Reckless Road

by Christine Feehan

  “Why not? If you put on clothes, I’m just going to keep taking them off of you, not that I mind, but you may as well be comfortable. There’s a hot tub and an indoor heated saltwater lap pool at the other end of the house. I think the man who built the house used them for his therapy. Do you like to swim?”

  “I do, but I don’t like to rinse out my hair all the time. The doctor said water therapy would be good eventually for Mama Anat’s leg.”

  Player nodded. “She mentioned that to me. I told her about the pool and said she could use it anytime she wanted to. I can give you a key.”

  “That’s generous of you, Player.”

  He laughed. “The others will tell you, I’m such a generous man.”

  He pulled her through the kitchen to the living room, the one he particularly liked. Snatching up the remote, he flipped on the fireplace so the light would play through the room, illuminating it enough that she could see what he’d done with it. As with the dining room, he’d kept it simple. He didn’t like clutter. The hardwood floor gleamed with the firelight spilling across it. He noticed Zyah pressing her bare feet instantly into the wood. She liked to do that the same way he did.

  The hearth was made of gray stone, and he had utilized that color throughout the room. The chairs faced the stone fireplace built into the wall. The stones were great blocks of various sizes and textures of dark and light shades of gray. The only rug was on the floor in front of the fireplace, a thick gray-and-black mat of hand-knotted silk and wool. The chairs were wide and comfortable, both in black, which matched the carpet and the darkest of the stones. Over the fireplace was a picture framed in gold, a burst of color: a very large painting of a forest in vivid detail, done by an artist he particularly admired.

  He sank down into his favorite chair, the one closest to the fireplace, where his acoustic guitar was near to his hand on a stand. He kept it there to play at night when he couldn’t sleep, and he composed. He watched his woman walk around the room with that flowing grace she had, like a dancer, his private dancer. He wished she wore her anklet of bells. He had loved the sound of them as she’d moved around the room their first night together. Just that memory stirred his cock.

  Zyah circled back to stand in front of him, the flames from the fireplace dancing over her body, licking at that secret place between her legs. “I can see why you love this room.”

  He caught her hips and urged her toward him, hungry for her taste. One hand skimmed down her hip, trailing to the inside of her thigh. “I’m suddenly so hungry, baby, you’ll have to feed me before I starve.”

  She threw her head back. “You’re supposed to be drying my hair.”

  “After. I need to build up my strength to be up for the task.”

  Her fingertips trailed over his cock, brushing fire over him. “You’re up for something,” she whispered, and stepped right into him, offering him everything.

  THIRTEEN

  Player walked very slowly, moving casually down the sidewalk in Sea Haven, glancing into the store windows as he passed them by. He targeted one store in particular. The sign was clever, wooden, in the shape of a hat, although what the name had to do with a tea and organic bath and lotion shop, he didn’t know. The Floating Hat sounded intriguing, but aside from cups in the windows looking like hats and the bells shaped like hats on the doors, the shop had nothing whatsoever to do with hats. What the hell did that even mean? Women. Always a mystery. Still, when he looked inside, the store felt inviting.

  The space looked smallish from the outside, with bay windows on either side of the door facing the street. One window held the intriguing hat-shaped cups, an assortment of teas and stacked caddies of delicious-looking scones. The other window held lotions and bath products. Glancing into the windows, it was easy to see that the store was quite spacious, which was good, given that he had a difficult time with confined places. He could see at a glance that behind the counter there was at least one more room and another exit.

  There were tables and chairs in one area. Most were for two people; some were for four. There was one larger table that could handle at least six. The tables were a distance apart from the other half of the store, creating a feeling of openness. He thought if Zyah and her grandmother really wanted to go there, he might make the sacrifice and take them.

  Player walked on past to the end of the block, turned and made his way slowly back, trying to look as if he were just looking at the various stores. Coming up beside him, Preacher began whistling a tune off-key, making him wince. “Love Potion Number Nine” seemed to be a favorite lately with him whenever he was around Player and the subject of coming to Hannah’s shop came up.

  “What is that infernal racket you’re making? You sound like a dying cow.”

  Preacher grinned at him. “Just wanted to get you in the mood.”

  Player flipped him off, glaring at him as he paced back up the sidewalk, carefully avoiding looking into the store he was weighing whether or not to go into. “Don’t look, you moron, she’ll notice,” he hissed. “She’s standing right by the window.”

  “It’s your third time walking past her shop, Player. I think she’s noticed,” Preacher said, shoving a hand through his wealth of out-of-control curls, the bane of his life. “Our Torpedo Ink cuts kind of stand out, don’t you think? And then there’s Destroyer, sitting over there looking mournful with the bikes, and Lana and Alena across the street, grinning like apes, pretending they’re shopping at the clothing store when really, they’re making fun of you.”

  Player stopped walking and turned his head alertly to look for his Torpedo Ink sisters. “Why would they be making fun of me?”

  “Because this was the dumbest idea on the planet, that’s why. You need a love potion, I can make you one,” Preacher assured. “You don’t need to come here.”

