He Loves Me, He Loves Me Hot Read online

  “No one’s going to believe you’re human if you let your eyes go red and hellish like that.”

  Becca recovered in less than a second, blinking twice to clear her eyes. Without the red glow, they were green and lovely. Far more feminine than he would have expected from a woman who tortured innocents for pleasure and emasculated grown men just to hear them scream. Her light green eyes made a striking contrast to her short dark hair, tousled on top of her head as if she’d just rolled out of bed after a night a lovemaking.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she ordered.

  Nick dragged his gaze off her hair and back down to her face. Get it together, Nick. You’re here to work. “How am I looking at you?”

  “Like you want to eat me.”

  OUTSTANDING PRAISE for STEPHANIE ROWE’S PREVIOUS NOVELS

  DATE ME, BABY, ONE MORE TIME

  “This is escapism in full force!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine on Date Me, Baby, One More Time

  “Magically mirthful! Laugh-out-loud…a breakneck plot, delightfully bizarre situations, and the quirkiest of quirky characters. A hilarious paranormal treat.”

  —Booklist (starred reviews)

  “A righteously funny…can’t miss, lighthearted romantic comedy.”

  —RomRevToday.com

  “A hilarious underworld romp.”

  —Katie MacAlister

  “Rowe carves out her own niche…with this freewheeling series kickoff. [Her] wit and imagination make this a strong start for what should be a refreshing series.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Flat-out fun…a diamond at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box of romances. Keeps you hanging on and laughing out loud into the wee hours of the night.”

  —NightsAndWeekends.com

  “Just what the paranormal genre needs—a zany romantic comedy with a twist.”

  —Lori Handeland

  “Many laugh-out-loud moments…very entertaining.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  MUST LOVE DRAGONS

  “Snappy patter, good humor, and enormous imagination. One of those genre twisters that [can] make readers rabid for more.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hilarious…Rowe’s wacky secondary characters are back in full force: the shape-shifting Goblet with attitude; a lovesick Satan; Iris, the touch-me-not object of his affection; and Becca, Satan’s right-hand woman. Rowe’s blissfully bizarre paranormal romance works well on its own, but libraries will want the entire series.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  Also by Stephanie Rowe

  Must Love Dragons

  Date Me, Baby, One More Time

  For Kara Goucher, a brilliant runner and dear friend, whose determination to follow her dreams is a constant inspiration to me. You are a goddess, Kara!

  Acknowledgments

  I would never be where I am today without the support of my family, who doesn’t question my burning need to be at a keyboard in order to stay sane. And to my great friend, Guinevere Jones, for coming up with the title to the book. And, as always, to my fantastic agent, Michelle Grajkowski, for her guidance, enthusiasm, and overall support. And to Melanie Murray, an amazing editor, who continues to bring my writing to new levels with her brilliant insight, editing, and wonderful sense of humor. And to Beth deGuzman, Marcy Haggag, Tanisha Christie, Laura Adams, the art department, and everyone else at Warner who does so much for my books. To J&A, you are my world.

  One

  Nick Rawlings hoped he got attacked today. He was bored, itchy for action, and fast coming to the conclusion that even the undying gratitude of his best pal, Jerome Doumani (and the large stack of gold bullion that Jerome was forking over), wasn’t worth three weeks of sitting in a small room with nothing but a frozen sociopath to keep him company.

  Nick peered hopefully at the platinum deadbolt on the inside of the steel door to see if someone was trying to jimmy it off from the other side. No luck.

  He sighed and wandered across the polished oak floor, his heavy steel-toed boots thudding on the perfect varnish. He glanced back over his shoulder, taking mild satisfaction in the fact that the floors were getting scuffed from his pacing. The Council (the morally questionable, self-appointed governing body of all beings nonhuman) would have to pry open their wallets to ante up for refinishing by the time Nick was sprung from guard duty. Not exactly a fair trade for the Council getting Nick’s pa and grandpa offed and for wiping out Nick’s race, but hey, a guy who’d promised his dying pa that he wouldn’t take revenge had to accept the small paybacks life offered him.

