Tempted by His Wicked Kiss Read online

  New York City, December 31—Countdown to Eternity...

  Jackson Holloway is running out of time. To pay for his life of crime, he must find a pure soul to take his place in the Underworld before the clock strikes midnight. Medium Charlotte Simms seems like the perfect target—all he has to do is kiss her. But one kiss leads to a sensual encounter unlike anything Jack ever experienced in life. And now he must choose between love—and eternal damnation....

  Tempted by His Wicked Kiss

  Zoey Williams

  Dear Reader,

  When I told my AP English teacher from high school (who is still my dear friend to this day) that I was writing paranormal erotica, she said, “Paranormal erotica? What is that—sexy ghosts?” I laughed long and hard at that, but when I stopped, I sat back and thought, Well, what about a sexy ghost? Could I make ghosts sexy? And so began my journey of thinking up the plot of Tempted by His Wicked Kiss.

  Inspiration struck next when I had a girls’ night with my mom, my best friend Mary and her mom, Kathy. We were eating, drinking and laughing as usual when Kathy took out an old tea-leaf-reading book from the 1920s and we all read our cups of peppermint tea. That’s when I knew my next heroine would be a fortune-teller and seduce the hero over a tea-leaf-reading session.

  Tempted by His Wicked Kiss was so much fun to write, even more so than my debut novella, The Demon’s Forbidden Passion. I can only hope that you have just as much fun reading it. Feel free to tell me what you think at www.facebook.com/AuthorZoeyWilliams or on Twitter, @ZoeyWilliamsAu. I would love to hear from you!

  All best,

  Zoey

  Dedication

  This novella is dedicated to “Hilda and the Pool Ladies,” Mary, Kathy, Amy, Zoey P., Paula and Marissa, for always being my biggest cheerleaders and dearest friends.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  For almost all of Jackson Holloway’s adult life, his name appeared everywhere. The headlines of newspapers, police blotters, wanted posters that had been hung so long on policemen’s bulletin boards the paper had yellowed and curled. But now, for the first time—standing in the middle of Times Square six days after Christmas—Jack was anonymous. Lights sparkled from every angle—from the flashing billboards above the street to the lit advertisements on top of the cabs that flooded the asphalt. All of them hocked overpriced restaurants, kitschy souvenirs, discounted Broadway tickets, cheap T-shirts. Men in sandwich boards and funny costumes attempted to thrust colorful flyers into the fists of tourists. Each had a different message typed out in the same loud font. Designer suits at bargain prices. $10 off your meal at such-and-such restaurant. Do you like free comedy?

  A cacophony of horns honking, the swish of revolving doors, the tinny music being pumped out of the underside of Broadway theaters’ awnings: it was almost maddening. And there were people: throngs and throngs of people. Without tourists, Times Square was still an assault on the senses. With them, it was like the inside of a beehive—constant movement, constant buzzing, swarming.

  Jack’s face blended into the crowd, completely unnoticeable among the sea of tourists. People bundled in hats, gloves, and scarves all across the color spectrum breezed by as if they could see right through him. He’d always enjoyed coming here for that very reason. Because when Jack was invisible, darting through the crowds, he never got caught.

  Back when he and Cal were kids, they’d cut class (not like anyone cared when they left—teachers sighed in relief when the boxes next to their names remained empty as they ticked off attendance), take the C train from Brooklyn and spend the afternoon in midtown. As they traveled over the bridge, suddenly everything would turn from the gray, institutional look of the projects to the sparkling lights of Times Square. Jack liked the escape—to spend a few hours outside of their dangerous neighborhood. Cal liked the escape, too—because the pockets in Times Square were the easiest to pick.

  The two would slither through the crowd, their hands diving into whatever back pockets or purses that were attached to a distracted traveler. They made a game of it—how much could they pick in an hour? Sometimes a wallet or two would contain bills in a foreign currency Jack wouldn’t recognize and scores were argued over. But then a quick trip to the exchange on 48th Street would reveal the true victor, almost always Cal. Because that was where a crumpled mound of gibberish notes was turned into cold, hard cash. And he and Cal would be able to eat that night.

