“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She didn’t pretend that her ritual was sacred. Her process didn’t precisely follow any pattern that she was aware of. But smudging made her feel better, and she didn’t want him laughing at her.
When he opened his eyes, she saw nothing but acceptance. Gently, he said, “I won’t pretend that I understand what you’re doing, but I’m all in favor of positive energy.”
“Okay.” She was still hesitant. They’d been teasing each other all day.
“You can trust me,” he said.
That was a big promise, and a very big step for her. She wanted to believe him. “Come with me while I do the rest of the house.”
She waved the stick around the windows in the kitchen and the door that led to the deck on the side of the house. In the doorway, the sage crackled and flared.
“Does that mean something?” he asked.
“I like to think that the herb is working extra hard to erase whatever happened here. Maybe the couple who lived here before had a fight at this doorway.”
While she proceeded through the rest of the downstairs, the smudge stick began to burn low. She placed it in the lotus bowl, and waved her hand to waft the smoke into the corners of the rooms. As she did so, she explained, “Bad energy accumulates in the corners. It gets trapped there and hangs around.”
“I can buy that. It’s a matter of geometry.”
In the upstairs, she went through the same process. In his bedroom, where he hadn’t yet unpacked many of the boxes, the sage sputtered wildly at the door to his closet. She took a backward step. “Yikes, I wonder what happened there.”
“I know what it is.” He stepped through the open closet door, reached up to the top shelf and took down a locked metal box. “My guns are in here. Negative energy?”
“Undoubtedly.” His weapons were tools of violence. Even when he was fighting to protect the innocent, the guns represented hurt and pain. “A warrior needs to work extra hard to keep himself in balance.”
“Am I a warrior?” He grinned as he replaced his gun box on the shelf. “I’d like that.”
She remembered the way he attacked the thug who was trying to hurt Miguel’s mother. Brady had been selfless in battle. “I might call you a warrior hero.”
“And what should I call you? Are you the yin to my yang?”
She immediately visualized the yin-yang symbol—a circle divided by a curving line with one half black and the other white and a dot on each side. The image fit their relationship. Even though they were opposites, they complemented each other and fit together. In effect, they had joined forces to make a more complete whole.
She’d already consented to be his fake bride, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted to be joined in any other way. “Let’s finish the smudging.”
In her bedroom, she smudged the windows and the doorways. The sage was burning low. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“Can I add something of my own?”
There was the distinct possibility that he’d pull some kind of wise-guy stunt. “You’re asking me to trust you.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the lotus bowl.”
Her fake wedding band glimmered as she passed the still smoking bowl to him. “Be careful.”
“Why?”
“Those ashes could flare up. The spark could ignite and we’d burn the house down, which would be seriously bad juju.”
His large hands closed around the edges of the green bowl. He raised it over his head and swept in a slow arc, leaving a fragrant, wispy trail of smoke. Lowering the bowl, he held it between them and gazed across the rim at her.
His voice was a whisper. “While we live in this house, may our minds be wise and our actions be strong.”
His sincerity was evident. His words hit her straight in the heart. “I can’t believe you did that.”
He carried the lotus bowl to her dresser and set it down beside her crystal dolphin. “To be real honest, I can’t believe it, either.”
“Thank you.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he turned toward her. Rising up on tiptoe, she leaned closer to give him a friendly peck on the cheek. That wasn’t what happened. She found herself kissing him on the mouth.
Two thoughts occurred simultaneously. Number one: she was surprised. Number two: she liked it.
Petra should have pulled away. Their relationship was complicated enough without adding physical intimacy. But his kiss felt so good, so much better than a dream fantasy. His firm lips exerted a steady pressure against hers. His arm wrapped around her waist and cinched her close. She could feel her heart beating wildly against his lean, muscular chest. Ripples of awareness wakened and elevated her senses to a level that she’d never felt before. His kiss took her beyond excitement and straight into arousal. Her sacral chakra, just below her belly button, radiated with a glowing, all-consuming passion.
When he loosened his grasp, she clung more tightly. Not yet. Don’t stop. She never wanted this unexpected moment to end. Half in a daze, her eyelids slowly lifted.
She saw fire, her worst fear. Bright yellow flames licked the air.
Immediately, she broke away from him.