  Nick’s friend Jerome was one-third of the Council triad, an ex-pirate who still lived by the code of the high seas, and Nick’s best friend since they were kids. Nothing bonds a couple of boys like practicing swordplay with real blades and no safety masks. Jerome had been recruited to join the Council because of his moral flexibility and consequent willingness to do the tough-guy enforcing that the Council pretended not to support. In reality, the Council was way more bloodthirsty than any pirate, and they were a little too hung up on their power for the good of those they ruled. Their punishments were so brutal that some beings didn’t survive them, especially the Chamber of Unspeakable Horrors.

  Nick surveyed the stacks of food and beverages in the corner, which were supposed to sustain him for the next few weeks while he was on guard duty. No beer. No pizza. He was a man’s man, and he liked beer and pizza.

  He pulled a plate of crudités out of the fridge and started munching on a carrot. Or not.

  He sauntered over to the white horizontal SubZero freezer (nothing but the best for the Council), stuck the carrot between his teeth, then grabbed the industrial-size padlock with both hands. Two tugs, and it broke off with a loud crack. He leveraged the heavy lid up, letting it slam against the wall with a crash that left a nice dent.

  More maintenance costs for the Council.

  Such a pity.

  He peered into the cooler, and a three-by-five-foot block of ice stared back up at him. The ice chunk was swirled with a mixture of blurred colors—pink, blue, and a large amount of gold—as if someone had tie-dyed it. He took a bite of carrot while he surveyed his charge. “So, you’re the oh-so-evil disinherited son of the leader of hell, huh?”

  The ice cube trembled, and Nick smiled. “Jerome tells me you were stupid enough to get yourself melted and then frozen before you could re-form. Bested by an ex-pirate, a no-carb–eating dragon, and a mathematician. True?”

  The frozen block vibrated even more fiercely, and Nick heard the faint whisper of a particularly creative epithet he hadn’t heard since he’d lived in hell. “Yeah, I hear you. Life can be a bitch sometimes.”

  The cube had no response, and Nick let the lid drop shut. So much for entertainment.

  Jerome was sure the other members of the Council were corrupt, and he didn’t enjoy being set up as a scapegoat for all the Council’s crimes against the Otherworld, a classification which included all beings nonhuman. Mortal world was the physical place where humans hung out on earth, totally clueless that beings from the Otherworld rode the trains with them, babysat their kids, and laughed at their ignorance.

  So, when Jerome heard rumors in the Council men’s room that someone was going to try to spring Satan Jr., he did what any smart guy would do: hired the baddest badass in the Otherworld to keep Satan Jr. safe, which was Nick, of course.

  Helping out his best friend had seemed like a good plan at the time, but now that Nick had been there for a week and no one had come through the ceiling with laser guns or Uzis, he was beginning to think his buddy needed counseling for paranoia.

  Then Nick heard the key turn in th
e deadbolt, and his adrenaline spiked. He spun around to face the door, knowing Jerome wasn’t due for poker for another two hours. Playtime.

  He leaned against the freezer and rested his palms on the lid, on either side of his hips. He drummed his fingers on the metal, waiting.

  The deadbolt turned and the steel door flew open like it was made of paper.

  Ah, a challenge. Nice.

  A man stepped inside, and Nick immediately rose to his feet as an intense sensation of belonging swept over him. There was no mistaking the wavering air around the man’s body, like the heat rising off a sidewalk on a hot summer day. Was he Markku? Impossible. Markku were extinct.

  Well, except Nick, but he was only half Markku, so he didn’t count.

  The man stopped suddenly and stared at the air above Nick’s head, his eyes widening in surprise, which made Nick frown even deeper, since his mixed blood had pretty much spared him from the hot-air blur that was typical of the Markku. But this dude was inspecting Nick as if he could see it. And if he were Markku, he probably could. Damn. Was Nick really not one of a kind, after all?

