Ooh, look at that. I'd never seen an angel blush before. Pretty, if you're into the whole crimson sunset sort of thing.

"Audition?" she squeaked.

"Doubtful," I said to Andrew, slapping a twenty on the counter. "She's too uptight. I want her to see how the other half lives."

Chuckling, Andrew set the gla.s.s down in front of the blonde and palmed the cash. "Change?"

"Keep it." As far as I was concerned, Caitlin was buying the drinks tonight.

Andrew grinned his thanks, then vamoosed to fill orders from impatient waitresses.

"I still don't understand why you've brought me here." She sat as if her panties had been starched. "If you wished to embarra.s.s me, consider your mission accomplished."

"Bless me, will you relax?" I motioned to the drink. "Knock that back and settle down. We're here for you to observe."

"Knock... ?"

With extreme patience, I said, "Drink that quickly."

"I don't drink alcohol."

I took a deep breath, counted to three. "Of course you don't."

"It's not appropriate."

"For a cherub st.i.tching silver along the clouds? Nope. But you're not in Heaven anymore." I kept my voice low, but I didn't have to worry; even though men surrounded us, they were thoroughly engrossed by Kelly's stage show, or by the handful of dancers offering lap dances and Champagne Room fantasies. I jabbed a finger at the angel. "You're slumming with the d.a.m.ned and the demons now. So get off your high horse, because sweetie, you're never going to be a Seducer if you think you're above your clients."

"But I don't want to be a Seducer," she said, her voice pleading. As heart-stoppingly beautiful as she was, the petulant whine in her voice turned her ugly, made her more real. And the fear in her voice was far more than real-it was almost o.r.g.a.s.mic.

Stop that. Bad former succubus. Focus on getting the angel past her fear of s.e.x. Do your good deed for the millennium.

s.e.x with no strings, Daun chortled in my mind. Naked desire, blatant action.

No. That was the wrong approach for this. Angels didn't understand s.e.x or l.u.s.t.

But they did understand the concept of love.

Leaning over until we were nose to nose, I said, "You planning on running?"

She swallowed. "No."

"Rebelling?"

Her fear kicked up a notch as she stammered, "d.a.m.n me, no!"

"Well then," I said, "stop b.i.t.c.hing and start opening yourself up to the possibilities."

Tears in her eyes, she asked, "What possibilities?"

"That l.u.s.t isn't all that bad." Hoping that none of my former brethren were watching, I kissed the angel's soft, soft lips.

Her mouth was supple, yielding, and I nudged my tongue between her lips-just a flick, a hint of something wicked. She gasped, then pulled away.

I licked my lips slowly, making an ummm sound. "You taste like peppermint and gold."

"Why did you..." Her voice died, overcome by her blushes. But I saw something besides confusion and embarra.s.sment in her eyes, something dark, something stretching its jaws wide.

I could reach her.

Uber cool.

"Feel that?" I asked, my voice low, one conspirator to another. "That tingle in your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, that touch of heat in your crotch?" The widening of her eyes told me I'd hit the description right on the head. Of course I had-maybe I wasn't a Seducer anymore, but I still knew how to kiss with power, magic or no magic. "That's l.u.s.t."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "How do you know what I'm feeling?"

"Your nipples are erect." Pointing with my chin, I motioned toward the two b.u.mps on her b.o.o.bs that pushed against her white sc.r.a.p of clothing. Until that moment, I'd wondered if angels had the anatomy of Barbie dolls-b.r.e.a.s.t.s without nipples, a slit with no c.l.i.t. "That's not just from the air conditioning."

She glanced down at her chest. "Oh," she said, sounding small. Sounding betrayed.

... the softest brush of her lips on my own as she kisses me and leaves me to die...

"My kiss made your body react," I said, killing the memory of Meg's farewell. "A reaction to an action. Did it feel good?"

A pause, then the barest whisper: "Yes."

"It should. Whether mortals or ent.i.ties, we want to be desired, to be loved. We use our bodies to express that love. There's nothing to be afraid of."

She clenched her teeth, flashing her pearly whites. "This isn't love."