The smudge stick in her lotus bowl had flared with a small light, no bigger than her thumb. She stared, uncomprehending. She’d seen an inferno. Now, it was only a spark.
For sure, this was an omen.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, BRADY groped the bedside table, trying to find his wristwatch before he remembered that he didn’t wear a watch, anymore. Nor did he have an alarm clock. He groaned. His undercover identity was damn inconvenient.
And he wasn’t doing it very well. Last night when Petra had brushed her sweet lips against his, he hadn’t been able to resist, even though he knew better. He’d held her against him and had taken his time kissing her back, tasting the honey warmth of her lips and inhaling the musky fragrance of the sage smoke.
At first, she’d fluttered in his arms like a captured hummingbird, and then she’d subsided, relaxing into his embrace as though she belonged there. Her slender, supple body draped around him. Her legs molded against him. Her subtle, natural motions had driven him crazy.
Lying alone in his bed, he reveled in the memory of their kiss. He relived the unbelievable excitement…and the regret. He shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have allowed their embrace to continue for more than a few seconds. What the hell was wrong with him? He never lost control.
If he’d believed in magic, he would have assumed that her ritual ceremony had cast a spell over him. When she first started waving her smudge stick, he’d been ready to dismiss her as a superstitious nutcake. But he couldn’t fault her motives, and much of what she said made sense. As he followed her from room to room, he found himself agreeing with her. It was emotionally healthy to start in a new place with a fresh attitude.
He didn’t know what had startled her. When she broke contact with him, she didn’t give an explanation. All she did was gather up her lotus bowl and tell him that she’d dispose of the ashes.
He’d gone back to his unpacking and had stayed up until two in the morning, putting the house in order. Damn it, what time was it? Morning light spilled around the edges of the window shades, but he couldn’t guess the hour.
There was a clock downstairs on the stove. He dragged himself out of bed and grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants from a hook in the closet. He stuck his arms into a plaid flannel bathrobe and tied it around his middle to ward off the morning chill.
Halfway down the staircase, he smelled coffee. Petra had gotten out of bed before him, which was kind of a surprise because she’d described herself as a night owl. He made a beeline to the kitchen. The stove clock said it was seven thirty-nine. Excellent! He required precisely five and a half hours of sleep to function at peak efficiency.
He poured black coffee into a blue mug that he’d washed last night and put away in the wall cabinet to the right
of the sink. After taking his first sip, he noticed Petra’s matching mug on the countertop. Where was she? If she’d taken off somewhere without consulting him, he’d be seriously annoyed. At the moment, it didn’t appear that they were in danger, but they were dealing with serious criminals and had to take precautions.
What they really needed was to come up with a plan. Even though she seemed to be comfortable diving into the unknown, he knew better. Their efforts would be maximized if they had clear objectives. Where the hell was she? He strode across the living room and looked through the front window. The truck was parked where he’d left it, and the dead bolt on the front door was still fastened. She hadn’t exited this way.
He returned to the kitchen. The side door leading onto the deck had a window. Pushing aside the curtain, he peeked through the glass. With her back to him, Petra stood on her turquoise yoga mat and balanced on one leg like a crane. Her hair spilled past her shoulders in a wavy curtain of auburn and gold.
Instead of interrupting, he watched as she moved gracefully through different yoga positions, asanas she called them. Her black pants skimmed her legs and outlined her bottom. On top, she wore a fitted, deep purple shirt with flowing sleeves. With her back arched and her arms spread wide, she seemed to be welcoming the sun from the east. He didn’t know the correct form, but he admired the way she moved. It was a stretch to think of these slow transitions from one pose to another as exercise. At the same time, he was fairly sure that he couldn’t hold one leg behind himself and stretch the opposite arm out straight.
When he stepped outside onto the deck, she continued the motion she’d started, ending with her palms together in a prayerful pose. She nodded her head in a slight bow. “Namaste.”
“Right back at you.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes sparkled. “Is the coffee okay?”
“It’s good.” He wanted to add that she was also good and beautiful and a pleasure to wake up to. But compliments would lead down a path that he needed to avoid. “How come you’re up so early?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’m changing. You know, becoming more of an early bird to catch the worm.”
“I doubt that.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. This wasn’t good. If he kept staring, he’d want to touch. Gruffly, he said, “We need a plan for today.”
