Storm Born

by Christine Pope

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Jake said, his voice raised loudly enough to penetrate the music booming out of the speakers mounted in all four corners. “I assume more wine is okay? They only have a wine and beer license here.”

  Rather than try to shout back at him, I gave him a thumbs-up, indicating that wine would be fine. Actually, even though I’d never been much of a drinker, even I knew better than to start mixing. Once I’d decided on a drink for the evening, I stuck with it.

  Jake wandered over to the bar while I took another look around. More people were starting to filter in, telling me that we were probably getting close to the time when the band was scheduled to start. Although it was hard to tell for sure because the lighting in there was so bad, I guessed that almost everyone there was in their twenties. No one had asked us for I.D., but I didn’t know if that was because they didn’t bother until people actually started ordering drinks, or because it was just sort of generally known around town that this was a twenty-one and over kind of place.

  Soon enough, Jake was back with our glasses of wine. He set one down in front of me. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  I picked up the plastic cup and took a sip, and was pleasantly surprised. Not that I knew much about wine, but I knew what the cheap stuff tended to taste like, and this didn’t seem like the kind of inexpensive booze that got poured at college parties — if you were even lucky enough to get wine at all.

  “That’s good,” I said, and he nodded.

  “Part of the reason they stick with just a wine and beer license here — besides it being a lot cheaper — is that they only serve local Arizona stuff. What we’re drinking now is a red from Provisioner.”

  Before that night, I’d barely even realized Arizona had a wine industry. Playing with all those varietals at Blendz had taught me differently, although a few of their offerings had come from California. “Is wine a big deal here in Arizona?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, you sheltered child.”

  Since I knew he was teasing, I only raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, you did just rescue me from Utah.”

  “True.” A pause as he sipped from his cup. “It’s getting to be a big deal. And remember, Connor owns a vineyard down in the Verde Valley.”

  Right. I’d almost forgotten about that in the blur of other activities. “So, he makes wine?”

  “Well, it’s Anthony — the husband of Angela’s friend Sydney — who handles most of the winemaking side of things, but Connor’s sort of the silent partner, the financial backer. I think he used most of the money he made from his art to buy the vineyard. They don’t have a tasting room or anything yet, though — they’re focused on creating wines right now.”

  “What do they do with the wines if they don’t have a tasting room?” I asked, thinking that this newfound half-brother of mine was turning out to be quite the renaissance man. Artist…father…vintner…head of a whole clan of witches and warlocks.

  I realized then that the amazing art I’d seen on the walls of Connor’s house in Jerome must have been his.

  Jake swallowed some more wine, then said, “They sell their wine through a co-op in Jerome. It’s a place where winemakers who don’t have their own tasting rooms can offer their stuff. We should go next time we’re down there — it’s a fun way to try some of the less mainstream Arizona wines.”

  As opposed to the “mainstream” ones, which I hadn’t even known was a thing until this evening. For some silly reason, I found myself strangely happy at the casual way Jake had mentioned a return trip to Jerome, as if it was just a given that we’d continue to see each other and do things together.

  I wanted to do things with him…or, more to the point, to him. The table where we sat was pretty small, and when he shifted, his knee brushed against mine. I could tell it wasn’t anything he’d done on purpose, but even so, that accidental touch was enough to get my blood racing again.

  Crazy.

  All of the band members showed up on stage then, announced themselves as “Deep Six,” and launched into the first song of their set. Not sure what to expect, I was surprised at how good they were — straight-up rock with maybe just the slightest country edge.

  There wasn’t much chance to talk after that, but it was okay — the music was good, and midway through the first set, a couple of people who turned out to be more Wilcox cousins came by to say hello. Jake introduced them as Tyler and Rashelle, and they hung out for a while before moving on to see some more of their friends. Again, everything was casual and relaxed, as if it was no big deal that some witches and warlocks had decided to hang out with civilians on this particular Sunday night.

  And I supposed it wasn’t a big deal. This was just part of being a Wilcox; you might keep that part of your life hidden, but you still had to interact with the regular world, had to be a member of society. None of them seemed to have too much trouble balancing the two sides of their existence, and I hoped I could be that effortless about the whole thing one day.

  Around midnight, we wandered out of the club, Jake giving me a guiding hand as we went up the stairs, since by then I’d had another glass of wine and that, on top of what I’d already drunk earlier in the evening, was enough to make me pretty unsteady on my feet. Once we were on level ground, I felt a little better, but I was still happy to have him take my hand as we walked back to his house.

  After we’d gone inside and he’d closed the door — and Taffy had come running up to us, dancing around, tail wagging, and we’d both bent to pet her — we straightened and looked at each other. I knew I was definitely on the far side of tipsy, and while he was in better shape than I, Jake wasn’t exactly stone cold sober, either.

  For a long moment, neither of us said anything. He touched my hand, but briefly. What he meant by that touch, I wasn’t sure. To see how I would respond? To let me know that he wanted something a little more?

