Forbidden

by Jacquelyn Frank

  “The problem with a lot of beat cops is they spend their days coloring in the lines. Adhering to laws and seeing to it that others do the same. But undercovers have to do just the opposite in a way. Figure out how to stay law-abiding while pulling off the outside appearance of a criminal. I remembered that once a UC cop said to me that it’s not the stupid criminals you have to be afraid of. That regular cops mostly deal with the stupid criminals. But the smart ones … those are the scary ones. Though in the end their hubris tends to get the best of them. But before that happens, a lot of damage can be done. I just thought, if these guys are smarter than the average criminal, they will figure out how to deceive you. They probably planned how they were going to take your sister long before she stepped foot outside of the hospital.”

  “But that doesn’t wash,” Jackson said, leaning forward in his chair toward her, making the fabric of his shirt pull taut across the expansive width of his shoulders. Marissa pretended not to notice and quickly turned to splash coffee into her cup. The glass pot clattered against the ceramic cup when her hand shook a little.

  She was not noticing how well built he was. Na-uh. Just like she’d never noticed how fine an ass he had. Nope. Never. She must have heard about it through office gossip, otherwise how would she even know his ass was finer than fine ever could be? Yeah. That was it. “How would a criminal smart enough to evade detection like this be stupid enough to make a spectacle of shoving a girl off a bridge? Everything about it screams cheesy, Cro-Magnon thinking.”

  She had considered that. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s two different criminals?”

  One of Jackson’s brows lifted suddenly. He straightened in his seat. “But what are the odds that two different scumbags are after my little sister all at the same time? I mean, the worst she’s ever done in her life is jaywalk.”

  “As far as you know, anyway,” she countered. Damn. Why didn’t she just keep her mouth shut? He was glaring at her again.

  “My sister shares everything with me,” he barked at her. “And she’s as straight as a goddamn arrow.”

  “Everything?” she asked archly. After all, if she was in for a penny … “So, you know who she slept with last week? You know if she sleeps in her undies or without? Or what size her fat jeans are?”

  “Fat jeans?” he echoed, coloring magnificently as she made him think about his sister in ways most brothers disliked thinking about their sisters.

  “Yes. Every woman has fat jeans. The jeans we wear when we’ve spent too much time indulging in sweets or other bad things. They usually come out around the holidays.”

  “What the hell does any of this have to do with—”

  “I’m just proving to you that you do not know everything about your sister. You think because you are her brother and because you raised her that you know her inside and out. I promise you that because you are her brother and because you raised her, you absolutely do not know her that intimately. You’re like a father figure to her, as much as you are a brother. Not to mention you’re a cop. That’s why she doesn’t tell you about things like other cops hitting on her in spite of the Waverly Law.”

  “Y-you know about—”

  “Of course I do. More than one cop has come to me in a conundrum over your stupid little Waverly Law. Frankly, your sister is a grown woman and you have no say in who she dates. You ought to quit being such a control freak. Maybe if you did, you’d be in the loop enough to know why one or even two criminals might be after her.”

  Marissa walked away from him, keeping her spine erect, falling back on her mother’s old adage that perfect posture made up for whatever inadequacies a woman might feel inside. At the moment, Marissa was wishing she could figure out when to keep her opinions to herself as far as Jackson Waverly was concerned. She did it day in and day out with everyone else, doling out advice as professionally as she should, but with Jackson …

  She could hear him jump out of his chair, his footsteps hot behind hers.

  “What cops? Who’s been talking about my sister?” he demanded.

  Oh. She just had to.

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Now, you know I can’t tell you that. That would break confidentiality.”

  She heard him literally growl at her back.

  “You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met! It’s no wonder you don’t have anyone to go home to this hour of the night!”

  If heels could leave skid marks, the industrial floors of the station would have been burning up from hers. She came to a halt so fast that it sent him crashing into her as she was rounding on him in anger. She shoved him back off her as coffee flew everywhere.

