Sweet Mercy

by Naomi Stone

  “You make it sound easy enough.” He spoke wryly, sure nothing so good could come easily.

  “If only.” She grinned, and for the first time he caught a sense of merriment from her, a pleasure surpassing even the serenity she’d radiated before. What would it be like to keep her amused, to delight her, to share in her happiness, her total pleasure? The thought sent a rush of arousal through his system.

  “How about you?” she asked, still smiling. “I don’t quite get what your talent is —did it let you know how to disarm that bomb?”

  “Not exactly.” He took the Lake Street exit off the highway, cleared his throat. “I had no idea which wire was safe—I’m just lucky.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Three

  Mesmero kept a discreet distance from the red Porsche. A lot of people wore shades these days, trying to look cool, but the two people who’d gotten into the fancy car looked like the real deal. Not otherwise stylish enough to be fashionistas, and something in the way they moved, kind of in-sync, made them look like part of a team. He’d bet money they were with Team Guardian, and he’d bet they’d just helped foil his plans. He wanted more info at this point. His years of sales experience had taught him. Aways know who you’re dealing with.

  Normally he steered clear of other freaks—too unpredictable. You never knew exactly what you faced. Now, if these people had meddled in his plans, he’d better find out about them, be prepared before moving on to Plan B.

  He kept two car lengths behind them and followed when they exited the highway. He idled his old Camaro at the corner stop sign while the flashy car pulled up to a huge old turn-of-the-century house in middling repair, halfway up a residential street lined with similar houses.

  ~ * ~

  Fluke didn’t wait for Rachel to let herself out of the car, but made it around to her door before she’d unfastened her seatbelt.

  “Here, let me see you in.”

  She made some sound of protest but couldn’t completely conceal the tingle of her pleasure as he took her arm. Everything he knew about women told him Rachel was the sort who hid behind her warm smiles while eluding any true connection. She’d walk into that house alone and never look back—if he let her.

  “I insist. I’ve never visited an ashram before. You’ll have to show me around.”

  “Fine.” She slid her arm from his grasp.

  He grinned to himself as he caught a hint of her annoyance at her own slip. She knew that he knew about her attraction to him. Good. So it was possible to get under her skin.

  He hung back enough to admire the rear view as she led the way

  along a neatly kept walk edged with some small flowers blooming in an array of pastel shades. Her loose slacks flowed around her legs, revealing their neat shape as she mounted to a porch where more flowers bloomed in pots beside wicker chairs cushioned in bright, flowery fabric. Her hair swung across her face as she bent to unlock the door. She radiated a sense of fond familiarity, and some slight embarrassment when she glanced at the white paint chipping and peeling away in patches from the clapboard siding.

  “We’ll have to keep our voices down. Tamara teaches classes now.” Rachel spoke quietly as she pushed open the door of heavy, dark wood. Pegs lined an entry area where half a dozen jackets and sweaters hung above and a dozen pair of shoes in assorted sizes protruded from under low benches.

  “Take off your shoes or proceed no further,” Rachel whispered.

  He kicked off his expensive Italian loafers and tucked them under a bench.

  Through an archway the strains of some new-agey music sounded softly. There, on an expanse of polished maple flooring, a row of people crouched on their yoga mats. A coffee-skinned woman with her dark hair in dreads crouched in the same pose facing them at the front of the room.

  “That’s the classroom,” Rachel whispered. “C’mon.” She tugged on his arm and led him on tiptoe past the archway, down a short hall and through another door into a large kitchen. “This,” she announced in a normal tone, gesturing broadly, “is my domain.” She projected a sense of pride and accomplishment that led him to look around him more closely than he’d ordinarily bother to look at a kitchen. A kitchen was a kitchen, right? This one seemed clean at least: a lot of polished surfaces, stone countertops and steel appliances. “Nice,” he said.

  “It’s my little piece of heaven on Earth,” she told him in a confiding tone. “You have no idea how nice it is for me to have all this after the years David and I lived on the run, scrounging out of dumpsters, begging on the streets, eating whatever got handed to us at shelters. We hardly ever got hot food cooked the way we liked it.” She ran a possessive hand along a sleek countertop.

