Money Shot

by Susan Sey

  Goose’s agile brain made a few quick leaps. “The Fire Eaters?”

  “Yeah. I figured you’d have heard of them. Korean, mostly first generation. Based out of Minneapolis’s Jordan neighborhood.”

  She gave him a speculative look and he hunched his shoulders. “What, you think you’re the only one who knows how to use the Internet?”

  “I’d clearly be wrong if I did.” She cocked a brow. “Go on, Mr. Font of Information.”

  “I don’t have much else. Just that most of them speak Korean in the home and have relatives—close ones—still in Korea.” He spread his hands. “It seemed to fit with what you told me about supernotes.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can see it. Most of the supernotes in circulation today have come out of North Korea. And getting them from there to here in any significant quantity certainly requires people with the language skills and the connections to wheel and deal in both countries.”

  “And who have a certain disregard for the rule of law, I imagine.”

  “You’d imagine right. Gangs do bang-up business in supernotes.”

  “So if Yarrow really is still in contact with this kid moving drugs for the Fire Eaters?”

  “Then, yeah, it’s possible the gang is also aware of her exile to a geographically advantageous location for their business. Airport security has gotten too rigorous since 9/11 to allow the importation of supernotes in any real quantity through mules flying directly into the country. Mostly the money enters the U.S. via Canada or Mexico, in our experience. Which means the smugglers are always looking for porous places on the borders.”

  “Places like Mishkwa.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And yet that’s not the news you were gearing up to break to me.”

  “No.” She hesitated. “Not that your theory isn’t a good one.”

  “But it’s not the one you arrived at.” He passed a hand over his scalp, looked at her from under concerned brows.

  “No.” She caught her hands trying to fly away again, and tucked them under her thighs.

  “Your theory required my cooperation. A favor?”

  “Yeah.” She fought back the urge to smile reassuringly. Fake smiles would only make him angry and she was already dangling by a thread here. So no smiling, but it left her feeling naked. She didn’t know what else to do with her face, how else to prevent it from showing him all the anguish and reluctance inside her. Better to just blurt it out before he could spend too much time trying to read it from her expression. “You have a key to Einar’s place, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And a standing invitation to use it?”

  “Sure. He’s a pilot, runs his own charter flight company. His schedule changes at the drop of a hat.”

  “I need to search his cabin without his knowledge,” Goose said. “Preferably the next time he’s away from Mishkwa overnight. Will you invite me to do it?”

  “To search Einar’s cabin? Why?”

  “I don’t need a search warrant if somebody with routine access invites me in.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean why do you want me to invite you to do it. I meant why do you want to do it in the first place?”

  “Because I think he’s importing supernotes into the country in his cute little plane, and if I could find evidence of that without a search warrant, I could wrap this whole thing up in a neat little package without creating a big ugly scene.”

  Chapter 20

  SILENCE SPUN out, thin and fragile as glass threads. He didn’t move, didn’t shift. He hardly breathed. A quick blink was the only sign that she’d surprised him. “You’re looking at Einar? For smuggling supernotes into the country? And for the Stone Altar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has opportunity and motive for both.”

  Rush leaned forward, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain.”

  “Does the term Paganpalooza mean anything to you?”

  “Paganpalooza?”

  “Yes. As in a giant, multiday festival aimed at pagans.”

  “This is about that?”

  “No, I think it’s about more than that. Because I think Einar wants more than that. You know what you said about Mishkwa the other night, how it strips away all the artifice and pretense? How it seems to force people into getting in touch with what they really are?”

  His eyes went the color of smoke. “Yeah.”

  “I think that’s what he wants to sell. That, along with his credentials as the crown prince of it all. Jesus, can you imagine? Take Joel Osteen—or any of those toothy televangelists—give him a dark, sexy, edgy twist and you’ve got about what Einar’s envisioning. Himself at the helm of a multinational corporation that makes a killing off people’s desperate need to find their own truth. To pursue the dream that getting back in touch with nature in its rawest, purest form will cure what ails them.”

  “It sounds like Pagan Disney.”

  “It is. And that’s no low-rent dream, either. Not the kind of thing you can finance flying a puddle jumper and selling chickens.”

  “He sells fish, too.” He said it absently, though. His focus had gone inward.

  “There aren’t enough fish in Lake Superior to bankroll what he’s dreaming of.”

  “No.” He shot her a troubled look. “And the black magic? Where does that fit in?”

  “He doesn’t just want money, Rush. He wants power, too.”

  “Power over what?”

  “Over the coven. Over the island. Over the people who populate both. Over the hundreds, thousands more who’ll want to populate both.”

  “He has it already. He’s a priest, Lila’s second in command. When she retires, the whole enchilada is his. He doesn’t need power; all he needs is patience.”

  “I’d have agreed with you last week. Then I went to esbat.”

  “Esbat.” He frowned. “What happened at esbat?”

  “The prodigal son came home,” she said softly. “Didn’t you notice?”