"It's l.u.s.t," I said. "l.u.s.t is your body wanting another's touch, wanting to be loved. You liked my kiss. Imagine what it will be like when you kiss a client, when you inspire their bodies to come alive in your hands, to hear their voices beg you to love them..."

"But l.u.s.t isn't love!" She crossed her arms, hiding her body's salute to hormones. "l.u.s.t is just the flesh. G.o.d is love."

I had my doubts about that, but I kept mum. When she didn't continue, I prompted, "So?"

"So how can I love G.o.d when my body... l.u.s.ts flesh?"

Mental note: Angels have a G.o.d complex, and not in the all-powerful, all-knowing way.

"Look." I pointed to the men in the audience. "See how they're watching the dancer? See how their bodies feign indifference even with hunger burning in their eyes? They want her. What's more, they want her to love them. And when she looks at them, when she smiles or winks or jiggles at them, they think, just for a moment, that it's just for them-and they ride that feeling, that desire to be loved."

"It's not love."

"Maybe not. But it's the illusion of love."

"G.o.d is not an illusion."

I was going to say that G.o.d was eternal and life was fleeting, so maybe humans only had time for the illusion instead of the real thing. Then I thought I'd sound like an a.s.s. Bless me, I hated philosophy, even if I was trying to discuss it while sitting in a strip club.

The song finished, and Kelly cupped her t.i.ts and wiggled as the audience applauded. The DJ asked the gentlemen to show Kelly their love, and some did-about ten men flocked to the tip rail, waving money, waiting in line to stuff their bills between her b.o.o.bs and hope to cop a feel.

The angel asked, "Do those men intend to fornicate with her?"

"Sweetie, they can intend all they want," I said with a wry smile. "But the only action they're going to get will be their hands on their rods-and that's not allowed here."

She frowned. "Then why are they paying her?"

"They're tipping her because they liked how she danced. They liked how she made them feel." Leaning over, I whispered in her ear, "They liked that she made them feel wanted, loved." I darted my tongue out and licked her lobe to emphasize my point.

She let out a startled squawk that turned into a moan as I kissed her neck, just once-just enough to feel the fine hairs of her neck tickle my lips.

"Feel the heat pulsing between your legs," I said, gently nibbling her earlobe. "Feel the antic.i.p.ation building inside you, dancing along your limbs like thousands of tiny shocks. This is l.u.s.t. It's not frightening. It's living. It's being alive."

"It's wrong," she groaned. "It's not love."

"If it was wrong," I said, kissing her neck again, "why did G.o.d build your body so that it experiences physical pleasure?"

"G.o.d made me an angel."

"Yes." I sat back, stared into her wide, terrified eyes. "And then He saw fit to let you be a succubus."

"Gentlemen," the DJ announced, "please say h.e.l.lo to the angel of Spice!" Next to me, the blond cherub's eyes almost popped out of her skull. Applause rippled through the audience even before the DJ continued, "Everyone, show your love to Faith!"

Kelly wiggled her way backstage as Faith strutted forward, the spotlights highlighting the huge, feathery wings strapped to her shoulders and the creamy robe molded to her body. White-gold hair cascaded down her back like a platinum waterfall. Guitar strummed, a quick, playful tune, and she bopped her hips to the melody. George Michael's voice blared from the speakers, singing the opening lyrics to her theme song, "Faith." She taunted the audience by running her hands down her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly, her thighs. Her legs spread wide, she pumped her hips, proving that some angels wanted to be f.u.c.ked.

Even back at Belles, Faith always did have a wicked sense of humor.

"Watch her," I said to the cherub, who was staring, transfixed, at Faith. "See how she lets the music ride her body, how she lets it seduce her."

The angel's voice breathy, she said, "She's touching her b.r.e.a.s.t.s..."

"She's showing the audience that she loves her body. She's giving thanks to G.o.d for the vessel He gave her. Her dance," I said, "is like worshiping G.o.d."

Gak. I hadn't said the G-word this much in centuries. If I'd still been an infernal creature, I would've had to surrender my union card.

