Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  She should be frustrated. Instead, she wanted him more than ever.

  Not that she had any time to worry about her love life or lack thereof. At the moment, she was cheering Hieronymous on at his latest foray into good.

  They’d been patrolling a stretch of Bleecker Street, looking for mortals in peril, kittens to rescue, taxis that might be careening out of control. Mordi had been surly and closed-mouthed, and even Hieronymous, who’d started the afternoon with unabashed enthusiasm, had sunk into a silence that could only be described as bitter.

  Izzy supposed she couldn’t blame him. Until he performed the required number of good deeds, he couldn’t be re-assimilated. And if no good-deed opportunities were presenting themselves . . . well, she was frustrated, too.

  They’d been ready to head back, to give up and try again another day, when the cry had rung out: a little girl’s voice, shrill and desperate. They’d raced toward the sound, Mordi in the lead, but Hieronymous soon passed him—and Izzy’s heart soared as Hieronymous made a beeline for the little girl hanging precariously from the edge of the fire escape, an older girl trying frantically to hoist the child back up.

  “Please! Please help!” the girl on the metal grating cried.

  The younger girl was about three, and Izzy assumed she’d crawled out onto the fire escape when an adult wasn’t looking. There certainly didn’t seem to be an adult around now.

  The little girl had probably wandered to the edge where the ladder should be, but since there was no ladder, she’d been stuck. Perhaps she’d lost her balance. Izzy didn’t know; all she knew was that when they arrived, the terrified child was dangling, and her equally terrified sibling was screaming, trying to clutch the little girl’s arms and hoist her back onto the platform.

  The little girl, though, was too scared, and her kicking and flailing weren’t helping the older girl’s efforts. The weight of a three-year-old was probably too much for a seven-or eight-year-old even on a good day. With the three-year-old writhing like a worm on a hook, it really was too much.

  “Tammy, no!” the older girl cried. And that’s when it had happened—the toddler let go and plummeted toward the ground.

  Izzy and crew were still half a block away, and they raced with super speed toward the fire escape.

  The timing had been close. The kid was falling fast and—

  And then she wasn’t falling fast.

  Thank Hera!

  The little girl’s descent had slowed, even as Hieronymous’s pace had increased. He’d slid to a halt under the child, just as gravity seemed to catch up with her. She landed with a plunk in his arms, then started wailing, her cries punctuated by loud, wet hiccups.

  Izzy exhaled. From the time they’d first heard the scream, maybe four seconds had passed. It felt more like four years.

  “Well done,” she said again.

  Hieronymous put the child on the ground and patted her on the head. “Nonsense, my dear. Anyone could have helped. It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.”

  And having the right skills, Izzy thought. Had she been here alone, that girl would have crashed to the ground.

  She looked away, not wanting either Mordi or Hieronymous to see it reflected on her face. No matter how bad he might have been in the past, at that particular moment, Hieronymous had more claim to being a Protector than she ever did. He, at least, had all of a Protector’s powers. Izzy had nothing but a freezy finger and an uncle who pushed through paperwork.

  Above them, the older girl was gone, and now they heard the alley door slam open and the kid’s footsteps as she raced toward them.

  The two girls embraced, and Hieronymous smiled. The expression seemed forced, but Izzy supposed that wasn’t too unusual. He was out of practice, after all. And it wasn’t as if he was displeased by the rescue. She could smell the waves of pleasure, pride, and relief that flowed from his being.

  Oh, yes. Hieronymous was undoubtedly happy that he’d rescued the little girl.

  Izzy made a mental note. As soon as she returned to the office, she’d update his file. At the moment, though, she had no doubt that Hieronymous would pass all the re-assimilation tests with flying colors.

  “Bravo,” Mordi said, his voice flat. “A few years ago, you would have just let the kid go splat on the pavement.”

  Izzy knelt beside the two girls, still locked together in a bear hug, and looked up at him. “Mordi!”