  “It’s all about choice here. I choose the menu. I choose the ingredients. I can cook things just the way I like and I’ll cook for the others to their tastes.” She fell silent after the brief spate of volubility, accompanied with a garnish of her enthusiasm, flavored only slightly with the hint of regret when she mentioned her past deprivation.

  “After all that, I hope you’re a good cook.”

  “You’ll have to judge for yourself. You hungry? I rushed off without brunch and I’m more than ready for a decent meal now.”

  “I could eat.” His stomach growled, loudly, in agreement. Come to think of it, he’d missed breakfast and lunch too. But, as she opened the fridge, bent forward and peered into it, the view she presented stirred other hungers. Her sweet form filled out her slacks to perfection and flowed in supple curves up through her lithe waist to a limber back and the leanly muscled bare arms bracing her in the fridge door.

  “Do you like dolmades?” she asked. “Tamara is vegetarian, but I’m not and I could offer you some gyros to go with…” She turned toward him, meeting his eyes with a question she might have thought involved dolmades, but the hunger he caught there had nothing to do with grape leaves —instead evoking thoughts of what lay beneath figurative fig leaves. Their eyes stayed locked. He felt a rush of desire he couldn’t swear to be his own, a heat doubled and redoubled like images in facing mirrors.

  He made it to her side in that instant, closing the fridge and crowding her against it even as he cupped her unresisting chin in his hand. He tilted it, the touch of her flesh warm and silken, to put her slightly-parted lips at the perfect angle to meet his swooping mouth. Like hawk upon dove he descended, capturing the vibrant responses he knew lay hidden beneath her reserved manner. But he found no gentle dove in his grip. She met him with as fierce a need as his own. With a single, gasping moan she rose into the kiss.

  ~ * ~

  Rachel couldn’t help herself. He’d caught her by surprise. His touch, his hands, his lips on hers, all galvanized her to ferocious life. She wanted this, this electric thrill, the unfettered slippery heat of their joined mouths, the world falling away, leaving nothing but each other locked around the need to touch, to hold, to be together.

  Her hands found the hem of his shirt and shot greedily up the slopes of his ribs, tracing, owning what they could hold only briefly in the imperative to hold it all. His hands moved upon her with the same urgency, having found their way beneath her top, fumbling at her bra, then cupping her breasts regardless of the garment. All the while, joined lips suckled at each other, tongues slid and thrust to take all the pleasure they could reach.

  Every particle of her being thrummed with vibrant life, sang out for more, rang with a passion that gripped her like its twelve-string guitar—

  “Rachel!” The voice cut sharply through the flood of sensation. She sprang away from Fluke’s grip. Tamara! Oh, good heavens! What had she been thinking?

  “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got half a dozen students in the next room!”

  Rachel straightened, flooded now with chagrin as she realized the situation. She adjusted her clothes as Fluke withdrew, swiping his tousled hair back into place.

  “Everyone lost concentration,” Tamara went on. “Mr. and Mrs. Cox started making out on their
mats. I’ve got Jenna leading the class through some core-strengthening exercises right now.” She shot a look at Fluke, who backed further off. Tamara took Rachel’s hands. “Breathe. Center. Focus.”

  Embarrassment burned on her cheeks and her thoughts bobbed like a beach ball tossed in a whirlpool. Rachel took a deep breath, falling into the familiar calming routine. Center. Breathe. Visualize compassion, compassion for her human neediness, for her desires, for her embarrassment. It was all natural, all good. Breathe. Let it go.

  “It’s okay.” Tamara assured her. “This is just not the time or place. Maybe you two should take a drive, find a nice secluded place to park?” She grinned at them before heading back to the classroom.

