by Chant, Zoe
The pork simmered in paprika and garlic, wrapped in grape leaves, tender buttered potatoes, and spicy purple cabbage—a dish familiar since childhood—helped steady him. Mick got up to pour out a crisp white wine as he explained that the wine came from a winery run by a local’s cousin—without, of course, mentioning that that cousin was a wolfhound shifter, whose success with wine was due to his super-powered nose.
“This pork dish is just as good as I remembered,” Dennis said in his genial, loud voice. “I’ll eat anything at least once, but it’s funny how much I miss home cooking while in the field.”
“You boys always liked the simple foods,” Mrs. Volkov said. “Hot, and plenty of it.”
“Guilty as charged,” Dennis replied, laughing heartily, and JP sensed tension underlying the apparent hilarity. It was the tension of the hunt. “While trying to eat tawi with a banana-leaf spoon in West Papua, I could not help thinking of that beef and dumpling dish you used to serve us. What pigs we were! I distinctly remember putting away three platefuls one time.”
“Ah, but you were growing boys,” Baba Marisia exclaimed.
JP loved her as if she had been his own grandmother. This house had been his safe haven when things were strained at home, and it had been part of the comfort that the house and the Volkovs had never changed so much as a chair. They themselves had seemed changeless, until Ivan had began suffering mini-strokes. Now he could see how much they had aged.
His heightened awareness included Mick and Dennis, who he knew were waiting for the signal to leave for a briefing. He would not ruin the dinner by look or word, even if an outsider had not been there, for that would disrespect all the effort Baba Marisia had put into preparing the meal.
His eyes promptly moved to the soft curls falling on Jan’s shoulders, the entrancing curve of her neck before it vanished into the collar of her shirt. But then his imagination arrowed promptly to the delectable curves beneath that shirt, and heat shivered through him.
With the iron discipline instilled in him since boyhood, he shuttered that thought away and concentrated on the chatter. Dennis had launched into a description of his journey to West Papua to live with the Dani and Walak tribes.
When Mrs. Volkov brought out the well-remembered dessert she called chak-chak—deep-fried sticks of eggy dough covered with a hardened honey sauce, and served with strong tea—Dennis stopped in the middle of a sentence, and said, “But I’ve been gabbing non-stop. Come on. Everybody else take a turn. What’s the strangest food ever put before you?”
“That must be said what we found at home, during German war,” said Mick’s grandfather, Dyed Ivan.
“Oh, yes.” Baba Marisia nodded slowly. “During bad Stalin days, we were so very poor, and food so scarce. We ate some very strange things. Very strange.”
Mick said, “I have to say the biggest surprise for me was French food. I’d been expecting frog legs and snails. I guess I could’ve had them, but what I got were the best wine sauces I’ve ever tasted. Pastry, too.” He kissed his fingertips and opened his hand. “Shelley?”
“I’m going to have to pass,” Shelley said. “I’ve never been outside of Los Angeles, and I pretty much stick to foods I like. But the weirdest foods I ever saw were some of the combinations students came up with at the cafeteria my first year at UCLA. French fries in ice cream, anybody?”
That got a general expression of disgust, and Mick turned to Jan, smiling. “How about you, Jan?”
“I also have to pass,” she said. Her voice really was pure gold, a molten, glowing river. JP shut his eyes, fighting another surge of fiery heat as she uttered a soft laugh. “The only traveling I’ve done is choir tours, on which they took us to chain franchises. Oh, and there was the short-lived opera company that was supposed to perform across the country, but they ran out of money. Cut us loose in Chicago to get home any way we could. I lived on peanut butter and crackers for the duration of the billion-hour bus trip home.”
Shelley turned around in her chair. “I’d forgotten that! No wonder we never had any peanut butter in the apartment.”
“Can’t stand the sight of it.” Jan shook her head, her curls falling like corn silk around her face, and JP’s fingers tingled with the desire to touch.
The others laughed easily, then Dennis said, “JP?”
He had curled his fists under the table, and forcibly relaxed them as he said, “Pass. You know I like everything.”