  “Notice what?” But he’d sat up, folded his arms over his chest.

  “The way they welcomed you.” She touched his knee, ignored the way sparks of awareness shot up her arm and landed in all her most interesting—and interested—places. “I don’t know why you haven’t taken up your hereditary role within the coven since you’ve been home, but they’ve been waiting for you. Aching for you, if the reception they gave you the other night is any indication.”

  He drew back. “That’s overstating it a little, don’t you think?”

  “Rush.” She tipped her head, gave him a stern look. “Your aunt teared up when she welcomed you into the circle. Everybody wanted to touch you, greet you, physically pull you into their midst and circle around you. They embraced you, Rush. You didn’t just drop in on esbat; you came home.” She studied his closed face. “And you’re not the only one who isn’t exactly over the moon about it, either.”

  “Over the moon.” He glared at her. “Aren’t you the funny one?”

  “Aren’t you even going to ask who?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Goose.”

  “You see it, then? What a threat you are to Einar’s master plan?”

  He remained stubbornly silent.

  “Rush, come on. How’s he going to transform a sleepy little island coven into a personal fortune if he has to get your stamp of approval to do it?”

  “I’m not running for high priest, Goose.”

  “You might want to tell that to Lila. She’s hoping you and Einar will dredge up enough brotherly love to share and share alike when inheritance time rolls around.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Crap, indeed. Lila told me herself that she intends to bequeath the coven to you and Einar jointly. In the hopes that, rather than murdering each other, you’ll find a way to co-chair the coven into the foreseeable future. Apparently pagans place particular value on duality. Balance. The power of two.” She cocked a brow. �
�Anything sound familiar so far?”

  Rush rubbed a palm over his face. “Well, shit.”

  Goose nodded. “That was pretty much my reaction as well.” She got up and plunked herself onto the couch, though she was careful to leave plenty of space between them.

  Rush blew out a breath and shot her a sideways look. “Okay, fine. Einar’s ambitious, but that doesn’t mean he’s the one playing around with the Stone Altar. He doesn’t believe in black magic any more than I do.”

  “But he believes in money, right? In the power of appearances? Think about it, Rush. If he’s going to sell something, especially something as sexy as dark magic, wouldn’t he make sure it looked damn good first? And that he looked damn good selling it?”

  Rush stared, struck. “That’s what you think he’s doing down there at the Stone Altar? Dress rehearsals?”

  “Makes sense to me.” She tipped her head. “You?”

  He was silent for a long moment, then blew out a breath through tight lips. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It makes sense.” He dropped his head into his hands, elbows braced on knees. “Fuck me, though, I don’t want it to.”

  Her heart broke a little at the weary distress in his voice, the defeated slump of those strong shoulders, and she abandoned common sense for compassion. How could she not touch him? She scooted closer, until her thigh snuggled up against the hard length of his. The heat of him burned through the flannel of her pajama bottoms, but she ignored it. Or tried to. She put her palm between his shoulder blades, on the muscle and bone that spread tense and vital beneath her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Rush. I hate it that I have to ask this of you. For you to betray your own cousin’s trust.”

  He speared his fingers through the hair he didn’t have and shook his head. “Fucking Einar.” His tone was more weary than upset. “Hey, though. It’s not your fault, Goose. Don’t take it on, okay?”

  “Fault.” She made a rude noise. “Like fault counts for shit when something blows this hard.”

  He gave her a wry almost-smile. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  She grinned back, too relieved to do otherwise. “Hey, I’m not above crude language if merited. And this situation definitely merits it. If you want, if it’d cheer you up, I could probably drop you an F-bomb or two.”

  “A well-placed ‘fuck’ is a joy forever.”

  “Um . . .” She grappled with that one for a moment. He did smile at her this time. Smirked, actually. “I didn’t mean literally.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks went bright. “I didn’t think—”

  “Sure you did. Your mind’s in the gutter, di Guzman.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “How utterly sophomoric.” Then he leaned in, effectively paralyzing her lungs. She should move back, she knew, but he’d somehow paralyzed her fight-or-flight mechanism, too. Damn him and those snake-charmer eyes.

  “My mind,” she said indignantly, as trumped-up outrage was about all she could manage in terms of self-defense, “is nowhere near the gutter.”

  “My mind,” he said, “is on about number four of that list I mentioned earlier. Top Ten Ways to While Away a Stormy Night with Goose?”

  She blinked at him, all innocence. “You want to play Stratego?”

  “I want to play something.”

  THOSE BIG sad eyes went wide, then darted toward the stove, the door, the window. She edged toward the arm of the couch.

  “That’s, um, probably not a good idea,” she said.

  Of its own volition, Rush’s mouth curved in a halfamused, half-predatory smile, and his heart gave a hard thud of something like joy. Because for the first time in ages, he didn’t wonder if he was smiling at the right time or the right place. He didn’t worry or wonder or second-guess himself. He just let the smile well up from the darkest, most primitive corner of his soul—mine—and slide right onto his face.

