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

by J. Kenner

  Yet Izzy seemed convinced that Hieronymous was turning over a new leaf and wanted to be good. He had no idea if her approbation was genuine, or if she had some ulterior motive, but he was sticking close until he found out.

  Right now, she was staring at Mr. Lincoln, her face pensive. He wondered what she was thinking, and the wondering nagged at him, all the more because he knew that with just a touch, Izzy would know exactly what he was thinking.

  Which, of course, meant that he couldn’t touch her. Not a hardship, he told himself. He had no reason to touch her, no matter how much his fingers itched when he stood near her, and no matter how much the lavender scent of her perfume teased his senses.

  If he plucked out the pins that held her hair up, would it fall soft and loose over his hand? If he stroked her skin, would it burn under his touch?

  He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And naturally, that made him want it all the more.

  “Come on,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

  She turned away from Mr. Lincoln to look at him, but didn’t seem inclined to move. “Come where?”

  “Are you staying here all night?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you my chaperon?”

  He exhaled, clenching his fists against rising frustration. “Actually, I thought I’d be civil and offer you a ride home.”

  “Thanks, but I flew.”

  He frowned, his gaze taking in her tiny purse. “Where’s your cloak?”

  Her laughter rang out, the light sound echoing off the stone walls of the monument. “American Airlines,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said stupidly. “Well, when’s the return? I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”

  “I haven’t booked it yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure how long we’d need to stay here.”

  “Then why don’t I give you a lift home?”

  She blinked at him. “Home? To New York?”

  “Sure. Why not? I’ve got my car. It’s not even five. We’ll be there by dinnertime.”

  She licked her lips. “That’s getting us in awfully late. I’ve got piles of work to get through.”

  “The piles will be there tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  His desire overwhelmed him. “Why are we fighting this?” He knew the answer, and still he blurted out the question.

  “Because it’s a bad idea,” she said, not missing a beat.

  “Probably,” he said. He crooked his arm in invitation. “But can we at least do dinner?”

  She frowned but shifted slightly, and he knew he’d almost convinced her. He told himself he simply needed to keep an eye on her—but it was so much more than that. “Dinnertime’s too far away,” she said. “I skipped lunch.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner on the way home.”

  The color rose in her cheeks, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “It’s a bad idea, Mordi,” she said. “Getting in your car together, alone . . .”

  “Probably,” he agreed. “Are we going to let that stop us?”

  Her mouth twitched. “No,” she said. “We’re not.” She slipped her arm through his. “So long as dinner’s still included, I’ll accept your gracious invitation.”

  “Good,” he said. And then, because he couldn’t resist: “I promise you won’t regret it.”

  32

  They chatted about nothing for the first twenty minutes of the drive, then eased into a companionable silence when they hit the countryside. Mordi was taking them some back way, and after they’d passed out of the city, open fields and charming homesteads filled Isole’s vision.

  Just as well; the silence made it easier for her to hear her own thoughts. And right then, Izzy’s thoughts were all clamoring for her attention, wondering what in Hades she was doing accepting a dinner date from Mordichai Black.

  And no, she couldn’t tell herself that this was simply two business companions dining together. It wasn’t. And she didn’t want it to be.

  Oddly enough, despite the fact that she’d told herself over and over that getting up close and personal with Mordichai was bad news, she felt lighter and happier than she had since the day she’d met him. She’d taken a step, and although the direction might be dangerous, she had to admit she was craving the excitement.

  “Any chance your powers include teleportation?” Mordi’s words pulled her away from her thoughts, and something in his tone set alarm bells off in her head.

  “Why?”

  “We’re being followed.”

  She swallowed. Apparently she’d been right about the danger.

  “Don’t,” Mordi said, closing his hand on her shoulder. She realized she’d started to twist around for a better look. “I don’t want the driver to know we’re on to him yet.”

  She considered arguing—she hated feeling out of the loop—but settled instead for flipping her visor down and using the makeup mirror to peek behind them. Unfortunately, she really couldn’t see a thing.

  Damn.

  “Mortal or Protector?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “I think Protector, but I could be wrong.”

  She squirmed, slammed the visor back up, frowned, then yanked it down again. Beside her, Mordi laughed.

  She glared at him. “You have the rearview mirror,” she said. “And I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t gloat.”

  “I’m not gloating,” he said, his hands on the wheel. He looked perfectly calm and reasonable.

  How could he be so calm? They were in the middle of nowhere, right smack in the kind of wide-open spaces where an Outcast, a Henchman, or a traitorous Protector would have few qualms about attacking. A secluded place.

  He turned his head slightly and smiled at her, his green eyes reflecting her concern, but holding another message: optimism, concern—and a promise of safety?

  Sweet Hera, the man intended to protect her!

  The thought should have made her angry. After all, she was perfectly capable of protecting herself. More or less, anyway. But instead of annoying her, she thought he was sweet.

  Almost shyly, she turned in her seat to glance at him more directly. And that’s when she realized . . .

