The Angel Wore Fangs(10)

“Ah, that explains it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“The scent of vanilla and fresh baked bread. And coconut. Lots of coconut.”

“I was making vanilla bean crème brûlées and artisan breads this morning,” she said. “But nothing with coconut.” She frowned, trying to recall if she’d been handling any coconut. “Nope. Not today.”

She had to stop gaping at the guy, so she sank down into one of the folding chairs, without being invited. It was either that or faint or something equally objectionable, like jump his bones.

In her defense, he was staring at her, too, but it was unclear whether he found her presence objectionable or whether he was as magnetically attracted as she was. That soon became clear when he sat down, as well, behind the desk, which was oddly empty of paperwork or any kind of personal objects, except for an open laptop computer. “What do you want?” he asked rudely.

“Uh, I have an appointment.”

“No, you do not have an appointment. I would know if . . . wait. You’re Andy Stewart? My twelve o’clock?”

“Yes. Andrea Stewart.”

“Blessed clouds!” he swore, as if that were a foul expletive. “Why would a woman like you use such an unfeminine name?”

“Like me?”

“Sex on a fucking stick,” he explained, repeating her own words back at her, though more graphically.

She was embarrassed that he’d overheard her original assessment of him and that he was viewing her in the same sexist way she’d viewed him. Not that she could ever be considered sex on anything. Not even a Popsicle stick. Her sister, maybe. Not her, even on a good day. Anyhow, she was beginning to reassess him to something more like jerk on a stick.

He must have recognized the change of expression on her face because he apologized, “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m Cnut Sigurdsson, owner of Wings International.”

Stretching a long arm across the desk, he shook her hand. At that mere touch of palm against palm, she felt the oddest shock wave pass through her body, ripples of warm heat going to all her extremities, but mostly girl central.

Cnut caught himself gaping at the woman as the oddest shock wave passed over his body, causing warm heat to slingshot to all his extremities, especially one particular extremity. Sizzle ensued along with the scent of sweet, delicious coconut, and he didn’t even like coconut, or leastways he hadn’t up ’til now. He didn’t love coconut now; he was ambivalent about the stuff. He much preferred chocolate or fruit on his pastries. Sometimes nuts, but not pine nuts, unless they were toasted. He’d had a chicken orzo salad one time with toasted pine nuts that was delicious, except for an overload of basil.

Can anyone say food addict?

Thank God, the woman didn’t smell like lemons, too. That was a sure sign of a dreadful sinner, in need of a vangel intervention or on a fast track to Hell. Lucipires were lured by that scent, catnip to a demon soul. But coconut? That was a new one.

What in bloody hell is going on here? He dropped her hand and sank back in his desk chair. I’m. Losing. My. Fucking. Mind.

He’d been hanging around the Wings office for several days now, waiting for clues to Michael’s mysterious mission. Although he sometimes took on private clients, providing all kinds of expert security services, this Philadelphia office mostly served as a front for his vangel activities.

“What can I do for you, Miss Stewart?” He assumed she was Miss since there was no ring on her fingers. Not that it mattered. Much. Or at all.

She was wringing her hands in her lap, eyes darting around the barren room, clearly as nervous as he was, and stalling for time. “Cnut like a newt lizard?” she asked, irrelevantly.

He winced and said, “Yes, but spelled C-N-U-T.” He said the letters carefully in case he mixed them up and offended her even more.

She nodded, inhaled for courage, and revealed, “I’m here because I need help finding my missing sister and bringing her home.”

There is no way I am getting involved in some domestic dispute. Especially with someone who smells like a sweet macaroon. But I should at least sound interested. Be polite. “Missing? How do you misplace a person? Ha, ha.”

She didn’t smile at his humor. So much for being polite! “Missing from where? Did she run away?”

“I don’t mean missing in that way. I know where she is, I think.”

“Why don’t you just go and get her yourself? Or your parents? Why aren’t they here, by the way?”

Her face pinkened. “They’re getting ready to go on a cruise.”

“Lady, you’re wasting my time. I run a serious business.”