by Nalini Singh
“I see.” She found herself following Max’s movements as he put some cat food and water into a split feeding dish. He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt that bared his arms, the color an austere contrast to the golden warmth of his skin tone. “Have you had any further contact from Bonner?”
Sleek black hair fell across his forehead as he shook his head and rose. “No.” A single harsh word. “Bastard’s probably waiting for us to crawl back to him.”
“He’ll wait a long time.”
To her surprise he said, “If I thought he’d tell us the locations of the bodies if I crawled, I’d do it without hesitation.”
The answer added another layer of complexity to his personality, made the fascination inside her grow. “Most males, especially those drawn to a career in Enforcement, would consider that an insult to their pride.”
“Pride is meaningless if you can’t keep your promises.” Washing his hands after making that cryptic statement, he wiped them on a towel and came to take a seat opposite her. “First things first”—all cop, not even a trace of the deceptive charm she’d seen in the doorway—“here’s what I know.” He recapped the situation. “Do you have any more information?”
“I don’t believe so.” She made herself concentrate on the screen of her organizer. “As far as I can tell from your summation, we were given identical files.” Except that hers had included an image of Max Shannon, an image she’d saved to an encrypted file.
Max leaned back in his seat, waiting to speak until she’d lifted her eyes to him. “Have you been to any of the scenes?”
“No. Kenneth Vale’s—the apparent suicide’s—apartment has been compromised to the point where it’s useless as far as any forensic examination is concerned,” she told him, having checked that with Councilor Duncan. “However, it was left intact to give Council psychologists a chance to examine it in case it threw any light on Vale’s personality. His suicide is considered an unusual case.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “You talking about the method he used to hang himself?”
“Yes.” Sophia couldn’t imagine the demons that would drive a man to choose such a long, tortuous form of death—if indeed, he had chosen his death. “I’ve been given the codes to access his apartment.”
“Good, we’ll go have a look. I’m guessing we’ve got nothing on the heart attack victim—file says he was cremated,” Max said, tipping back his chair.
“They would have taken samples of his blood, checked for—”
“I e-mailed Nikita from New York,” Max interrupted, “asked her about that. Seems like the samples have mysteriously disappeared.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” He tapped his finger against the table, and it wasn’t a restless movement. “What about the car the third possible victim was driving when she had her accident?”
“It’s being held at a private facility here in the city.”
“Well, that’s something at least.” Scowling, he tipped his chair even farther back. “Would’ve been better if Nikita had called us in right away instead of waiting several weeks after the crash—but I guess she figured she could get to the bottom of it herself.”
Sophia couldn’t concentrate on his words, her attention held by something else altogether. “You’ll fall over if you keep doing that.”
He shot her an amused look, continuing to hold the precarious balance. “Used to drive my foster families nuts.”
His openness about being in the foster-care system was unexpected. And it made Sophia give in to the seeds of rebellion, to ask a question that a perfect Psy would have never asked. “You weren’t with one family long term?”
“No. Longest was six months,” he said easily, and tipped his chair back down on all four feet. “I assume Nikita had her techs check the vehicle out?”
She nodded, a strange realization taking form inside of her. Max hadn’t had parents either, not in reality. He was like her, at least in that way. She wanted to share that with him, with this man who’d seemed to see her from their very first meeting, but she didn’t know how, having no capacity or experience at building bonds with another individual. “Yes,” she said instead, harshly aware of how remote she sounded, how inhuman . . . as if she was already dead. “However, Councilor Duncan has authorized the expenditure required to get an independent report if you think it necessary.”
“I’ll decide that after I have a chat with the mechanic.” Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, the scent of his body—soap, warmth, something darker—sweeping across her senses. “But first—Vale’s apartment.”
“Alright.” She stood, aware her movements were not as graceful as his—her body felt jerky, disconnected. “If you’ll give me a moment to change out of my suit.”
“You had court this morning?” He reached out to open the door for her, the action making her pause for a second. Men never did things like that for her. It wasn’t because she was Psy—she’d watched any number of males do the same act automatically for all females. But they always seemed to want to distance themselves from the violence she wore on her face—as if they were afraid it was catching.
“Sophia?”
She realized she’d been quiet too long. “Yes?”
“How did the case go?”
“How it always does,” she said, unlocking her door with gloved hands that were a constant reminder of who she was, and who she’d be till the day she died—no matter the need to rebel, to break the chains of a past that refused to set her free, there could be no other tomorrow for her. “I told the judge and jury what I saw. That is all I do.”
CHAPTER 7
Men who know their fathers are different creatures from men who don’t. It’s time I ripped off that particular blindfold.
—E-mail from Max Shannon to Bartholomew Reuben
Max watched Sophia disappear into her apartment and let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The woman got to him, no doubt about it. And she got to him in a way that made a mockery of any thoughts he might’ve had about keeping his emotional distance.
Heading back to his bedroom with that truth circling in his head, he grabbed a black Windbreaker from his suitcase. It took only a couple of seconds to shove his cell phone inside and shrug into it—walking back out, he leaned against the wall opposite Sophia’s door as he waited for her to finish changing. It gave him a couple of very needed minutes to calm down.