  But that was more than a decade ago, back when things were simpler. When their worst offenses were pickpocketing a few bucks and stealing a grime-covered banana off a street-adjacent fruit stand. Back then, it was mere child’s play. As Jack and Cal got older, petty crime slowly escalated to robbing ATMs, holding up convenience stores, muggings. Jack knew Cal also dabbled in hired hits from time to time—Cal getting paid to beat someone to a pulp.

  It had all started because Cal and Jack’s drug-addled mothers cared about filling their syringes more than putting food on the table. With no one to look after them, it was all about survival. Then, in a moment so subtle Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, everything changed. It wasn’t about survival anymore. They were twenty-eight now. They should’ve grown past it, straightened up and done something with their lives. But for Cal, it had turned into fun. A career.

  Jack shivered at the thought. A light flurry of snow had just begun to fall. It was cold out, but Jack couldn’t feel it. He huffed through the crowds, but unlike the people around him, his breath didn’t form an icy puff in the air. Cal had walked so fast in front of him he had disappeared from Jack’s sight. Again. As the New Year loomed closer, Jack found this happening more and more. While he understood why Cal had run off, his disappearances still sent a spike of anger through Jack. They were supposed to be in this together. They were practically brothers, in life and in...

  “Hey!” Jack shouted as he caught a glimpse of Cal’s unmistakable combination of faded green army jacket and fiery red hair. “Wait up, man!”

  If Cal heard him, he didn’t show any indication. Jack sped up his pace, practically jogging until he could walk in step with Calvin. Tonight he and Cal were on the prowl, just as they had been for the last year. Cal—his friend, his partner in crime—had once been so cool and collected. He’d walk into a room like he owned the place. And he’d had lots of practice; that’s what a life of crime had done to him.

  Jack looked at his only friend in the world. Cal had taught him everything he knew. How to slip a hand into an unsuspecting bastard’s pocket and remove his wallet and phone. How to throw a right hook that did the most damage. Every scam, swindle, and crime in the book. It was every man for himself, except when it came to Jack and Cal. Or at least that’s what Jack had thought. With Cal’s disappearing acts growing more frequent, he was beginning to wonder.

  His friend had changed. Cal’s swagger had been replaced with a fast, nervous step. His usual smirk had become a flat line. His heavily lidded eyes, usually giving an I-don’t-give-a-fuck look to anyone—especially law enforcement—were now wide, his pupils shrinking into pinpoints, as if he were always looking over his shoulder.

  But Jack knew, as much as he would never admit it, that Calvin had started these weird habits because he was scared. He was more than scared; he was terrified. Because if they didn’t find what they were looking for within the next eight hours, they were fucked. Eternally fucked.

  “Hey, slow down,” Jack called after his friend. “You keep running around li
ke this and you’re going to rush right past what we’re looking for.”

  Cal spun on his heel and glared. “Oh yeah, smart ass? I don’t see you finding anything. We have less than a day. I’ll do this however I want. Our slow pace sure hasn’t helped this last year.”

  He had a point.

  They had been given a year to find a target and nothing had turned up. As Jack jogged to keep up with Cal dashing up Broadway, he detected some movement above him. He squinted. Like a glittering jewel he had wrenched off a lady’s hand more times than he could count was the silvery New Year’s Eve ball glinting in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the pink of the sunset. In a little less than eight hours, that ball would drop, signifying the start of a new year. Within that stretch of time, if Cal and Jack didn’t find what they were looking for, they were worse than dead.

  And in that moment, when Jack allowed himself to briefly think of the fate that awaited them, he saw it. A flash of violet in his peripheral vision.

  Jack stopped dead in his tracks.

