“You need to work on that story a little more.” Rachel threw him what she hoped was a scathing look. It was hard to know for sure what the net effect was, with her eyes all blurry and her bottom lip trembling. “As it stands? No one’s buying it. Come on, Em, let’s go.”
“Rachel, wait. I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Already at the door, Rachel turned. “I think I’ve heard enough for one day,” she said, her voice as weary as she felt. “Honestly, no matter what it is you need to say, I’m not ready to hear it.”
“It’s important.”
“Really?” She smiled, or tried to. “And here I thought all the other conversations we had today were important. I guess I had things mixed up.”
Fearing a total and ignominious collapse, she yanked open the door and, with her hand wrapped tightly around Em’s, walked out.
12
Rachel took a deep breath and stepped into Celia’s office.
“Sit down.”
Feeling like a delinquent student dragged before the principal, she did as she was instructed and took one of the two armchairs in front of the kidney-shaped desk. Her clammy palms found comfort in the voluminous fabric of her chambray peasant skirt.
While she waited for Celia to finish reading the single sheet of paper on her desk, Rachel glanced around. A series of bright Chagall prints decorated the walls, and a huge floor-to-ceiling window added a warm touch of color to an otherwise-sterile work space.
Her boss pushed aside the report, leaned her elbows on the desk, and favored Rachel with a cool look. Her wheat blond hair was parted with a swag of bangs draped over one eye. “I’m not pleased that you left the office early yesterday.”
“I checked with Nigel before I left.”
“So he said. But you know how I feel about my designers working together, spurring each other to new creative heights.”
“Yes.”
“And still, you left.”
“Yes.”
“If this was just about you, Rachel, there wouldn’t be a problem. You consistently produce the best illustrations in the department and you never miss a deadline. But this is a team, not a production unit of one.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you? I’m not so sure.” Celia’s leather chair creaked as she leaned back. “Are you aware that the junior designers look up to you? That they aspire to one day reach your level of talent? Are you aware that your fellow senior designers rely on your expertise to help them leap the hurdles of the software?”
“I help out as much as I can.”
“No, you don’t. You deliver the files, but not the commitment.” Celia sighed heavily. “You’re capable of so much more than you’re giving us, Rachel. I know it. But frankly, I’m at a loss as to how to get you to live up to your potential.”
“I’m a single mother, Celia. I can’t put in the same hours as other people. And my daughter was recently involved in a horrible bus accident.”
“Yes, but she’s fine, isn’t she? Back at school?”
“Yes, but—”
“I believe in you, Rachel. You have incredible talent and the ability to calm the most agitated of clients. You can teach without being preachy and you don’t get frazzled by pressure. Basically, you have all the qualities I look for in a team leader.”
Rachel blinked.
“So, I’ve decided the best way to cultivate your commitment is simply to demand it of you. I’m promoting you.”
No way.
“As of this morning,” Celia continued, “you’re earning five grand more a year. You’ll be supervising Francis, Mandy, Jen, and Matt. Congratulations.”
Rachel could hardly breathe. Promoted. Wow. At any other point in her life, she’d be shouting from the rooftops. But today? With her daughter in the clutches of a scumbag drug dealer and dedicated mothering the only hope she had of keeping Em safe, the timing sucked. She needed to spend fewer hours at work, not more.
“Celia, I—”
“No, don’t thank me. I’m actually being quite selfish. I need you to help us out of a tough spot, Rachel. If we don’t make the cut-off in two days, the Design Department is going to take some serious heat from upper management. That’ll mean layoffs, and we don’t want that, do we?”
The weight tugged Rachel’s shoulders down. “No, we don’t.”
“I need you to make sure the graphics are not only done, they’re done well. Tough job, I know, but if anyone can make it happen, it’s you.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Celia swiveled her black leather chair to face her computer and flicked a slim, manicured hand at the door. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
“You still work here?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder. Mandy was following her down the corridor with a steaming cup of Java in hand. “Yup. In fact, I’m now your boss. I thought you’d already know, since you’re sleeping with Bill in HR.”
“Oh, he’s very vocal in the bedroom, no doubt about that,” her friend said, smiling slyly, “but nothing about work.”
Clapping her hands over her ears and shuddering in mock horror, Rachel laughed. “Ugh. Too much information.”
“Well …” Mandy waved her keycard over the electronic panel at the entrance to the Design Department, waited for the beep, then pushed open the door. “If I have to have a new boss, I’m glad it’s you. No way you’ll suddenly become Celia’s bitch like Nigel did.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I just wish the timing were better. Things are not going well back at the old homestead.”
“Problems with Em?”
“Yeah.” That, and other nasty stuff.
“My sister says you just need to survive until she’s seventeen, and then—poof—one morning you’ll wake up to find she’s turned into this sweet, well-behaved little lady.”
Sliding into her cubicle and taking a seat in front of her computer, Rachel chuckled. “I can hope, right?”
“By the way, are you Matt’s boss, too?”
“Yes.”
Mandy shook her head. “Well, you better go have a look at the work he’s doing. Just my opinion, of course, but I think all of his stuff is crap and has to be redone.”
