by Jayne Castle
“Positive,” Ella said. “He’s just mad because I left his firm and went out on my own.”
All of which was the truth, as far as it went, she thought.
“What about the son of a bitch who attacked you?” Rafe asked. “What happened to him?”
“That part is a little more complicated,” Ella said.
“This may surprise you, but I can be a good listener.”
She had told herself that it would not be a good idea to discuss the Gillingham affair, but Rafe already knew a lot about what she could do with her talent. What was one more secret?
“Harold Gillingham had a thing about dream analysts—a sexual thing.” She shuddered at the memory. “He seemed to think that just because I could analyze his aura and manipulate some of the dreamlight currents, I must be eager to have sex with him. When he came on to me, I informed him I didn’t do that kind of therapy and tried to leave. He was furious. Said he’d paid a lot of money for me and he wanted his money’s worth. There was a struggle. He was very strong.”
“I assume you fought back using your talent.”
“Yes. I only intended to make him fall asleep, but as it turned out he slept for two days. When he woke up he tried to convince everyone that I had knocked him out with a drug and stolen one of his First Generation antiques. But he had no proof, of course. He was furious, not just with me but with Wilson. He blamed the agency for sending him a therapist who had turned out to be a thief. Wilson blamed me for mishandling the client and creating the problem in the first place.”
“What happened?”
“Gillingham went to the police. I called Jones and Jones.”
“Arcane’s investigation agency?”
“Cost me a small fortune but one of their investigators was able to direct the cops to the missing antique in about five minutes and that was the end of the matter.”
“Where was it?” Rafe asked.
“Right where Gillingham had hidden it—in a secret closet in the library. The accusations were all about revenge. He was furious with me and wanted to punish me so he made up the theft charge.”
“You resigned from the Wilson Parsons Agency because Parsons took the client’s word over yours,” Rafe said.
“That’s it.”
“Think Parsons knows that you can sing a man to sleep?”
“No, of course not. I don’t go around advertising that little fact. You’re the only person outside my family who knows what I can do with my talent.” She stopped short at the edge of the drive, searching for the correct limo. “I don’t see Bill and the car,” she said.
A young, uniformed valet attendant hurried toward her. “Miss Morgan?”
“Yes,” she said. “I had a driver tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know. He went home sick. Something he ate. Your car service sent another vehicle. The driver is waiting for you. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The valet raised a hand to signal. In response, a sleek black limo identical to the one Bill drove pulled out of the line of waiting vehicles.
“Poor Bill,” Ella said. She unfastened her small evening bag to take out some tip money for the valet. “I hope he’s all right.”
“I’ve got this,” Rafe said quietly.
He slipped the cash to the valet before Ella realized what he intended to do. Irritated, she closed her bag with a sharp snap.
“That was not necessary,” she said stiffly.
Rafe’s mouth curved slightly at one corner. “You’re welcome.”
The long black car rolled to a halt in front of the valet stand. The attendant opened the door of the passenger compartment.
Ella discreetly hitched up the hem of her skirt and slipped into the car. She scooted hastily across the leather seat, making room for Rafe. He eased in beside her.
The valet closed the door and rapped on the driver’s window a couple of times to let him know the passengers were safely on board.
The driver spoke from the front seat. “Good evening, Miss Morgan. I’m Briggs. Sorry about the change of cars. Your regular driver reported in sick. I’m the replacement. We’re going to 321 North Wall Lane, right?”
“Eventually,” she said. “But first we’re going to drop Mr. Coppersmith at his hotel. The Colonial Inn on Quartz Drive.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. I’ll give you both some privacy.”
There was a soft hum as the glass shield that separated the driver and passenger compartments slid into place. Ella was once again enfolded in the sensual intimacy of black leather and low lighting with Rafe. She tried to focus on the fog swirling in the neon-and-psi-lit streets.
“When, exactly, are we leaving in the morning?” she asked.
“As early as possible, but since we’ll be on a Coppersmith jet we don’t have a precise timetable,” Rafe said. “Six o’clock work for you? I’ll instruct the pilots to pick up some takeout for breakfast on the plane.”
She winced. “Okay. Six o’clock.” She still had some packing to do. Might as well not even bother to go to bed, she thought.
Rafe seemed satisfied. “That should put us into Thursday Harbor by midafternoon. Time enough to get to Rainshadow before dark.”
“I apologize for that little scene with Dr. Suarez,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry she assumed you were my date for the evening.”
“So what if she leaped to the wrong conclusion about us?” Rafe turned slightly and settled deeper into the corner. He rested one arm along the back of the seat and watched her with unreadable eyes. “No big deal. You set her straight. I’m just a client.”
She could not decide if he sounded irritated, bored, or simply unconcerned about Dr. Suarez’s assumption.
“Right,” she said briskly. “I will admit I took some pleasure showing off my new high-end client to Wilson. But, then, I’m probably shallow that way.”
