“Sweetie-pie, babykins,” I cooed. “There you are!” I proceeded to smother his face in kisses, taking advantage of the temporary loss of his wits, which was the only reason he was not fending me off. One of my kisses inadvertently landed on his mouth, and I tried not to enjoy that little slip-up rather a lot.
The gang of Storm’s would-be attackers reacted just like I hoped they would. They may have been willing to get into fisticuffs with a belligerent drunk guy intent on baiting them, which was what Storm had been doing, but they weren’t so willing to get between a man and his amorous lady love.
After settling up his shocking bar tab, I dragged a protesting Storm out of the bar and took him safely home. I was very much looking forward to the explanation I was going to demand of him in the morning. Not long after that, I went to bed. And wouldn’t you know it, I started dreaming.
But not a cozy delightful dream. No. Because my dreams didn’t bother to indulge me in such ways.
In my dream was a dark-haired man with glittering eyes. He was sitting in a darkened room, and not by his own choice. His chair was a freaking prison. It was a metal monstrosity that was bolted onto the ground. He was held secured onto it by a thick metal belt attaching him to the back of the chair. His wrists and forearms were shackled to the chair’s arms. I sensed that he was a monster pinned into place like a bug, although nothing about him suggested that he was a monster. He looked like an ordinary man; a handsome one, if you found the edge of dark cruelty on his features to be attractive. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite remember who.
His prisoners had left him shirtless and pantsless, with only a pair of black boxers protecting his privacy. My eyes had adjusted swiftly to the dark, and I could see the curve of strong broad shoulders and muscular thigh muscles under his olive skin. I couldn’t imagine why they had left him almost nude until he moved, and the sigils on the chair and on his shackles gleamed a soft silver light. The gleaming stopped whenever he went still, but came back every time he moved an inch. It must have been uncomfortable in that chair because he was finding it difficult to stay still. At each gleam he gritted his teeth. Clearly it pained him. His prisoners wanted him to feel maximum pain. His head was hanging downwards. I sensed that if he had known I was there he would have been facing me. But he did not know I was watching him. This was just a dream.
Even so I sensed that he was waiting. I knew it with absolute certainty, just like I knew that he was waiting for me.
When I woke up I still knew that he was waiting for me. The question was who was he and why was he waiting? And did he even know yet that he was waiting?
The intensity of the dream faded quickly and all I was left with was a mild sense of curiosity. I wondered if he had anything to do with my missing girl Zezi.
As I stretched my body out in my bed, yawning noisily, I relegated the dream to the back of my mind. It was not the worst psychic dream I had ever had. There hadn’t been any death in it and not much misery in the large scale of things. And I had something far more interesting to distract me this morning. His deliciously warm body was behind me; spooning me, in fact. It made my face light up in a wicked grin.
There were not many people who I would let make me into a little spoon. In fact, there was only one. And no matter how much I liked Constantine Storm being my big spoon, I was not about to miss my chance to see his face when he woke up in my bed. I rolled around quietly until I was facing him. I was so close to his delicious sable hair with that hint of curl that it was incredibly difficult for me not to reach out and run my fingers through it. His face was devastatingly handsome in sleep and his lips perfectly kissable. I could have eaten him right up.
Instead, I took a moment to contemplate him without him being aware of me. I had been drawn strongly to Storm from the moment we met, and now I could hear the reason why. I couldn’t describe the psychic-music that emanated from him except to say that it was deep and powerful and ever-present. It felt as vast as an ocean and it never went away. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and whether it was something to do with him, or to do with the way that I felt about him. It was coming from him now even though he was fast asleep.
Chuckling quietly to myself, I tapped the tip of his nose with my index finger and whispered, “Agent Storm, wakey wakey!”
He sighed, his chest expanding as he took in a deep breath and then released it. But he did not wake up.
Gosh, could the man be any cuter? His dark eyelashes were flush against his warm skin. I had studied every inch of his face last night when he had dropped into sleep, knowing that I might not see him like that again in a long time.
Pretending that I was only doing it as a game to wake him up, I ran my finger along his jaw — appreciating the rough hint of dark stubble that had sprung up overnight — and then down his chest. I traced my finger in a sinuous wavy motion against the firmness of his muscles, pressing hard enough for him to feel it. I thought he might spring up like a warrior, but the man was out of it.
A worry crossed my mind. Would his first instinctive thought on waking be that it was me with him or someone else? It had darn well better not be someone else. Not that I had any right to think that. It was not like I was his girlfriend. And boy did I hope he didn’t have a girlfriend. That would totally suck.
Feeling irked by the thought, I poked him. Still he did not wake up. My mattress bounced a tiny amount as my cat AngelBeastie jumped up onto it. She casually trampled over storm, climbing up his legs and perching on his torso. I swear she gave me a little grin as she sunk her claws into him.