“Whereas I eat everything,” Dennis said, and went off retailing another of his adventures.
JP didn’t hear a word. Jan’s beautiful voice kept ringing in his head. And under cover of the general chatter, he bent toward her. “Opera?” he asked.
How could she be more amazing?
* * *
How can I be more boring? Jan thought, groaning inwardly, and braced for the snarky comment about opera.
But when she dared a peek at him, his expression was anything but snarky. No way. No possible way this incredibly handsome, smoking hot man liked opera? His amazing black eyes had widened, his lips—she tried not to stare at the sexy curve of his lips—parted.
Though everybody else was now talking about sports, JP’s attention was solely on Jan. And he was waiting for an answer.
“Yes.” She swallowed a boulder the size of Texas. “Opera. I can sing anything, of course, and have for short soundtrack gigs. But I’m a trained soprano.”
First rule of dating, the senior resident had told Jan and Shelley their first year in college dorms—neither of them having been very successful at dating. When you meet a hot guy, don’t drool.
“What type of soprano roles do you sing?”
He knew subcategories of opera vocals? I can’t remember Rule Two, her inner voice wailed as she stuttered, “Lyric, certain spinto roles.”
The others at the table laughed at something Mick said, but JP leaned toward her, lowering his voice. No drooling, she thought in panic as her entire body lit up from within. He asked, “Which operas have you sung?”
Her mind blanked so hard she couldn’t remember the tune to “Three Blind Mice.” Get a grip, she told herself as he waited for an answer. Of course he would be married, or have a harem of girlfriends, or was gay, or any and all combinations of the three.
But then she caught herself up. I’m the chubby sidekick, the comedy relief, she reminded herself sternly. He’s being polite. As soon as these good-looking guys leave the room, out will come the jokes about the fat lady singing.
Because there was no possible way that JP LaFleur could have any interest in her.
The thought steadied her enough to gulp a breath and speak. She told him the names of operas, and to her amazement saw recognition in the tiny nods he made now and then.
“Probably everyone has seen, or been dragged to, La Bohème,” he said, “but my favorite Puccini is Madama Butterly, seconded closely by Turandot.”
He liked her favorite opera? “’Un Bel Di’ is in my repertoire,” she said, not adding that though she sang it well, no one in weight-conscious LA wanted a roly-poly Butterfly on stage. So she’d never performed it outside of college.
“One of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written,” he said, his soft voice sheeting through her with toe-curling heat. “I think the best performance I ever saw was in Prague—”
“JP?” Dennis called down the table. “What year was it your dad took us to see the World Cup soccer tournament?”
Jan could have sworn it was impatience that tightened JP’s expression before he answered in his calm, polite voice. The look was gone so fast she wasn’t sure she’d really seen it, but as he turned back to her, the thought occurred that he not only had perfect manners, he had perfect self control.
Definitely being nice to the fat girl, she scolded herself. So keep it cool.
* * *
JP was ready to talk to her all night. Listen to her amazing voice. Watch the subtle changes of expression in her face—shy, wary, elusive glimpses of humor in the
dimples beside her entrancing lips that flashed quickly, then vanished, as if she laughed inside.
What could she be thinking?
They were on their third round of “Have you seen?” when a sharp rap on his ankle brought his attention up, and Mick sent him a look.
Yes. Business, and it was late.
“We’d better see Dennis back,” Mick said, rising. “He shouldn’t be up so long on that leg.”
JP sighed inwardly, rose, and pushed his chair back. “This has been the best meal I’ve tasted in weeks. Thank you! I apologize for leaving so soon, but once we get Dennis back, I promised to see to some council tasks tonight.” He smiled at Jan as he uttered polite farewells to the others.
Baba Marisia said, “Carry my greetings to your mother.”
Dennis said, “Baba Marisia, Dyed Ivan, it’s been wonderful. Shelley and Jan, good to meet you. Later!”
Mick walked to the door. “I’ll drive Dennis back to his place, and use the opportunity to fill him in on his co-best man duties.”