And face the facts.
His body not only liked the idea of Sophia Russo, it liked the reality of her even more. She had lush, sensual lips, curves that made a man thank God—and she smelled so good he wanted to bury his face in her neck like the leopards did with their mates. But those eyes that had once reminded him of River’s laughing gaze . . . they were utterly flat, so lifeless he may as well have been talking to an automaton.
With most Psy, he would’ve accepted that lack as an inevitable side effect of their emotionless personalities, but with Sophia, he knew it had to be a carefully constructed lie. Because no one who’d seen the things Sophia Russo had seen, who’d walked in the blood-soaked footsteps of evil, could have remained unscathed by it.
Not unless her emotions weren’t simply buried, but excised from existence.
The door opened at that moment, revealing the woman at the center of his thoughts. She’d changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt that covered those curves he was starting to obsess over. He could see the edge of a white T-shirt beneath the sweatshirt, while plain black sneakers peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.
“Is this appropriate?” she asked. “I assumed we might have time to go to the garage as well.”
He ran his gaze not over her clothing, but over the soft curls of her shoulder-length hair. A rich, charcoal black, those curls tempted a man to fist his hands in the softness, tug her close, and sink his teeth—deliciously carefully—into that full lower lip. “Yes.” It came out husky.
She hesitated, as if she’d caught the e
dge in his tone, but her words when they came were pragmatic. “I’ll e-mail the Councilor from the car, ensure the chief mechanic knows we’ll be coming.” Locking her door after picking up that little computronic gadget that seemed to be surgically attached to her hand, she fell into step beside him, her head not even reaching his shoulder.
“You’re short.” He could tuck her under his arm, and against his body, without any problem whatsoever.
Sophia almost halted. “That kind of observation is rude in all cultures.”
He shrugged, but he’d noted the jerky movement before she smoothed out her stride, considered the implications—Psy made it a point to react as little as possible, regardless of the provocation. And Max was very, very good at provocation when he was in the mood. “I didn’t say you didn’t look good short.”
“I am what is termed a ‘throwback’ to my great-great-grandmother,” Sophia said, her tone pure feminine frost. “She had the identical body type. I will never be slender.”
“From where I’m standing”—Max couldn’t help himself, the devil in him taking over—“slender is overrated.”
Ignoring him with a focus that made his lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile, Sophia pressed her finger to the touch pad for the elevator. “Will your pet be alright in the apartment?”
Surprised she’d bothered to ask after Morpheus, he nodded. “I left a window open for him.”
“There is only a very narrow ledge, and it’s several floors off the ground.” A glance back down the corridor, as if she was considering returning for Morpheus. “He is also in an unfamiliar city.”
That look, the words, the hint of a personality behind the ice, had every one of his instincts humming—Sophia Russo was no robotic Psy. She was something, someone far more intriguing. “Morpheus is an alley cat,” he said, remembering the way he’d seen her extend her fingers toward the cat, the inquisitive look on her face when she’d thought he wasn’t watching. “He already considers that ledge his own personal egress and the city his very own playground, trust me.”
“He is your pet and your responsibility.”
Letting her step into the elevator as it arrived, he bit back a grin at that prim reminder and reached for the keypad. “I was told we’d have a vehicle—do you know if it’s already here?”
“Yes. I picked it up and parked it in the basement garage.” She waited until he’d pressed his finger to the appropriate number before surprising the hell out of him. “You can drive.”
When he raised an eyebrow, she said, “I’ve had enough contact with human males to realize you seem to have a congenital inability to function while a female is at the wheel, and I’d rather your full attention be on the case.”
He rocked back on his heels, way past intrigued and well into seriously screwed—because there was only one way this could end. That hint of personality and the inexorable tug of a deeper something between them notwithstanding, Sophia wasn’t only a J, wasn’t only a Psy, she was Councilor Duncan’s personal eyes and ears. A smart man would keep his distance, make sure she never forgot that while they might be working together, they sure as hell weren’t on the same team.
There was just one problem with that—he, a man known for leaving his lovers with smiles on their faces, and without a backward look, wanted to know every tiny detail about this woman who spoke to parts of him that had been in cold storage so long, his body physically hurt as they woke. It was, to be honest, uncomfortable as hell. More, the shocking intensity of his response went against the pragmatic nature of his mind—he was used to thinking, to planning.
But he was also a man who knew how to adapt. And he hadn’t backed down from anything or anyone since the day he’d grown old enough, and strong enough, to defend himself . . . to protect himself.
“You know,” he said as the elevator doors opened, determined to uncover the truth of the enigma that was Sophia Russo, “changelings would consider your letting me drive a surrender.”
She stepped out into the garage, so prim and proper that he wanted to mess her up three ways to Sunday, the long-forgotten boy in him sitting up in mischievous anticipation. What would she do, he wondered? Did Sophia Russo even understand the meaning of the word “play”?
“I’m sure you realize,” Sophia said in response to his comment, “that nothing is that easy with Psy, Detective.”
“Max.” He wanted to hear her say his name, acknowledge him as a man.
A slight nod. “This is our car.” She stopped in front of a black sedan with tinted windows.
