Hurricane (Last Call #2) by Moira Rogers Page A

covered a desk on the
side of his office, but Ben wasn’t watching them.  The cameras
on the dance floor were static, inefficient at following one
person.  Instead he stared down into his scrying bowl and
watched as the pretty little blonde ground against a man on the
dance floor, her ass rubbing his crotch as she moved with the
music.  The wizard looked thrilled to death.
    Ben didn’t blame him. 
Hell, his cock was
hard just from watching her move.  Of course, it wasn’t just
her body, lush as it was, that fueled his arousal. The scrying
spell painted her aura in bright colors he could almost taste , even as the curse
clenched tight around her. Sensuality, sexuality … and a deep, deep need that
eclipsed desire and even lust.  She needed to be taken,
claimed and fulfilled.
    She was hungry.  And he saw why as the
wizard’s hand drifted around her body.  His fingers brushed
her breast, and the curse flared so brightly that the rest of the
scene in his scrying dish faded.  Power tore through the
building, powerful enough that he felt the ripples even in his
office, three floors above her.
    A second later the phone
rang.  Ben didn’t take his eyes from the scrying dish as he
reached out to pick it up.  “What happened?” 
Something had to
have happened.  That much power, released
recklessly…
    “ Half the bottles of booze
at my bar just shattered.”  It was Bernie’s voice, deep and
slightly annoyed.  “I think it’s the lady who just ordered the
hurricane. Every time a guy gets near her, the lights flicker or
the music skips.”
    He couldn’t tear his gaze away from those
gyrating hips.  “I’m coming down to take care of it.”
    “ You better hurry,
boss.  She’s starting to look like a challenge, and you know
how that riles up the werewolves and demons.”
    “ I said I’d take care of
it.”  He slammed down the phone before Bernie could speak
again, and waved his hand over the scrying dish.  The image
vanished, leaving a pool of dark water in its place.
    He rose to his feet and
glanced down at his worn jeans and battered T-shirt. Most days he
enjoyed his casual clothing. He could walk among his clients and no
one suspected they were in the presence of the mysterious and
powerful Benito D’Cruze. The downside, of course, was that few
people believed he
was Benito D’Cruze without the trappings of wealth and money, which
meant it might be wise to change into something a little more
impressive before trying to deal with trouble.
    Another trembling ripple of power from
downstairs made the choice for him. He strode to the office door,
determined to save his club from absolute destruction.

    Fiona groaned as the fourth wizard shot off
the dance floor, driven away by the strength of the curse that
bound her.  “God damn it all, anyway.”
    A soft hiss behind her drew her attention,
and she spun to find a handsome blond man watching her.  A
smile curled the corners of his mouth, and his eyes flashed red for
a split second.
    An incubus.  Jesus
Christ.   His kind fed on sexual
energy, and God knew she had it to spare.  Fiona trembled as
she considered it.  A demon might be able to slip past the
curse, might be able to make her come without blowing Manhattan off
the map.  And if he gets
greedy…
    He could kill her.  But she was getting
desperate.
    Fiona took a step toward him, still swaying
to the pounding beat of the music.  Then a strong, tattooed
hand curled around her arm, stopping her, and she found herself
looking up into a pair of dark, intense eyes.
    He looked exotic, but the words he spoke
were clipped, unaccented English. “A demon is not a good cure for a
curse.”
    “ Oh yeah?”  The power
coursing off of the man intoxicated her even more than the
expensive rum singing through her veins.  Fiona stepped closer
and stroked his chest through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. 
“The last time I tried to get myself off, it rained toads in my
apartment.”  She laughed and