  He had the good grace to look abashed. “Sorry,” he said, in the direction of her and the girls. Then he turned back to Hieronymous. “But it’s true.” His voice was lower, his tone harsh.

  Anger. Betrayal. The emotions clung to him like smoke, tainting the air around him. And more, too. There was a desperate need, one so intense it made her heart ache for him.

  “Where’s Mommy?” the little girl said.

  “Hush, sweetie. Your mommy will be here soon.”

  As if conjured, the sound of high heels clattering on the pavement echoed behind them. “Tammy? Lisa?” The woman’s voice rose with concern, and the footsteps increased in tempo. “Oh, babies, babies! What happened? Where’s Amelia?”

  The woman was at Izzy’s side now, and she moved away to let the girls cling to their mother. Izzy listened, amused, as the older girl told her mom the story, between sobs and great heaving gulps of air, of how their babysitter had gone out and how Tammy had ended up on the fire escape.

  “I couldn’t hold on, Mommy,” Lisa said, fresh tears streaming down her cheek. She twisted in her mom’s embrace, just enough to point to Hieronymous. “But he caught her, Mommy. He saved Tammy. He’s a hero.” The little girl’s eyes were wide as she spoke these last words, and Izzy had no doubt that, if asked, she would say that Hieronymous had hung the moon.

  Mordi stood off to one side, and Izzy didn’t need to examine his scent to tell that he didn’t share the little girl’s sentiment. His expression said it for him. Fortunately, though, he kept his mouth shut. And Izzy said a silent thank-you that, if nothing else, Mordichai Black had at least an inkling of the meaning of the word “discretion.”

  Managing somehow to keep both kids physically connected to her, the mother rose—a little wobbly in her high heels—and made her way to Hieronymous.

  “Thank you.”

  He took her hand, his expression reflecting nothing but humble sincerity. “Madam, your thanks is not necessary. I’m no hero. I was simply in the right place at the right time.”

  “Then thank you for that.”

  Izzy thought she heard a noise come from Mordi’s vicinity, but it could have been her imagination.

  Somewhat shyly, the mother said her good-byes, then ushered the girls toward the apartment. “If there’s anything I can do to repay—”

  “The look on your face is repayment enough, madam,” Hieronymous said, then bent to kiss her fingers.

  This time, Izzy was sure she heard it: Mordi was gagging in the background.

  25

  Mordi watched as the mother gathered the two little girls up and ushered them away under his father’s beaming stare. For Izzy’s sake, he tried to keep a straight face, but it was hard. She obviously believed that these tests would reveal Hieronymous’s true character, and Mordi had decided that he simply wasn’t going to argue. He knew the truth . . . and sooner or later, Daddy Dearest would screw up. He had to. Mordi knew Hieronymous too well to think that the Outcast could maintain this façade forever.

  Still . . . he feared that Hieronymous might be able to maintain it long enough. Hieronymous had willpower. And when he truly wanted something, Mordi knew, he was willing to pull out all the stops.

  With a sigh, he leaned back against the brick building and watched as Izzy ran down a checklist with his father—she’d be filing a report with the Inner Circle as well as with the MLO, just in case some spin was needed.

  Izzy.

  How he wished she could see the truth. Because, damn it, he hated being at cross purposes with her. She’d gotten
under his skin, a dangerous place for her to be, but he couldn’t help it. She was a part of his life now, a part he didn’t need and shouldn’t want. But she was there all the same, and he was at a loss about what to do.

  He’d awakened at four with Izzy in his arms, both of them still curled up on her couch. It had felt good. Too good. So he’d bolted, thinking that if he could only put some distance between them, his head would clear. He’d gone back to his own place, but was only able to lie in bed staring at the ceiling, imagining that she was still in his arms.

  He’d told her the truth—his job did make a relationship nearly impossible. He had enemies. He had the father from hell. No matter how you sliced it, they just weren’t workable. But until he’d met Izzy, he hadn’t really cared.

