Yeah, he probably expected his assistant to do it. Maybe that was why she was gone in the first place. She wanted her boss to clean up his own damn mess for once.
His chest continued to rise and fall, the muscles in his arms bulging, reminding her of a bull in an arena ready to charge. Only she wasn’t scared. She’d always felt sorry for the bulls.
“This wasn’t the reason I came.” She spotted another book on the floor behind the broken computer monitor. Oh, for goddsake. It was a first edition of The Call of the Wild. “What is the matter with you?”
He exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. “What do you want?”
She flung her hand around. “I want to know what this is about.”
“There’s nothing for you to understand. I already told you to leave. This is none of your concern.”
But she couldn’t just leave. She wanted to know more. Why the tantrum? He seemed like the most controlled and in-charge man she’d ever met. And this, she thought, looking at all the broken computer equipment and upended furniture, was far from that.
She narrowed her eyes and studied him. He seemed to have calmed down a little; his pupils weren’t quite so dilated, his breathing had slowed. Maybe the problem was that he was cool on the outside while torment raged on the inside. She had no idea why, but for some reason, it was important for her to keep pushing in order to better understand him.
“What if I don’t want to leave? What if I…care why you’ve done this?”
His head snapped up as if he’d been slapped, his eyes dark and menacing. “Why would you care about me? I’ve not exactly been warm and welcoming to you.”
He made it sound as if he’d been consciously trying to act like a jerk. She’d done nothing to warrant being treated like that on purpose. Then it dawned on her. Maybe her past had followed her. Maybe he’d heard the accusations from long ago and didn’t want her here.
She stood a little taller and put a wall of iron around her heart. “Well, for one thing, I need to know how to get a crib set up in Mackenzie’s room. She’s exhausted and the only way she’s going to get any rest is if Miguel sleeps in his own bed. Which means the region needs a damn crib. If you don’t have one, then I’m driving to the nearest town right now and buying one. And you’re going to reimburse me.”
His expression seemed to soften just a little and he leaned on the edge of his desk. “And what was the other reason?”
“I…I…don’t know. Guess I just wanted to see if I could help.”
His gaze darted around the room. He seemed to see the destruction for the first time through the eyes of a reasonable man because he actually looked a little sheepish. He strode over to the wet bar and grabbed a bottle of scotch. “Want one?”
Was that supposed to be a peace offering of some sort? She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not if I’m going to have to drive to the store and buy a crib.”
He smiled then, not one of those big, movie-star smiles with the gleaming eyes and the perfect teeth that made you want to strip off your panties, but a quiet, almost diminutive smile that said he knew she was right, he was wrong, and that maybe her past was still in the past after all.
He picked up his phone, barked a few orders and hung up. “Okay, Roxanne. Miguel will have a crib within the hour.”
“Thank you. That’s going to make it so much better for Mackenzie.” She ran her hands along the spines of the books and smiled. “Please, I’d like it if you called me Roxy.”
He studied her face for a moment before his gaze traveled slowly down her body all the way to her feet then back up again as if he were seeing her for the first time, as well. A ball of warmth concentrated in her belly and radiated outward, making her cheeks feel as if they were on fire. She resisted the urge to cool them with her palms.
He held up the bottle again. “Are you sure?”
“Um, thanks, but no. I’m a frou-frou drink person all the way.” At the amused expression on his face she added, “You know, daiquiris, cosmos, anything that comes with an umbrella.”
He poured himself a drink and knocked it back in one swallow. Twisting the glass around in his hand, he seemed to be inordinately interested in the tiny amount of scotch that was left at the bottom. A tiny muscle in his jaw ticked as if he was chewing on his thoughts.
“Positive?” He set the glass down and looked at her pointedly. “Because you might want one after what I’m about to ask you.”
A dozen red flags flapped in her head and her mouth went dry. First he wanted her out of his office and now he wanted to chat? Why the turnaround? She had a really bad feeling about this. Maybe she should take him up on his offer because she was suddenly very thirsty. Too bad she hated scotch.
She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. Trying to maintain her composure, she opened the small refrigerator and spotted a small can of grapefruit juice. “Got any vodka?”
“Right here.”
“Then I’ll have a greyhound. And don’t add too much juice. I want to be able to taste the alcohol.”
Grabbing a glass that hadn’t been broken, he made the drink, poured himself another scotch and pointed to the couch, the only piece of furniture unaffected by his tirade. “Take this and sit down,” he said in that gravelly voice of his. “But I’m afraid I’m fresh out of umbrellas.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE CHAMBER WAS lit only by candles. Hundreds of them. Encased in identical frosted-glass votive holders, they sat on almost every flat surface, casting a warm, flickering light on the stone walls.
People came here for answers, comfort or guidance, which Santiago had never understood. He didn’t feel he should have to look beyond the borders of his own skin for validation or support. He was a firm believer in being the driver of your own life. If you wanted something, you took it. If you worried about something, you figured it out. If you needed someone to do something, you told them. You didn’t stew or fret or ask for opinions. He sure as hell didn’t live his life by committee—earthly or divine. A savvy combination of fists and brainpower was the only formula for success he subscribed to and it had served him well the past two hundred years.
