"Is shea"?" Philips began.

"She ain!t."

"Pardon?"

"She ain'ta She's not coming."

The razor nick on the man's Adam's apple bobbed. "Oh, well, I suppose I coulda"" He broke off and rubbed his forehead as if it pained him. Moving backward, he took one reluctant step down the front stairs, then another. At the bottom he gripped the flowery wrought-iron railing and frowned at his shiny shoes.

"I have reservations at Astoria House," he said, a combination of enticement and rebuke.

Astoria House! Charles's heart rate spiked. A person could wait six months to get a table at the Astoria, a.s.suming he had the wherewithal to eat there in the first place.

"Well, we wouldn't want those to go to waste."

Roxie's voice brought them both around. She swayed down the last white treads in a curve-hugging, sunshine yellow gown. Its short, swirling train floated just above the ground, revealing a pair of twinkling satin slippers. Flashing a too-bright smile, she tugged a matching pair of gloves up to her elbows. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled within the low, heart-shaped neckline. The air thickened in Charles's lungs. He'd never seen her look so feminine. Where was the woman who swore she couldn't face the lying scoundrel, who begged him to make an excuse for her?

"It's all right," she said, reading the judgment in his face. "I changed my mind."

Philips's brow furrowed. "Does that mean you're coming?"

"I look like I'm coming, don't I?"

"You look beautiful," he declared. It was harder to hate him than it should have been, especially when Roxie pinkened at his praise.

Hopeless, Charles thought with a mixture of pride for her courage and exasperation at her stupidity. He should have known she couldn't stay away.

Roxie had spent much of her childhood eating at fancy hotels with her mother, but the Astoria still had the power to charm. It was housed in an old pre-demon mansion near the sh.o.r.e. Entrepreneur Gaspar Ilario had restored the building to its original glory, restricting all modernization to the kitchen. True to period, the huge crystal-rope chandeliers held candles rather than gas. The scent of beeswax layered one more pleasure into the savory atmosphere.

With a nudge, Adrian drew her attention to the arcs of gla.s.s that enclosed the entry's atrium on either side. Tropical fish fluttered inside, bright as island flowers. Astounding. But how could Adrian afford to take her here? Surely he wasn't a felonious policeman?

"Aha"er, sir, welcome," said the maitre d'.

Roxie realized Adrian must have signaled the man not to call him "Inspector." Good reflexes, she thought, then: Goodness, he eats here often enough to be recognized by the staff.

However he managed the expense, Adrian hadn't made himself unwelcome. The maitre d's smile appeared genuine. He took Adrian's coat just long enough to hand it to a waiting girl. Roxie's wrap and gloves followed, and then they were ushered into the main dining room.

Her heels struck cypress floors so old they were almost black. They'd been sanded flat and polished to a glossy shine. Like islands in a placid sea, Ka'arkish rugs lay across the wood, patterned with elaborate indigo- and rust-colored curlicues. Each island supported a white-draped table on which heavy silver plates twinkled. Though full, the place was hushed, as though its perfection awed even the toffs.

"Here we are, sir, madam." The maitre d' nodded at a uniformed waiter to pull out their chairs. Their table was more private than most, because it sat in a half-circle of windows overlooking the beach. Now twilight, the sand was empty of all but gulls.

"Is anything wrong?" Adrian asked once they were settled. "You were awfully quiet on the drive over."

She smoothed the soft yellow folds of her skirt. Her hands shook at the prospect of confronting him with his lie, but she managed a steady tone. "I was wondering how a policeman could afford to bring me here."

A stunned silence followed her statement. He pushed his water gla.s.s an inch farther from his plate. "But howa"?"

"Charles followed you back to the station. He read your name on a plaque outside the door. 'Inspector Adrian Philips.' Impressive. Most men your age would still be sergeants."

"I meant to tell you." His a.s.sertion was earnest but not entirely convincing.

"I'm sure you did."

"It's complicated."

"Yes." She let all her scorn imbue the word, all her pride. Adrian winced.

"We probably shouldn't see each other after this," he said in a breathless rush, his expression pleading. "My joba"

She simmered under the insult but did not raise her voice. "I understand. In your position, a woman like myself could only be a liability. An illegitimate bawdy artist. A half-demon."

"Those aren't the only reasons."

"Oh, lovely." The heat in her face began to pulse. "What else is wrong with me?"

"Not with you," he said quietly. "Never with you."

The gravity in his voice encouraged her to meet his eyes. To her surprise, their expression was sorrowful.

"I've been enhanced," he said.

She didn't understand him. The term was foreign to her experience. "Enhanced?"

He rubbed his wrist, a habitual gesture that made her think he might have broken it long ago. His next words set her shockingly straight.

"I have implants: advanced Yamish technology. If I activate them, they increase my strength. I got them as part of an experimental program to enable humans to police the rohn more effectively. Without them, I would have little choice except to use a weapon on any demon I needed to subdue."

