Page 49 of New Orleans Rush

“I lost track of time.” Translation: she’d stalled so she wouldn’t have to witness his flirting.

“I see.”

Did he? Could he sense her swirling turmoil?

He stayed behind her, candles flickering ahead, his warm breaths brushing her hair. The moment felt intimate. Too intimate. She forced her feet forward. “This is quite the setup. I’m once again questioning your vampire status. Do you use makeup to mute your skin sparkles?”

“I thought we decided I wasn’t immortal?”

“There’s a checklist. It’s evenly weighted.”

He moved to her side, and the corner of his lips twitched. “Can I see this evaluation?”

That would mean he’d read her Mortal Man column and the bullet point that read: His rare smiles make me melt. They are too tender for an immortal. “It’s written in invisible ink. It only appears for women who sing ‘The Sound of Music’ while wearing a garlic dress and riding a unicycle.”

He didn’t laugh or roll his eyes. “A unicorn,” he murmured.

“Where?” Bea scanned the area.

“Right in front of me.”

Before she could process that statement, he stalked by her. He was still in his magician garb, but he’d removed his top hat. His flowing cape was also different—red instead of a velvet galaxy. He picked up a machete from the black table, the weapon looking natural in his large hand.

He sliced it through the air. “Working with fire is dangerous. It involves trust.” His blade slashed in an elaborate figure eight. “Do you trust me, Beatrice?”

She was mesmerized, picturing him in a foreign market, stalls teeming with exotic fruits and colorful scarves, snakes performing in time to his swirling sword. One moment he was her sleep-mussed roommate, then a skilled magician flirting with his fans, then this. Majestic. Dazzling. She nodded instead of speaking aloud.

His machete wielding paused. Tension banded his features. “Lie on the table.”

It was a brisk command, his surly side surfacing. Surly with a dash of sexy dominance. Although he’d yet to admit he read romance novels, she believed otherwise. She imagined the characters inspired his stage persona. She wondered if he got worked up while enjoying a steamy scene. Her body ignited at the possibility.

She followed his instructions, the cold table a welcome sensation on her too-hot arms and legs. She waited for him to go on.

“Trust,” he said again, “is the foundation of a magician’s relationship with his assistant. Nothing works without it. If I change something we’ve rehearsed while performing, and we don’t have trust, you might hesitate or freeze, or assume I’ve forgotten our routine. You could get hurt.”

She wasn’t sure he was still talking about their performance. She wasn’t even sure she remembered how to breathe.

“When I ask if you trust me,” he said from somewhere behind her, “I need more than a head nod. I need to hear you say it and know you believe it. So let’s try this again.” His voice moved lower, closer to her head. “Do you, Beatrice Baker, trust me, Huxley Marlow?”

Instead of remembering the kindnesses he’d offered over the past weeks, or his open admission of his feelings toward her, her mind skittered to how trusting her father had led to dropping out of high school, her depleted bank account, and a loan shark sending her threats. She sneezed once, then again.

“Yes,” she said, quieter than intended.

Huxley growled.

She didn’t trust him. Huxley heard it in her delayed reply, had seen it in her reaction to last night’s stupid photo op, and her quick exit from the stage tonight.

That damn sneeze.

He’d picked up on her nervous habit, hating when she sneezed around him. It told him all he needed to hear: she may have agreed to an eventual date, but she was waiting for him to mess up, hurt her, or lie and cheat. Steal what he wanted, then move on. He’d been on the receiving end of enough of her brilliant smiles to know they’d been forced recently. He also saw them for the cover they were.

She was hurting. She’d probably been hurting for years, believing she could ignore the adult role she’d assumed while her mother had traveled and her father had frittered away rent money, only to lose her dreams to his addictions. Seeing a partly cloudy world through sunny glasses was a gift. It was also a curse. He didn’t want her smiles any longer. He wanted her anger. For her to let herself feel all the pain she’d locked away. He wanted to be there for her when she let it out.

For now, he wanted her trust.

Frustration fueling his strides, he moved to the side of the table, backing away just enough. He pulled a small vial from his sleeve and drank the alcohol he’d poured inside. Beatrice’s wide eyes watched his every move. Taking a candle in his hand, he held it close to his raised machete and blew a stream toward the flame.

Fire leapt onto the blade, traveling the length of the weapon. Beatrice gasped and gripped the table sides. He widened his stance, slashing the blade through the air, keeping it far enough from his apprehensive assistant. With one aggressive strike toward her abdomen, he created enough wind to extinguish the flames.