All she needed to do was disrupt her pattern of non-dating. To do that she needed to consider her “assets” and liabilities. She was the owner of a successful biotech company. Asset. Attractive, with a pretty decent body. Asset. Intelligent, with a good sense of humor. Asset. The ability to hold her tequila. Definite asset. The liabilities were her emotional armor and her status as a death magnet. Not something she’d put on a dating profile but they were definite obstacles to a long-term relationship. More assets than liabilities.
Analise moisturized her body as she weighed the best approach to jumpstart her love life. Getting a date wasn’t the issue. Going on a date was the problem. Dating was one of the few times she fully embraced her telepathic side since it helped weed out the trash. The one date with potential had been Jason Alton. She’d met him at one of the rare biotech conferences Mark forced her to attend. Jason worked for a marketing firm expanding its portfolio of biogenetics startups. While she said no to his sales pitch, she agreed to dinner the next time he was in San Francisco.
They communicated through video chat, text, and emails for several weeks. Jason’s sense of humor and intelligence made it easy to say yes to dinner when he messaged about a visit to the city. She enjoyed her dinner with Jason, even considered flying to Boston to see if the chemistry was real. Then—
Perhaps she was naïve, but a meal didn’t translate to a promised night in her bed. She also didn’t anticipate she’d have to make the point forcefully. At least Jason had the use of his right hand, and she did pay the hospital bill.
Dating post-Jason was pretty much one and done. The first hint sex was expected meant there was never a second date. Analise knew her sexual drought needed to end, and soon. Time to let Mark engage in matchmaking. At least that way she’d up with someone who didn’t live in a cave. Her decision made she got dressed and walked into the kitchen.
A smile flitted across her lips as she did a quick happy dance. Although she rarely spent time in the French provincial kitchen Sydney had designed, she loved the space. It was somewhere to start her day or unwind, especially at the large island that made a dining set unnecessary. The smell of coffee reminded her why she was in the kitchen. Analise grabbed a coffee mug and filled it. While her coffee cooled, she toasted a bagel and slathered on raspberry jam.
She sat on a stool and considered the dream as she ate. It was never “her” dream—just the dream. Her last therapist had said the dreams were a manifestation of the psychic trauma she suffered in childhood. Sexual fantasy, the therapist stated, was Analise’s attempt to compensate for being alive. Her dreams, according to the dipshit, were fear of real-life intimacy. Analise argued that wasn’t the case. She ended her relationship with the therapist when they pulled professional rank. They declared that Analise didn’t have control over life and death and she needed to get over herself.
The dipshit was only half wrong.
We are so not engaging in these conversations, Analise replied.
She ate the last bit of her bagel and slid off the stool to put the dirty dish in the dishwasher and refill her coffee mug. Strolling into the living room, she considered a drive to Santa Cruz. The weather forecast sounded perfect. She could get a burrito and work in a meeting with Richard Houston, director of her company’s Santa Cruz lab.
She picked up a remote from the coffee table and pressed a button. An opaque wall of glass became transparent, giving her a view of Treasure Island and the Oakland Bay Bridge. The sun’s rays danced on the bridge’s gray metal. A sudden movement drew her eyes to the upper rim of the bridge where shadow-like figures perched on the railing. One of the shadows launched itself into the air and flew across the bay. She blinked rapidly, narrowing her eyes as it disappeared into the sun’s brightness. What in the world?
Your guardian angels, Dream Candy’s voice whispered in her head.
Her gaze returned to the upper rail. All she saw was steel. Her shoulders drooped and she released a disappointed sigh. She lived in a world where supernaturals existed, mostly shifters and telepaths. The possibility of guardian angels, and even demons, had always excited her curiosity.
With a final glance at the bridge, she turned away with a self-deprecating laugh. “John Milton, what you’ve done to me? Got me wishing for angels and demons as if things weren’t already bad enough for supernatural folk.”
She strolled into her office and turned on her computer. When the image of Catalina Island morphed onto the screen, she set her cup on the desk. “Hey Siri, is Mark’s computer on?”