  Feeling bold, she leaned closer, then reached out and stroked his shoulder, taking care to touch only the twill cotton of his jacket. He raised one eyebrow, turning just slightly so that he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She tried out a slow, sexy smile. The gesture was a little uncomfortable—certainly slow and sexy wasn’t in her usual repertoire of looks—but she wanted to put up a good show in case their pursuer had super vision and was getting an up-close-and-personal look. Or, in case their pursuer simply had binoculars and was getting an up-close-and-personal look.

  “What are you doing?” Mordi said, his voice holding a hint of amusement.

  She leaned closer until her lips were almost brushing his ear. She tilted her head, giving her a dead-on view of the sleek black Porsche following a good twenty yards back. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she whispered, because whoever was in the Porsche might be reading her lips.

  “It looks like you’re coming on to me,” Mordi said, his voice low and rough as sandpaper. “But I have a feeling I’m not that lucky.”

  Izzy swallowed and flushed. She could feel the hot blood flooding through her body and face. Her instinct was to pull away, but she fought it, instead keeping her eyes on their tail.

  She focused her thoughts, willing herself not to sneak inside Mordi’s head, then nuzzled his ear, the gesture designed to hide her words. “He’s gaining on us,” she whispered.

  “Yup.”

  She slid her fingers through his hair, fighting her own visceral reaction. Sweet Hera, she was losing it here, and this was really not the time to get all mushy over a man. Even Mordi. Especially Mordi. Pulling herself together, she shot one more glance out the back window, then used the press of her fingers against his hair to camouflage her words. “That Porsche is the least of our worries,” she
announced. In the distance, a hundred or so yards back, a blood-red Dodge Viper was careening toward them.

  Maybe a reckless teenager or some hotshot trying to impress a date?

  She didn’t really believe that.

  “No kidding,” Mordi said.

  She looked up, expecting to see him looking into his rearview mirror. Instead, he was focusing straight ahead. She turned, following the direction of his gaze, and then gasped. Three hulking creatures on motorcycles, clad head-to-toe in black leather, were heading straight toward Mordi’s Ferrari.

  “Mother of Zeus!” Izzy yelped as Mordi whipped the wheel to the side, sending his car careering up onto the rough shoulder and barely missing one of the cyclists. “Who the devil are those guys?”

  “No clue,” Mordi said, his mouth pulling into a frown. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Call in a backup team, would you?”

  She nodded, then pulled out her holopager. Nothing happened. “It’s jammed.”

  “Try the cell phone.”

  She grabbed it, flipped it open, but wasn’t able to get a signal. “Nothing. We’re on our own.”

  “Hold on.”

  He floored it, and Izzy felt the rush of acceleration force her back into her seat. She scowled, hating the idea of running, of fleeing, but not really wanting to tangle with five attackers. Five against two were fine odds if their new acquaintances were mortal. But if the five stooges were Protectors or Outcasts or Henchmen . . . well, in that case she had no particular philosophical problems with simply escaping with her life.

  Neither, apparently, did Mordi.

  The sun was fast setting on Mordi’s side of the car, casting long shadows and painting the tall, thin trees by the side of the road in shades of orange and purple. They were beautiful, but Izzy didn’t really have time to notice.

  They’d sped past the oncoming motorcycles, but now the three were fast approaching again, having braked in unison and spun around, kicking loose gravel up behind their wide tires as the rubber squealed against the asphalt.

  Izzy twisted in her seat as one of the cyclists pulled ahead of them. He reached with one hand to push up the visor on his helmet, and the face that Izzy saw gave her chills. Folds of flesh and beady little eyes utterly lacking in humanity.

  The thing grinned, showing broken teeth and a blackish tongue.

  “Henchmen.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Great. More Henchmen.”

  Henchmen were stupid and brutal, but they played for keeps. She and Mordi had been lucky at the awards ceremony, but the simple fact was that if someone was sending Henchmen after her and Mordi, that someone didn’t want them to survive.

  A chill raced up her spine, and she shivered.

  “You okay?” Mordi asked, his eyes never leaving the road.

  “Yeah. Fine. No worries.” But she wasn’t. Not really. She’d told herself time and again that she could take care of herself, that she didn’t need anybody. But she wasn’t a field agent. This wasn’t what she did day after day. And right then, she couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she’d get out of this mess if Mordi wasn’t there beside her.

  Then again, if it weren’t for Mordi, perhaps she wouldn’t be in the mess in the first place . . .

  “One of your old catches?” she asked.

  This time, he took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a glance. “Maybe someone you turned down for re-assimilation,” he shot back. “Or this re-assimilation. My father, maybe.”

  She let out a groan of frustration. “The reason doesn’t really matter right now. The question is, what are we going to do?”

  “My current plan involves running like hell for civilization. If you’ve got a better one, now’s the time.”

  She frowned. She didn’t have a better plan. So instead of actually doing anything, she just sat there, watching the motorcycles advance on them, while Mordi drove like a bat out of hell.

  Damn, but she hated being out of control!

  “See if you can levitate one of their tires,” Mordi said. “I can’t concentrate long enough to get a bead, but if we can lose even one of these guys, it’ll even up the odds a bit.”