  “Ow! Damn it!” she spat out, flinging the scalding liquid off her hand. “What the hell do you know about who I do and do not have to go home to?” she demanded of him. “It’s not as though anyone around here ever bothered to ask me about my personal life! So tell me, Waverly, just how do you know I don’t have the most understanding husband in the world waiting for me at home?”

  Jackson brushed coffee off his shirt and smirked at her, making her want to bean him with her coffee cup … after dumping the remainder of its contents over his head, that is.

  “One, you don’t wear the most understanding husband in the world’s ring on your finger. Two, you are always here. Always. No Friday night dates. No disappearing for afternoon delight. None of it. And three, you’ve never brought him to any of the barbecues and whatnot … that is, when you’ve deigned to go slumming with the rest of us commoners.” He put his face close to hers. “And four, as smoking hot as this body of yours is, your attitude could freeze the Hudson River from here. No guy I know of would let his special bits get that close to an ice queen like you.”

  She understood that he was just lashing out at her, a continuing remnant of his fear and fury, but that didn’t make his mean-spirited assessment hurt any less. The trick was keeping him from knowing that. That would be far more damaging than the feeling itself, and she refused to give him any sort of satisfaction.

  “You know, Waverly, I really wish that was true, because right now I’d pay good money to be able to freeze those tiny little bits of yours right off and slap them on the corner of my desk as a reminder to all the macho ignoramuses just like you not to mess with me!”

  Marissa slammed her cup down on the nearest surface hard enough to crack it, then with a sharp turn she marched off to her office, hoping he would follow her just so she could have the satisfaction of slamming the door in his face.

  But just before she crossed the open gap between the bullpen and the offices, the two detectives working with Jackson hurried in and crossed her path, ruining her delightfully perfect exit, damn it.

  Of course, she was going to regret losing her temper later … but for the moment she wanted at least a few seconds to savor it.

  “Jackson! We got them. Northbound on 87! Looks like they got off at the Windham exit.”

  “Finally!” Jackson said, moving in the opposite direction of Marissa to grab his coat. “Let’s take this up there and see if we can—”

  “Get in trouble for working out of your jurisdiction?” Marissa said dryly. “Sure, why don’t you go do that?”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone was still and staring at her. Marissa threw them a smug smile, then finished walking toward her office.

  “Oh, and before you go and do that, you might want to call the rental companies in town about that truck. A Lincoln Navigator like that? Probably has LoJack or a GPS in it. You know, in case it gets stolen. But hey, what do I know? I’m just that annoying bitch of an ice queen sitting in an office scheming up ways to ruin your lives, right?”

  She slammed the office door on them, realizing she had had her satisfaction after all.

  * * *

  “Come, come …” Cleo fluttered at Docia with quick hands, urging her up from the seat she had been in while Miu and Cleo had fussed over her every detail, from dress to makeup to th
e prettily styled and perfectly natural-looking wig that lay in a balanced frame around her face in place of the choppy, lopsided mess underneath. “We have no doubt held up dinner. The household awaits.”

  Cleo held her elbow not only as a guide, she realized, but for support as she helped her down the grand staircase. Docia had known better than to brave a heel higher than an inch this soon out from her ordeal, and she had indulged in a skirt as long as Cleo’s because it hid a world of sins, rather like makeup and wigs. Of course, she could only guess at the effectiveness of Miu’s dressing skills, since she couldn’t bear to look into a mirror again. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to see herself anyway.

  The long-sleeved creation of violet silk she wore was conservative in concealment, but less so in the cling factor. It was a bit bolder than she might have chosen for herself normally, but apparently other forces within her were not as shy as she might be.

  And she kind of liked that. She kind of liked these flashes of confidence and bravery inside that caused her to dare things she would not normally dare. Life, she had come to realize, was much too short for empty fears. What if she had died that day on the bridge, having never been brave enough to indulge in such a dress? Never brave enough to indulge in her own beauty? Never confident enough to flick a significant finger at the rest of the world and say, “Screw you if you don’t like it!”