“Good morning, Ms. Drake. It is. Would you care to send a message?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Your statement assumes I have emotions, which I do not. Your statement, however, does require a response. I do not mind, Ms. Drake.”
As Siri’s voice faded, a man’s face filled the right corner of Analise’s screen. “Good morning, Marcus. How’s Jess?”
A pair of sleepy green eyes blinked Mark’s irritation. “Marcus is my uncle for the gazillionth time. Good morning, Empress of the Universe. Jess is happy, sated, and in the shower.”
“You call me Empress, I call you Marcus and the battle goes on. TMI.” Analise squinted at him. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
“Last night’s fun, and you dared me,” he retorted. “Like it?”
“True, but I didn’t have a variation of orange in mind. How does Jess feel about it?”
“Loves me, loves the hair.”
“The man’s an amazing lawyer, a police commissioner by day, and upright as they come. What have you done to him? Although, since he married you, there’s a dark side to him I’m loving. Hmm, burnt sienna belongs on a bird of paradise.”
“Jess’s days are intense enough, especially with the glory hound in the mayor’s office,” Mark stated. “He needs to come home to fun and games. If the color of my hair makes him lust, so much the better. Besides, hair color is better than body art unless there’s a cultural reason for tattoos. Although I’ve considered getting an archangel and my name tattooed somewhere.”
“You’re all talk,” she tossed back. “Hmm, didn’t you run screaming when I got my dagger and hamsa?”
“Yeah,” Mark replied. “I watched your face when the tattooist started.”
He looked away for a second. When he faced the screen once more, Mark’s eyes peered at her. “Why are you up so early, Lise?”
She lowered her eyelids. “Dreams.” She saw the concern on his face when she opened her eyes. “I’m thinking a trip to Santa Cruz will cure what ails me.”
“You mean El Jefe’s will cure you, and not today. You have meetings.”
Analise groaned. “There was nothing on my calendar.”
“When did you last look at your calendar?” Mark demanded
“I don’t know. Yesterday, maybe.” She winced when Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That’s why you’re in charge.”
He leaned back against his chair. “We’re not playing that game. Repeat after me. Check my calendar, not just my text messages before I go to bed. Do this first thing in the morning. Rinse and repeat. On occasion, you’re a beautiful waste of perfectly good oxygen and brain cells, Analise Saria Willoughby.”
“The whole actual birth name?” She squealed. “I can’t believe you really went there.” Mark was the only person who knew most of her history. Except for Dream Candy. “What happened to Empress of the Universe?”
Mark pursed his lips. “When you don’t act like the hard-ass owner of a biotech company, I’ll definitely invoke found family privileges.”
She failed to smother a giggle and earned a fierce snarl. It took a minute to compose her expression. “What’s on my calendar?”
“Your company’s version of Doofensmirtz’s lab, which for reasons known only to you, sits in the building where you have corporate offices and where I work. . .” his voice trailed off.
“Omg, I loved Phineas and Ferb,” she said.
“It was an an
alogy, Lise. Not an invitation to relive your youth.” Mark sighed. “I don’t get why you didn’t find another location. What if your LRs blow up something?”
“I don’t think Robert and his group care for the ‘lab rats’ label. My calendar?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “You’ll face my spouse if anything happens. Anyway, Robert wants you to drop in and taste the latest ice cream flavor he’s concocted. After the taste test, he wants to discuss some anomalies he’s found. Last item on the agenda, and I quote, ‘there’s some kick-ass equipment I need’. It’s rather pricey.”
“What’s the ice cream flavor?”
“Mud pie.”
Analise grimaced. “It doesn’t sound too bad, although chocolate isn’t at the top of my list.”
“It’s real mud, Empress.”
She shivered. “Yuck. How much do I pay Robert and his researchers?”
“Way too much, but if you ask Robert, he’ll say not enough for their collective brilliance.”
Mark tapped his iPad. “Focus, Lise. The anomalies and the expensive lab equipment.”