  Apparently, neither of those things. He glanced away from me, then said, his tone diffident, “Do you need help getting up the stairs?”

  I wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but even I could guess the question meant he didn’t plan to kiss me. Not that I’d really been expecting him to, and yet…

  …and yet, I’d really hoped he would.

  “I’m all right,” I said, doing my best to sound unconcerned rather than bitterly disappointed. “I’ve got a banister to hang on to here. See?”

  My fingers wrapped around the piece of carved oak in question, and I began to haul myself up the steps. Thank God I was wearing flats and not heels, or I had a feeling I probably would have tripped over myself.

  A creak told me he was coming up as well, although he maintained a safe distance behind me, probably so I wouldn’t feel as if I was getting crowded. When we got to the upstairs landing, he hesitated, then said, “Good night, Addie.”

  “Good night, Jake,” I replied. “I had a really good time.”

  A certain tension in his jaw seemed to ease, and he smiled. “Me, too. Car shopping tomorrow, remember.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Then I went inside the guest room and shut the door, and went over to the bed so I could sit down.

  Damn. I really wished he’d kissed me.

  16

  Just as the Google search had indicated, Jake Reynolds lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Rancho Cucamonga. By the time Agent Lenz parked his Ford Taurus at the curb, it was nearly seven; a bad crash involving a semi on I-15 had delayed him by nearly an hour. Still, daylight lingered on this quiet June evening, the sun just beginning to touch the horizon. The skies were clear, seeming to indicate that whatever Adara Grant was up to in the house on Valinda Avenue, she wasn’t unduly upset by it.

  Lenz was also happy to see a black Jeep Gladiator parked in the driveway. Garage too full to accommodate the vehicle, or did Mr. Reynolds prefer to leave it outside so he could flaunt his recent acquisition to his neighbors?

  Not that it mattered, except the f
lashy truck served as a clear sign that Lenz had definitely come to the right place.

  His gun was a familiar weight in its shoulder holster. After what had happened in Kanab, he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Regret flared in him once again at the accident that had taken Lyssa Grant’s life, although he pushed it away as best he could. If Jake Reynolds hadn’t interfered, then Adara’s mother would still be alive today. Accidents happened.

  That was the party line, at any rate.

  He pulled in a breath, steadying himself for the confrontation to come. Then he opened the car door and got out.

  The air was dry and warm, and smelled of fresh-cut grass. Over on the next block, he thought he heard kids laughing and splashing; playing in someone’s backyard pool, most likely. All in all, it was an idyllic suburban scene, one he hoped he wouldn’t have to disturb too much.

  Twenty steps up the walk to the front door. Because he’d always been in the habit of noticing things, he took note of the carefully spaced day lilies that filled the flowerbeds to either side of the stamped-concrete walkway, the flowerpots of brightly painted Mexican pottery that sat in wrought-iron stands on either side of the home’s double doors. Wreaths of woven grapevine and dried grasses decorated those doors, effectively obscuring the peepholes.

  Good.

  He rang the doorbell. A brief wait, and then he heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened, and a man in his late fifties, trim with closely cut salt-and-pepper hair, stared out at him.

  Agent Lenz had never seen the man before. Trying to keep a frown from his brow, he flashed his identification and said, “Agent Lenz, Homeland Security. I need to talk to Jake Reynolds.”

  The man’s brows — still dark, unlike his hair — drew together. “I’m Jake Reynolds. What’s this about?”

  For a second, Lenz could only stare at him. How could he be Jake Reynolds when it was the Jake with Adara Grant whose image had appeared on the driver’s license in question?

  Recovering himself, he said, “Is that your Jeep Gladiator parked in the driveway?”

  “Yes,” Reynolds replied, expression mystified.

  Well, the man standing in front of Randall Lenz wasn’t the only one confounded by this particular turn of events. What the hell was going on? Lenz would have liked to blame Agent Dawson for making some sort of stupid mistake, but she didn’t make mistakes. Besides, the paperwork had been clear enough — the much younger man he was pursuing was supposed to live at this address, not the person who stood before him now.

  Thinking quickly, Lenz said, “Have you traveled recently to Las Vegas?”

  “No,” the man responded, looking more confused than ever. “Haven’t been there since my wife and I visited Vegas about five years ago.” He paused, a note of worry entering his voice when he spoke again. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been something of a mix-up,” Lenz said. “Your address was provided by a fugitive at a hotel there. But you don’t match the description.” Well, aside from being the same gender and approximate height, although this man was old enough to be the other Jake’s father.

  If the bastard’s name was Jake at all. He might have handed Adara a false name. Right then, Lenz wouldn’t put much of anything past the man.

  “A fugitive? What — ?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that,” Lenz cut in, his tone curt. Anger boiled through him — rage at being tricked into making a two-hundred-mile drive for nothing, for letting that other Jake get the best of him. However, angry as he was, he knew the man who stood before him had nothing to do with any of it, was only a convenient scapegoat. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Have a good evening.”