  The man was just over six feet and solid, but not nearly as big as Nick. His black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and black boots were overkill and made him look like he was trying too hard, as did the military buzz cut. The man’s gaze flicked down to Nick’s face. “Who are you?”

  “Nick Rawlings. You?”

  The man cocked his head. “You’re not with us.”

  “Us being…?” Were there more Markku?

  But instead of answering, the man dropped his shoulder and charged.

  Nick barely jumped out of the way in time, nearly paying for his failure to expect another being to be almost as fast as he was. The man slammed into the side of the cooler, his head smashing all the way through the metal. He roared and reared back, dragging the cooler as he tried to get his head free. The freezer screeched across the floor, and Nick grabbed his gun, leveling it at the base of the man’s skull, where it was protruding from the freezer.

  No. You must protect your men.

  Nick hesitated at the command in his head. His men? He had no men.

  This is your man. All the men are your men to protect.

  He shook his head to clear it. His damned healer gene was always interfering with his ability to kick some ass. Trying to make him soft and mushy when he was all about violence and enjoying a good fight.

  The visiting Markku bellowed and tried to yank himself free.

  “Yeah, not so fast.” Nick ground his boot into the back of the man’s neck, pinning him to the side of the cooler. “So, let’s chat. I’ve got loads of questions for you. Are you after Satan Jr.? Who sent you? Who’s ‘us?’ Are you really Markku, or do you just do the hot-air thing to attract women?”

  “I’m better than Markku,” the man announced, his voice echoing inside the SubZero.

  “Better? Given that the Markku are descended from Satan and are pretty much indestructible except for gold, that’s some kind of claim. So, better in what way, exactly?” Nick dug the heel of his boot in as the man started to struggle more fiercely. “Better fashion sense? Maybe don’t have to shave as often? Do tell.”

  “No battle weakness.”

  Nick’s foot nearly slipped off the man’s skull. Post-battle weakness was a terrible nuisance that required him to conk out for a day or so after every decent fight, not that he had gotten in many lately. But seeing as how that weakness had been the key to Satan’s Rivka army wiping out the Markku race, it was something to note. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” The man paused in his struggling. “Want in? I could hook you up. It’s a sweet deal.”

  “Tempting.” Nick cocked his head. “But no thanks. Sounds like one of those ‘deals’ where I end up chained to a wall, being tortured.”

  “You’re sure?” the Markku asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’ll have to kill you and steal the kid.”

  Nick grinned. “Be my guest.”

  He felt the Markku gathering strength, so he put his gun to the back of the man’s head.

  Don’t shoot your man.

  Great. His alter ego again. I’ll shoot whoever I want. He gritted his teeth against the almost overwhelming urge not to fire, covered his right eye with his left hand to protect against ricochets, and forced himself to pull the trigger.

  The bullets bounced off the man’s skull, ricocheting all over the room, embedding themselves in the wall, the ceiling, shattering the water cooler that was supposed to keep Nick hydrated for the next three weeks, whizzing through the weapons closet in the corner, and setting off a cascade of fireworks. One bullet even bounced off Nick’s shin. The man shouted in protest and twisted so his feet and palms were flat against the cooler. He shoved hard, trying to yank his head free as his body shuddered with the impact of so much repeated force.

  “You sure you don’t want to chat instead?” Nick yelled over the gunfire. “Just tell me who wants Satan Jr., admit you can’t beat me, and then we can kick back and play some poker when Jerome gets here. It’ll be fun. What do you say?”

  The Markku used the same epithet that Satan Jr. had used. An old-school swear descended straight from hell’s origins. Coincidence? Probably not so much. The rescuer likely had late-night sleepovers with Junior when the kid wasn’t frozen. Apparently, Satan Jr. was hooking up with his dad’s former servants. Interesting.

  “Okay, then. Don’t say I didn’t offer.” Nick emptied his clip, grabbed his second gun, and kept firing, slamming bullet after bullet against the Markku’s skull as the Poland Spring water sloshed around his feet, ruining the floor.

  The Markku yanked his head free and pieces of the steel cooler went flying. Nick ducked as one piece whizzed past his shoulder and sliced through the wall, disappearing from sight with the power of the Markku’s thrust.