“Great. You know what Celia told me—?” Rachel’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at the call display. Reception. She was expecting a package from the printer. “Hold on, I’ve got to get this.”
Mandy nodded, her gaze wandering.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Lewis, you have a visitor. Do you want me to send him up to the fourth floor?”
“A visitor? Who?”
Mandy’s gaze darted back to Rachel’s face, one delicate eyebrow raised.
Rachel shrugged at the unasked question.
“A Mr. Lachlan MacGregor. He says it’s very important that he speak with you.”
Rachel frowned. So, he was still on the I’ve-got-critical-information kick. She’d like to tell him to go to hell, but with Drew still stalking Em, could she afford not to listen?
“All right, send him up.”
“Him, huh?” Mandy leaned over the wall of the cubby, eyes sparkling. “Would this possibly be the him you left early to look after yesterday? The priest?”
Despite an intense desire to keep her cool, Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot under Mandy’s curious stare. Someone had gotten looked after yesterday, but it wasn’t Lachlan. “Maybe.”
“I’ll go meet him at the elevator.”
“No,” Rachel protested, leaping to her feet. But she was too slow. Mandy left her coffee balanced on the cubicle wall and took off like a greyhound out of the gate.
The vivacious blonde returned three minutes later with Lachlan in tow, flirting up a storm and tossing her hair in an open invitation for seduction, her arm tucked in his.
“I was just telling Lachlan how you denied that he was cute,” Mandy gushed, “and how I’m in complete disagreement.”
Most guys who found themselves wrapped in a buxom little
blonde with the shortest miniskirt imaginable would be hard-pressed to stay focused. Not Lachlan. The moment he spied Rachel, he had eyes only for her—unwavering, solicitous, and strangely possessive. As if she were his, and he’d stopped by to remind her of that fact.
She almost forgave him everything right then and there.
Wretch. How dare he look so good in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Hello,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “How are you?”
“You came all the way down here to ask me how I am? Couldn’t you have done that over the ph—” She halted abruptly, remembering his response the last time she asked that same question—something steamy involving licking lips and bare feet.
Lachlan’s wry smile told her he remembered, too, but he was gentleman enough not to mention it. “I’d like to speak with you. In private.”
Mandy pouted. “Don’t worry. Rache and I are bosom friends. I won’t blab about anything you say. Besides, she can’t really wander off, not anymore.”
“That’s true. I’m up to my ears in work. Maybe you could just say what you need to say and then go home.”
Lachlan smoothly detached himself from Mandy’s grasp, his eyes never once leaving Rachel’s face. “I’m prepared to tell you everything, and by that I mean absolutely everything. But I need to do it in private.”
Everything?
Rachel chewed her lip. Did she really want to know everything about Lachlan MacGregor? She had an uneasy feeling she wasn’t going to like his story. His response to what happened to his injuries sure hadn’t sat well. Even now, she didn’t know what to think about that. The cuts and the blood had seemed so real. Yet they hadn’t been.
But the annoying truth was—despite all the lies and wacky stories—saying no to those smoky blue eyes was impossible.
“Okay, come on. There’s a small conference room around the corner we can use.”
“Rachel? Are you crazy?”
She glanced at Mandy’s scandalized face. “Print off Matt’s designs and leave them on my desk. I shouldn’t be long.”
Spinning on her heel, she led the way down the hall, intent on keeping her distance. Avoiding the curious looks from the other designers, she tugged him around the corner and into the conference room, which felt incredibly small with his six-foot-plus frame in it. Especially with white cotton knit clinging to his perfect pecs and worn blue denim hugging his muscular thighs.
“Okay.” She put the table between them. “I really don’t have a lot of time, so just spill it. What’s your version of the truth?”
“You’d best sit down.”
“Now there’s an ominous start,” she groaned. But she pulled out a chair and sat down.
“There’s no easy way to say this. You’re no’ going to believe me, no matter what words I choose, so I’m going to be blunt.”
“Okay.”
“I’m dead.”
She frowned. “Dead, as in you’re in some really serious trouble?”
“No, dead, as in no longer alive.”
“Um, you’re breathing,” she pointed out, not quite able to digest his words and a little afraid to attach meaning to them. “And I’ve felt your heart beating. Those are usually pretty good signs you’re alive.”
“My body is not what it seems. I eat, breathe, and bleed, but I’m no longer alive the way you are. My mortal body died in 1603. I now serve as a Soul Gatherer for the goddess of Death.”
Rachel stared.
Was he kidding? He must be.
The strange thing was, his story didn’t seem as ridiculous as it should have. Maybe it was the matter-of-fact way he spoke, or the unwavering seriousness in his eyes, or even the lingering stupor of her almost-sleepless night, but his story didn’t make her laugh.
It just made her numb.
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“No.” He shook his head. “The reason I can survive the sort of wounds you saw yesterday is that I’m immortal. I can be slain, but only by a fellow immortal.”
Lachlan’s hands fisted seemingly of their own accord, and he looked down at them.
