Harper Hall Investigations Complete Series

by Isabel Jordan

  Harper sucked in air through her teeth and slouched in her seat, because surely her mother was going to start swinging at any moment. She would absolutely die of embarrassment if her mother decked someone.

  But her mother merely leaned forward, offering him a terse smile. Her voice was deadly calm as she said, “My daughter’s last dream left her unconscious for two days. Do your notes tell you that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In fact-”

  “And the one before that…she bled from her eyes for an hour. Bled from her eyes. Do your notes tell you that too?”

  “Well, yes, but-”

  “And I assume your notes tell you that my little girl—my sweet little girl who I love more than life itself—dreams of monsters that rip people’s hearts out and eat them. Right?”

  “Indeed. But what—”

  “Then I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me what’s wrong with my little girl, because what I’ve just described to you is not a figment of our imaginations. And if you’re trying to insinuate that we’re lying or that she’s faking this,” she shook her head, “well, I might be tempted to remind you that you are just a weasel-dicked”—Harper cringed, thinking, ew, my mom said dick—“little leech who feeds off the misery of others and makes a living off of it.”

  She straightened her vintage pink pillbox hat daintily. “But I wouldn’t actually ever say that, Dr. Giles, because I’m a lady. Now, do you want to try again to tell me what is wrong with my little girl?”

  He stared at her slack-jawed for a moment, then seemed to mentally slap himself across the face and pull it together. “Ma’am, I think it would probably be easier to show you what I mean rather than explain it.” He pulled a small stack of photos out of his desk drawer and fanned them out across the desk.

  Harper’s mother glanced at the photos, then traced a cross over her chest. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she whispered.

  Harper readily agreed. What her mother probably didn’t understand was that Harper had seen all of these images before. In her dreams. She glanced back up at him. “Where did you get these?”

  “These are crime scene photos, Harper. And the dates that these murders happened…all of them occurred days after you had one of your…dreams.”

  Her mother grimaced, then looked at her daughter, wide-eyed, obviously comprehending what the doctor was getting at. “Baby…is this what you see when you have your dreams?”

  “It was these times,” she said, reaching for a photo.

  “No!” The doctor grabbed them and slid them back into the drawer. “You mustn’t touch those. We haven't tested the strength of your gift and have no idea what kind of premonition they could trigger.”

  Harper blinked. “Premonition?” She turned to her mother. “Ma, does he mean premonitions like Grandma Gia had?”

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “No, baby, not like Grandma Gia.” She looked back at the doctor with a knowing expression and raised an imaginary bottle to her lips.

  “Yes…well…,” he cleared his throat again. “Premonitions are exactly what your daughter is experiencing. In other words, Ms.Petrocelli, your daughter sees crimes before they happen. Harnessed properly, she could overcome many of the physical symptoms of her premonitions and use her gift to save people’s lives.”

  Harper closed her eyes, sure that she’d never heard anything so wonderful, so terrible and so scary all at the same time. Her granddad had always said that everything happened for a reason. And if what this guy was saying was true, then she’d been given…premonitions to help people. Like some kind of angel or something.

  Her mother shook her head. “But my baby sees monsters. Are you telling me monsters are real?”

  “Precisely,” he responded, sounding more sure of himself than he had in their whole conversation. “Monsters are definitely real, Ms.Petrocelli, and your daughter is one of a very select few who can stop them from killing innocent humans.”

  Dr. Giles explained that he represented an agency called Sentry who was funded by the government to protect humans from monsters. Paranormals, he called them. Vampires and shit like that.

  And they wanted Harper to come work for them. To help people. They didn’t think she was damaged or a freak or crazy. They thought she was special. Extraordinary. Gifted.

  Her mother opened her mouth, but snapped it shut when she glanced at her daughter. The naked longing must have shown on her face because instead of arguing, she said, “Tell us more, Dr. Giles.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Riddick paced from one side of his living room to the other, his bare feet moving silently across the cool oak floors. He threw a quick glance to the window. At least another hour before he could go hunting.

  He barely repressed a growl. Damn it, would the day never end?

  He was feeling edgy and mean and there wasn’t a damn reason in the world for it. What the hell was the matter with him?

  You miss her.

  This time he let the growl go. He’d done what he had to do, God damn it. Had he pushed his luck and found a reason to stay in her life, she would’ve ended up hating him, and he might’ve gotten her killed. His life—not to mention his nature—was too unpredictable. Together, they were a disaster waiting to happen.

  But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to walk away from her. Didn’t stop him from wanting to go to her instead of pacing his floors until it was time to hunt. Didn’t stop him from wanting to throttle that cop for interrupting them before he could pull her under him right there in the front seat of her car.

  He had at least a dozen fantasies that involved that front seat and doing things to her in it that could get them arrested.

  God, he was one selfish, pathetic bastard.

  An impatient pounding on his door jerked him from his fantasies. Fuck, was he now so needy he could conjure her up out of thin air?

  When he jerked his door open, Harper stood close enough to touch with her hands on her hips and one foot beating an impatient staccato rhythm on the tile outside his door. His greedy gaze took in as much of her as he could at once.

