Species

by Yvonne Navarro

  “Sure.” The woman bent her head and dug into her pocketbook. “Just a sec, I just dropped it in—here you go.” She held out the tiny bottle and Sil took it from her palm. “It’s Shalimar. Cologne, not perfume, so it won’t be too strong. You can be generous.”

  Sil had no idea what all that meant but she aimed the nozzle at her neck as she had seen the redhead do and gave it two short pushes. Sweet scent swirled around her, settling on her skin and clothes, coating the insides of her nostrils. Sil handed the bottle back to the woman and watched as she dropped it into her purse. “Does it work?” Sil asked. “On your boyfriend?”

  The red-headed woman’s eyes slid away from Sil’s face and found her own reflection. Staring at herself, the woman’s gaze seemed suddenly remote, and when she spoke, her voice was clipped. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Sil didn’t believe her and didn’t bother answering. Instead, she closed the distance between her and the redhead. Lips pulling back, she reached for her adversary, feeling the ends of her fingers start to contort—

  Behind her, the door to the rest room flew open hard enough to bang against the wall behind it. Sil made a garbled sound into her hands that she hoped resembled a cough and twisted past the redhead as the woman picked up her handbag and moved away from the mirror. Sil remembered seeing the three women who entered the rest room at a table near the dance floor earlier in the Grand Avenue Bar. Laughing, two of them flopped onto chairs in the sitting area while the third one ducked into a stall in the other room. Gritting her teeth, Sil saw her chance to eliminate the redhead slip away . . . for now.

  Leaving Press to sit at the table with a morose look on his face, Stephen wound his way through the light crowd and went to the bar for a couple more drinks for him and Dan. When Stephen had left the table, Press’s Grolsch still sat untouched, condensation dribbling down its side. Glancing back to see Press staring at—through—his beer bottle, he decided Press was taking the whole thing with Laura way too seriously. Granted, the woman was lovely and intelligent . . . brave and composed, too, considering some of the things they’d seen over the last few days. But in a couple of hours she would head back to her home in the Simi Valley and Press would be flying back to the East Coast. What had Press hoped for, anyway? Stephen had been involved in a number of long-distance romances in his college days, none of which had worked out and several of which had turned out to be a royal pain in the ass. With the width of a country to separate them, the enchantment was doomed to dwindle rapidly.

  Stephen paid the bartender, picked up another two Long Island Iced Teas, and started back to where Dan was watching him from the table. Skirting the edge of the dance floor, he saw the prettiest woman besides Laura he’d seen all evening. Tall, with shapely legs showing beneath a floral, earth-toned blouse and miniskirt, she had short black hair and crystalline blue eyes that met his gaze without flinching and didn’t look away. Aggressive women did not intimidate him—in fact, he preferred a lady friend to be confident and more than a little assertive . . . especially in certain areas. Brashly he held up the frosted Long Island Iced Tea in a gesture of invitation. When her eye contact broke and she disappeared into the crowd, he dismissed it with a muttered, “Oh well, her loss.”

  At the table, Press had finally started working on his beer and Dan reached eagerly for the glass Stephen offered. “Yum,” he said as he sucked a generous amount through the straw. “I like these!”

  “Better be careful how fast you drink ’em,” Press warned. “They can go to your head pretty quick.”

  “Like Laura?” Stephen quipped. “Hey—there she is. Maybe you can talk her into rejoining us.”

  Press followed the nod of Stephen’s head to where Laura was standing uncertainly in the doorway. With a contrite expression, he signaled her, trying to get her to join them. She looked undecided, then she shook her head and made a motion with her hand that told them she was going to bed. With a final wave of her fingers, she headed out of the bar.

  Stephen watched as Press’s mouth went into an “I screwed up” downward twist and the other man picked up his beer bottle and drained it. “What was all that commotion at the bar?” he asked after Press was finished swallowing.