So, when he stepped inside the sanctuary, it wasn’t answers he sought.
Roxy was bent over the small altar on the dais, lighting candles with a long match that reminded him of the cigarette holders used by old Hollywood starlets. And like those women, there was something timelessly beautiful about her look, something that would never go out of fashion.
Nothing about her was hurried. She was agonizingly slow in everything she did and it drove him mad. Deliberate and methodical, she spent way too much time thinking about shit. Introspection and Santiago were like oil and water. They didn’t mix no matter how hard you shook them. He was a shoot-now-ask-questions-later kind of guy, but without the questions.
Her off-white gauzy dress skimmed her ankles and because her movements were slow and fluid, it gave her the appearance of floating on the stage. She was barefoot, and the light from behind silhouetted her long legs through the thin fabric. Her arms were ballet-dancer graceful and something sparkled in the soft, loose curls that fell past her shoulders. Whether it was now or a hundred years ago, men would find her classically beautiful and elegant.
If she thought she could avoid dealing with “his proposition,” as she’d called it, by running and hiding out here, she was sadly mistaken. Not much happened around region headquarters without him knowing about it. A snap of a finger or a terse phone call and his people told him everything he wanted to know. Which included reports that she’d gone into the sanctuary.
But it wasn’t a proposition he’d given her back in his office. It was a goddamn order.
She still hadn’t acknowledged him with so much as a glance in his direction or a nod of her head, so he shut the heavy, hand-carved doors behind him with a bang. She didn’t jump or act surprised. She simply turned around and those golden eyes burned right through him, as if she’d known the whole t
ime that he was here.
Undaunted, he strode up the center aisle between the rows of pews, the sound of his boots echoing irreverently throughout the chamber. “Are you trying to hide from me, Ms. Reynolds?” Going back to formalities emphasized who was in charge—him.
“Hide? Try ignore.”
“Because if you are, it’s a waste of time. My people tell me everything. You cannot—”
Wait. Did she say she was ignoring him? He came to a screeching halt. The woman came here because she was…snubbing him? Impossible. No one gave the region commander the brush-off. When he gave an order, people did what they were told.
“No one ignores me, Ms. Reynolds.”
“Am I supposed to be thrilled for you?” She turned back around and continued lighting those damn candles, dismissing him.
His blood boiled up like an active volcano and he spat out the toothpick he kept clenched between his teeth.
She was belittling him, discounting his authority. No one dared defy him like that.
No one.
He wanted to pound his fists through the walls and rip the sanctuary apart. Yank out a bench, lift it over his head, and throw it across the room. Instead, he stormed between the last set of pews and kicked at a hymnal that someone left lying on the floor. When he stomped onto the dais, the whole thing shook and a dozen tiny flames flickered.
She turned to face him, hands on her hips. From the defiant tilt of her chin, it was clear he didn’t intimidate her in the slightest. “What is your problem?”
Eucalyptus from either her shampoo or lotion faintly filled the air around him, while the fire in her eyes stirred up his insides. Both sensations were pleasing and he started to relax until he remembered the dakai thing. His sister had smelled of weird scented oils, too, because of that cult.
He moved in close until he towered over her, but she didn’t back away. Even with her head cranked back, she seemed to be able to level a stare at him. This vexed him even more. “I gave you a direct order.”
“Yes, I know you did.” She wasn’t at all impressed. “Too bad you have no authority over me.” There was a gleeful tone to her voice. It was subtle, but it was there.
Rather than stare her down, he stormed off the dais and stalked around the room.
“And don’t think you can go and have another one of your juvenile tantrums to make me cave,” she called after him.
“Juvenile? Where do you get off thinking you can call me that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not juvenile.”
He started to relax. She was right to be apologizing because—
“You’re more infantile than anything.”
What? His head was seriously going to explode. No one spoke to him this way. Back in his office, he’d told her she was going to accompany him to Seattle and masquerade as his lover in order to root out the traitor. End of story. He didn’t expect her to like the plan, but he damn well expected her to go along with it.
With an expression devoid of all emotion, she’d listened quietly to the rationale of posing as lovers in order to throw people in the Seattle field office off guard. When she didn’t react, he continued. He told her what Lily had said, that she had an uncanny ability to tell if someone’s motivations were good or not. Figuring he was stroking her ego, he assumed she’d jump at the chance to work on such an assignment with someone of his stature. When he was done, however, she’d stood from the couch, calmly placed the glass on his desk and walked out of the room without a word or a backward glance. He’d been so stunned by this it took him a moment to go after her. But by then, she was gone.
He gripped the back of one of the pews and glared at her. There she was on the dais looking like a damn angel. A pissed off but gorgeous angel. Even the light from behind framed her like a halo.
It wasn’t him, was it? No, it couldn’t be. Most women would jump at the chance to be his lover, so what was her problem?