The angel frowned prettily. Even her pout wrinkles were gorgeous. b.i.t.c.h.

On stage, Faith flounced in time to the funky guitar riff, shaking her sweet bippy and jiggling her b.o.o.bs. "Loving your body, celebrating your body, is like worshiping G.o.d. And s.e.x," I said, drawing out the word, "is like sharing that worship with another."

"s.e.x isn't love," the angel said, clearly unconvinced.

"s.e.x expresses love. And l.u.s.t leads to s.e.x."

She stared long and hard at me. "Is that why you like it so much? Because s.e.x... is like worshiping G.o.d?"

I liked s.e.x because it was f.u.c.king amazing. "Sweetie, with the right partner, s.e.x can be almost holy." Not that I'd know holy if it bit me on my a.s.s, but whatever.

Silence stretched between us even as music and men's bra.s.sy talk filled the air. I watched the angel watch Faith dance, saw something flit across the angel's eyes. The gears were turning.

Sweet.

Opening my purse, I dug out my wallet and produced a ten. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm off to show the dancer a little love, greenback style."

Turning my walk into something dirty, I sauntered over to the tip rail. I felt the gazes of l.u.s.ty men on my back, my rack, my legs, crawling over me and into me as if seeking buried treasure.

Sometimes, it was really nice to be nothing more than an object of s.e.xual desire.

Money in hand, I draped myself over the bra.s.s rail, lacking one leg up behind me while I waited. The music switched over to "I Want Your s.e.x." It must have been Faith's first show of the night; she always lacked off her performances with a three-song tribute to George Michael. The menfolk never seemed to mind-they were too busy wondering whether Faith's body was as soft as the feathers strapped to her back.

Faith ditched her robe and wings, revealing a lacy white bra and matching G-string. Shimmying in time to the music, she bounced her way to the tip rail. If she was surprised to see me, she hid it masterfully.

I blew her a kiss, held out the folded ten. The spotlight illuminated my movements, temporarily making me part of her show. As Faith offered me her cleavage, I fought back an urge to climb up next to her and strip off my dress.

Slowly tucking the bill between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, I was careful not to touch the exposed tops of her mounds. No groping the dancers. If our customers couldn't do it, I shouldn't do it. She winked at me, then dropped to the floor to crawl over to the next patron, standing to my right. Look at that-based on the line by the rail, I'd started a trend.

Heading back to the bar, I watched the angel pick up her shot gla.s.s and sniff the contents. Making a face, she put the drink back on the counter. That she was curious about it at all was a victory. I'd have her ready to spread her legs in no time.

So I wasn't a succubus any longer. I would always belong to l.u.s.t. And that was gospel I was happy to preach.

Chapter 8.

New York City After midnight on a chilly November Friday along the streets of Manhattan: wind howled like a werewolf in heat, kicking up litter and swirling the tails of my trenchcoat around my legs. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, but those steps were swallowed by gales, silenced in the bl.u.s.tery whine that stung my ears and whipped my hair around my face. Car exhaust and the dank, cloying pressure of impending rain dampened the ever-present odor-now just the lightest hint of a smell-of too many people and too much sewage in too little a s.p.a.ce. Graffiti and billboards alike were shrouded in darkness, their promises and enticements illegible. Store windows slept; no stars shone in the nighttime sky.

Perfect weather for a drunken walk home.

My arms out for balance, I tottered in my high heels, singing Chumbawamba's "Tubthumping" at the top of my lungs, not giving a s.h.i.t who heard.

Behind me, the angel said, "You're sort of staggering. Maybe we should get a taxi."

That wasn't how the song went. Taxis were nowhere in the lyrics. "He drinks a... wait a second. How's this part go? He drinks a something drink."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

"He drinks a cider drink. Or a vodka drink. Or a bourbon drink. f.u.c.k, I think I lost the words. What's that song with bourbon in it?"

"And this is why the Cherubim don't drink alcohol."

"Come on, you have to know the one I mean. One bourbonnnnnnnn... one something, one beeeeeeeeeer." I grabbed the angel's hand, swung it wildly in a two-person wave. "Come on, sing with me!"