  No longer hearing the footfalls of his friend beside him, Cal slowed down before turning around in a huff. “What the fuck, man? I told you that you need to keep up with me. I’m tired of this—”

  From where he stood, Cal trailed off as he tried to get a glimpse of where Jack was looking. Frozen in place, his eyes desperately searched the crowd. Cal ran over, stopping so short he almost ran into his friend. When Jack still didn’t say anything, Cal nudged him with his elbow.

  “Oh shit, you see one, don’t you?” he asked. “Which way did it go?”

  All of a sudden, Jack felt like he was underwater. The movements of the crowd around him slowed to a glacial pace. His vision blurred, his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Jack noticed he was holding his breath as he desperately tried to determine which way the flash had gone.

  He furrowed his brow, squinting slightly. The shimmering purple glow appeared again, but this time it was farther in the distance. He was losing ground. It was moving away from him and he wasn’t sure in which direction. But then, by some incredible twist of fate, another lavender light flashed as clear as day a block ahead of them, traveling west.

  “Mine!” Cal shouted. “I got that one, Jack!” he called as he bolted after it, leaving Jack in a swirl of car exhaust. He didn’t even bother to ask if Jack had his secured.

  Turning back around, Jack scanned the crowd around him. He had just seen it. He’d only taken his eyes off his target for a second and it was gone. He turned to follow Cal, but he couldn’t see him anymore either.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  There was nothing to do but run. The last he had seen it, the purple flash far in front of him was heading south. His only chance was to blindly follow it and pray that it was still within reach. He took off through the crowds, looking frantically around him, but the light had disappeared. Then he realized that there was a subway station not far from where he was standing. The purple glow may have traveled underground.

  He found the green orb marking the subway’s entrance and ran down the dingy silver stairs, forgotten pieces of gum, now a blackish pink, embedded in its ridges. Large clumps of dirt and filth covered the tile of the underground station he ran soundlessly over. It was rush hour and New York’s unique symphony—the synthesized tone of train doors opening and closing, the clicking of the turnstiles, the thump of a street performer’s boom box—filled the station.

  There was a sea of travelers with purple knitted caps and scarves, violet shopping bags, plush lilac wool coats, but nothing glowed. Jack cursed. He would have to arbitrarily pick a subway line and go down to the tracks.

  He ran to the closest entrance and descended another flight of stairs, almost tripping over one of its ancient, uneven steps. The platform was crowded, commuters packed shoulder to shoulder. He elbowed his way to the front of the line, walking over the ridges of the yellow metal safety strip at the edge of the platform. A few people around him grimaced, but it was the only way he’d get a decent view of the place and the crowd on the opposite platform. He scanned the mass behind him before turning his gaze across the platform. At first he didn’t believe his eyes.

  There it was. Across the tracks, the purple glow undeniably radiating from this woman’s being like an aura. With her back turned to him, Jackson could see how the hue clung to her ratty shawl, her waist-length curly hair, scuffed leather boots, and long, gauzy skirt skimming the dirty floor of the platform. She was carrying a folded-up card table under one arm, the top of it fitting into the crook of her armpit, and held a small padded stool with black metal legs in the other. Probably a homeless person, he figured, which made Jackson breathe out a sigh of relief. It made his job a little easier. No one would miss her. This woman was it, exactly what he’d been searching for day and night for nearly three hundred and sixty-four days. She was his ticket out of the dangerous situation he and Cal were in. If he could just take what he needed from her, he’d be spared the fate that awaited him in less than a day. He stood there, stunned, as the realization washed over him. This was it. His torment would finally be over.

  But he still needed to catch her first. And since she was on the platform across from him, she was on track to board a train going the opposite direction than the one he was standing on. He looked around quickly, not wanting to lose sight of her again, wondering what to do next. There was no other choice than to hop off the platform, cross the tracks, and follow her.

  He bent at the waist and grabbed the edge of the platform before easing his body over it with a quick jump. Various pieces of litter—shattered glass bottles, empty Styrofoam containers, a knotted plastic bag—were scattered on the grimy floor. A rat the color of dishwater skittered by. No one around him noticed that Jack was standing in the middle of the tracks.