“Sorry. Distracted by the idea of eating real mud. Tell Robert I’ll stop by this afternoon. I’ll leave you to negotiate a deal on the equipment he wants. Check with Richard. He’ll want whatever Robert wants. Who or what is the second appointment?”
“It’s a who, uber billionaire Peter Nathanson.”
Mark watched Analise’s face closely before he continued. “He’s in town for some charity thing and requested a meeting. It’s scheduled for 10:30am instead of the lunch date he wanted. Your mud pie meeting is at 2:30, which gives you plenty of time to consume the pastries I’m providing and justify your refusal to nibble Robbie’s little experiment.”
“What does Nathanson want? I’ve never met the man or know what he looks like.”
“Besides AnthroGen?” Mark paused for a second. His grin became wickedly mischievous. “To your second point, hiding under a rock, Empress, means you miss a lot of life.”
Mark’s finger went to his bottom lip. “Ooh, Petey hasn’t dated an SF girl, saw your picture on Insta, and your beautiful Black tush is about to get lucky.”
“I should sack your pretty ass,” she fired back.
“Language, Dr. Drake,” Mark chided. “No replacement for your oh-so-exquisite guardian angel. Not cloned yet. I suspect Richard’s recent scientific breakthrough award is the reason for Nathanson’s impromptu visit. Your chariot is at the curb, Empress.”
Analise stuck her tongue out at him.
Mark’s laughter flooded her living room before an imploding black hole replaced his face. Her groan was loud. There has to be a way to stop him and his geeks from messing with her devices.
“If I didn’t love Jess so much, I’d kill you, Mark Stane,” she muttered.
“Not true, Empress.”
She laughed and turned off her computer. Five minutes later, she walked into the elevator, exiting when she reached the lobby. The building was as much her sanctuary as her bathroom. After Martine’s death, she needed a new apartment. Mark persuaded her to buy the building and renovate it into a mixed-use space. The first three floors housed commercial offices while the remaining seven were residential units, with eighty percent allocated to AnthroGen employees.
“Morning, Ms. Drake. Mark texted me. Your car is out front.”
“Good morning, Evan,” she replied when she reached the security station. “How’s your mum?”
“She’s doing good. She’s got a pot of jambalaya on the stove. Want me to drop off some?”
Analise snorted. “You have to ask? Leave it in the refrigerator if I’m not home.”
She walked through the door Evan held open. A sleek black Audi A8W12 sat next to the curb, its engine purring softly. A gray-suited driver stood beside the back door, his hand on the handle. The man’s dark sunglasses made his reddish hair and freckled face even more pronounced.
Patrick O’Neill was one of six drivers on call. She’d teased Mark about his thing for hard-bodied, gorgeous chauffeurs. He responded, “If I’m spending your money, why shouldn’t I mix pleasure and business? And you can’t tell me you have a problem with our drivers’ looks.”
She glanced at Patrick. She definitely didn’t have a problem with the gorgeous men who drove her around, even if they didn’t spark any interest. “Patrick, let me see those Irish y greens so I can swoon.”
His cheeks pinked, and Analise’s laughter trailed her into the car. Before he closed the door, she asked, “How did you get stuck with babysitting duties? I assumed Roger was on call today if I needed a driver.”
“When.”
“When what?” she asked, puzzled by his response.
“When you need a driver, not if. Mark was afraid you’d sweet-talk Roger into a quick run to Santa Cruz after your appointments.”
Patrick shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Pretty boy knows I’m impervious to your sweet-talking ways.”
He reached through the opened glass divider between the driver and the back seat to hand her an iPad. “Mark didn’t want you at a disadvantage. Said you’d probably forget to bring your office one to avoid a meeting.”
Analise laughed. “Does he ever know me.”
She waited until the car pulled away from the curb and into traffic before tapping the screen and entering her password. Mark’s profile on Peter Nathanson popped up. As she read the document, a soft whistle ruffled past her lips. Nathanson’s credentials were impressive. Andover Academy, Harvard BA and MBA, and a Columbia law degree. Ivy League all the way and achieved by the age of twenty-six. By age thirty, he headed a billion-dollar investment company.