  He inched forward until she’d scooted her butt right to the arm of the couch. “No? Because I think it’s a great idea.” He reached across her to lay a hand on the worn armrest, effectively caging her between his arms. He didn’t touch her, though. He simply allowed the air between them to go heavy and electric with the weight of what snapped between them so relentlessly.

  “Didn’t you hear any of what I just said?” She glared at him, but he noticed she didn’t touch him. Didn’t put so much as a finger on his chest to nudge him aside. Desire rose up within him, slid hot and dense through his veins to settle, hard, between his legs.

  “About you wanting me to ask you into Einar’s house for a sneaky-peeky?” He leaned in, dipped his face into the warm, scented air beside her throat until he could feel as much as hear her swiftly indrawn breath. See as much as sense the mad flutter of her heartbeat. And still she didn’t touch him. Damn, he wanted her to touch him. “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “And you still want to . . .”

  He cocked his head to meet her baffled, embattled eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Why?” It burst from her, reluctant and tortured, like she didn’t want to ask, didn’t even want to broach the subject, but was powerless to resist her desire to know the answer. “Why would you want to—”

  “Kiss you? Touch you?” He nuzzled the fine, slippery strands of hair away from the side of her neck and allowed himself to place one chaste kiss there. The urge to gorge himself on the sweet silk of her skin savaged his self-control, but he locked it down. Barely. “Take you?”

  “Yes.” It was a bare, ragged whisper. “I’m gunning for your family, you know. Your blood. You shouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “And while I’m not thrilled with the idea, I’m okay with it. Which I’ve already told you. Multiple times. If you don’t do it, somebody else surely will. And frankly?” He flicked the tip of his tongue against the sweet warmth of her skin and her strangled gasp nearly undid him. “I like our chances better with you running the show.”

  He felt it then. The first tentative pressure of her hands against his chest. Not pushing him away, not yet. But not allowing him any closer, either. He grabbed desperately at the desire raging within him, driving him closer, harder, throbbing mercilessly through his body, his soul. He gathered it all up, held it in a precarious, fragile balance and waited.

  “Don’t look for me to play favorites on this, Rush,” she said quietly. “If it comes down to choosing between business and pleasure, business wins. Every time.”

  “Goose. Honey.” He leaned in to inhale the sweet warmth at the base of her throat. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Am I asking you to pull any punches? To play extra nice with any criminals I may or may not be related to?” He leaned back far enough to meet her wary eyes. “I’m not, okay? That’s a totally separate thing. Right now all I’m asking is whether or not you want me.”

  “Do I—” She broke off on a sharp exhale. “No, Rush. Of course I don’t. I might throw you a pity bang in a few minutes here but only because I feel sorry for you.” She shoved at his chest and snapped, “Do I want you. God.”

  He laughed as triumph flashed through him. “A pity bang, huh?”

  She closed her eyes, as if realizing upon mental review that her last few comments had been less than prudent. “Okay, I didn’t mean—It’s not like I’m really going to—” She broke off, wary. Good for her. Rush suddenly felt very dangerous. “I just—”

  “You just what?” he asked softly, and what he saw in her eyes had fear leaping sharp and ugly into the lust already churning inside him, creating something hotter and earthier than either of them alone. Something dangerously unstable. Combustible. He’d promised himself he’d back off, let her come to him with her decision, whatever it was.

  But that was before. Before he’d looked into her eyes and saw her teetering perilously close to no. Before he’d realized that while wanting her, waiting for her, was agonizing, losing her might actually kill him. And he was afraid—okay, he was terrified, damn it—that he was about to find out for sure if
being rejected by her was a survivable event.

  So. New plan.

  He’d never been one for waiting around anyway.

  He moved forward, crowding her until she’d scooted herself right into the corner of the couch. Her eyes were huge and wary on his face, but still those warm hands on his chest didn’t move. Didn’t pull him in but didn’t push him away, either. He came up and over her, slipped a knee into the gap between her hip and the armrest until he’d caged her neatly between his thighs. Until every inch of his skin begged him to close the gap, to press his desperate body into the welcoming heat of hers, but still he didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare.

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Goose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you smile like Miss America but your eyes are sad enough to make me ache. Sometimes you laugh and it’s like bells ringing. But every now and again, you snort instead. So who are you really? Who did I kiss last night?”

  Her mouth opened—those lush and curvy lips—but no words came out. But that wasn’t a problem because for once words just wouldn’t stop pouring out of his own mouth. And he was powerless to stop them. “Are you Goose? Or are you Maria?”

  She flinched. “Don’t call me that,” she said.

  “What? Maria?” He tugged at the braid of yarn hanging off one of her earflaps and gave her a grin that was all teeth. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “I prefer Goose.”

  “I think I prefer Maria. That’s who I kissed the other night, isn’t it?”

  She shoved against him and he obligingly backed up. She shot to her feet and something inside him rejoiced at the idea that he could do this. He could break through that plastic veneer and make whatever was inside her come out into the light. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her mouth pinched tight.