lifted, and he stuck his hand back in his pocket, awkward. “I was thinking of rogan josh and a mango lassi. Is that what they all say?”
I blushed, warm. Him, awkward. With me. Imagine that.
The thought of spicy food made my mouth water, and I had to admit the thought of the company did, too. Absently I rubbed my wrists, where the thrall bangles already itched and moaned. I should have been thinking about how I was going to fool DiLuca. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He shrugged. “Angelo’s finding someone for me. It can wait.”
I wondered what he was doing for Ange in return, and decided I didn’t want to know. “But—”
“But they itch?” He grinned, cheeky, stunning. “Sure. So does a mosquito bite. Doesn’t mean you have to scratch it right away.”
Pleasure glimmered in my heart at the prospect of defiance, even for an hour or two. I mustered a grin in return. “Okay, then. Your shout.”
6
I stretched out on tasseled white floor cushions, my stomach pleasantly full, the wonderful aroma of Indian food still drenching my taste buds. Oil wicks burned in copper lamps by the ceiling, the flames flickering gently in the breeze that fluttered through the open doors, and our low linen-covered table was littered with empty copper rice bowls and a ceramic handi smeared with the remnants of our glorious rogan josh. We’d eaten with our fingers, scooping up yellow saffron-stained rice mixed with toasted cumin seeds and chunks of spiced lamb so tender, they melted in my mouth, flavor exploding.
It was late. We were the last ones here, and the place was closed, the rest of the cushions tidied away and the tables wiped. The fat little owner seemed to know Rajah, who chattered away with him in Hindi or Urdu or whatever it was and convinced him to let us stay.
I’d been to the ladies’ and washed my face, so at least I didn’t have ruined makeup caked to my lashes and black streaks down my cheeks, even if my face was still puffed up like . . . well, like my best mate had just died.
I flexed my bare feet, aware of Rajah watching me, dark and inscrutable, his long legs relaxed as he stretched out next to me like a big lean cat. He hadn’t tried to hit on me, or touch me. We’d had an ordinary, funny, charming conversation about the food, the cricket season, this never-ending summer, the places we’d lived, and the times we’d seen.
He’d talked with glittering animation about Lahore before the Raj, when the Mughal Empire ruled the world from the gleaming marble court of Shah Jahan and the demon lords fought spectral battles in warm lamplit corridors. His dark eyes danced as he described intrigues with poison-fanged efrits and black-hearted djinn, and he laughed with me as I reminisced about Havana in the fifties, watching Sinatra in the ballroom at the Hotel Nacional with Meyer Lansky and Charlie Luciano, back when hellbound gangsters still had manners and knew how to show a girl a good time.
I hadn’t mentioned Nyx, and Rajah hadn’t asked, content to let me say what I wanted to say. He didn’t ask why I’d been crying. He didn’t even mention last night, but he didn’t seem embarrassed or avoidant. It was like he’d forgotten about it. But I hadn’t. I still felt him on me, the delicious heat of his body, his fingers clenched in my hair, his lips hungry on my throat. And I still saw that brass soultrap bubbling with angry Valenti energy, and Kane’s clueless expression when I told him about it.
I drained the last of my lassi, the milky liquid cool and sweet in my throat. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Rajah shrugged, easy, licking icy kulfi remnants from his spoon. I liked watching his mouth, the way his lips moved, sensual, deliberate. Even the split and the swelling bruise just made them more riveting.
I cleared my throat. “What are you really doing with Nino’s soul?”
He paused for a moment and put down his bowl,
I blushed, warm. Him, awkward. With me. Imagine that.
The thought of spicy food made my mouth water, and I had to admit the thought of the company did, too. Absently I rubbed my wrists, where the thrall bangles already itched and moaned. I should have been thinking about how I was going to fool DiLuca. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He shrugged. “Angelo’s finding someone for me. It can wait.”
I wondered what he was doing for Ange in return, and decided I didn’t want to know. “But—”
“But they itch?” He grinned, cheeky, stunning. “Sure. So does a mosquito bite. Doesn’t mean you have to scratch it right away.”
Pleasure glimmered in my heart at the prospect of defiance, even for an hour or two. I mustered a grin in return. “Okay, then. Your shout.”
6
I stretched out on tasseled white floor cushions, my stomach pleasantly full, the wonderful aroma of Indian food still drenching my taste buds. Oil wicks burned in copper lamps by the ceiling, the flames flickering gently in the breeze that fluttered through the open doors, and our low linen-covered table was littered with empty copper rice bowls and a ceramic handi smeared with the remnants of our glorious rogan josh. We’d eaten with our fingers, scooping up yellow saffron-stained rice mixed with toasted cumin seeds and chunks of spiced lamb so tender, they melted in my mouth, flavor exploding.
It was late. We were the last ones here, and the place was closed, the rest of the cushions tidied away and the tables wiped. The fat little owner seemed to know Rajah, who chattered away with him in Hindi or Urdu or whatever it was and convinced him to let us stay.
I’d been to the ladies’ and washed my face, so at least I didn’t have ruined makeup caked to my lashes and black streaks down my cheeks, even if my face was still puffed up like . . . well, like my best mate had just died.
I flexed my bare feet, aware of Rajah watching me, dark and inscrutable, his long legs relaxed as he stretched out next to me like a big lean cat. He hadn’t tried to hit on me, or touch me. We’d had an ordinary, funny, charming conversation about the food, the cricket season, this never-ending summer, the places we’d lived, and the times we’d seen.
He’d talked with glittering animation about Lahore before the Raj, when the Mughal Empire ruled the world from the gleaming marble court of Shah Jahan and the demon lords fought spectral battles in warm lamplit corridors. His dark eyes danced as he described intrigues with poison-fanged efrits and black-hearted djinn, and he laughed with me as I reminisced about Havana in the fifties, watching Sinatra in the ballroom at the Hotel Nacional with Meyer Lansky and Charlie Luciano, back when hellbound gangsters still had manners and knew how to show a girl a good time.
I hadn’t mentioned Nyx, and Rajah hadn’t asked, content to let me say what I wanted to say. He didn’t ask why I’d been crying. He didn’t even mention last night, but he didn’t seem embarrassed or avoidant. It was like he’d forgotten about it. But I hadn’t. I still felt him on me, the delicious heat of his body, his fingers clenched in my hair, his lips hungry on my throat. And I still saw that brass soultrap bubbling with angry Valenti energy, and Kane’s clueless expression when I told him about it.
I drained the last of my lassi, the milky liquid cool and sweet in my throat. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Rajah shrugged, easy, licking icy kulfi remnants from his spoon. I liked watching his mouth, the way his lips moved, sensual, deliberate. Even the split and the swelling bruise just made them more riveting.
I cleared my throat. “What are you really doing with Nino’s soul?”
He paused for a moment and put down his bowl,
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