  Like usual, her hair curled wildly around her shoulders, but her clothing was surprisingly subdued. For the first time in their acquaintance, she wore a black skirt that covered her to the knee, a simple scooped-neck button-up white blouse, and a pair of moderately heeled black leather boots.

  “Who died?” he asked.

  She shot him a sour look. “This from a man who makes Johnny Cash’s wardrobe look festive.”

  “Why are you here, Harper?” he asked quietly.

  Color rose to her cheeks as her gaze moved over his chest. Only then did he remember he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt or shoes before he answered the door. But seeing as she wasn’t invited, he’d be damned if he was going to rush to make himself more presentable. Hell, she should count herself lucky he wasn’t bare-assed.

  Riddick crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat pointedly. Her gaze jerked to his and she swallowed hard.

  “Um, put some clothes on, would you? We’ve got places to go.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m taking you to dinner.”

  He felt a frown line grooving its way into his brow. He felt it because it was new. Jesus, now the woman was prematurely aging him. “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, dinner. It’s what you eat after lunch but before breakfast.”

  When he didn’t bother replying, she shoved past him and barged into his bedroom. He heard her opening and closing drawers.

  “My family has a restaurant on Sixth,” she called out. "We all eat there every Wednesday. My mother, my older brother, my sister, my cousins, my uncle Mickey, my grandfather…pretty much everyone.”

  “And you’d want me there because…?”

  She reemerged from his bedroom with a black T-shirt in her hand. “Because of your sparkling conversation?” She smiled. “We both have to eat, right?”

  He could only stare at her,
dumbfounded. God help her, she sounded serious.

  Harper raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to complain about a free meal?”

  Just as he was going to tell her he wasn’t hungry, his stomach growled loudly. “That’s not a good—”

  “Oh, come on,” she scoffed. “It’s only one meal. I promise it won’t make us friends or anything horrible like that. Please?”

  It was the please that got him. She sounded genuine. For whatever misguided reason—and surely, any reason she could have for wanting him to meet her family was misguided—she truly wanted him to come to dinner with her.

  And it wasn’t like every fiber of his being wasn’t begging to go with her.

  He was lower than pathetic.

  He sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  She smiled triumphantly, dimples slashing into her cheeks, and Riddick wondered if she’d ever not gotten her way.

  “You won’t regret it,” she sing-songed.

  You won’t regret it was starting to be the theme of their relationship, he thought wryly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Petrocelli’s had been in Harper’s family for generations. It didn’t look like much from the outside—the faux adobe finish on the building and cheap tiled roof was beyond tacky—but the manicotti and risotto were unbeatable.

  Harper’s mouth watered at the mere thought of her grandfather’s risotto as she whipped the Mustang into her reserved spot by the kitchen door. She glanced over at Riddick. He looked like she was driving him to the hospital to have a boil lanced.

  “Relax,” she said, grabbing her purse from the backseat. “It’ll be fun.”

  Well, not fun, she added silently. Evenings spent with her family were usually embarrassing and demoralizing, but the food generally made it all worthwhile.

  And it was the only way she could think of to put Riddick in a room with her mother without making it obvious that she wanted her to read him.

  Despite what many people thought, her mother wasn’t a mind reader. Not precisely, anyway. She was, however, a very powerful empath.

  When Harper was recruited by Sentry, her mother refused to let her go into the training program alone. She quickly became invaluable to Sentry as a human lie detector, able to read any species with frightening accuracy. No one could interrogate a prisoner better than Tina Petrocelli.

  Harper had always stubbornly refused to let her mother read the men in her life, insisting that it was important for her to make her own decisions, learn to trust her own instincts. She’d been so insistent, in fact, that she’d made her mother block her abilities whenever she brought a man home.

  Looking back on it now, Harper could admit that she'd been an idiot. Her mother could've saved her tons of time and heartbreak over the years.

  She’d give her mother no restrictions tonight. And if Riddick truly posed a threat to her, Tina would spill her guts before dessert was served.

  And if not, then she could safely stick her tongue out at Mischa and say, “I told you so” with complete confidence.

  Harper breathed deep the familiar scents of garlic and fresh baked bread as she pushed the kitchen door open with her hip. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Riddick was with her. He was still wearing the boil-lancing expression, but he was there, at least.

  Busboys scurried past and called out greetings as she walked past a row of commercial dishwashers to the food-prep area. She spotted her grandfather slowly stirring a ridiculously huge pot of pesto.

  Bernardo Petrocelli’s wardrobe consisted of walking shorts, black dress socks, and white gym shoes—sadly, all worn together and for all occasions. And since he didn’t generally take the time to brush it after his morning shower, his fluffy gray hair usually stood out in all directions. The hair in combination with the clothes kind of made him look like an Italian Albert Einstein after a few hits of meth.

  His intense concentration on the sauce didn’t waiver until she leaned over, kissed him on his cheek, and said, “Hey, Pop.”

  His face split into a wide grin. It was a well-known fact that she was Pop’s favorite. Why, no one had any idea.