  Not a bad plan, Izzy thought. With the minor hitch that she couldn’t levitate a flea, much less a leather-clad Henchman on a motorcycle that was gaining on them.

  She started to explain to Mordi, saw the determined clench of his jaw, and thought better of it. No sense adding to his worries. Instead, she just twisted in her seat, focused on the first cyclist, and muttered, “I’ll try.”

  And she really did try. She focused, concentrated, gathered her internal energy, then released it with pinpoint accuracy, just as Zephron had taught her.

  Nothing.

  Not that she’d really expected something to happen, but hope springs eternal and all that.

  “Any luck?” Mordi asked.

  Her cheeks burned. “Moving too fast,” she said. “Can’t get a bead on them.”

  “Try—what the . . . ? Hold on!”

  She whipped back around in time to see the Porsche that had been tailing them whip around a stand of trees and cut off their path. Apparently, the Porsche had been pacing them, following on a parallel dirt road. Even as she realized what had happened, the red Viper careened in behind them, effectively sandwiching them.

  Mordi cursed, and Izzy clutched the dash with one hand. Her other hand pressed against the door for balance as Mordi spun the steering wheel and shot the car away at a ninety-degree angle, clipping one cyclist and sending him flying. There was no median, just a four-foot-wide dirt ditch separating the north-and southbound traffic.

  The Ferrari raced over the ditch, fishtailing slightly and spewing small rocks and debris. The two remaining cyclists were still on their heels, and so were the cars. Mordi pulled another right angle as soon as they hit the street, and now they were racing the wrong way down the small, deserted highway.

  The bad guys were still following, and Izzy bounced in her seat, desperate to do something.

  “Of course!” Mighty Zeus, she was such an idiot!

  “What?” Mordi demanded.

  “Just drive straight,” she demanded as she rolled down her window and unfastened her seat belt.

  “Izzy . . .” His voice was low, demanding a response. She didn’t give him one. Instead, she scrambled onto her knees on the bucket seat and leaned out the window, one hand hanging on for dear life. The other was outstretched, the warm summer air caressing her fingertips.

  “Come on, come on, come on.” Her words tripped over each other as she willed the two cyclists closer. A little bit . . . a little bit . . . and then . . . yes! Now!

  She thrust out her hand, sending a rush of focused energy out of her fingertips. A fountain of ice sprang from her fingers, coating the roadway in front of the cyclists.

  They hit the patch and immediately went flying, leather jackets catching the breeze, ugly fleshy faces startled into absurdity, tires flying over handlebars in an almost graceful display of chrome and leather. It was a beautiful sight—evil Henchman wins international ice-cycling competition with triple sowcow maneuver—and Izzy clapped her hands, delighted with herself as she slipped back into the car.

  Beside her, Mordi was grinning like a fiend. “That was brilliant!” he said. “Did you see the look on their—uh-oh.”

  She spun back around to peer out the window. One of the cyclists was sprawled spread-eagled on the ice, his bike a mangled mess behind him. The second, however, had managed to right himself, and was even now racing—well, carefully racing—toward them.

  That, however, wasn’t what worried Izzy. She was more concerned about the fact that she didn’t see the Porsche or the Viper anywhere. And they were coming up on a bridge. The cars couldn’t be in front of them—there was no other way across the river. So where had they gone?

  “Can you manage more frost?” Mordi asked, apparently unconcerned with those little details.

  “Not this soon after,” she said. He
r euphoria faded as the familiar tinge of uselessness settled back in her bones.

  “Maybe a little fire, then,” Mordi said. “I mean, they probably caught a chill, right? It’s only polite to warm them up.”

  He sounded so damnably self-confident that she couldn’t help but smile. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she said. She reached to take the steering wheel so that Mordi could pull his hands free.

  He drew in a breath and, when he opened his hand, she saw a ball of fire dancing on his palm. He leaned toward her open window, ready to pitch the dancing flame that she knew would grow into a huge fireball. As he did pitch it, though, an unexpected flash of lightning ripped across the darkening sky . . . and the Porsche careened over an embankment to land right in their path.

  Izzy reacted automatically, but it wasn’t good enough. If she’d been seated in the driver’s seat, maybe she could have succeeded. But she and Mordi were still tangled, and the Ferrari was on cruise control while she operated the steering. She cut to the left, and the car veered toward the pilings that supported the bridge. Ahead, the air seemed to drop away, and the car looked to be headed down, down, down toward the murky water of the river.

  “Turn!” Mordi shouted, reaching over to grab the steering wheel even as Izzy was spinning the thing.

  It didn’t matter. The Porsche doubled back and rammed them from behind, sending them soaring over the embankment. They landed with a horrible splash in the water.

  No longer strapped in, Izzy lurched forward, her forehead slamming against the windshield. And the last thing she thought as the car began to slowly sink below the surface of the water was that this really, really couldn’t be good.

  33

  “No!” Mordi grabbed Izzy’s arms, shaking her, then slapped her face soundly, trying to wake her up. Nothing.

  No, no, no! Everything he’d feared was coming true, and that was simply unacceptable.