  ~ * ~

  Wow! Fluke took a few deep breaths himself. Incredible. Feeling what his kiss did to her… feeling her pleasure along with his, the intensity of her desire along with his own. The rich mix of her unfettered emotions stunned him: the momentary hesitation just before her passion swept it aside, her ferocity, her barely checked fury at its frustration, her embarrassment when Tamara let her know how many people had been in on that intimate moment.

  Maybe others had felt something of it—one side of the equation—but he doubted it compared to what he’d experienced at the epicenter of the event. Her desire had been for him. She felt her pleasure at his touch, his kiss. He liked that feeling of being at the center of her world.

  He turned away from the two women, stared out the kitchen window at a pair of sparrows squabbling in the eaves of a neighboring house. He stood silent when Tamara departed, giving Rachel a chance to center herself and giving his soldier a chance to settle—at least to half-mast.

  “You okay?” Rachel spoke at last, her tone back to its mellow default. “I should have warned you. I didn’t expect the kiss—you couldn’t know—there’s no such thing as a private moment with me.”

  He turned back to her. A pretty pink flush still touched her cheeks. She held her eyes lowered, not quite meeting his.

  “I asked for it.” He used a joking tone. “We’ll just have to choose our time and place more carefully next time.”

  She glanced up, surprise—and anticipation?—showing briefly as she caught his eye, before looking away again immediately.

  “I know I promised you lunch,” she said, but he cut her off.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Take some time. I’ll grab lunch someplace else—maybe home. I can handle throwing a sandwich together.”

  He turned, heading out the way he’d come. What was wrong with him? Since when did he pass up on an advantage when he had one? But she’d been so upset. He felt like a mind reader, sensing so clearly her need to sort out her thoughts. She might as well have whispered it in his ear. He knew what she wanted and, given how good it felt, he intended to cultivate a habit of pleasing her.

  ~ * ~

  After parking on the nearest side street, Mesmero walked casually past the house, noting the discreet sign posted by the front door. Yoga lessons at reasonable prices. Interesting. Which of the two he’d followed here taught yoga? Maybe he’d just knock at the door and ask about lessons? He only needed a few minutes alone with targets to get into their heads…

  But wild Talents were unpredictable. That clairvoyant in Cincinnati had seen him coming and her talent had counteracted his somehow. He couldn’t get into her head, spoiling the plan to use her to predict the movements of his primary targets. He’d had to run. Good thing she hadn’t known who he was—or why he’d been after her. He hadn’t even told her his name, not that he’d left her in any condition to talk about it. And he hadn’t had his name then. Mesmero. The police would know it soon enough. At this point they had no reason to connect an attempted bombing in the Twin Cities with an apparently random attack in Cincinnati, or to connect either to the apparent suicides of Al Johnson’s ex wife and her new husband.

  He’d lingered too long outside the house. Some nosy neighbor might notice. He had just turned back toward the corner where he’d parked, when a wave of horniness swept through him. He sported a major boner in that instant, felt like banging the nearest tree like some lapdog keen to hump the nearest leg. What the hell? He scanned the vicinity for explanation. No one. Nothing moved along the street shaded by large old maples, or on the green lawns flanking sleepy old houses.

  In the next moment the lust passed as quickly as it had risen, replaced by keen embarrassment, then a growing calm. Damn. He looked back toward the house where he’d tracked the two presumed Talents. One of them must be some kind of especially potent projective empath. If he could control that… he could make those Capital Finance bastards really suffer. Hurt the empath, add that pain to the other suffering he planned for them.

  Mesmero returned to his car and positioned it where he could watch the front of the house. He soon saw the man he’d followed earlier depart in the red Porsche.

  ~ * ~

  By the time Rachel centered fully and had a bite to eat, Tamara’s class intoned their final ohms and left the house.

  Tamara joined her at the kitchen table, helping herself to a couple of the dolmades left on the serving plate. “How are you doing?”

  Rachel shrugged and smiled. “Better. I reminded myself how embarrassment stems from ego. I’ll get over it.”

  “Good. That’s what I told my class. They’ll get over it too, but I think Mr. and Mrs. Cox will be getting it on when they get home.”