  “Bella,” he said, his thick accent demonstrating his Sicilian heritage more clearly than his pet name for her. “Where have you been? They’re all waiting on you.”

  “I’m sorry, Pop.” She glanced in the pot. “Looks good.”

  “Of course it does,” he said, indignant.

  His gaze flicked to Riddick, then back to Harper. “You bring a boyfriend, Bella?”

  “Pop, this is Riddick. We worked on a case together for the police. Riddick, this is my grandfather, Bernardo Petrocelli. But everyone calls him Pop.”

  Riddick mumbled a greeting and shook her grandfather’s hand. Pop turned back to her. “He’s not your boyfriend?”

  “No,” Harper and Riddick answered in unison.

  Pop shook his head. “That’s a shame. Your momma's gonna be real sad, Bella.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Pretty grandbabies.” He gestured between them with his wooden spoon, dribbling sauce all over the floor. “You two would make her many pretty grandbabies. You wait and see if she doesn’t say it.”

  And let the humiliation begin, Harper thought, feeling a blush coming on. She glanced at Riddick, who looked neither amused nor appalled as she would have expected. He just looked…intense as he stared at her.

  She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, wondering what he could possibly be thinking. And this wasn’t the first time that had happened, either.

  Sometimes, just every now and then for a brief moment, he looked at her like a drowning man looked at a life preserver. Like she was all that stood between him and hell. It was kind of thrilling and terrifying all at once.

  “Go on, Bella. Introduce your young man to your mother. I’ll be in later.”

  She didn’t bother reiterating that Riddick wasn’t her young man. You couldn’t tell a Petrocelli anything he didn’t already know.

  Turning to Riddick, she said, “That was the easy part. Are you ready for the fun part?”

  He blew out a deep breath. “As ready as I’m gonna get, I guess.”

  Pop was right, Riddick thought. Harper’s mother looked at him as if she was silently calculating his sperm count.

  She smiled benignly at him when he caught her staring and turned her attention back to her plate.

  Riddick glanced around him, never feeling more out-of-place in his life. Harper’s family surrounded him on all sides as they talked, ate, and laughed in Petrocelli’s private party room at the back of the restaurant.

  Harper’s mother—Tina, if he remembered correctly—sat directly in front of him. And if her appearance was any indication, Harper took after her father.

  While Harper was slender and golden-haired with light eyes, her mother was stocky, black-haired and dark-eyed. Her older sister, Marina, who was sitting to Riddick’s left, looked like her mother’s younger, thinner doppelganger.

  Harper sat on his right, and her older brother, Michael, was next to her. Michael was the only relative who even looked like he belonged in Harper’s gene pool, and the resemblance didn’t have much to do with physicality.

  Michael was tall, lanky, and dark-haired, but something about the wit and intelligence in his eyes and the smart-ass way he’d answered his mother’s questions about when he was going to settle down and get married reminded him of Harper.

  Harper’s Uncle Mickey, who looked eerily like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, sat at the head of the table, and his two daughters, Teresa, the three-hundred pound nutritionist, and Selena, the chain-smoking respiratory therapist, sat on either side of Tina.

  All in all, it looked like a typical family reunion. Except for him, of course. He didn’t fit in and never would, and if it weren’t for the best manicotti he’d ever had, he would’ve bolted long ago.

  So, he did his best to keep his mouth full and his head down. He only spoke when spoken to, and ignored the speculative loo
ks Harper’s family kept shooting in his direction.

  But something about the way her mother was looking at him right now told him his bob-and-weave technique wasn’t going to work on her.

  He didn’t have to wait long for her to strike.

  “So, Mr. Riddick,” she said, shoving her plate out of the way and leaning forward to rest her chin on her palm. “Tell me how long you’ve been dating my daughter.”

  Beside him, Harper dropped a forkful of spaghetti and pushed her own plate away. “Ma, don’t start with that particular line of questioning.”

  Her eyes widened innocently and she laid a splayed hand on her chest. “Don’t start what? What did I say?”

  “They aren't dating, Ma,” Michael said. “Harper already told you that.” He pointed his fork at her. “Just back off.”

  “Teresa and Selena are single,” Mickey said, gesturing to his daughters, who smiled encouragingly at him. Riddick barely repressed a shudder.

  “Back off?” Tina said, incredulous. “My daughter—painfully single and almost thirty—comes to dinner with a handsome stranger and I’m not supposed to ask any questions?”

  “I’m not painfully single.”

  Her mother snorted. “Married and divorced with a broken engagement, all before thirty.” She turned her attention back to Riddick. “Does it get more painful than that?”

  He turned in his seat to face Harper. “You’ve been married, divorced, and engaged again?”

  Harper crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her empty glass. “Where the hell is that wine, anyway?”

  “She’s too picky,” Selena said around her cigarette. “Always has been. That one you were gonna marry was cute, Harper. Whatever happened to him?”

  Harper frowned. “I found out his ex-wife was more wife than ex.”

  Tina frowned. “Why that miserable little bastard.” She shook her head. “And to think, I put out the good china when you brought him over that first time.”

  “Corelle isn’t exactly good china, Ma,” Michael said dryly.