by Elana Brooks
“I don’t have ten years.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn it, Solomon, I don’t want to kill her!”
“Of course not,” Solomon said quietly.
“But a soul bond will. Sooner or later. We don’t have it in us—I don’t have it in me—to sustain that kind of fidelity. The sword will always be hanging over our heads. Eventually it’s going to fall.”
“Than perhaps you should choose not to form the bond.”
“And leave the Eight short of the full strength we’ll need? Let the Seraphim win? I can’t do that.”
“Perhaps you can find another with whom your relations are less volatile.”
Steve stared blindly down at the milling pedestrians. “There is no one else,” he whispered. “There’s never been anyone else.” He forced a rueful smile to his lips. “Besides, even if there were, I’d face the same problem. No woman should trust me that much.”
“Then you’re at an impasse.” Solomon laid a hand on his arm. “You can’t solve it here, alone. Go to her and work it out. Return when you’re bonded. Or when you know you never will be.”
Chapter 5
Ten years ago
She wasn’t going to come. Of course she wasn’t going to come. Sending that text had been the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Not sending another canceling his invitation once he’d come to his senses had been stupider. Driving here and parking and requesting a booth for two in a secluded corner had been stupidest of all.
Steve pretended to study the menu as he scanned the entrance to the pizza parlor out of the corner of his eye. How long should he wait before he came to the conclusion that she was wiser than he and had decided to stay far away? Seven fifteen, he decided. Only thirteen more minutes to suffer through.
He heard her voice before he saw her. Her accent was firmly American, with only a tiny trace of Spanish in the softness of her b’s and an occasional flipped r. “I’m meeting someone here. Dr. Steve Miller.”
“This way, ma’am.”
Steve put his menu down on the table and folded his hands in his lap. Then he shifted to rest one arm along the back of the booth. He crossed his legs, but they pressed uncomfortably against the table, so he uncrossed them. Then she came in sight, walking just behind the waiter, so he froze, feeling awkward. He put on a relaxed, unconcerned smile and nodded a greeting as she walked up.
God, she was gorgeous. She’d taken her hair out of the braid she’d worn earlier, and it hung loose and wavy to the small of her back. Her features were delicate yet firm, her complexion a rich warm brown, her hair a shade darker, her eyes a shade darker yet. And her body—he swallowed, remembering the feel of her breast in his hand. She wasn’t tall, but every inch of her was lithe and toned and fit. He felt like a lumbering ox beside her catlike grace.
She seated herself and accepted the menu the waiter handed her. “I’ll have iced tea, please,” she told him with a smile. The waiter beamed at her and hurried off.
Steve’s gut twisted. How could any man fail to respond to her? She’d shamelessly bragged about her sexual exploits. He shouldn’t be surprised that she flirted. But he hated it, nevertheless.
She studied the menu for a moment, then glanced up at him from under long, thick lashes. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
“I almost didn’t.” Who was he kidding? There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d have stayed away. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, either.”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I got the impression you were pretty pissed off.”
One corner of her mouth turned up. “You could say that.”
“So why accept an invitation from a guy who did everything in his power to make you hate him?”
The other corner of her mouth joined the first. “I think you know.”
Heat rushed through his body. Damn it, he was probably blushing like a schoolboy. “About that—”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Later. I’m hungry. What do you like on your pizza?”
Steve was hungry, too. Not just for food, but that would be a good start. “I usually get pepperoni and green peppers.”
“I like sausage, mushrooms, and black olives. Want to do half and half, or mix it up?”
“A mix sounds good. As long as there’s no onions.”
She shuddered. “Absolutely not.”
He grinned, his tension easing a little. “At least there’s one thing we agree on.” The waiter arrived with Rosalia’s tea, and Steve placed the order.
When the waiter left, there was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally Steve broke it. “So you’re a student? What year?”
“Junior. Business major, Spanish minor. Did you say you did your undergraduate work here, too?”
“Yeah. I played football until I tore a tendon senior year. I was never quite good enough to get drafted, anyway. I decided I’d better concentrate on a more reliable career. I went to the University of Chicago for my master’s, then came back here for my Ph.D.”
“You thought studying psychic powers would be a stable career? Didn’t the scientific community decide they’d debunked that sort of thing back in the seventies?” She tore the paper off a straw and stuck it in her glass.
“In the past few years there’s been a resurgence of research. A few people got some startling results, and everybody’s been trying to replicate them. With mixed results. Personally, I think the design of most of the studies have been crap. Small n’s, selection bias, no double-blinding, no controls. Some of the papers are so bad it’s a wonder they got published. The field was begging for someone to tackle it using decent methodology. And as you might expect, when I applied a little basic science, their claims fell apart.”
She opened her mouth and drew a breath. He shook his head and pointed at her before she could speak. “I promise, whatever you think is going on, I’m not doing anything to skew my results. You were absolutely right—why would I want to? Positive results would do a lot more for my career than negative ones. I’m not the sort to sabotage my future for no reason.” He dropped his hand.