  Press picked the bottle up again and turned it thoughtfully, then began to pick at the label. “A . . . mistake,” he eventually answered. “I thought the woman was Sil.”

  “Sil?” Stephen looked surprised. “I thought we were past that business. I mean, the creature’s dead and we’re all heading home tomorrow morning, right?”

  “Sure,” Press said agreeably. “The lady just looked so much like her from the back that I freaked a little, that’s all. Everybody makes mistakes.”

  Stephen started to say something about how that could be dangerous in Press’s line of work, then decided that would be pretty tactless. “And Laura got upset?” he asked instead.

  Pressed nodded. “I guess I freaked her out, too.” He looked around for the waiter. “Maybe I’ll get another Grolsch.”

  “Are you going to take it with you?” Dan asked, startling both Stephen and Press. The empath had thankfully stopped guzzling his drink at about the midpoint of the glass.

  Press glanced quizzically at Stephen and the professor shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Am I . . . going somewhere?” Press squinted at Dan, but he looked steadily back, unruffled.

  “Laura’s room, of course.”

  “Of course,” Press repeated.

  “Well,” Dan said, “she might be off to bed, but she still wants to see you.”

  Press deliberated over this for a moment, then pushed the empty bottle aside with finality and stood. He gave his jacket a quick check to make sure he looked presentable. “Hell’s bells,” he said with a small smile. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Sil waited until the door to the elevator was halfway closed, then waved her hand through the opening, trying to trigger the laser switch that would reopen it. The dark-haired man was inside and she got a glimpse of him pressing the door open button while she stepped in. “Thanks,” she said.

  He nodded, then tapped 9. “What floor?”

  She hesitated, then went for a higher number. “Ten, please.” He didn’t say anything else as the floors began to click past and she could feel the desperation building inside her. What now? This was the mate she’d sought so desperately, but he would also kill her if he knew who she was. Emotions warred inside her—desire, anxiety, and most of all, fear. The man standing only three feet away had all the qualities she wanted for her offspring, but he was as unreachable as if he were on the other side of the world.

  Something—a rough spot on the oiled cable, perhaps—made the elevator vibrate slightly, sparking an idea in her mind for conversation. “I’d hate to be in one of these things during an earthquake, wouldn’t you?”

  He nodded again, more solemnly. “Boy, that’s a fact.” Watching him discreetly, she saw his nostrils flare as he inhaled, saw vague recognition flash across his features. “Nice perfume,” he said. “I like it.”

  “You do?” Ah, she thought, a chink in the wall. At last. She gave him her brightest smile. “My name’s Nicole.”

  “Press Lennox.” His gaze slipped back to the floor indicator.

  “Are you new in town?” Sil asked quickly. “I haven’t been here very long.”

  He chuckled. “I’m so new, it’s not even my town. As a matter of fact, I’m headed back to New York tomorrow.” Sil started to say something more but the elevator stopped with a small bounce and the doors slid silently open. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping around her. “This is my floor. Enjoy your stay.”

  Disappointed and unable to think of anything else to say, Sil nodded and watched him go. At the last instant, her finger found the door open button and pushed it firmly.

  What am I doing here? Press wondered. Despite Dan’s recommendation, he could think of no good reason why Laura would want to see him, and a dozen why she wouldn’t. Better judgment
be damned, he knocked on her door anyway, half expecting her to ignore the sound. She could be sleeping, she could be in the shower—

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s . . . me,” he said in a low voice. “Press.”

  “I know who me is,” she said wryly as she opened the door and waved him inside.

  Press stepped through the doorway into a room pretty much like his own but a little more floral, as if someone at the registration desk had taken the time to realize that this should be a room for a woman. The lighting was softer and vaguely romantic. Laura crossed her arms and stared at him, waiting.

  “What is it, Press?” she finally asked.

  He opened his mouth and shut it again. “I’m . . . sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to act like an ass in the bar. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in things, I can’t let go.”

  She uncrossed her arms and held out her hands, palms up. “Some things are good to let go, you know?”

