Free What You Can't See by Allison Brennan, Karin Tabke, Roxanne St. Claire

been murdered. By the same kook who had talked her into joining his stupid cult.”
    Why had she said all that? The last person she wanted to talk about was her mother. She tried to pull her hands from Anthony’s, but he held firm. She wanted to avert her eyes, but he turned her face to look at his.
    “Skye.”
    Suddenly, his lips were on hers, consuming her.
    No tentative kiss. He claimed her with a confidence she’d rarely seen, hungry but patient; determined but gentle. She put her hands on his arms, surprised at the dense muscle hidden under his shirt. She wanted to push him away. She couldn’t. Her body reached for him while her mind told her to run. Heat pooled in all the right places, her heart beat triple time, her skin tingled from the electricity they generated.
    All in a kiss.
    His hands barely touched the back of her neck, but his presence captivated her. Anthony didn’t try to dominate her, but conquered her nonetheless.
    Think, Skye! Forget the kiss, this guy is bizarre.
    Shut up, she told herself and wished for once she could separate her physical needs and desires from her logical cop mind.
    She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but instead found her tongue seeking his, being the aggressor. If he had carried her off to bed right then, she would have gone. Her body wanted him and no amount of logic would have convinced her to stay away.
    Her own guttural moan was lost in Anthony’s mouth, but the sound—too passionate to be coming from her—jolted her back to reality. She didn’t sleep with strangers. She didn’t sleep with men who weren’t grounded in reality. What was she doing? She was the damn sheriff with a massacre on her hands.
    She pushed Anthony back. Hard. He didn’t take his eyes from hers. His confidence was incredible. He already looked like he’d bedded her. “Don’t leave,” he said.
    “You’re fine,” she snapped, jumping up. “I have work to do.”
    He stood, followed her to the door. “Please stay. I’m worried about you.”
    “Worried about me ? I’m a cop, Mr. Zaccardi. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
    He leaned toward her. “I think we’ve gone beyond Mr. Zaccardi, don’t you?”
    He tried to kiss her again, but she averted her face and his warm lips landed on her flushed cheek. He looked more amused than insulted. Damn him.
    He also looked worried. That didn’t sit well with her.
    “Look, Anthony ,” she said. “I’m a smart cop. It’s after two in the morning. I’ll be up bright and early to continue this investigation. With the mission destroyed, I have a lot more work to do.”
    “You need me.”
    “Only to translate this.” She reached down and picked up the journal that she’d placed on the table. “I’ll keep it with me for now, you can meet me at the station at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning.”
    “I can work on it tonight, have a translation for you—”
    She held up her hand, anticipating his request.
    He nodded curtly. “All right, Skye. May I have my cross back?”
    What was she expecting? More protests? To take her kicking and screaming to bed? She didn’t know how much she would have fought him. Damn, but Anthony was hot.
    Too bad he was a weirdo. Just like the man who’d lured away her mother.
    She pulled his cross—his dagger—out of her belt buckle and handed it to him. “Don’t make me regret this,” she said, more curtly than she intended.
    She turned and left, felt his eyes watch her open the door to the stairs because she was too impatient to wait for the elevator.
    All the good men were married, gay—or nutcases.
     
    A wall of flames surrounded him, but Anthony felt no heat.
    “You again,” the fire spat.
    Again? He didn’t remember this demon, one so strong it could control the elements.
    The flames danced in laughter.
    “Someday you’ll remember. I won then, I will be victorious now. You can’t save their souls if you’re dead.”
    “You can’t kill me, Ianax, spawn of Satan,”