“I wasn’t going to put it on,” groused Rafe, looking at John face to face for the first time. “Fick…it’s you…”
John arched one brow, cast a quick glance at Tamara, and then looked back at the handsome man before him. “Words like that aren’t typically in my favor,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his head, the effort to place the man’s face adding to the physical throbbing inside his skull. “Have we met?”
“Belfast was it? Moscow…no…” Rafe snapped his fingers, “New Orleans…”
“Only stopped in Belfast for a piss and a kip…never been to Moscow…and I’d bloody well remember if it was New Orleans.” New Orleans was one of those places that kept dragging him back, building more memories, many of them less than pleasant, then he cared to think about.
“Somewhere…I know we’ve…I mean…”
“John, this is Rafe Heiser…a friend of Rain’s. He’s here for the holidays…”
“And an occultist,” Rafe enthused, clasping John’s hands between his. “Not like this…not like you. Magick isn’t my…but history…mythology…literature…”
“So a booker then…” John looked up from their clasped hands into the other man’s blue eyes. There was something there, in the handshake, in his eyes, that confirmed to John that there might be sex if he played his cards right…a lot of bloody great sex…that would take his mind off of the other revelation he had made that he did not want to think about.
“I’ve never been to…”
“I’ve seen you there…and I’ll prove it…”
Bloody great sex perhaps…but the man was obviously some sort of nut…an occult fan or stalker perhaps.