“Circumstances have changed.”
She shoved the apron back into the bag and tossed it onto the counter. “Fuck off, Prince. I’m not your barmaid.”
He lifted a cashmere shoulder, as if her refusal meant nothing. “You said it yourself, Jacinda. You’ve got no leads on Duchanes. The curse work will take weeks or months—”
“Exactly! I’ve got enough to worry about without having to sling drinks for your rich friends.”
“Sorry, did I give you the impression that you could live here indefinitely? Rent free? Making lists for every little whim and desire, with nary a cent to repay?”
Blood boiled inside, hellfire skittering beneath her skin.
“Fine. Evict me,” she tested, knowing he wouldn’t. He still needed her. She’d made damn sure of that, dangling him on the hook about that curse.
“That’s not an option.” He crowded into her space again, sliding a finger beneath her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice was deceptively soft, power simmering in every word. “Because you’re my prisoner, Jacinda. My property. And while I may be forbidden from killing you, there’s alotof gray area between your current state of mild discomfort and your death.”
Jaci shivered. She’d lived for years in those gray areas and certainly didn’t need the reminder.
“Make your list,” he said, releasing her and heading for the door. “Keep working on the curse. I’ll let you know when it’s time to start slinging those drinks.”
Chapter Nine
After weeks of private contractor nightmares, zoning snafus, and more bribes and threats than Gabriel had ever dispensed, the renovations on the club formerly known as Bloodbath were nearly complete.
The main level was gorgeous, the epitome of luxury in a palette of deep blacks and rich creams, set up with a mix of cocktail tables and soft leather booths, two fully stocked bars, and a gleaming, multi-level dance floor made of polished black marble.
He’d kept the VIP rooms, redesigning them in the same exquisite colors, with large, tinted windows and a balcony that wrapped around the entire upper level and overlooked the main floor. The wine cellar reminded him of the Prohibition days, the original brickwork tunnels re-excavated and fitted with recessed lighting and new mahogany shelving. And after agreeing to a donation large enough to have an entire medical wing erected in his honor, he’d even managed to secure a regular supply of blood bags from the local hospital to keep his vampire clientele satisfied, especially since he’d be enforcing a strict no-humans-on-the-premises rule.
The whole place was a work of art. One that had even impressed his brothers.
But in all that time, despite all the resources he’d given her, all the bagels, all the witchcraft books, all the bloody special-order teas delivered direct from England, that damnable witch was no closer to locating Duchanes, unraveling the curse, or—worst of all—vanishing from his thoughts. All of them. Waking, sleeping, working, watching television… She’d moved into his head as readily as she’d moved into his building. Into his life.
If she were any other prisoner, she’d be dead by now. But when it came to Jacinda Colburn and her sassy mouth and her moonlight hair, Gabriel seemed to have a bottomless well of second chances.
Besides, it was like he’d told Dorian when they’d first taken her in Bloodbath after the battle.
She reallydidlook good behind the bar.
Sitting on one of his new barstools, he watched her now, brewing up a row of new concoctions, still searching for the perfect signature drink.
She wore tight jeans that hugged every curve and an even tighter black T-shirt that dipped into a V over her breasts, a bar towel draped over one shoulder. Her hair was woven into a complicated series of braids that wrapped around her head like a crown and had him itching to unravel them, one silky lock at a time.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked, not looking up from her cutting board. A pile of cut citrus and fresh mint leaves sat on one side, a whole lemon on the other.
“I was thinking you might need a training manual,” he said. “With popular drink recipes. Just in case you—”
“I don’t need a manual, Prince. I’m an herbalist, a damn good listener, and a witch who’s spent more time than most studying the desires of monsters.” She scored a lemon rind into a perfect spiral and dropped it into a highball glass before her. Milky liquid fizzed and frothed up to the rim, then turned clear. “I know whateveryman needs—”
“Somehow I doubt—”
“—to drink. Here.” She pushed the concoction across the bar and grinned. “I made this oneespeciallyfor you. I’m calling it Heart of Thorns.”
Gabriel let out a dry laugh. “Poisonous, no doubt.”
“Well, you know what they say.” She leaned across the bar on her elbows, giving him a cherry-red smirk and a view that made him want to dive over the bar and bury his face in the V of that shirt. In a low, sexy-as-sin voice, she said, “Fuck around and find out, Prince.”
He shifted on the barstool, trying to relieve the pressure of his suddenly tight pants on his suddenly hard cock.
A challenged flashed in those beautiful blue eyes.