  “I’m not looking for a love potion. Who the hell said I was looking for a love potion?” He gave Preacher his fiercest scowl. “Get the hell away from me. Go over and wait by the bikes with Destroyer. At least he’s got the good sense to stay over there when he thinks we’re doing stupid things.”

  Preacher grinned at him. “Not a chance. You’re going into that shop, and I’m not letting you go in alone. Hannah Drake Harrington is one powerful witch. Someone has to save your worthless ass.”

  “She’s not a witch. She’s the wife of the local sheriff, and if you call her a witch, he’s going to put a bullet right through your fuckin’ heart. Seriously, Preacher, go away. This matters to me, and I don’t want you to embarrass me.”

  Four little boys ran down the sidewalk across the street, nearly running right into Alena and Lana. “Hannah! Miss Hannah!” they called out in unison. They were all laughing. They looked to be around eight.

  Player stopped to see what the woman would do. She couldn’t fail to hear the raised voices. They sounded excited. Hopeful. Daring. All four boys stared at the shop with bright eyes. Preacher, Destroyer, Alena and Lana all paused as well, eyes on the door of the shop, as if they too waited for something huge to happen. Player had no idea what to expect, only that those four little boys were so excited, and whatever they wanted, they were so hopeful, he didn’t want Hannah Drake Harrington to let them down.

  The door opened slowly, the bells announcing her presence, setting those hats tinkling in warning. The boys went ramrod straight, mouths opening in suspense. Player found himself tense. There was a sudden silence as if everything on the street paused.

  A breeze blew leaves down the street ever so gently. Suddenly, without any warning at all, the wind gusted, right over the four little boys, taking the baseball caps from their heads and throwing them capriciously into the air. The hats whirled just above the boys’ heads, then traveled down the sidewalk, just out of reach, as the boys ran after them with outstretched hands, laughing. Player watched the boys run for a moment, realizing the wind wasn’t really blowing that hard, yet the hat
s dipped and wheeled, like bats in the air, but at no time went near the street. The wind died down completely and the hats floated into the boys’ hands. They caught them, put them on their heads, turned back toward the shop and waved. Player glanced back to the door, but it was closed, and Hannah Drake Harrington was back inside.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked Preacher.

  “I don’t know,” Preacher replied, “but you might want to rethink your opinion of the witch theory.”

  Player tapped a beat out on his thigh. He wanted to make things right with Zyah. He’d felt that shift in power the moment that door had opened and Hannah Harrington had stepped outside. It had been subtle, but it had been there, coming from the doorway of the Floating Hat. Maybe he’d come to the right place.

  Abruptly, he made up his mind, turned his back on his Torpedo Ink brother and marched, ramrod stiff, a man going to his doom, back to the little shop sandwiched between the wine shop and the gift shop. The display windows looked harmless enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, okay, a little girlie and froufrou.

  He’d seen Hannah Harrington around town a few times. She was stunning. Breathtaking. She wasn’t a witch despite that little display with the boys and their hats. He wasn’t certain what that was, but he had his own talents. All of the members of Torpedo Ink did, and they knew that the Drake sisters did as well.

  Hannah had been a model, the kind that graced the cover of every magazine and worked runways, in such demand that she could pick and choose which designer she worked for. She’d been considered the top model in the world, and everyone wanted her wearing their clothes. Tall, large blue eyes, high cheekbones, a generous mouth, with her signature long blond hair, which fell in natural spiral curls down her back, she had truly been one of the most beautiful women in the world until a madman attacked her with a knife and reportedly slashed her to ribbons.

  The attack was caught on film, shown over and over on international television for weeks while she fought for her life and then retired to the small town of Sea Haven and the protection of her family and Jonas Harrington. Now she ran a small shop selling personal products made from organic materials she grew herself or purchased from the farm Blythe was part owner of.

  Player had never actually been introduced to Hannah Drake Harrington, but he’d heard of her and he’d seen her a time or two walking down the street. She was a striking woman, very graceful, and she still walked like she was that model on a runway. There was always someone with her, usually one of her sisters but often her husband or Jackson Deveau, at least that was the report from Code when he’d asked about her. Player liked to be prepared.

  He took a deep breath as he paused at the door. Was he really going to go through with this? Zyah was worth humiliating himself for. Hannah was no witch. She had strong psychic talents, no doubt about that, and she probably could wreak havoc on him, but he’d risk anything to try to find a way to get back in Zyah’s good graces. He wasn’t cheating by getting something stupid like a love potion. That might be a last resort, but he wouldn’t mind a little advice on gifts. On things women liked. Surely in a shop like Hannah had, there would be special things that appealed to women. Things with special scents.

  Player glanced back at Preacher, who was nearly on his heels. “What the hell. Go away, Preacher. I mean it. I’m going in, and I don’t want you to get this woman upset at me. I’m already in enough trouble with Zyah. For all I know, they’re best friends.” He kept one hand on the door to prevent Preacher from opening it.

  Movement inside caught his eye, and he turned away from Preacher’s grinning face to see that Hannah had moved away from the window and was coming to the door again.

