a tweed vest and pleated trousers. A polka-dot tie tightened about a crisp white dress shirt, of which, the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A cicada was tattooed on the underside of one of his forearms, but otherwise, he appeared a dapper Englishman.
Stryke liked his accent. So Downton Abbey. Not that he’d ever watched the show. Okay, maybe once on a date a girl had suggested they cuddle on the couch and watch TV. The things a guy did for a little snuggling.
“So Hawkes Associates is strapped for help?” Tor asked as he carefully peeled back the packing tape from the top of a cardboard box.
“Actually, Rhys Hawkes is busy with a family wedding. Which is why I’m in town. The bride is my aunt.”
“Ah yes, Johnny Santiago and his girl are tying the knot. Good couple. Vampires.”
“Yes, indeed.” And this guy worked for a secret order that hunted vampires. “You, uh...ever try to stake them?”
“Me?” Tor grinned, exposing a boyish charm. “I don’t do the stake. I’m spin. Someone has to make sure the mortals didn’t see a vampire bite a person’s neck, but instead, just happened upon a couple actors rehearsing for a show at the Moulin Rouge. You know? The Order of the Stake only pursues those vampires who are a danger to humans. Like me. I’m human.” He turned and offered his hand to shake. “Sorry, didn’t do this properly. Torsten Rindle. Human.”
Stryke shook the man’s firm grasp. “Stryke Saint-Pierre. Werewolf.”
“I like werewolves,” Tor offered, folding back the flap on the box. “But you guys can be a challenge when pissed off.”
Stryke tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Nothing wrong with being a challenge.”
“So.” Tor gestured Stryke approach the back of the van to peer into the box. “This is what I’ve got.”
“Rhys said your knights sometimes pick this stuff up from a slain vampire’s lair?”
“This artifact came from a vamp who was trafficking in magical accoutrements. Most of the stuff—herbs, nostrums and small ritual objects—we toss. But there were some decidedly demonic artifacts mixed in with the more innocuous stuff. Didn’t want to keep our hands on this, nor did we want it sitting around for any Tom, Dick or Edward to get his hands on.”
“May I?”
Tor nodded. “You’ll be taking it with you anyway.”
Stryke peered into the box and spied what looked like a staff of sorts. About two feet long, it was sleek, resembled steel and the top portion jutted up into prongs, which looked as though they should be clasping some wizardly sort of crystal.
His fingers neared the staff and then he flinched. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“Demonic scepter.” Tor reached in and pulled out the item as if a child’s toy and waved it before Stryke. “Demons can do very bad things with it.”
Stryke took a step back and put up his hands. “That’s silver, man.”
Tor studied the length of the scepter, then nodded. “Yep, probably is. A good conductor of magic. I suspect a stone or some such fits in the prongs. Most likely the stone is required to activate the thing. Be thankful it’s missing. Here you go.”
“Dude, I am not touching that thing. Silver is—”
“Ah,