  The Markku whirled around and slammed his foot into the side of Nick’s knee with enough force to split a redwood in half.

  “Son of a bitch.” Nick’s knee gave out and he fell to the floor, gritting his teeth against the pain. He rolled to his left, dodging the Markku as he tried to jump on Nick. “You say you’re better than a Markku, huh? Slower, maybe.”

  “Better.” The Markku pulled out a knife with a golden blade, and Nick swore under his breath. What the hell was he doing with that kind of weapon?

  The Markku drove the blade down toward Nick’s right eye, and Nick jerked his head hard to the side. The blade scraped Nick’s cheek and slammed into the wooden floor, barely missing its target.

  Hot pain flashed through Nick at the touch of gold. Holy mother of pearl. He’d felt pain before, but this was something else.

  The Markku yanked the blade out of the floor as Nick grabbed him and flung him into the wall, denting the plaster with a satisfying thud.

  Nick was on his feet before the man had stopped sliding down the wall.

  The man hurled the knife, and the blade plunged into the front of Nick’s right shoulder. Nick cursed as the poisonous fire raked through his body, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

  Then he heard his pa’s voice, whispering the instructions he’d repeated to Nick so many times when training him as a kid. Use the heat, Nick. Channel it.

  Nick gritted his teeth, then pulled the golden fire into his body, recharging himself with the flames, using the pain to fuel his body even as that same heat drained him, sucked away his life force.

  The Markku jumped to his feet and lunged for the knife, but Nick grabbed it first. He whipped it out of his shoulder with a roar of anguish, then slammed it in the Markku’s right eye. The man exploded in a cascade of gold dust, his death scream his only legacy as it bounced off the steel door and echoed in Nick’s ears.

  Nick clutched the blade and shook the gold dust off his eyelashes, watching it float down, mixing with the Poland Spring water to create a river of sparkling mud. “Better, my ass.”

  The door flew open, and N
ick reared back to throw the knife, diverting his aim at the last second when he realized who it was.

  Jerome yelped and ducked as the blade sung past his ear and embedded itself in the wall behind him. “It’s me!”

  “No kidding.” Nick pressed his left hand to his stab wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The more he could mitigate the damage now, the less trouble he’d be in later.

  “Right. Because you’d have killed me if I’d been anyone else.” Jerome straightened up, his scabbard swinging by his side. In honor of his mortal life pillaging on the high seas, he was sporting full pirate regalia today, including an eye patch, even though both his eyes were fine.

  Nick kicked a piece of the water cooler out of his way, then stumbled with sudden weakness. Shit. He had to get out of there. He had less than a half hour before he was dead to the world for at least a couple of days. Jerome was the only one besides Nick’s ma who knew Nick was half Markku, so they’d have a hell of a time explaining it away if Nick went unconscious in the middle of Council headquarters.

  “You look like hell,” Jerome said. “What happened?”

  “Markku.”

  Jerome paled, and he tugged the eye patch up so he could look at Nick with both light blue eyes. “No kidding?”

  Nick waved at the gold dust, and Jerome scanned the room, his gaze coming to a stop on the ice chest. A big hole gaped in the side, and the sound of dripping water was coming from the inside of the SubZero. “You couldn’t keep him from breaking the freezer while you killed him? Getting soft in your old age, are you?”

  “Shut up.” Nick turned his back on Jerome to hide a shudder of fatigue. Then he grabbed his stash of weapons and turned to head out, only to find Jerome blocking his exit. “What now?”

  “You can’t leave. What if they send another Markku?”

  Nick shrugged his injured shoulder. “Gold blade. Gotta run.”

  Jerome frowned, his forehead furrowing with concern as he took in Nick’s bloodstained shoulder. “Shit, man. Have you ever been hit with gold before? Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, but I’m going to crash. I need to—” He stopped talking as an old, bearded man in a white robe strode into the room, followed by a businessman in an Armani suit. Paul and Otis, the other two members of the Council.