  His cell phone rang, and he answered, surprised to hear Jason on the other end until he remembered that he’d broken his holopager. “Well?” Jason demanded.

  “Hang on.” Mordi moved back, until he was sure that he was out of earshot of his father and Izzy. Not that either of them seemed interested in him; they were too busy filling out the report to even notice Mordi or his phone call.

  He turned back to the phone and gave Jason an update. “And the Frost girl?”

  “I think she’s clean,” Mordi said, casting a glance her way. Jason made a low noise in the back of his throat, and Mordi silently acknowledged that, while his brain was in agreement, the bulk of his certainty originated in other parts of his body. “Her father did say one odd thing—I was trying to tell you before the Henchman showed up. Something about a silent partner. Can you check it out?”

  “Sure thing. What’s on your agenda for today?”

  “Going back to headquarters after this. Our darling father just rescued a little girl—”

  Jason’s raucous laugh echoed through the phone.

  “—who was falling out of a window, and I’m sure he’s exhausted from keeping up the act. I’ll try to poke around a bit on my end.”

  “Keep me posted,” Jason said. “And I’ll do the same.”

  26

  “Even you have to admit that he’s doing well,” Izzy said. They were back in her office, and she was peering at Mordi from behind her desk.

  Mordi set his jaw. He didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. “If by ‘doing well’ you mean that he’s managed to convince you that black is white and up is down, then, yeah. He’s doing remarkably well.”

  “Jumping Jupiter, Mordi,” she said, one hand gesturing. “You’ve seen him—”

  “Do nothing but the simplest of tasks,” Mordi finished.

  “He’s saved mortals,” she said. “Mortals. You remember them? That species that you say he can’t stand.”

  “He can’t,” Mordi said.

  “Then why—”

  “I. Don’t. Know.” And not knowing was driving him crazy. “But he’s up to something.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “It’s not paranoia if everyone really is after you.” Mighty Zeus, he was reduced to talking in bumper stickers. The woman had a way of breaking down his defenses and tying his tongue. He wanted to shake some sense into her. Better yet, he wanted to kiss her so hard and so thoroughly that she finally understood.

  “Mordi?”

  Oh, heck. He drew in a breath, looking at her warily. Did she know what he was thinking? Of course she does, you idiot. She’s an empath.

  “Don’t read me,” he said. “We’re working together. It’s not appropriate for you to get into my head.” His words came out measured and strong, without a hint of embarrassment. Inside his head, he was kicking himself, mortification rolling off of him in huge waves.

  The look she flashed him was one of pure disdain. “Read you? Don’t flatter yourself. And besides, I can’t read you without touching you. All I can tell by being near you is what you’re feeling.”

  Maybe she was trying to make him feel better, but suddenly he felt totally exposed. “Don’t,” he snapped, the word coming out harsher than he intended.

  Something akin to pain flashed in her eyes, but then the mask fell back into place and she was the perfect professional again. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have no reason to read you, Mordi. None at all.”

  Despite the ice in her words, they cut through him like a hot knife. “Good,” Mordi said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  “No problem,” he repeated.

  He sat there a moment, fuming and feeling foolish, then stood to leave, half-hoping she’d stop him. She didn’t, and her silence cut through him as much as her sharp words had.

  He went to her door, opened it, then stepped out into the hallway. And as soon as the door closed behind him, he leaned back against the wall and took a single deep breath.

  He should be satisfied. She was agreeing to stay out of his head and away from his emotions. And yet he wasn’t satisfied. Not at all.

  Typical. His whole life he’d always wanted to be closer to the people who pushed him away. His mother, his father. And now this woman.

  Mordi, you’re pathetic. Just do your job and get the hell away from her.

  And that, he thought, was very sound advice.

  27

  The man was impossible!