For a moment, all Roxie could do was blink. He had these instruments inside him. He'd let a demon cut him open and put them in. Lord, he must have been dedicateda"and ambitiousa"to allow that!

When she recovered her powers of speech, she reached instinctively for his right hand. "You have them here? In your wrist?"

Light though it was, her touch made his fingers twitch, a quick, sensual reaction both pretended not to notice. Adrian cleared his throat. "In both wrists, actually."

"You know," Roxie said, fighting not to clench her hand as she drew it back, "when I confessed I was half-demona"not an easy decision, by the bya"that might have been an appropriate occasion to mention this."

"I would have had to explain why I had them."

"Yes, you would."

"I wasn't certain I coulda""

"Trust me?" She cut him off bitterly. "When I'd just told you my b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n secret?"

He sucked in a breath as if preparing to argue, then shook his head. "You're right," he said. "You're right. I have nothing to say in my own defense. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to be a policeman with you. I wanted to be a man."

His face had colored at the confession, but he leaned forward and pressed on. "These devicesa"I agreed to get them to help me in my job and advance my career. They've accomplished both those goalsa" He toyed with his silver knife.

"But?" she prompted.

"But the people who know I have them look at me differently, as if in some small way I've gone over to the other side. My position isn't as secure as it could be. If I were to show other evidence of untrustworthy behaviora"

"Like keeping company with me."

"Yes," he confirmed reluctantly. "Keeping company with you wouldn't help. I a.s.sure you this is not my own position. I know you'd never do anything to compromise a case. Sadly, my personal belief in your integrity is unlikely to sway my superiors."

Roxanne pressed her lips together and nodded. A return of her earlier anger would have been welcome now, but she knew what it was like to fear going hungry, to scrounge for any work you could find. She didn't want Adrian to have to face that. Of course, she also couldn't help feeling disappointed that he wouldn't risk everything to be with her.

Twit, she thought. Why would any man want to do that?

To her relief, her disillusionment didn't show in her face.

"I must say," Adrian remarked, "you're taking this calmly."

"Why wouldn't I?" She shook out her blossom-folded napkin and laid it across her lap. At the least, she could save her pride. "We had a nice time. Now it's over."

He stared at her. He looked both startled and hurt. "Right. Well, nothing to say we can't enjoy our last meal together?"

"Right," she agreed, coaxing the leather-bound wine list from his side of the table. "I suppose I can order what I like? Since you've gone to the trouble of choosing such a nice place to cast me off."

He laughed. She hadn't meant to make him laugh. The warmth of the sound annoyed her.

"Please, feel free to impoverish me. It's the least I can do to make up for misleading you." He smiled as warmly as he'd laughed, looking just as fond of her as he could be. A cruel illusion, Roxanne thought. "This place belongs to my brother-in-law. I coordinate security for private events. In return, he stands me the occasional meal."

"I see." The discovery that he was at least professionally honest pleased hera"too much, no doubt. "But then, you're related to Gaspar Ilario. Oh, Adrian!" Before she could stop herself, she'd clasped his smooth gray sleeve. "Do you think you could put in a word for Charles, see if they need an extra chopper person in the kitchen, even someone to clear tables? He's very responsible, and I know he'd love the chance to get his foot in the door at a place like this."

"I'm sure I could do that." His eyes crinkled as he shared her excitement. It didn't seem to occur to him that some women would ask this favor as a parting bribe.

Careful, she cautioned herself. She was giving this man's good opinion too much weight. This was good-bye. It was time to stop caring what he thought. All the same, her mother's blood rebelled at the idea of letting him go without a whimper. Roxanne had the power to make him regret his choice, even if she couldn't make him change it.

Giving her bodice a surrept.i.tious downward tug, she leaned forward, then propped her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. As she'd intended, his eyes strayed toward her overflowing dcolletage. She had powdered her bosom tonight, not to obscure her frecklesa"she'd never been self-conscious on that scorea"but to highlight her curves with tiny sparkles. Bound by nothing more than her shift, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled into the low neckline.

Was he wondering how far the glitter went? Beneath the edge of her gown? To her navel? To the warm, soft folds between her legs?

She remembered how he'd liked to pet her there, even after they'd been sated. The two weeks she'd spent without his touch sharpened her frustration. She didn't just ache for him, she itched to feel his hot, smooth rod pistoning against those neglected nerves, over and over, thick and strong, until they both exploded with relief.

Her longing must have shown in her face. He tugged at his trousers. The tablecloth hid his hand, but she knew from the way he lifted and settled that he was equally uncomfortable. She ducked her head to hide her smile. She was getting to him. Just wait, she promised as the waiter came back to take their order.

She made a production of every bite, leaning forward at the slightest excuse, touching the back of his hand to make a point, cradling her gla.s.s against her bosom to warm the wine. By the time the final course arrived, he sat rigid in his chair, nervously rubbing his wrist as if it hurt. She was willing to bet his wrist wasn't what he really wished he was rubbing.