  “Damn you, Preacher,” he hissed and opened the door before the woman could get there. He had no choice now. Trying to look casual, he sauntered in. He did his best to close the door fast, but he heard the heavy, ornate wood hit Preacher’s motorcycle boot. The little floating hats tinkled merrily, and Preacher joined him in the fragrant shop. The moment Player stepped inside, he felt a tremendous shift of power sweep over him. There was nothing subtle about that energy. It passed over and through him. He glanced uneasily at Preacher to see if he’d noticed. Yeah. He’d noticed.

  Hannah smiled at them and then glanced over her shoulder. Another woman, leaning on the counter, straightened slowly. She was much smaller, with pale, delicate features and a wealth of black hair that could have overpowered her face had she not pulled it back. She was smiling as well, although Player could see she wasn’t quite as genuine as Hannah. In fact, she picked up her cell phone. Player was pretty certain he knew who she was texting. He wasn’t going to have very much time if he was really going to work up the courage to ask Hannah for help.

  “What was that?” Preacher asked.

  Hannah looked at him with a faint frown. Mild inquiry. “What was what?”

  “Outside. With the boys,” Preacher persisted.

  Hannah smiled a sweet, vague smile that could have meant anything. “Aren’t they darling? They come by regularly and say hello. May I help you find something, or did you just want to look around first?” Hannah’s voice was musical.

  There were very faint white lines running along her face. She could have concealed them with makeup, but she didn’t. In Player’s world, those scars were considered badges. He hoped she thought of them that way. She’d survived a vicious attack, and that meant something.

  “I’d like to look around,” Preacher said, giving up on any explanation.

  “You’re welcome to.” Hannah gestured around the store, half turning away.

  Player cleared his throat. “I might need a little help.”

  She turned back to him, that same smile in place. Now that he really looked at her closely, the smile wasn’t so genuine. It just appeared that way. It was practiced, put in place to wear like makeup, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers touched her wedding band, and then she grasped it like a talisman, twisting it back and forth.

  For a moment, he considered that she was nervous because he was a biker. That happened all the time, but her eyes met his without flinching and he dismissed that idea. It was more likely that the attack on her had been so public, so ferocious and fast, that she still had problems facing strangers. That made her amazingly courageous to do what she was doing, although if the power he’d felt when he walked through the door was anything to go by, she had nothing to worry about.

  “I blew it big-time with my woman.” He just put it out there. He might as well get it over with. He glanced out the window at Lana and Alena. They were sitting on the sidewalk straight across from the shop and laughing together until he swore they were crying.

  “I suppose you’ve come for a love potion. I really need to make one,” Hannah said, sounding disappointed, again beginning to turn away from him.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” he asked. “Do I really look that hopeless? I’ll admit I was a jackass, but don’t men buy women flowers and chocolate and shit?”

  Hannah turned back, her blue gaze moving over his face. This time, her eyes seemed to see right through him in the way Czar’s sometimes did. “Women don’t want men to buy them shit,” she said without a trace of a smile. “I’m Hannah.”

  “Player,” he said. “And no, I didn’t cheat on her, if that’s what you think I did. And I wouldn’t. Not ever.”

  “That’s a relief. Tell me about her. What is it you love about her? What makes her so special?”

  She walked over to a high table-and-chairs set sitting in the corner of the shop. It looked a little more delicate than anything he was used to. He’d seen outdoor furniture that was similar but built along much sturdier lines. She flashed a smile as she stepped onto one of the mauve-and-white-striped high-backed chairs. “They’re really quite sturdy.”

  He wasn’t quite as convinced, but he took her word for it. The cha
ir, really a stool with a back on it, was surprisingly comfortable. The seat was thick and contoured to conform to one’s bottom. “Who made these?” He could tell they hadn’t been manufactured somewhere. Now that he was close and actually sitting in the chair, he could see the work was excellent. Someone had put a great deal of time and love into handcrafting the set for Hannah.

  “His name was Pheldman. Casey Pheldman. He passed away a few years ago.”

  “He owned the house I bought,” Player said. He didn’t bother to keep the admiration out of his voice. “I was so impressed with the craftsmanship. I haven’t seen that kind of work very often. I really wish I could have met him. He was truly a gifted man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Hannah’s smile was much more genuine. “Would you care for coffee or tea while we talk?” She indicated a little teapot and coffee press. “No worries if you’re in a hurry. I can make it very quickly.”

  “Coffee, then. Black.”

  He watched, fascinated, as she waved her hand toward the two pots and both seemed to start steaming at once. He frowned, looking around to see if there was a button she’d pushed.

  “Now tell me about your Zyah. What do you think makes her so special?”

  There was more than one person in his club who could use their voice to compel others to do as they wished. Player was one of them. His talent was subtle, not at all like Absinthe’s or Master’s or Maestro’s, but he could still persuade others when he wanted something. Hannah was a force to be reckoned with. Player felt the need to answer her, and he knew she wasn’t deliberately using her talent on him.

  Player found himself wanting Hannah to know, mostly because he felt that the woman was gentle and kind. She wasn’t the type to hurt anyone on purpose, ever. She was asking him because she genuinely wanted to help him—if he deserved it. He knew she was asking questions partially to make certain he wasn’t a man who had in any way deliberately hurt his woman.