She waited a moment, her eyebrows raised. “May I talk now?”
He flushed and looked away. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
She spoke slowly, considering each word. “I shouldn’t have accused you of deliberately blocking me. But something interfered with my psychic powers during your experiment. I might be able to help you figure out what it was so you can eliminate it. Then your research will get accurate results.”
“I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.” Her insistence on pretending her fictional “powers” were real, even after his test had conclusively shown they weren’t, infuriated him. He had to change the topic before both their tempers flared again. “How’d you find out about my study? The only notices I posted on campus were for controls.”
“My grandmother got an invitation. She’s a psiquica. She didn’t want to participate, but I thought it would be interesting.” Her eyes shifted to the side. “I’ve always wanted our abilities to be acknowledged publicly. I thought I could help prove they’re real.”
They were both doing their best to be polite, but if they stayed on this subject, inevitably they’d fight again. He didn’t want her to storm out. He didn’t want it so intensely it frightened him. “Tell me about the rest of your family.”
Her cynical smile told him she knew exactly what he was doing, but she went along anyway. “They live on the East Side. My father works at the port. My mother manages the office at my uncle’s auto shop. I’m the second of six kids. My older brother was the first in our family to go to college. He graduated from USC last year and got a job with Shell as a chemical engineer.”
“Bet he was mad when you chose UCLA.”
“He wouldn’t speak to me for a week. Every year we watch the game together and throw popcorn at each other when our team scores.” She laughed, then sobered. “I had to, though. They offered me a better scholarship package. I didn’t want loans I’d be
paying off my whole life.”
“That was smart. My football scholarship got me through my bachelor’s, but I’ve got a boatload of debt from my master’s and Ph.D.”
She rolled her eyes. “Poor thing.”
“It’s not like academia is exactly lucrative. But I ought to be all right, if I’m careful.”
She snorted.
“What? I’m not rich. My mom’s an elementary school teacher and my dad manages a shoe store. Last year he had a heart scare and had to cut way back on his hours. And I’m an only child, so I’m going to be taking care of them eventually.” He twisted his class ring on his finger and stared blindly at the darkening window. “I worry about them. Mom’s health isn’t great either, though she won’t admit it. They were both on the older side when they had me. They ought to retire soon, but I don’t think they’ll be able to afford it. I go up to Sacramento to visit them whenever I can. I wish they’d agree to move closer, but they won’t even consider it.”
He shook his head and focused back on Rosalia. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my personal problems.”
But her expression had softened. “I don’t mind. Family is important.”
“Yeah.” He worked to muster a smile. “See, there’s something else we agree on.”
She nodded. She laid her hand on the table, halfway across. “Think we can find a third point of agreement?”
He swallowed, then reached out to set his hand atop hers. “I’m sure we can.”
She turned her palm up and wrapped her fingers around his. “What’s your favorite TV show?”
“Monday Night Football.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I only watch college football, and only if the Bruins are playing. Music?”
“Classic rock.”
“Indie pop. Movies?”
“Thrillers and romantic comedy.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t mind a good comedy, but I like art house films better. We’re striking out here.”
He tilted his head. “What else is there? I run most mornings. I’m not fast, but I can finish a 5K in a respectable time.”
Rosalia shook her head. “I teach yoga at the health fitness center.”
Her hand remained warm in his, but he was getting nervous. “I’ve never tried it, but I bet I’d enjoy it.”
“You should come by my class sometime. Tuesdays and Thursdays at five.”
“Maybe I will.” He glanced around with exaggerated caution, then leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you my deepest, darkest, most embarrassing secret. I love a good musical.”
Her face lit up. “What’s your favorite? I love Les Misérables.”
“So do I. And Fiddler on the Roof.”
“West Side Story.”
“Man of La Mancha.”
“Sweeney Todd.”
“Phantom of the Opera.”
She twisted her lips to the side. “Webber’s not my favorite.”
“Still, I think you’ve got to admit we’ve found our third point.” Greatly daring, he said, “The University Players are doing Into the Woods next weekend. I was thinking of seeing it. Would you like to go with me?”
She looked thoughtful, but didn’t pull back. “I’ve never seen that one.”
“You’ll love it. One of Sondheim’s best. The music is amazing, and the story gets surprisingly deep in the second act.”
“Maybe.” She glanced away. “Although, do you think it’s smart, getting together in public? Since you’re a professor and I’m a student.”
Damn. How could that have slipped his mind? She didn’t talk like someone much younger than him. She was clever and sophisticated and thoughtful. She felt like a peer, not an inferior. “As long as it’s obvious we’re just friends, it should be fine.”
She looked pointedly at their clasped hands. Steve flinched, torn between the reflex to pull his hand back and reluctance to surrender the pleasure of her skin against his. Her voice dropped low. “But we’re not just friends, are we?”
