I don't have the body for this," I quipped, lifting my chin to a voluptous woman nearby who shook her hips zealously to the beat. "No curves." Jev's eyes held mine. "Are you asking my opinion?

Your mine, angel. And I won't let anything change that.

You killed my Dad." Any trace of kindness or sympathy vanished from Rixon's eyes. "Well this is awkward.

First,” he said, coming behind me and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of mine, “choose your tomato.” He dipped his head so his mouth was at my ear. His breath was warm, tickling my skin. “Good. Now pick up the knife.” “Does the chef always stand this close?” I asked, not sure if I liked or feared the flutter his closeness caused inside me. “When he’s revealing culinary secrets, yes.

What good is a body if I can't have you?

You want a blood relative to lead your army? Get Marcie. She likes ordering people around. She'll be a natural.

I wrinkled my nose, trying to figure out what he smelled like. Not cigarettes. Something richer, fouler. Cigars.