  And that was the confidence that was strengthening her spine, the thoughts that were in her head, as she walked side by side down the stairs in the shadow of what she considered an eclipsing beauty … and as a result ended up feeling not that eclipsed at all.

  They entered the dining area, a vast echoing room made of stone from floor to ceiling but warmed by sumptuous fabrics on the windows, elegant artwork in the tapestries hanging on every wall, and two fireplaces set side by side on the far end. Not to mention lush velvet cushions on the chairs, just as in the meditation room. There were servants standing at the ready at either end of the table, carts with silver dome-covered plates of all sizes.

  And suddenly she was hungry. She hadn’t been for days, something about almost being killed having taken her lust for food right out of her. A girl was pouring wine, and smells began to make their way over her. From all directions. Cleo hurried to a seat, leaving only one with a setting in front of it at midpoint of the table between Asikri and Ram. On the opposite side sat Cleo and another man and woman she didn’t recognize. But it was the man at the head of the table who drew her most immediate interest. Mainly because he spoke to her in a rich, lulling sort of voice.

  “Welcome, Docia, to my house. I am domini of this house and marshal of all Bodywalkers in this area.”

  “Ah. The law,” she said with a cheeky grin. “Now that’s something I know a lot about.”

  “The true law is the pharaoh’s law, but in his absence the house dominis act in his stead and in good faith of his wishes. An easy enough task since many of our laws have followed us for many generations.”

  “No need for modernization?” she found herself asking. She felt Ram stiffen a little beside her. It was hard to miss, since he was a wall of muscle and energy. And heat. He seemed to radiate heat. And if she wasn’t mistaken, he almost reached out to touch her, as a parent might do when warning a child to mind itself in church. Then he seemed to second-guess himself. Well, she was queen, after all, wasn’t she? Did it really matter if she stepped in it? Still, she wasn’t trying to offend anyone, leaving a mess for Hatshepsut to clean up when she became strong enough to chime in with advice and a sense of these ancient laws they followed. Not to mention etiquette.

  “There is always a need for modernization in all things. Some things more than others,” he added a bit grimly. Now that she was sure was full of weight and meaning. She hadn’t been reborn just yesterday, after all.

  “So give me an example of something you think needs modernizing. Maybe I can give your queen a poke and a nudge in the right direction if she ever decides to show up.”

  She could have heard a pin drop, if not for the sound of plates being set to rest in front of them.

  “I hope you don’t mind, you missed appetizers. But you’ll find the entrées more than satisfying,” her host said smoothly, his dark green eyes assessing her as he spoke. She supposed he was trying to take her measure. He wasn’t like Asikri, built and ominous and seething with discontent, and he wasn’t like Ram, solid and stoic, firmly serious about life and its tasks. This fellow seemed more relaxed than that. She had a suspicion that he had something of a sense of humor. He was also leanly built, like an athlete, and so tall that he must have been gangly and awkward as a teenager. But there was nothing awkward about him now. She wondered who he had once been before his Blending.

  “I’m sorry. This is rude of me. I am Kasimir. Or Henry, as you like. I respond to both. And have you met Felicity or Dixon?”

  “You prefer your … more current names?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t rude to separate the entities within them.

  “Usually the name we are introduced by is the name we prefer,” Felicity said shortly, picking up her wineglass and giving Docia the eye. “Well, she doesn’t look very much like a queen now, does she?”

  “Felicity!” Kasimir said sharply. “I will not tolerate rudeness at my table. And I remind you it is unwise to insult her. Her memory will remain very much intact even when Hatshepsut awakens within her.”

  Felicity looked duly unimpressed. “There are those who believe her time is finally at an end,” she said almost snidely. “After all, how many generations can a man spend with the same boring little creature before he feels the itch to try something new on for a change?” She leaned forward and smiled. “Nothing is ever guaranteed, dear.”