That woke him up. He sat up fast, sending a yowling AngelBeastie tumbling off him in disgust. She swiped him angrily before lightly jumping onto the floor, clearly annoyed at having an unwanted visitor in her bed. Storm was now sitting up against the headrest, staring all about him in wild confusion. First at my room with its old furniture and faded wallpaper and the plexiglass-enclosed shower cubicle right next to the kitchenette — a sight which clearly baffled him. Then reluctantly his gaze moved to the bed, taking in the rumpled sheets. Lastly it moved to me.
These days I much preferred to have nothing between me and my sheets — but last night, for his benefit, I had put on leggings and a T-shirt. I might have worn something scanty to tease him if it wasn’t for my darned navelstone, the glittering blackness of it fused to my flesh too icky a sight for me to want Storm to see. Even I had never quite got used to my navelstone, and I doubted that Storm had seen anything like it. I doubted that he wanted to. Wasn’t I a considerate bed mate?
Seeing that I was dressed had brought a look of vast relief across Storm’s face. How very insulting.
“Good morning, lover,” I purred at him.
The sound of my voice made him wince and rub his temples. He was still dressed in the jeans and shirt that he had been wearing last night. I had considered removing the jeans — to make him more comfortable and not just because I fancied getting a look at his legs — but I had decided against it. Now I wished I had taken the time. It would have been worth it to see the look on his face.
Chuckling, I got up and straddled his lap. “I had a good time last night, sweetie,” I crooned. “Did you?”
“What?” he said huskily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He did not look like a happy bunny.
“Last night,” I repeated in a breathy feminine voice, all the while fluttering my eyelashes at him. “Remember? You and me…? I’m trying to decide what I should call you now. I quite like loverboy. Or sweet-cheeks. I can’t decide.”
The word sweet-cheeks seemed to horrify him.
I ran the palms of my hands up his shirt and I let my fingers settle on his top button, as if considering unfastening it. I raised my eyebrow at him questioningly.
He bit his lip nervously, and stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing it. “What… happened?” he asked, as if trying to figure out how to handle this quandary that he found himself in. I was his employee after all. Sort of. He seemed to be
reassessing whether finding us both wearing clothes meant what he had originally thought it had meant.
“Don’t say that, sweet-cheeks. You’ll make me think I wasn’t memorable.” Pretending to sulk, I got off him and the bed and went to the sink to get him a glass of water. While I was at it I yanked open my blackout curtains. He flinched at the sudden rush of daylight.
“It’s a good job I already know I wasn’t disappointing,” I said brightly. “Because someone was a very naughty boy last night.” I pranced over to him with an over-exaggerated swing in my hips and handed him the glass. “I must admit you took me quite by surprise, Agent Storm.”
He had the grace to blush ever so slightly. He took a sip of water, and then swallowed hard. “What happened?”
I opened my eyes wide. “You still don’t remember?”
“Not quite,” he confirmed. He grimaced and then gulped down the entire glass of water.
“Headache?” I asked, unsurprised.
“What happened?” he repeated in a firm voice, attempting to reclaim the authority that he thought he had lost last night.
I leaned back against my sofa and crossed my arms over my chest. “You tell me. I found you completely trashed in a bar. Boy, was the barman pleased when I turned up to drag your carcass home with me. He said he’d been worried you are about to turn belligerent, but he and I both knew you were well past that.”
“I’m never belligerent,” Storm murmured darkly, the confused look on his face testament to the fact that he was not remembering any of this. “And I never drink.”
“Last night you did. So much that you decided to pick a fight with a pack of law-abiding werewolves who were noisily and yet harmlessly celebrating their stag do, as the barman told it.”
“So we didn’t…?” He looked meaningfully at the bed.
I took pity on him and confirmed, “No, we didn’t. I don’t take advantage of drunk men, no matter how cute they are.”
He looked surprised at my words, and more than a little annoyed. “I wasn’t drunk,” he muttered.
“I beg to differ. So, do you want to tell me what is up with you?”
“Nothing,” he said rather darkly.
“Come on, Storm. Something is up with you. I dreamed of you getting into a bar fight a couple of times this past week so clearly it’s been coming for a while. Aren’t you lucky I turned up?”
“I don’t get into bar fights.”
“That’s what I said to myself when I had the dreams. Special Agent Constantine Storm does not get into bar fights. This dream must not know what it’s talking about. Then there I was on Oxford Street at 3:00 am last night, happily prancing home, when I heard your caterwauling cry for help.”
“I didn’t cry for help!”
“Not with your voice you didn’t. But with your spirit you did. Very, very loudly.”
“I doubt it,” he muttered.
“And had I not already been out on the town of my own accord, I would be telling you off right now, because some of us have a Sunday job to get to. So now I really must ask you why you were ready to get into fisticuffs with eleven werewolves…?”