“Drusus is also immortal, and we share a past. He played a significant role in the deaths of my wife”—he paused briefly, then pushed on, his voice less steady than before—“and my three children. All my kin.”
His gaze lifted.
And in his eyes, she saw the very depths of him: the lingering sadness, the fierce determination, and a certain resignation about the future.
Words failed her. For once in her life, she truly had no idea what to say.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he continued, “no’ really. I know it’s a fantastical tale. I’m only telling you because you already think I’m full of shite, and it’s very important that you know what you’re up against with Drusus. You can’t best him on your own. You need me.
He was saying all sorts of words—nouns and verbs and adjectives—but none of them were sinking in. “Do you have a doctor?”
“A what?”
“Someone who prescribes your medications? The little blue pills you’re supposed to take but have recently run out of?”
“Rachel …” He sighed. “Yesterday, did you believe my injuries were real?”
Her eyes found his face again. “Yes.”
“You saw how deep the cut on my leg was?”
“Yes.”
“How do you explain the disappearance of such a wound?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t.”
“That’s as good as my evidence gets. I realize it tests the boundaries of what you know to be true, but isn’t there room in your belief system for things that you can’t explain?”
“You’re asking me to believe you’re dead.”
“Aye.”
“We made love yesterday, and now you’re trying to tell me I screwed a dead guy?”
To her amazement, twin flags of color rose in Lachlan’s cheeks. “An honorable man would have told you then, I suppose, but in truth, it hardly seemed the time.”
Propping her elbows on the table, she covered her face with her hands. “God, I can’t handle this. My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”
Crouching beside her, he covered her hands with his. They were warm, reassuring. “I never wanted to hurt you, Rachel.”
“Bull,” she said, jerking away, suddenly angry. “You’ve been messing with my head since we first met. If all this is true, then you lied to me about Drusus being some kind of drug dealer. And you knew—for whatever reason—that you were majorly unavailable. But you still gave me all those smoldering looks, you still kissed me, you still made love to me. If you didn’t want to hurt me, it would have been better just to stay away.”
His eyes were steady and clear. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right—”
“When it comes to you, I’m a fool. I do things I know I shouldn’t. I stay when I should walk away. It’s a mistake to touch you and kiss you and want you, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
Ah, damn. He had her at fool. Who doesn’t want the guy they love to admit he’s a fool over them?
Rachel’s mouth went dry. Wow. Did she really love this madman? This guy who might very well end up in a padded cell at the local mental hospital?
“I would apologize,” he added gently, “but ’twould be insincere because I’m no’ sorry. I don’t regret a moment spent in your company. No’ one.”
“It wasn’t all your fault. I could have stayed away, too.”
“Could you?”
She met his gaze. “No. Who am I kidding? My willpower is probably one tenth of yours. I’m the one who showed up on your doorstep and begged you to have sex with me, remember?”
“Vividly.”
Rachel glanced away, embarrassed.
“It’s a memory I’ll treasure for the rest of my existence.”
The term existence rippled through her like a cool breeze, reminding her of his supposed immortal status,
of his crazy, unbelievable story. Afraid to buy into his delusions, but desperately wanting to understand, she asked, “What does a Soul Gatherer do?”
He studied her for a long moment, as if debating her ability to absorb more, and then responded, “In the very brief moments after a person dies, a Gatherer collects his or her soul. It’s his duty to pass the soul on to a guide who then escorts the soul to its final destination.”
“Heaven.”
“Or hell.”
She winced. “Hell is real?”
“Aye.”
“Which means that Satan is real.”
“Aye.”
“Yikes. Maybe it’s time I started going to church.”
“Your churchgoing habits do no’ determine the destination of your soul. The basic goodness of your soul does that. Avoid the big sins, don’t take your own life, and you should be fine.”
“Should be?”
He smiled. “I’ve no fear over where your soul will end up, Rachel. You shouldn’t worry, either.”
Whew. “If you’re a Gatherer, what does that make Drusus?”
“A demon.”
“From hell?”
“Aye.”
The contents of her stomach did a lurching dance. If she believed his crazy story, then Em was dating a monster. Not a straightforward, regular, drug-dealing monster, but some nightmare out of The Exorcist.
Terrified to let her thoughts settle, Rachel asked more questions—about his job, about Drusus, about Em. The one area she avoided was his past. It bothered her more than she was prepared to admit that he’d been married before and had three kids, that they’d all died tragically, and that—judging by the hitch in his voice—he still desperately missed them. Embarrassed by her jealousy, she found it easier just to ignore that part of his tale.
Lachlan didn’t volunteer additional details.
Instead, he turned the topic to the reason for Drew’s interest in Em. “According to this ancient manuscript, Emily may be what’s called a Trinity Soul, a human soul born with the power to manipulate all three planes—heaven, earth, and hell. This soul is destined to act as a sort of … ambassador for God.”
“Em? An ambassador for God?”
“Aye.”
She blinked at him. “Okay, wait. I love my daughter, and to me she’ll always be unique and special, but why would God pick her? Out of all the people on this planet, what makes her qualified to be this Trinity Soul?”
Drawn into Darkness Page 17