  Press wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to take her by the hands, then step closer. She smelled so good, like the woman on the elevator. Correction: this was how Laura always smelled—that was what that dark-headed woman had reminded him of. He was close enough to pull Laura’s arms up so that they clasped him around the neck, and she didn’t pull away when his arms slid to either side of her small waist.

  “But some things shouldn’t be let go of right away,” she said softly.

  Laura’s face was tilted up to his. Her eyes were big and an incredible midnight blue above coral-brushed lips that looked soft and inviting. Before he could have second thoughts, he dipped his head forward and covered her mouth with his.

  She responded without hesitating and a jolt of electricity shot through him. For a second Press felt like all the air had been sucked out of him, then it all came back in a rush as Laura’s tongue explored his mouth. She pulled back, then nuzzled at his neck. “Mating is dangerous,” she murmured with her lips pressed against his skin. He was holding her very tightly now, feeling her hands run over the muscles of his back and leave lingering washes of heat as they passed, like a hot tide of oil. “A kiss is assurance that neither party will bite.”

  She nipped at his neck again and he sunk his fingers into that gorgeous head of red hair; it felt like strands of silk. “What’s wrong with biting?” he asked hoarsely. He tried to kiss her again but she licked at his lips and ducked her head, rubbing her cheek against his. The movement of her softer skin against the tiny stubble on his face made a quiet rasping sound that was oddly erotic.

  “Nothing at all,” she answered, “as long as the teeth and mouth are used in a nonaggressive way.” Chest to chest, he was still gripping her waist and now she slid her hands over his and pulled them free, then brought them around and between them. She gave each palm a light kiss, then deliberately settled them on her breasts. His gasp of surprise was simultaneous with her sigh of pleasure. “Most men try to skip this,” she told him breathlessly. “They don’t know it, but seduction is their greatest weapon.”

  “Weapon for what?” Press asked. He felt her start to move forward and went with her, loath to lose the feel of her body against his. Something collided with the back of his calves—the side of the bed—and he bent his knees and sat. Laura followed his downward motion and kept going, pushing until he was on his back and gazing up at her.

  “To conquer,” she answered. He lifted himself obligingly as she tugged his jacket off. Press thought for a second that the side-holstered SIG-Sauer might spoil the mood, but she only waited patiently as he slipped it off and lowered it to the floor. Then her fine hands were stroking his chest and arms again, slipping inside the fabric of his shirt to feather warmth across his chest. His hands reached to hold her and discovered a zipper running down the back of the enticing black dress. He fought the urge to pull it all the way down as she stretched out next to him, then snuggled closer. Instead, he inched it open, enjoying his own anticipation as much as hers.

  “I always thought the woman conquered the man,” Press said in a husky voice. “Now you’re saying that men conquer women?”

  “Both.” Her fingernails dragged lightly down his side, then glided along the line of his belt, just far enough inside it to be alluring. She followed the belt around to the front button of his slacks, paused for a heart-stopping second, then moved on. “To conquer,” she continued, “the female willingly surrenders. A woman tests and selects, then tries to convince a potential mate to make a commitment. A man, on the other hand, must seduce.”

  Their mouths met for a deep, fiery kiss as the zipper yielded enough for Press to slip the dress down around Laura’s shoulders. The skin along her collarbones was creamy pink and lovely, sprinkled with a thousand pale freckles. He wanted to touch every one of them with his tongue. “Did I pass the test?” he managed.

  As the dark fabric fell away completely, Laura’s ocean-blue eyes sparkled at him above her smile.

  “Ask me again in an hour.”

  38

  Stephen tapped Dan on the arm. “How about those two over there?” He pointed to a couple of women a few tables over. Nicely dressed in tailored business suits, they each had a drink in front of them and were deeply engaged in conversation. “I bet they’ll like unusual guys like us. Let’s go talk to them.”