A little more polite noise, and JP stepped into the open air. He breathed deeply, trying to get his head back in the game.
Without much luck. As soon as they reached the street, he turned on Mick. “You didn’t tell me Jan sings opera.”
“Sure I did. Or maybe I forgot.” Mick shrugged, hands out. “You know I hate opera.”
Dennis groaned. “We’re not going to have to sit through opera, are we?”
Mick turned a scowl on him. “Shelley wants Jan to sing.” His bear growl roughened his voice. “This will be Shelley’s only wedding—and my last—so what she wants she will have.”
Dennis lifted one hand in surrender. “Kidding, kidding! I will sit there and I will smile at your opera if it kills me.” His joking tone eased. “I really like Shelley. You finally done good, Mick.”
JP sensed Mick’s bear subsiding, as Dennis turned his way. “Okay, you mentioned possible action. What gives?”
JP promised himself he would see Jan again the next morning, and forced his mind to duty. He said with an apologetic glance at Mick, “I wouldn’t bring it up at all, except that the situation has worsened over the past week.”
Mick grunted. “What’s going on?”
“Six months ago, my mother reported that someone had been at the town hall asking for the old maps of the town.”
Dennis shrugged. “But isn’t that business as usual? We had to get one, as I recall, for some high school history project. Remember we talked Mr. Hale into letting us make a film story about the old Mission days?”
Mick laughed. “I remember that. We pretty much turned it into one long gun battle.”
“Remember Tom Hsing’s gang of banditos—”
“Focus,” JP said. And he felt their intent sharpen. Right now he needed the bear’s sense of environmental awareness and the tiger’s hunt instinct. “The month after that, we received official notice from Sacramento that . . . well, never mind the details. It was a bureaucratic end run that would have effectively redistricted Sanluce in a way to take away its autonomy. But Jennifer Kim, my contact in Sacramento, effectively squashed it.”
“I love having a weasel on our side,” Dennis joked, then quickly, “I know, I know, Jennifer’s a ferret. You know what I mean. So far it sounds like paper pushers dicking around. That doesn’t spell action to me.”
“I’m not done. A couple weeks ago, Jennifer reported that someone with enough clout to get results had been requesting all the old records of Santa Lucia.”
“Why?” Dennis asked. “My dad told me there aren’t any written records, other than a couple of letters between the old hacienda owners, and the one bill of sale to your family, JP.”
JP turned to Dennis. “Because of the vans. They first started appearing about the same time as the requests for the old maps. Once or twice a month. Here and there, always far afield.”
“Setting fires? Doing damage?” Dennis gave a tigerish growl.
“No. People casually mentioned them, so casually they were driving under the radar until Alma Jimenez happened to notice two different vans out at the old smelting site in separate months while she was on regular patrol. She ran the license plate of the second one. It was legit, but a rental from some LA company. She told Chief Albert, who drove out himself, but by the time he got there, it was gone.”
“Why would anyone be at the old smelting site once, much less twice? That building came down after World War I, right?” Mick asked. “That’s city land, too. It’s not being sold?”
“Funny you should ask that,” JP said. “Less than a week after Alma pinged that license plate, the city council was approached by a high priced lawyer with a glossy brochure about building a huge trade complex here ‘at the hub of the agricultural world.’”
The other two laughed.
“Promised all kinds of economic boost, jobs, yadda, but the city council told him the land is zoned for a public park.”
“Who did he represent?” Dennis asked.
“I checked out the brochure myself. Shell company, main headquarters overseas. Dead end.”
“Except that lawyers, brochures, overseas accounts, that suggests major bucks,” Mick commented.
“Yes,” JP said. “So I took the opportunity to launch my own, let’s go ahead and call it a counter-attack, through a connection at the IRS, who sounded very interested in this mysterious company.”
Mick and Dennis laughed, Mick high fiving Dennis. “That’s our Jeep,” Dennis said.