  “At least it did somebody some good.” Rachel fielded another round of chagrin, just as the front doorbell chimed.

  “You eat. I’ll get it.” She jumped up, waving Tamara back to her seat. Probably a student who’d forgotten something. The ashram had amassed quite a collection of odd scarves, sweaters, sun glasses, umbrellas and mismatched gloves over the years.

  The figure she confronted as she opened the door could be a

  student—she didn’t know them all—but he somehow seemed too stiff.

  “Hello,” he said. “I saw your sign and wanted to ask about the classes.”

  “Sure. I’m Rachel.” She smiled and ushered him into the office area—what had originally been the front parlor of the house—where they’d set up a desk and a few chairs. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “No. I can’t stay more than a minute.” He jangled keys in the pocket of his blue polyester sports jacket. “You got a brochure or something?”

  “Of course.” Rachel plucked one from the display at the front of the desk and handed it across. Her fingers brushed his as he took it, and she recoiled, unable to conceal her shudder. The brief touch had given her the weirdest sensation—like flies crawling on her bare flesh. She wanted to wipe her hand, but restrained the motion. She took a deep breath and calmed. “That should tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Thanks,” he grunted, turning back to the door. “I’ll look it over.”

  Waiting until the front door shut behind him, Rachel wiped her hand down her slacks. Weird. Something about that guy rubbed her so very wrong.

  “Who was it?” Tamara emerged from the kitchen.

  “Potential student.” Rachel shook her head. “I gave him a brochure.”

  She returned to the kitchen, collected the few plates, glasses and utensils from the table and started the hot water running. She couldn’t remember ever having as strong an attraction to a man as she’d had to Fluke earlier. She should stay the hell away from him. If there was anything she did not need in her life it was a man who could make her forget herself like that. She had no desire at all to involve the whole neighborhood in some giant orgiastic Love-In. Maybe not all, but enough of them knew of her talent. She’d never be able to show her face in public again. Her cheeks warmed again at the thought.

  Breathe. Wash the plate, rinse the plate, set the plate in the drainer. Repeat. She should stay away from him, but what she should do wasn’t what she wanted to do. Thus divided against herself, her plan for the afternoon now included a yoga workout and meditation—until she got back s
ome of her inner peace. In the process, she had to figure out how to reconcile her better judgment to her recently awakened libido.

  ~ * ~

  After grabbing a quick lunch at a Greek shop in the City Center—his appetite whetted by Rachel’s mention of dolmades—Fluke headed over to the offices he’d donated to Team Guardian, situated in the twenty-story building he’d recently acquired as his first major real estate holding in Minneapolis. Real estate represented a departure for him; maybe not as chancy a venture for him as for some people, but he still preferred the rapid play of the stock market. He counted buying this place as “doing his bit” for the team.

  As he entered the building the signal came in on his specs

  announcing a team confab. He called that good timing. He found David Connolly in the conference room, simultaneously on the phone and on the specs’ communications channel, as usual. Fluke pulled a chair up beside him and gave a salute as he joined the channel.

  “For those just joining in,” David said, “We’ve got an update on the bomber. Longo is in a coma state, but the police got a partial thumbprint from an inner component of the unexploded bomb. Not Longo’s. They ID-ed it as belonging to one ‘Albert Johnson,’ last known address in Milwaukee.”

  “Last known?” Fluke interrupted. “How long ago?”

  “Over ten years. Pre-Event. Get this: he lost the house to foreclosure—by Capital Finance.”

  A chorus of ahs greeted that over the specs’ channel, and one live “aha” as another man entered the room. The teleporter—what was his name? As he took a seat across the table, Fluke gave the fellow a nod and consulted his database. Being new kid in town made him a big fan of databases. Tom. Tom Stanton.

  “Before the foreclosure, Johnson had been let go from a sales job with Farmland Dairy Distributors and soon after, divorced by his wife. We figure he left Milwaukee about then, but he drops off the map. We’ve got nothing on him since the Event. No address of record, no driver’s license, no credit trail. His nearest relatives thought he was dead.”