  Dan shook his head and looked at Stephen as if he’d grown an extra nose all of a sudden. “Forget it,” he said. “Women always think I’m weird, and I always know it.”

  “Nonsense,” Stephen said briskly. “Come on—let’s go have a chat. They look far too intelligent to be that shallow.” He got up but Dan stubbornly stayed where he was; after a second Stephen shrugged and walked over to the other table by himself. “Good evening, ladies. My friend over there—” He started to point back at the table, then realized Dan had gotten up and followed him. “Uh, right here—wants to know what two, interesting, glamorous-looking women like you are doing without a chaperone?”

  “Excuse me,” Dan said, “but I don’t think—”

  “My friend Dan Smithson,” Stephen said with a flourish. “And I’m Stephen Arden. We—”

  “I don’t feel right in here, Stephen,” Dan interrupted. His gaze started flicking erratically around the room. “Something’s wrong.”

  Stephen didn’t know whether to be impatient with Dan or just flustered. “Come on, Dan. Don’t be afraid—we’re doing just fine here. These women are very nice. One of them even said she was attracted to you.” The two businesswomen shot each other an amused glance, but said nothing.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Dan said firmly, “but good try, Dr. Arden. I have to go, and I wish you’d come with me.”

  “No thanks. I’m going to stay around the bar for a while.” Stephen smiled engagingly down at the women.

  “Okay.” Dan turned away. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Dan. Sleep well.” As Dan walked away Stephen turned his full attention on the women. “So,” he said, “I teach at Harvard University. Comparative anthropology.” If anything would get him an invitation to join them, the college-professor thing was it—it always worked. Both women were brunettes, with only a year or two difference in their ages. It would be a hard choice, but life was full of choices, wasn’t it?

  “I lived in Boston once,” the prettier of the two said. “For a year. Froze my butt off, too.” She scooted her chair to the side and Stephen smiled to himself. All he needed was another chair—

  “Here’s another screwdriver, sweetheart,” said a male voice from behind him.

  Stephen’s stomach gave a hard flop, but he was proud of himself for the smooth and expressionless way he made it look like he was leaving anyway when their boyfriends came back with a fresh round of drinks.

  Sil had seen which door the dark-haired man entered, but the sound of the elevator opening had frightened her enough to make her duck into the vending-machine service room. A good thing, too; as she stooped in front of the ice machine, the dark-skinned man she’d
confronted behind the ID passed in the hallway. Would he have recognized her? She wasn’t sure, but instinct told her not to take the chance; something wasn’t right about him and how he related to her. Deciding it was best to avoid him, Sil stayed put until she heard a door open and shut.

  Finally the hallway returned to silence and she stepped out of the service area. Glancing cautiously around, she walked quickly to the fourth door on the left, the one she’d seen her quarry enter. But when she put her hand on the doorknob and started to turn it, Sil froze. Sounds drifted through the varnished wood, breathy and barely distinguishable. The sounds of—

  With a black scowl on her face, Sil moved to the next door over and put her ear to the wood. Nothing moved inside, but when she tried the knob on this one, it was also locked. Wrapping her fingers around the brass knob, she tugged it experimentally, gauging its resistance. She could easily break it—

  “Did you lose your card key, ma’am?”

  “What!” Sil’s head whipped around. One of the ninth floor’s housekeepers stood not three feet away, watching her curiously. “Oh—yes, I did.” Card key? There was a little box above the doorknob with a slot across it and red-and-green lights below it—that must be what the woman was talking about. Sil still had the Keegan woman’s pocketbook and now she pretended to dig through it. “It’s so little.” She tried to sound exasperated.

  “Here,” the woman responded in a conciliatory voice, “I’ll let you in. You could spend all night trying to find it. Be sure to call the front desk right away and tell them you need a replacement.”

  “Thank you,” Sil said, relieved.

  The housekeeper stepped forward and used a master key from a ring in her pocket to open the door, then waved her in. The housekeeper stopped the door before it could fully shut behind Sil. “Just one thing,” she said.