  He turned on his heel and strode back to his car, leaving Jake Reynolds to stare after him in shock. In fact, the man was so flummoxed that he stood there in the doorway for a moment longer, and watched Lenz put the Taurus in gear and drive off.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, he growled at himself, although he didn’t honestly know whether he should be beating himself up quite so harshly. Whoever this Jake person was, he apparently had someone on his side who was a good enough hacker that he — or she — had been able to get into those dealership records and alter the photo on the driver’s license in question. For all Lenz knew, Jake had planted that fake Rancho Cucamonga Vons grocery store address specifically to ensure that his pursuer would follow that one false lead, rather than focusing on his actual quarry.

  Well, whatever had happened, he was back to square one. About all he could do now was stay the night here in Southern California and do his best to regroup, try to figure out who the real Jake was out of all the records Dawson had sent him.

  If the Gladiator was even his. He could have stolen it. Doubtful, though; Agent Dawson would have run a routine check on stolen vehicles matching the Gladiator’s description, and would have notified her boss immediately if she’d gotten a ping.

  There was a Best Western hotel almost across the street from the Vons whose address Jake had borrowed. Lenz pulled into the parking lot and went inside, doing his best not to scowl. No point in attracting any more attention to himself than necessary.

  At least his miserable luck hadn’t extended to encountering a fully booked hotel; there were several rooms available, and a short time later, he was checked in and unpacking his laptop.

  No matter what it took, he was going to figure out which Jake was behind all this. And even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to make these missions personal, he couldn’t help but experience a flicker of satisfaction at the mental image of finally taking the bastard into custody.

  Who could blame him, really? The mysterious Jake had brought whatever misfortune awaited on himself.

  After telling himself to sleep on it, Jake awoke the next morning with pretty much the same condemnation rolling around in his head, the one that had echoed in his brain even as he’d passed out face down on his pillow the night before.

  You’re an idiot.

  He’d been so close. He’d looked down at Addie, her face flushed and beautiful from the walk back to the house, and he’d almost bent down to kiss her…the operative word being “almost.”

  Why he’d stopped himself before the fateful moment, he really wasn’t sure. At the time, he’d thought he didn’t want to take advantage of her — after all, even if she hadn’t been outright drunk, she was still pretty tipsy, and he didn’t want to do anything quite so momentous when she was in an impaired state. True, her gorgeous gray-green eyes had been glowing, and she’d stood there with her lips slightly parted, looking as though she was practically begging for a kiss, but he still couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d wanted to. God, had he wanted to. In the end, though, he’d realized he wanted his first kiss with her to be something she approached with a clear head, not because she was halfway to wasted and not thinking straight.

  Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to spend all night drinking. Okay, probably a bit of an overstatement, since they’d basically had a drink an hour, but still, by the end of the evening, that still equaled a decent amount of booze. At the time, he’d just wanted to keep her entertained and give her a night out she’d remember. Unfortunately, he’d realized partway through their bender that she hadn’t spent her college years drinking and building up a tolerance the way he had…just like a lot of his Wilcox cousins, come to think of it.

  Well, today was a new day, and he’d just have to see what happened. Lying here in bed and beating himself up wasn’t going to do him any good.

  He got up and showered and put on clean clothes, deciding that yesterday’s jeans needed to be relegated to the hamper. After he was ready, he emerged in the hall and paused for a moment. The door to the guest room was open, and he heard water running in the hallway bath. That meant Addie was ambulatory enough to be up and about. With any luck, she wouldn’t be too hungover. That was no state to be in when car shopping.

  If it turned out she was feeling a litt
le under the weather, he resolved to take her to breakfast first, although he’d never been that into eating a heavy meal in the morning. However, even he knew that sometimes you just needed to get some hash browns and eggs inside you.

  For the moment, though, he figured it was a good idea to get a big pot of coffee brewing. He was just pouring himself a cup when Addie paused at the entrance to the kitchen.

  Actually, for someone who’d been up past midnight drinking wine, she looked remarkably well rested. Her hair was still damp, but she’d put on some makeup — not as much as she’d been wearing the night before, but enough to make her look as though she hadn’t rolled out the wrong side of the bed. Jeans and a pretty blue top with some embroidery around the low scoop neckline, something she must have picked up during her shopping expedition with Laurel the day before.

  “I thought I smelled coffee,” she said as she stepped into the room.

  Her tone was light, almost casual, but Jake couldn’t miss the way her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. Awkward because he hadn’t kissed her and she’d wanted him to? Or…awkward because she’d guessed he’d wanted to and she didn’t?

  Hard to say. He needed some caffeine in his system before he attacked a thorny problem like that.

  “Perfect timing,” he replied, then lifted the pot and poured some coffee into the mugs he’d already set out on the counter. Because he figured he might as well plow in right away, he added, “How’re you feeling today?”

  “All right,” she said.

  She came over and took one of the mugs. As she did so, Jake was able to catch the faint floral scent of her shampoo from her damp hair, and his groin tightened.