In the gentle light of the candles, sweat dotted his upper Up.

"Are you hot?" she cooed when he blotted it with his napkin.

He glared at her. "You know I am. What's more, you know why."

"Do I?" They had returned to her earliest days of teasing him, with all their heady and flattering enjoyment. Slipping off one satin shoe, she stretched her stockinged foot beneath the table and lifted it onto his chair. He must have spread his legs to ease the discomfort of his erection. The ball of her foot hit its ridge dead on. Immediately, he grabbed her ankle.

"Are you mad?" he demanded. Though his grip was iron, she noticed he wasn't shoving her away.

"Why don't you scoot your chair farther in," she purred, "under the tablecloth." She curled her toes and kneaded him like a cat. His c.o.c.k was as big as she had ever felt it, not to mention delectably bone-hard.

He'd been flushed already, but now a fresh tide of red flowed up from the points of his crisp white collar. One of his fingers absently stroked her heel. "I'm not leaving here with the front of my trousers damp."

"Tut-tut. I thought you had more control. You certainly practiced it often enough with me. I remember how you'd go on and on some nights as if to prove how many times you could make me spend. Was twelve the limit, or fifteen? Of course, I could pretend to drop my fork and crawl under the table. That would save anyone getting wet but me."

Pleased by the way his brows shot up, she licked her lips. Obviously, no one had played this sort of game with him before. When she leaned closer, he did, too, mesmerized by the fantasy she was painting.

"I'd unb.u.t.ton you, love," she murmured, "b.u.t.ton by straining b.u.t.ton. I wouldn't take you out straightaway, though. First I'd kiss you through your underclothes, breathe on you until the linen was wet enough to cling. You do have a lovely shape when you're hard. I'm sure I'd have to admire it. Then I'd edge my tongue under the placket and lick whatever I could reach. The base first, I think, and maybe I'd mouth your b.a.l.l.s. Would you help me reach them if I couldn't? Would you slip your hand under the table and cup yourself toward my mouth?"

A strangled cough was her only answer. The hand that held her foot had tightened like a vise, and the sweat from his palm dampened her stocking. Whether he knew it or not, he was pulling her foot into his crotch. His erection felt as thick as a constable's baton. Its pulse beat a hard tattoo beneath her arch.

"It would please me if you helped," she whispered, showing no mercy. "Especially if you wanted to ease the head between my lips. We've never done that, have we? But you'd like it if I sucked you. A woman's mouth is soft and warm. She can curl her tongue around a man's tenderest parts. Do you think you'd be able to feel my tastebuds rubbing your skin? I know I'd like to taste you, like to feel you shooting off in my mouth with all these strangers watching. You'd have to be very, very quiet, though. You'd have toa""

"Stop," he croaked, pushing her foot abruptly down his thigh. "You'll push me over the edge just listening."

The waiter chose then to show up.

"Would sir or madam like dessert?" he asked obliviously.

"Madam would," Roxie teased, sending Adrian a wicked wink.

The waiter's appearance didn't disperse the sensual cloud, though it did thin it Roxie was content to let that be. She'd given Adrian enough to think about for now. They were relaxing over spiced Nitalian coffee when a shadow fell across their table. Roxie's shoulders tensed.

A short, portly man had stepped up to their table. He stood like a schoolmaster, his thumbs crooked into the pockets of his wine-red waistcoat His liquid eyes fixed solemnly on her dinner partner's face. Adrian half rose from his chair.

"Philips," said the intruder.

"Atkinson." Adrian resumed his seat His face was guarded but calm. Resigned, Roxie thought.

As though he sensed her concern, he met her gaze across the table, a thousand sweet candles shining in his eyes. He smiled, a wry crooking of one corner of his mouth. Whoever their visitor was, his presence did not bode well for Adrian. Her hand inched across the white linen, but before she could betray him with a touch, his arm waved smoothly in introduction.

"Sir, this is my frienda""

The man cut him short. "I'm familiar with Miss McAllister's ident.i.ty."

His disparaging manner changed Adrian's.

"How fortunate for you," Adrian responded coolly. His knuckles had whitened on the table's edge in a mute and probably unconscious threat. Roxanne had never seen him like this. His reined-in anger was formidable.

The man named Atkinson took a step back before recovering. "I trust I don't need to reiterate my sentiments regarding this situation."

"I would not advise it," Adrian agreed, his eyes as cold as Ka'arkish steel.

His antagonist met the hard look with one of his own, blew dismissively through his mustache, and turned on his heel. Ten feet farther on, a woman slid her arm through his. Slim, young, and quite expensively dressed, she was not, to Roxie's expert eye, his wife.

The moment he was out of earshot, she leaned across her dessert plate. "Who was that?"

Adrian grimaced. "My superintendent."