Rafe surprised her with a grin. “Where I come from that kind of thing is called good business. Never let the competition think it’s got the upper hand.”
“Good to know.” She frowned. “The question is, how many other people in that room assumed you were my date for the evening?”
“My advice is, don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say, but this is my business reputation we’re talking about. There’s a fine line between being seen at a public function with a prestigious client and having everyone think I’m—”
She broke off sharply, horrified at what she had been about to say.
Rafe finished the sentence for her. “Having everyone think you’re sleeping with your client. I get that.”
She tightened her grip on her little purse, grateful for the deep shadows. She was sure she was turning bright red. “Mmm.”
“Don’t worry so much. We’re leaving town tomorrow. By the time you return everyone will be talking about something else.”
“I hope you’re right.”
There was a long pause from Rafe’s side of the car.
“Would it be so bad?” he asked eventually.
She glanced at him. There was a little heat in his eyes. For a moment she went quite blank.
“What?” she said.
“Would it be so bad if a few people leaped to the conclusion that you and I have something more than a client-consultant relationship?”
Anger crackled through her. “Well, of course it would be bad.”
She adjusted the wrap around her shoulders and turned her attention back to the nightscape unfolding on the other side of the window.
The limo had left the gentrified neighborhoods behind and was moving deeper into the Quarter. The trendy, fashionable restaurants and nightclubs disappeared. There were fewer people on the streets now and most of them looked like the sort who preferred to hide from the light.
Garish neon signs advertising bars and low-rent eateries with dark windows glowed briefly and then disappeared back into the night. It was not, she thought, the route she would have taken if she had been driving, b
ut the driver seemed confident.
She was chagrined to realize that the intimacy in the back of the limo was starting to affect her nerves. She was feeling edgier by the minute. Her pulse was kicking up, too, and it seemed to her that it was getting harder to take a deep breath.
She was alone in the limo with a man who had a psi-fever burning in his aura.
She really did not know much about Rafe Coppersmith, she suddenly realized. Sure, she’d researched him online, but the Coppersmith family was reclusive and powerful. It obviously controlled much of what showed up in a routine search. There had been nothing about a scion of the clan suffering from a dangerous fever of the paranormal senses, for example. Who knew what else had been concealed from the media and the public?
“Something wrong?” Rafe asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. Just making a mental list of the things I need to pack for the trip.”
“The climate on Rainshadow is semitropical. You won’t need a heavy coat, just something for the rain and maybe a light jacket or sweater for the evenings. As for Wonderland, it’s like the rest of the Underworld—comfortably warm night and day. The temperature never varies.”
“Good to know.” She tightened her hand on her shawl.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Rafe asked.
“Yes,” she hissed.
But she wasn’t all right. She was starting to feel a little light-headed. Just nerves.
Rafe shifted slightly in the seat, leaning toward her a little as if to get a better look at her face. Her throat tightened. She was not alone in the car, she reminded herself. If she screamed for help the driver would hear her. The glass partition was not that thick.
But what if she was unable to scream? What if Rafe slapped a hand over her mouth and tried to overwhelm her para-senses just as Gillingham had done? Memories of the moments of shock and panic flooded over her. Her talent spiked in response. But this was Rafe. He would never try to overpower her like that.
She glanced at him again. Alarm flashed through her when she realized that his fever was spiking. She could see the wild heat in the shadows of his dreamlight. It was much stronger now than it had been that afternoon. A chill iced her senses.
In the low light she could see that Rafe’s forehead was damp. As she watched, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked several times.
“Damn it, something is wrong,” Rafe said. His voice was tight and grim, the voice of a man who was using everything to hang on to his control.
She flinched and retreated as far as she could into the corner of the seat. She was overreacting; allowing her imagination to get the better of her. She was losing it. She could not afford to do that, not with the most important client to come her way since she had opened her business.
She pulled hard on her jittery senses.
“I told you, I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little tired.”
“Do you always take this route home?”
“What?”
She stared at him, bewildered by the question. But he was not looking at her. He was focused on the view through the heavily tinted rear window.
She turned back to the side window, trying to orient herself.
“No,” she said. “I always take Blue Amber Street through the Quarter. So does Bill.”
“But Bill isn’t driving tonight.”
Rafe slipped a small phone out from under his jacket. “Can’t get any reception.”
“We’re too close to the Wall.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“No, not exactly.”
Rafe seemed cooler now. The fever spike was settling down in his aura. But her own senses were frazzled. She searched for familiar landmarks but she could not seem to focus on the street scene. She was well acquainted with the renovated and gentrified sections of the old Colonial sector, but there were vast stretches of urban dead zone still waiting for developers and their money. Most of those bad areas bordered the West and South Walls. No knowledgeable professional limo driver would take his passengers into such dangerous neighborhoods.
Still, the big car hummed along, as if Briggs was very certain of his path.
She glanced at her watch. By now they should have been nearing the hotel. She started to turn in her seat to speak to Rafe.