“Meanwhile, more vans, seen here and there around town. It’s been escalating, which is why I called you, Dennis. After I called you, it began escalating fast. And that brings me to today, and you guys. There were two vans out at either end of the old Gutierrez ranch site this morning.”
“That ranch burned down a hundred years ago,” Mick exclaimed. “Nothing’s been on it since then. It’s still LaFleur property, right?”
“Yes. Chief Albert’s oldest kid Jason had overheard the talk about the vans. You probably don’t remember him, as both of you have been gone a lot, but he wants to become a detective. Anyway, he was out running today. Saw them, went back and changed to human. Rode back on his bike to confront them. Said he saw a couple of guys working over the ground down in one of the ditches. It looked like a big, supercharged metal detector. But when he asked them who they were and what they were doing, he said, a huge guy came around the side of the van and beat the crap out of him.”
Mick growled low in his big chest, and Dennis shifted from his bad leg to his good, as if he wanted to shift to his tiger and go on the hunt right then.
“When he woke up, they were gone. He called home, and Chief Albert called me. I was just pulling up to your house, Mick, when I got the call.”
“Hell,” Mick exclaimed. “I think I saw those vans on the taxi ride in from the airport. I didn’t see the kid, though.”
“They’d tossed him down into the ditch, and his bike on top of him. You wouldn’t have seen him from the road.”
“Beat him up? Without saying a word?” Dennis asked.
JP nodded once after each question. “I’d say we’re looking at a change in tactics here.”
“Metal detector . . .” Mick sighed. “They’re nosing for gold.”
“Right,” JP said. “So I was going to ask you to go out there. Sniff around, see what you can pick up. I want you to be able to recognize their scents again. I’m going to do an aerial scan.”
“Dammit.” Dennis thumped his cane on the ground. “I want to help, but I’m tied by this damn leg.”
JP said, “Dennis, tough as you are, and fast as we heal, you know that shifting with half-healed bones is a bad idea. Wait until we need desperate measures. I’m just glad you’re back. If they’re after the LaFleur hoard, the non-shifter part of town can’t be involved. We have to settle it ourselves.”
All three men paused, Dennis and Mick sniffing the air. JP could feel the two letting their animals rise part way, just
enough for their stronger senses of hearing and smell to surface. He waited, his dragon quiescent, listening below the surface of human sound. But his mental awareness homed straight into the Volkovs’ house, and that golden voice. He shut the inner door. This was not time to indulge a sudden attraction. He waited until the bear and the tiger had subsided again.
“Nothing bad on the air in the neighborhood,” Mick said. “Let me get Dennis back to his place, then I’ll do a ramble. You do a flyover. If nothing’s wrong, we’ll talk in the morning.”
Chapter Five
When the three guys left, the house suddenly seemed empty. Jan turned her attention to Shelley, to catch a somber expression on her face. But the second their eyes met, her face smoothed out. “Want to lend a hand with the dishes?”
“There is no need,” Baba Marisia said. “Misha insisted upon buying us this dishwasher. It is the work of a moment to load everything into it.”
“I promise we’ll be even faster,” Shelley said.
Jan sensed that this had been arranged between Mick and Shelley, and raised her hand. “I can’t cook, but I am the best dishwasher in L.A.”
Baba Marisia relented, and Jan and Shelley pitched in. Jan bit back the nearly overwhelming desire to ask questions about JP. Her crush was totally impossible. But as they worked, she could not get his voice, his face, the elusive, masculine scent of him out of her mind. She stayed silent as the other two chattered. Soon the kitchen was clean and the dishwasher humming and sloshing. By then the old folks were looking tired. Shelley said, “We had a long drive. How about calling it a night?”
After a round of thanks and good wishes for pleasant dreams, Shelley walked out with Jan. The air was soft, the heat slowly dying away. Tiny lights flickered here and there.
“What is that?” Jan asked.
Shelley’s grin was invisible in the dark, but Jan could hear it in her voice. “Fireflies.”
“Fireflies! I thought . . . wait,” Jan exclaimed. “I had to do a report in high school about fireflies. The ones west of the Rocky Mountains don’t flash.”