  But when his eyes returned to the woman with the purple aura, he was almost sure he could scream out and someone would hear him. Because he could practically feel his stomach drop when he saw the woman slowly turn around. An older man with a crinkled map in his hand had tapped her on the shoulder and she’d spun around, gesturing like she was giving directions. She was deep in conversation with him. The relief he’d originally felt upon seeing his glowing target quickly vanished as he now saw her face. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping that what stood in front of him was a mirage. But it was unmistakable.

  It was her. He’d never been able to forget that face. Every time he’d closed his eyes for the past year, it floated around in his mind’s eye—an odd mixture of guilt and pure want coursing through him. He never thought he’d ever see her again. And now he had...under the absolute worst circumstances imaginable.

  Suddenly a horn sounded and the people up on the platform turned their attention to Jack’s left like one single entity. A faint white light was emerging from the tunnel—a light that was growing stronger and stronger. But still, no one looked down at Jackson. The light grew more intense until it was practically blinding him. The flat, silver head of the train was shining, its silvery surface reflecting the light like a mirror. The tracks underneath his feet rumbled with its barreling approach. The conductor was pulling the brake as it rolled into the station, and the train’s wheels emitted a high-pitched screech, but as it got within a foot of Jackson, it was still easily traveling at forty miles per hour.

  Instinctively, Jackson flinched, tempted to throw his arms up and wrap them protectively over his face. He was still getting used to the fact that he didn’t have to.

  The train didn’t strike him. Instead, it went through him with a powerful whoosh of air as he stood in the middle of the tracks. Because the truth was that Jackson Holloway had died almost a year ago at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve.

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte Simms removed a hand from her pocket to pull her deep crimson shawl tighter around her. Plucking a loose string from the edge of the raggedy fabric, she took a look at her hand. Being
out for so long in the biting December air had turned the skin pale white with a bluish twinge. But she knew she couldn’t go home just yet. Despite her best efforts—a sign reading Half Off Palm Readings crudely drawn in bubble letters that she’d affixed to the side of her card table with a shiny piece of duct tape—she hadn’t had a single customer that day. And she had tried all her usual hot spots—right outside of Port Authority, a bench on the southern border of Central Park where all the horse-drawn carriages strolled by, even the bustling streets of Times Square. And now she was here—her last stop of the day—in Tompkins Square Park. She’d sit it out for one hour before allowing herself to cross the street and finally go home.

  She usually shuffled her tarot cards while she waited for patrons, but it was too cold for that today. She rubbed her hands together furiously before cupping them, drawing them in front of her face and trying to use her breath to warm them up. The effects were fleeting, her hands immediately returning to their frigid state the moment she stopped breathing into them. She sighed.

  While she prided herself on being chipper and free-spirited, it was days like today—the freezing cold coupled by a customer-less day—that she felt the sting of the traumatic events that had brought her to telling fortunes on the street. She’d been a promising psychology student at a local CUNY college, about to start her last semester of school when one night two men clad in black ski masks robbed her entire life savings—all her money for tuition—when she was simply trying to take out twenty bucks from an ATM. Being out of school was especially hard for her since she’d started to really blossom in college. She’d had a group of friends and even a few boyfriends. But none of them knew her current circumstances. She’d disengaged, too embarrassed and traumatized to tell anyone what had happened.

  Under normal circumstances, she would’ve been able to bounce back and return to school, but then in the economy her parents lost their jobs. And when they fell behind on the rent for their little walkup one-bedroom apartment the three of them squeezed into, her parents went to search for new jobs out West. Not wanting to be a burden to them—another mouth to feed, another person to clothe—Charlotte stayed behind. If it weren’t for those criminals, she’d be able to take care of her parents and earn the diploma she was so eager to feel in the palm of her hand. If it weren’t for those criminals, she wouldn’t have to endure the same nightmare—a replay of that traumatizing night—every single night since then.