The overturned hymnal at his feet, its pages curled under and bent, reminded him of the book she’d rescued from his office. He grabbed it, smoothed out the pages then set it back in on the seat.
Maybe she was fighting him because he was going about it the wrong way. He slumped down on the bench and rested his elbows on the seat in front of him. “The crib and bedding arrived and were put in Mackenzie’s room. Miguel fell asleep promptly, so…ah…thanks for bringing that to my attention.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, are you finished? I’m busy.” With her hands on her hips, she didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated by his gruff manner. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, she actually seemed to welcome it. Her eyes were livelier than he’d ever seen them before. There was a fire behind them now.
God, this woman was infuriatingly frustrating. He jumped to his feet.
What she needed was… He stormed around the room and cast around for good ideas. Hell, what she needed was a good paddling. And he’d enjoy giving her one, too, he thought. His hand to her bare butt. He wouldn’t do it hard—he’d make it sting just enough to hurt, to let her know who was boss.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t that much of a Neanderthal, was he? Rubbing the tattoos on this neck, he had to admit it did sound a little exciting. Actually, more than just a little. He stiffened just thinking about it.
He gave her a sidelong look. The flickering candlelight brought out the golden highlights in her hair. It looked like spun gold, making him ache to run his fingers through it to discover if it was as luxurious as he remembered when he pulled that twig from her hair on the side of the road. She had the kind of hair that a real caveman would hold on to for leverage as he thrust inside her every night.
“This is not a request, Ms. Reynolds. You will share my quarters when we get to the field office and we’ll act the part of lovers in order to get to the bottom of what’s going on. I will not have another Guardian in this region hurt because of some goddamned traitor.” He couldn’t care less that she didn’t want to or that he’d spoiled her little meditation party. His needs and the needs of the region were more important right now. They superseded everything. He waved his hand in the air and the nearby candles flickered again. “Pack your things. We depart for Seattle at dusk.”
She gave a little laugh and lit another one of those long matches. “You think you can just waltz in and bully me into something that I want no part of? Whatever is going on here is the Horseshoe Bay Region’s problem, not mine.”
“I’m not a bully,” he said gruffly.
“I don’t know what else to call it. You’re trying to force me into doing something that I don’t want to do. I mean, I sympathize that you want to get to the bottom of this, but I…I’m not the one to help you do that.” The flame she held shook slightly, belying her calm exterior. There was something more to her reluctance to help him out, he thought. Something she was hiding.
An unexpected sensation tugged at his insides, one he wasn’t familiar with. He suddenly didn’t want to scare or intimidate her. He wanted her to choose to do this with him, not be forced into it. Why couldn’t she just do what he wanted her to do? Life would be so much easier that way.
Given what Lily had said, Roxy may be the only one with the finesse to help him out. “No one else has the skills you do.”
“This is your fight. Not mine.”
There had to be more to it than that. She’d seen what Mackenzie was going through. He’d have thought that would be motivation enough for her to get on board.
Was it the whole posing as lovers thing? It couldn’t be that…could it? Normally, women found him very desirable and he couldn’t ever remember having this much trouble talking a woman into sharing his bed. And he didn’t even have plans to have sex with her.
What was it then? He racked his brain for an answer, but came up empty. He discreetly checked his breath. No, it was fine, but he popped in a breath mint anyway.
Maybe it was as simple as her not liking him. For some reason, this possible explanation bothered him
more the most.
“I’d like it…if you could help me.” The words felt unfamiliar as they formed on his tongue, the tone awkward and clunky. It reminded him how it felt to write and eat with his right hand. As a boy, his mother told him that the left hand was the hand of the devil, so she’d tie it behind his back to force him to use his right hand instead. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you asked), it didn’t work and he grew up as left-handed as they came. “I need to find out who’s doing this to my people so that no other family has to go through what Dom’s family is going through right now.”
Her hard expression cracked and a range of emotion played out on her face. It was as if a part of her wanted to help, but something was holding her back. “I’m not a Guardian any longer. Haven’t been one for decades. I’m just a trainer.” She turned away from him and continued lighting candles.
Just? She was the premiere trainer of all the Agency’s best scent trackers and a highly respected educator around North America. She single-handedly took down two Darkbloods without being armed. Surely, she didn’t doubt her own abilities. He frowned, not understanding her reaction. Could her refusal to help out have nothing to do with him? The realization hit him like a hammer over the head. He hadn’t considered that possibility before. He wasn’t used to not having things revolve around him.
Was she was afraid to get involved in an Agency mission again?
He recalled the latest tidbit of intel he’d received but hadn’t shared with anyone yet. “I know what happened to Ian.”
The chamber was so quiet, he could hear the faint sizzle of all those burning candle wicks. Slowly, she turned around and when her gaze met his, her expression had changed.
Gone was the mask of serenity he’d become accustomed to seeing. The calm eyes, the sensible tone in her conversations with students. She had an unshakable steadiness about her. Until now. In its place was a smoldering fire.
He continued. “I know that he was killed by Darkbloods.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “And why do you believe that? There are many within the Agency who think I was responsible for his death.”
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