  There was the sound of a fist hitting the table, silverware and Felicity jumping … and Docia admitted she did as well. Ram leaned forward, an exhale of breath leaving him, such a simple sound but somehow so dark and threatening at the same time.

  “If there is ever a guarantee in this world,” he said, his voice low and dark, “it is the love that Menes has and will always have for Hatshepsut. Call anything else into question if you must, but never doubt that!”

  Silence ticked by. Well, almost silence. The ticking came from a large, ornate set of mantel clocks, twins, each set above the fireplace below it.

  And just like that, her newfound appetite disappeared.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, her voice barely a rasp. “Wait … just wait …”

  For the first time she heard, really heard, the one little condition to this whole being queen business that had so far been escaping her.

  That there was a king out there somewhere and she was expected to …

  “Holy spitballs, are you saying I’m going to be part of an arranged marriage?” She was instantly on her feet, because she absolutely could not remain in her seat a second longer. She didn’t care what the soothing presence inside her was trying to say or make her feel, and she didn’t care that Ram was equally soothing, or at least trying to be. She suddenly felt trapped between the two men who had brought her there … between what they wanted from her and what she had always wanted from herself. Ram was on his feet beside her, and after a visible hesitation, he reached out to capture her hands in his, bringing them to the solid strength of his chest until, when she stilled, she could feel the deep rhythm of his heart beating.

  “Arranged marriages are a thing of the past, Docia. We would never insist you enter a union you do not voluntarily wish to enter. We are only speaking from experience. When Menes is reborn, he will come to find you, and you … it is very likely you will feel as Hatshepsut has always felt toward him. But if you don’t, that will be accepted.”

  “If you don’t, you won’t be queen of anything,” Felicity mused, picking up her wineglass and giving the liquid inside of it a swirl. She sniffed at it gently. “Or … hmm … we’ve never quite had it happen, that Hatshepsut and Menes were not simply mad about each other. So, either you are no q
ueen, or you can resign yourself to the idea that you’re about to meet your soul mate.”

  “Felicity, shut up,” Asikri growled suddenly, the silent giant abruptly coming to life. “She’s barely three days into the Blending. Are you determined to scare her into something stupid like resistance? And to what end? Do you think maybe Menes would turn his eye to you? Not just any queen will do for him. This you know, and if you read up on Bodywalker law, you would recall that Menes and Hatshepsut are co-rulers. Each of them a ruler in their own right, with or without their heartfelt connection. If they choose other mates, those mates would be consorts.” He picked up his fork and stabbed at his food, the metal scraping irritably against the china underneath it. “Now can we all shut up, please, and eat our dinner?”

  He added something under his breath, and she suspected it was a complaint about whining … or perhaps a complaint about the ways of women in general. But Docia couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell if it was women that irritated him … or just everything.

  However, his words comforted her a great deal. It was preconceived that she would fall in love with this Menes when he decided to arrive, but it was not a requirement. Still, there was something in the remaining uneasiness of Ram and even the more laid-back Kasimir that kept her from fully relaxing as she sat back down to her meal. Ram followed suit after he had helped push in her chair, and beneath the fall of the tablecloth he reached out to squeeze her hand. She didn’t know exactly what he was trying to convey, other than strength and comfort, but she felt a great deal more than that. She felt that keen, sparkling warmth he seemed to exude in constant waves. She felt, as she always did, very aware of his pure presence and energy as he sat beside her.

  After dinner, as they were milling about the room, she came to the conclusion that everything that had transpired was definitely the side effect of brain damage. In the next instant, she rejected the thought. If this wasn’t real, then that meant Ram wasn’t real.

  Ram.

  Docia could feel his eyes on her, like a sensual weight that made her belly feel heavy and her breasts swell with a strange readying response. Something about the way he was looking at her, the hunger burning like a low, fierce light in his eyes, made her want to curve her spine, swing out her hip in soft invitation, her shoulder rounding up as she turned her head and touched her chin to it and looked at him with a coyness she hadn’t realized herself capable of.