Storm did not respond. He had tipped his head back against my bed’s headboard and his eyes were screwed shut as if the world was too excruciating to face. This was not like him at all, and I was rather enjoying telling Mr Efficient Organized Ultra-Capable Super Agent off for once.
“Eleven,” I said loudly, making him wince. “And you without your gear. Not even a cagenet. Where is the sense in that, I ask you?”
He looked at me through squinty eyes as if the daylight pouring in through the window behind me was painful. “What else did you dream?” he asked. His brow had furrowed with suspicion. Which was very interesting indeed. Perfect Mr Storm was hiding something.
Beastie took this moment to leap back onto the bed and make her way onto Storm’s lap as if she owned it. She walked around and around on his thighs, patting with her paws. Storm looked at her with horror, as if sure she was going to dig her claws into him at any second. I wouldn’t have put it past her. She might be an angelic-looking pure white fluff ball, but her grumpy little face said everything you needed to know about what she was really thinking.
She seemed to deem Storm a worthy cushion because she settled down on top of him, making him look even more horrified. Chuckling at his predicament, I removed the empty water glass from his hand and dumped it into the sink.
“You mean what else have I dreamed of about to you?” I purred, fluttering my eyelashes. “Are you sure you want to know? I wouldn’t want to make you blush. Or maybe I would…”
Storm exited my bed so swiftly that Beastie yelped in surprise as she dropped off his lap. She hissed to show her displeasure. As Storm looked around for his shoes, I made one last ploy to find out what he was hiding.
“Come on, Storm. If you don’t tell me what is going on with you then I will just end up dreaming it. You know I will.”
This wasn’t entirely true. I couldn’t control my visions and dreams or what messages the wordless psychic song of the world chose to send my way. My psychic ability had almost never shown me anything to do with the lives of the people I actually knew and cared about. This was a very frustrating fact, and one that Storm didn’t need to know about.
Storm had found his shoes and was pulling them on.
“Well?” I said, going to plant myself firmly between him and the door. This brought me to within touching distance of him. He put his hands on my waist and firmly guided me sideways so that he could reach the coat rack on the back of my door. Seeing that his jacket was not there, he looked towards my couch. The jacket was not there either.
“You’ve got me intrigued now,” I said. “You might as well tell me because I never give up once I am intrigued. I’ll be making sure to have as many dreams of you as possible from now on.”
I shouldn’t have goaded him like this, but I sensed that if he didn’t spill it now than he wouldn’t spill it ever. And how was I supposed to help him if he wouldn’t spill it?
Storm had spotted his jacket. It was on the small table near my window that I used as both my dining table and my desk. It was right on top of the files that I had left there yesterday evening, and which I had completely forgotten to put away.
Before I could stop him, Storm picked up his jacket. As he began to put it on, his eyes fell onto the files. He froze with one arm in his jacket and one arm out. I winced. I wasn’t supposed to take the files out of the office, and this situation was worse than that.
As he picked the files up, I went over to snatch them from him. Or I would have, if he’d let go. He held onto them with an iron grip, damn him.
“What the hell is this?” he said.
“Look, I know I am not supposed to bring files home—” I began.
He interrupted me. “I’ve been gone from the office for less than a week, and already you’re breaking the rules?”
My attempts to ease the files out of his hands only made him more interested in them. As his eyes dropped downwards, I gave a sharp tug. Naturally this made matters worse. The files spilled onto the ground, and all of the contents fell out. Case notes, photos, autopsy reports. Everything.
“Darn it! Look what you’ve done!” I chided him.
Now Storm could see exactly what they were and his faced turned dark as thunder. “What the hell?” he muttered. He crouched to rifle through the papers.
“I was going to tell you,” I said. “Maybe.”
He scowled up at me. “Maybe?”
“Ah, you know. On a needs to know basis. If you needed to know, then I would have told you.”
I gave him a cheeky grin. Maybe it was the irascible supposed Angel of Death in me that was making me enjoy this so much. Not that I had been able to confirm if I was the Angel of Death or not. Theo’s magic spell had been supposed to combine the two warring separated sides of my personality, but I had also hoped it would cure me of my amnesia. It had not. There was still
a big blank spot in my head where my memories of the first fifteen years of my life should have been.
Storm snatched up the files and waved them at me. “What the hell is this, Diana? These are not the files I gave you.”
“Aww. There’s no point being upset.” I batted my lashes at him. “I was bored with the ones you gave me. There was only one good one and I have been investigating that one. I swear. But if you really want me to close cold cases you should let me look at absolutely everything in the archives, don’t you think?”
He waved the top file at me, probably the most forbidden of these files. I had kept coming back to this one over and over these past few days. It’s song had been a persistent and irksome thrum, jibing at me that it was important. Storm looked very annoyed to find it in my possession.
Psychic for Hire Series Box Set Page 69