Enya’s job is to escort the dying on their final journey, to make sure their souls get to heaven before a demon can steal their bodies. For centuries she has done this without emotion, until the body in question belongs to Kane Sullivan. Not only does she desire his rock-hard body, she can't bear the thought of him dying. But she’s not supposed to become emotionally involved in a death. More
May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.
Enya’s job is to escort the dying on their final journey, to make sure their souls get to heaven before a demon can steal their bodies. For centuries she has done this without emotion, until the body in question belongs to Kane Sullivan. Not only does she desire his rock-hard body, she can't bear the thought of him dying. But she’s not supposed to become emotionally involved in a death.
Kane's sudden run of near-fatal accidents always happen when Enya is present. She might be hot, but he's not willing to die to get to know her. Then he discovers she’s fighting for his soul. That damned immortal temptress might be the death of him.
She wove her way through the tables, stopping to talk with friends when they called her name. Monique was still dirty dancing, so Enya sat on the empty stool beside Kane. She signaled the bartender and ordered some mozzarella sticks and marinara sauce. Winding a strand of hair around her finger as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the bar, she stole a glance at the impressive man beside her.
His wink greeted her and she smiled, putting a hand to her stomach to smother the embers his eyes threatened to stir. This was business. Sexual attraction might be necessary to get as close to him as she needed in the next twenty-four hours or so, but enjoying it was a distraction. "Hey, I'm Enya."
"I'm Kane." His large hands cradled his beer bottle; his thumb spread a dribble of condensation over the label. Muscular forearms rested against the bar. A tattooed dragon-tail coiled around his wrist, the body of the beast hidden by the rolled sleeve of his pale chambray shirt.
Her eyes traveled up the thick arm to his neck, where she noted more tats. "I don't think I've seen you in here before. We must come in on different nights."
"Must be. I don't come in all that often."
She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by an eardrum-shattering squeal. Monique bounced up from behind Kane and grabbed his shoulders.
"Dance with me, baby!"
He leaned close and said something in Monique's ear, which made the woman pout.
"Oh, please. You never dance with me."
Grabbing her arm, he steered her toward a barstool beside him. "I think you should call it a night," he said, barely loud enough to reach Enya's ears.
"It's still early, honey. I've got a lot more dances left in me." The woman giggled, sending her breasts quivering, much of the flesh threatening to spill over the top of her shirt. She stalked off toward the dance floor.
Eyes wide, somewhere between amazement and disbelief, Enya watched Monique wrap herself around another man. She turned back to Kane and raised an eyebrow. "Is she yours?"
"She belongs to anybody who's willing to buy her a drink." He looked at the dancers and spun back to his beer. "I'm not buying."