How to Kill an Incubus, #1 [SAMPLE]

H2KAI 2: The Big O

Bed, I thought, crushing the empty can in my hand and flinging it into the dustbin.

I went into the bathroom – admiring the nice black-and-white theme it had going – and used the facilities. Once all my make-up had been cleaned off and I could look into the mirror without being repulsed, I went back into the room and wrote up my notes for that day. There was nothing to report.

After that, I peeled the godforsaken dress off and pulled on cotton boxers and a peach camisole. I took out the bobby pins in my hair and pulled everything into a messy ponytail then dove into the covers. Hotel beds were always a blessing, no matter which country or continent. I could never find fault with one.

In fact, sleep was beginning to hit me – until I felt someone in the room.

I couldn’t see in the dark, of course, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t standing in my hotel room, watching me sleep and freaking me the hell out. I took a deep breath and, experiencing a jolt of déjà vu, rolled out of bed and flicked the bedside lamp on.

“I have a gun,” I lied, and finally, the shadow in one corner came to life and walked into the hazy light.

“You don’t have a gun.”

I suddenly found it extremely hard to breathe.

Winer’s denim-and-T-shirt buddy was standing there.

At a closer look, I could see that his eyes were indeed blue, the blue of a clear morning sky. His hair was even blacker than mine, which I didn’t think was possible, and contrasted severely with those pale eyes of his. Long and thick, it hung in a pulled-back mane just past his shoulders, a waterfall of tar.

I took a step back and bumped into the nightstand, grimacing. “How did you get in?”

“Master card,” he replied coolly, holding it up in the light. “I’m part-owner of the hotel.” As if that gave him the right to waltz into his clients’ suites at eleven in the evening.

I didn’t want to ponder the fact that I would’ve at least heard the door being opened if that were true. I didn’t want to ponder the fact that he even knew which room I was in. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to ponder anything, except for how to get him out of my room as fast as possible and with minimal ruckus.

He was tall. Disturbingly tall. The Shaquille O’Neal to my Eva Longoria. I placed him at six-foot-six or so. I wasn’t good at estimating but I was pretty sure I was close. I was also positive that this did not bode well for me. Tall guys generally meant trouble.

Shit, what if he’s recognized me from somewhere?

Renée’s words came back to haunt me: It doesn’t matter that most of them are powerful – ergo dangerous. I wasn’t ready for another lesson in the joys of strangulation.

The Kamenev was a world-class hotel owned by a group of mysterious Russians. Just looking at this guy and knowing he was part-owner added up to powerful, dangerous Russian – even without the accent.

And he was standing in my hotel room.

I swallowed. “Is there a problem?” I mentally gave myself kudos for managing to keep my voice steady despite how jumped up I was inside.

“Rainelle,” he said quietly, “you were eye-fucking me in the casino.”

I didn’t know what to be mad about first – that he did indeed know my name when I didn’t know his, or that he’d used the term “eye-fucking” to describe my looking at him for a few innocent seconds.

Folding my arms across my chest, I scowled at him. “Excuse me?”

His eyes pierced mine. “So here I am,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Fuck me.”