He was a serial dater of beautiful women, not one lasting longer than six months or came up pregnant. Analise chuckled at Mark’s marginal commentary:
Impressive for a man who can’t seem to keep his willy in his pants, if you believe the tabs.
The rest of the report detailed Nathanson’s generosity to political parties and various philanthropic organizations. Mark’s final comment was in all caps and asterisked:
Stay as far from the man as possible on the personal front. He’s ruthless, lethal, and deadly. A villain who will give you nightmares even as he fucks you into rapturous submission.
“Hilarious, Mark.”
“Did you say something, Ms. Drake?”
Analise glanced up. Patrick peeked at her in the rear-view mirror, a puzzled expression on his face. She shook her head. “No, trying to decide if it’s time to search for a new assistant.”
She scrolled to the next page. A picture of Nathanson’s face coalesced on the screen. “It can’t be.”
Patrick’s worried face suddenly appeared on the small screen installed on the back of the driver’s seat. “Are you okay, Ms. Drake?”
She closed her eyes, inhaled, and slowly released the air before she looked at the screen. “I’m fine, Patrick.”
Analise wasn’t certain whether the image was a nightmare or a dream come true. It was him—Peter Nathanson is Dream Candy. Had stress and loneliness tossed her into untreatable insanity? If Peter Nathanson and Dream Candy are the same man why would he engage in pretense?
We will meet soon, I promise.
Analise focused on the screen once more, a finger rubbing the space between her eyebrows. The image on the screen didn’t quite match the face in her dreams. The more she studied Nathanson’s features, the more confused she became. His silver hair was darker than she imagined. Dream Candy’s hair was a striking platinum color. Nathanson’s eyes were all wrong. They lacked the deep blue color of Dream Candy’s. Her gaze drifted to Nathanson’s thin, unsmiling lips. They suggested a potential cruel side not evident in her dreams.
Analise continued to stare at his face, confused by her physical reaction to him, or the lack thereof. Maybe it was the beard, which was an auto turn off. What also surprised her was a lack of response. Why wasn’t her pussy doing backflips? Slight exaggeration, but her panties ou
ght to be just a teensy bit wet, her clit throbbing. She should be trying not to moan. Nothing. All she felt was curiosity.
Ordinary, everyday curiosity.
Chapter 2
“Here you are, Ms. Drake.”
Analise tucked the iPad into her tote once Patrick opened the door. She took the hand he held out to her and climbed out of the car. “Thanks, Patrick.”
“Tell Pretty boy to call when you’re ready to go home.”
“Shall I quote you?”
“Nah,” Patrick replied. “Mark pays too well, and I’d miss driving you, Miss Daisy.”
“Funny,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I really need to correct this misperception about who pays everyone’s salaries.”
Patrick’s laughter echoed behind her as she entered the lobby. Her heart lurched when the doors closed behind her. Emotional pain skated up her spine to lodge in her throat. Martine Drake’s presence was everywhere: a hint of Africa here, a dash of America there, and a pinch of their English fathers’ culture. It was, for her cousin, a vision of the perfect world for their kind. Analise hadn’t experienced this emotional pain in a long time. Entering the building had triggered a visceral reaction. Despite the two years since her cousin’s murder, she felt herself sliding down the dark rabbit hole of memory.
She’d been in New Mexico when Martine messaged to say she was in the city with friends and planned to spend the night in Analise’s apartment. She promised to call when she returned to Santa Cruz the next day. Instead, when Analise’s cell phone rang, the caller was an SFPD homicide detective. His voice flat and cold, the detective told her Martine was dead, murdered by some unknown. The apartment’s cleaning staff discovered her cousin’s body and called 911. He informed her the coroner would hold the body until she came to claim it. The singular memory locked in Analise’s mind was her voice screaming, “Martine Drake is not an ‘it,’ Detective.”
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