  Even after seeing Hieronymous unselfishly help mortals—twice now!—Mordichai was still unconvinced of his father’s sincerity, and Izzy was at her wits’ end.

  She wanted to tell him to take his knee-jerk reaction and go jump in a lake. Except she couldn’t. Because a teeny-tiny little part of her wondered if Mordi was right.

  Images of inkblots danced through her head, but she shook them away. He’d passed. Maybe he’d been a little off, a little hesitant, but ultimately he’d passed. Just as he’d passed every test she’d thrown his way.

  Maybe it would be convenient for her if Hieronymous was re-assimilated, but her personal concerns were not running the show. She was behaving honestly. She was being completely unbiased and professional.

  And her completely unbiased and professional judgment was that Hieronymous was passing his tests. And all of Mordi’s bitching and moaning couldn’t change that one fact.

  And Mordi knew Hieronymous was passing those tests, yet he was bitching and moaning. And she didn’t know why. Yes, he and his father had a long and complicated history, but was it just bad blood? Or did Mordi know something?

  Granted, she didn’t know Mordi well (though she wanted to know him better), but he didn’t strike her as the type to hang onto an issue simply out of pride. Even more, no matter how much she resented his being added to her team, she knew that Zephron must have had his reasons. Plus, she had her own opinions of Mordi, and while she didn’t understand his reaction to his father, she did trust his instincts elsewhere. As far as she could tell, he was completely competent. More than competent, really.

  Which left her questioning her own conclusions. Hieronymous might be passing all his tests—he might, empirically at least, be doing well—but even so, tiny little doubts as to his goodness were creeping into her head. She didn’t know if those doubts stemmed from her own observations or from Mordi’s loud and consistent arguments. She’d backed away from certainty and into a shadowy new area.

  And that terrified her even more than her growing feelings for Mordichai.

  28

  Mordi rushed through the deserted corridor, glanced at his watch, and then picked up his pace. He’d been up all night poking around on the Internet, trying to locate Romulus, trying to figure out who Harold’s silent partner was, trying to determine if any of the traitors he’d caught in the past might be trying to kill him. In sum, trying to get some sort of handle on any one of the fires that were currently burning at the top of his workload.

  In the end, he’d accomplished nothing. He had, however, thought a lot about Izzy Frost. About the gentle way she interacted with her father, and the pride she had in him. About her snappy comments and her sense of humor. About the way she could take
care of herself. And most of all, about the way she made him feel when she looked at him with those ice-blue eyes.

  She’d crept into his mind even when she didn’t belong there and—damn him—he’d let her stay.

  Now, however, wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. Not when he was on his way to see her, for she’d most certainly pick up on any stray thoughts of lust.

  He rounded a corner, almost careening into Elders Armistand and Trystan. “Elders,” he said with a small bow. “I didn’t see you.”

  “And where are you going in such a hurry, young Mordichai?” Trystan asked.

  “Isole Frost, sir. More testing.” He coughed. “For my father.” He cringed a little as he spoke the words. Elder Trystan held a particular dislike of Hieronymous, though Mordi didn’t know the cause. As for Elder Armistand, he had initiated the Re-Assimilation Act, so Mordi knew he wasn’t prejudiced against Outcasts per se, but the word on the street was that he’d never expected the more notorious Outcasts to try to make use of the new law.

  “I understand he’s doing quite well so far,” Trystan said, sounding pleased. “Ms. Frost’s initial report was quite encouraging.”

  For a second, Mordi almost couldn’t manage an answer. Then he nodded. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Excellent,” Armistand said. “I’m certain that if he is doing that well, Ms. Frost will recommend complete re-assimilation.”

  “And the committee will surely approve the recommendation,” Trystan added. “I know I will enthusiastically vote yes.”

  Mordi frowned. The committee—like the treaty committee—was composed of the entire Inner Circle and a few other select Protectors.

  “As will I,” Armistand agreed. “It will be wonderful having him back on the Council.”