“The driver is lost,” she said. “I’m sure of it. He must be new—”
She broke off because Rafe wasn’t paying attention. He pulled down the control panel that was suspended from the roof of the vehicle and flipped the intercom switch.
“Stop the car,” he ordered.
There was no response from the front seat. Instead of trying again, he eased off the rear seat and made his way forward, crouching to avoid the low roof.
When he reached the partition he rapped sharply on the tinted glass. There was no reaction from the front seat. If anything, the car picked up speed.
A faint, cloyingly sweet scent stirred Ella’s senses—not in a good way. Her first thought was that it was an air freshener. But the interior of the limo started to melt around her.
“Rafe.”
“Gas,” he said. “It’s coming through the air-conditioning system. Cover your nose and mouth and get down on the floor.”
She pulled her wrap across the lower portion of her face, unfastened her seat belt, and rolled off the seat. She reached up and pressed the button to lower the door window to allow some fresh air into the car. The window did not move.
She tried the door handle. It was locked.
It was getting harder to breathe through the wrap. Or maybe she was having a panic attack, she thought. She held the fabric a couple of inches away from her mouth and inhaled sharply, desperate to fill her lungs.
She got a full breath but at a price. The limo once again started to dissolve. The disorienting effect left her dazed and vaguely nauseous. Hastily, she drew the wrap across her nose and mouth again.
She turned her head and saw that Rafe was breathing through a white handkerchief. As she watched he reached inside his jacket. She barely had time to adjust to the realization that he had a gun in his hand before he used the butt of the weapon to hammer the glass partition.
Glass exploded into the driver’s compartment. Briggs yelped and reflexively hit the brakes.
“What the fuck?” he shouted.
An instant later he trod heavily on the accelerator. The big car lurched forward.
“Stop the damn car,” Rafe ordered.
He leaned through the jagged opening and put the barrel of the gun against Briggs’s neck.
“I said stop the car,” Rafe repeated evenly.
Briggs obeyed. He took his foot off the accelerator.
“You’re crazy,” he said. “They never told me you were fucking crazy.”
“Surprise,” Rafe said.
He aimed the small gun at Briggs’s shoulder and rezzed the trigger. There was a muffled crack of sound. Briggs screamed.
Ella was so stunned she forgot to breathe. Rafe had just shot a man at point-blank range.
Briggs slumped in the seat.
“Rafe?” she managed.
“He’s not dead. Para-shock pistol. Coppersmith lab device designed for law enforcement. Knocked him out but the effects are temporary.”
Rafe used the butt of the gun to knock the remaining shards of glass out of the partition. Leaning into the driver’s compartment, he pressed a button.
“Try the door,” he ordered.
She yanked the handle. “Still locked.”
“I was afraid of that. They’re overriding the locking system.”
“What? Who is overriding the system?”
“Whoever arranged for you to get a new car and driver tonight.”
He made his way back to the rear seat and slammed the butt of the gun against the window. The glass did not even fracture.
“High-tech glass,” he said. “The damn stuff probably came out of a Coppersmith lab. Can’t even put a hole in it
with a mag-rez pistol. Good thing they didn’t bother to install it in the partition.” He slipped the gun back inside his jacket. “Help me pull out the backseat. We can get out through the trunk.”
“Wait,” Ella said. “Let me see what I can do with the window. It will be faster.”
She planted one palm flat against the glass and drew hard on her talent. It took a precious few seconds to find the right notes but glass was glass. There was always an inherent instability where it was not quite a liquid and not quite a solid.
“Got it,” she said.
She sang the silent, destabilizing song. The bells on her bracelet chimed. The glass resisted at first and then melted like butter in a hot pan.
Rafe flashed her a quick grin. “You are one killer soprano.” He motioned with the gun. “Out.”
With some forceful assistance from Rafe, she scrambled out through the window. There was a sharp ripping sound at one point. She knew the narrow skirt of her dress had been torn.
When her high heels touched the ground she straightened, gripped the roof of the limo, and drew a deep breath of fresh air into her lungs. Her head cleared.
Rafe followed her through the opening with the agility of a rock climber slipping through a narrow crevasse. He raked the street with an assessing gaze while he breathed deeply.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Whoever is running this operation will know by now that things have gone wrong.”
“What in the world is happening? None of this makes any sense.”
“This is an ambush,” Rafe said. “The pickup team will be along any second.”
She wanted to ask more questions but it was clear that this was not the time or place for an in-depth discussion. She looked around, still a little woozy from the effects of the gas.
Abandoned, boarded-up buildings that dated from the Colonial era loomed on either side of the narrow street. The pavement dead-ended at the towering green-quartz Wall.
“Are we going back the way we came?” she asked.
“No, this is a classic box-canyon setup,” Rafe said. “The rest of the crew will come straight down this street any minute now. We don’t want to run into them.”
“I take it that means we’re going to break into one of these buildings?”
“It’s our best chance.”