He whistled through his teeth. “This is a very well-designed tank.” Sleek, meant to mix into ordinary traffic, but—to his experienced eyes—surely bulletproof and with a body built to survive impacts from vehicles twice its size.
“Councilor Duncan thought it prudent since I’ll be working with you.” A curl of raven black hair swung against her cheek as she began to slide off her right glove. “It’s become common knowledge that once a J takes an ‘impression’ of a memory, that memory becomes inaccessible to another J.”
Realization coalesced into a tight line of tension across his shoulders. “How many times has someone tried to kill you?”
“I’m not certain.” She used her thumbprint—her hand unmarked, unscarred—to unlock the car and access the computronic control panel. “I can program you in now if you’ll come over and press your thumb to the scanner.”
He did so, waiting patiently while she ensured he had full rights to operate the vehicle. “Guess,” he said afterward, as she got out and walked around to the passenger side door.
“What?”
“Give me an estimate of how many times you may have been the target of an assassination attempt.”
She opened her door. “I’ve only been shot at three times.”
Only. A lot of cops didn’t get shot at that many times their whole career. Sliding into the driver’s seat—after shifting it back more than a foot—he brought up the manual controls, viscerally aware of the delicate vulnerability of her skin bare inches away. “Why is that?” he asked, speaking past a sudden possessive edge that honed his protectiveness to a steely gleam.
And that, too, was a surprise. Though he was a protector at heart, a facet of his personality he’d learned to handle, he’d never been possessive . . . or maybe, a long silent part of him whispered, he’d simply learned not to be. If you didn’t claim people, they couldn’t reject you, couldn’t leave you, couldn’t break your fucking heart. Except even that reality didn’t stop his primal response to Sophia—it came from some place deeper, beyond the civilized skin of his humanity.
Sophia turned to buckle her safety belt. “I assume,” she said in response to his question, “people wanted to stop me from giving evidence—if I die, the impression dies with me.”
His fingers almost brushed her hair as he braced his arm on the passenger side seatback in preparation for reversing the car.
The way she shifted to avoid any contact was subtle . . . and a chilling reminder that for all her lush femininity, Sophia Russo would never melt for any man. It should’ve thrown cold water on his simmering hunger, nipped that dawning possessiveness in the bud, but all it did was make him want to tug at her curls, just to see what she’d do.
There was a reason he’d spent most of junior high in detention.
Fighting the urge, he dropped his arm once he had the car out and angled toward the exit. Slow, he thought, he had to do this slow. She was so skittish, he’d have to stroke her into trusting him. If he pushed too hard, too soon, he’d lose any hope of getting through her shields—and that was unacceptable.
Because Max had made his decision. Whatever it was that burned between him and this J with her haunted eyes and secrets, he wasn’t about walk away. “No,” he said, making his voice deliberately relaxed, nonthreatening, “I meant why can’t another J re-scan a memory?”
“We’re not certain.” Sophia’s voice was steady, but with a husky undertone that brushed a kiss across
his skin. “However, the strongest theory is that whatever mental ‘door’ we enter to take the memory has the flow-on effect of permanently closing that door the instant we leave.”
“So with Bonner . . . ?”
“Scans were attempted at his trial but never completed. His mind is still ‘open’ in that sense.”
Pulling out into the traffic, he put the car into hover-drive, but retained manual control. “There’s no enforced automatic navigation here, right?”
“No. Manhattan is unusual in its rules—likely because of its geography.”
“Hmm.” Feeling the powerful vehicle purr under his hands, he relaxed into the seat and turned his mind to the case . . . and to a truth he wasn’t blind to, no matter the power of what she incited in him. “Are you planning to fuck with me?”
To Sophia, the question was a rapier sharp thrust between her ribs. “Please explain your words, Detective.” He’d been so easy a companion over the past few minutes she’d almost forgotten the lethal man she’d met outside that interrogation room in Wyoming. A mistake.
“You’re meant to act as a filter”—a stroke of the steel that lay below the beautiful surface—“but fact is, I can’t be effective if you’re hiding things I need to know.”
Sophia wondered how many suspects he’d fooled into dropping their guard before striking with that precise blade of a voice. “You’ve just called me stupid.”
“Did I, Miss Sophia?”
Again, he unbalanced her, made her uncertain how to respond. Humans asked her for information, for insight into their cases, sometimes making small talk in the process, but this, what Max was doing . . . she didn’t understand it. “Be blunt, Detective,” she ordered. “I don’t handle subtlety well.”
Max shot her a look she couldn’t read, but he followed her order. “I need to know whether to treat you as a partner or as a stooge for Councilor Duncan.”
She thought of the cold-eyed woman who would one day sign her death warrant, ensuring her last days on this earth would be spent as a fugitive; thought, too, of this piercingly intelligent, complex man who made her wish—for one broken second—that she was normal. But she’d lost her chance at any kind of normality in a fracture of razor-sharp glass and screams twenty years ago. “Councilor Duncan wants you to find the mole in her system,” she said in a voice that came out coated in ice. “I’m to do everything I can to assist you. That is the extent of my brief.”