He swallowed and forced himself to release her fingers. “I don’t think we know each other well enough to call ourselves friends yet. But I’d like to get to know you better.”
A gleam in her eye and a twitch of her lips and eyebrows turned that into a double entendre. But she kept her voice free of the weighting that would have made her words a seductive tease. Instead, she spoke so simply Steve was convinced she meant them. “So would I.”
A warm glow spread through his body, relaxing him. Making friends had always come easily to him. He would value Rosalia’s friendship. If they came to know and like each other, the desire he felt for her would be a natural, comfortable progression of their relationship. Not an overwhelming force out of nowhere taking control of his mind and body and heart, an irresistible obsession with a woman who was practically a stranger. “All right. Why don’t you start by telling me what you don’t like about Andrew Lloyd Webber’s work?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s not that awful, I guess. It’s just all the hype. He cares more about spectacle than real human emotion. And he never met a cliché he didn’t like.”
Steve settled in for a good heated debate. “I disagree. He uses a lot of subtle symbolism most people miss. Take Phantom, for instance—”
She snorted. “There’s nothing subtle about dropping a chandelier on the audience.”
“You’d be surprised.” Steve launched into a spirited defense of the musical. Rosalia met him point for point, presenting her conflicting opinions vigorously.
Steve held back at first, as he always did. People didn’t like it when he expressed himself with the full force of his convictions. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been criticized for being too loud, too intimidating, too threatening. He’d modified his style accordingly, because he liked people and didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable or give a false impression. But a deeply buried corner of his heart had resented the necessity. Just because his body was large and his voice was deep and loud didn’t mean he was dangerous. He would never use physical force to compel agreement or cooperation. He was no more likely to resort to violence than someone of smaller stature or milder manner. But the fact that he was big and strong enough to inflict great damage if he chose frightened people.
Rosalia wasn’t afraid. He didn’t know why, but she seemed to instinctively understand that she could trust him not to harm her. There were people who’d known him for years who wouldn’t disagree with him so freely and emphatically. The more he released the strict bonds he usually kept on the expression of his feelings, the more enthusiastically she responded. Their voices rose until they were almost shouting over each other. Rosalia’s eyes snapped and her hands gestured dramatically, illustrating and emphasizing her points. Steve quit worrying he would offend her and reveled in the glorious freedom to be completely honest. If Rosalia didn’t care that the people at neighboring tables were giving them concerned looks, neither would he.
When their pizza came they by necessity calmed down a little, but between bites they kept up the vigorous conversation. They ranged over a variety of topics, finding few points of agreement, but Steve no longer cared. He was enjoying their disagreement too much.
Rosalia insisted on paying half the check. Steve didn’t argue. The evening had been delightful for reasons he’d never have expected, but it was best if it ended now. “You said you live on campus? Did you walk here? I could drive you home and drop you off, if you’d like.”
Rosalia gave him an appraising look as they walked across the shadowed parking lot. “It’s still early. I’d invite you back to my place, but I have an agreement with my roommate that neither of us bring men home.” She reached out and took his hand.
Steve swallowed. He wanted her more than ever. From the way her fingers twined around his, she felt the same way. If he was going to stop this from going any further, this was his last chance. Because he knew exactly what would happen the minute they were alone
together.
They reached his car. He turned to face her, taking her other hand. “Rosalia, are you sure this is what you want?”
Her dark eyes met his, catching the gleam of the streetlights. “Yes.”
His hands tightened on hers. Her fingers returned the pressure. “Come home with me.”
She nodded, never taking her eyes from his. She leaned forward, pulling him toward her, tilting her head back. With a sense of inevitable, reckless, glorious abandon he surrendered to desire and bent to kiss her. Their mouths drank each other in, urgent and exquisite and explosive.
Steve broke off and groped in his pocket for his car key. His voice was unsteady. “It’s not far.”
She was breathing hard. “Good.”
He opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger seat. He walked around the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition. As he maneuvered out of the crowded lot, he said, “I have condoms.”
“Good. I’m on the Pill.”
He nodded. They drove the rest of the way in silence. He should probably feel awkward, but he didn’t. Their shared anticipation trembled bright and hot between them, communication deeper than words. Steve focused on driving, using his heightened senses to note every vehicle and obstacle around him, taking precise care with each turn of the steering wheel and application of the brakes. Nothing must be allowed to harm the precious treasure beside him or interfere with the shining golden interlude waiting for them just a little way ahead.
He pulled into the townhome complex and punched the entry code into the pad. Rosalia surveyed the immaculate landscaping and elegant design of the buildings. “Nice.”
Steve shrugged. “They offer a discount to university employees.”
He pulled into his reserved space. Rosalia was out of the car before he could come around to her side. She took his arm and pressed close as he led her to his door. The heat of her body soaked into him. His hand shook as he guided the key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open, and he stepped aside to let her enter first. He followed her in and shut the door behind them.