“You’re right.” She squatted and rolled up her yoga mat. “I can wrangle my way back into Lost Lamb by saying I want to check on Dee. But how are we going to get you inside?”
“I could be your assistant.”
“Um, no. Nobody will believe that, and I wouldn’t be much of a midwife if I needed my husband to hold my hand.”
He had given some thought to his way in. “I can say that I want to use some of the women as models.”
“Didn’t I already shoot down that line?” She sat back on her heels. “And what happens when you actually have to produce a sketch?”
“I can draw some.”
“We might be able to come up with some kind of excuse about having you pick me up. Something about the car.”
Speaking of which, he heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel. “Somebody’s coming.”
She bounced to her feet and dashed to the edge of the deck to peer around the corner of the house. “It’s a van. I think Margaret is driving.”
Before eight o’clock in the morning? It was way too early for another unexpected turn of events. He needed more time to map out their plans. Last night, he should have been working on strategy instead of putting stuff away.
Whirling, she faced him. “I know exactly what we should do. Take off your bathrobe.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Margaret has a crush on you. If you give her something to look at, she’ll agree to anything.”
Her reasoning was shaky at best, but he didn’t have any other ideas. He unfastened the tie on his bathrobe and went back into the house to open the front door.
Chapter Nine
Petra knew she’d made the right call when she saw the expression on Margaret’s face. The thin young woman stood in their doorway, peering through her long bangs with adoring eyes, clearly mesmerized by the sight of half-naked Brady. Petra couldn’t blame her. The man was definitely something to look at, even from the back, especially from the back. She noticed a couple of scars across his shoulders, a reminder that he was more than a pretty boy. His body was rugged, lean and muscular. His sweat pants hung low on his hips.
Her supposed husband was innately sexy. Her husband? She felt a pop of jealousy as she joined him at the front door. “Hi, Margaret. Would you like to come in?”
Her small hands twisted in a knot below her chin. “Sorry for coming over so early.”
“Is there some kind of problem?” Brady asked. “I sure hope there’s nothing wrong.”
Petra noticed that when he was playing his undercover role, his slight Texas accent became a more pronounced twang. “Margaret? Is this about Dee?”
“Yes.” Margaret inhaled a deep breath and pulled herself together. “Dee is acting like a diva. Even though her water broke, I don’t think she’s really and truly in labor.”
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“They come and go. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”
Petra nodded. “Actually, I have.”
“Somehow, Dee got it into her head that she wants you to deliver her baby. Miss Francine sent me to get you.”
This invitation was the perfect opportunity to investigate at Lost Lamb. Dee could be in labor for hours, which meant Petra had a reason to hang around, talking to the other women and exploring the facility. “Give me a minute to change clothes, and I’ll come back with you.”
“Whoa, there,” Brady said. He was playing the Texan card as though it was the final draw to a royal flush. “Patty, darlin’, remember what we were talking about? About how much I wanted to sketch these ladies?”
“Of course, I do.” She immediately understood his ploy. He was fishing for a reason to get himself inside the Lost Lamb. “I remember. Darlin’.”
He focused his charm offensive on Margaret as he explained, “Last night, when I saw all you beautiful ladies, yourself included…”
She giggled like a little girl.
“…I was inspired,” he said. “I was hoping some of you would sit for portraits. If I drive over with Patty, I might be able to chat with Miss Francine and get her permission.”
“She’ll never say yes.”
“That’s because she hasn’t seen how good I am.” When he touched Margaret’s arm to guide her toward the staircase, she quivered all over. “Come with me. I want to show you some of my paintings.”
Petra fought the urge to roll her eyes. Oldest line in the book! But Margaret didn’t think so. Eagerly, she ascended the staircase and allowed him to escort her into the back bedroom where he’d set up his studio.
This would be the first time Petra had viewed the art that was supposedly done by Brady Gilliam, and she was curious to see what the real Brady had picked from the FBI’s stockpile of confiscated paintings. He was such a rational thinker that she couldn’t imagine him choosing anything abstract or modernist. If he stayed true to his fed persona, every picture would be black and white with nary a shade of gray.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Morning light poured through the east window and splashed against a large canvas that depicted a little girl with black hair playing hide-and-seek, peeking through the limbs of bright yellow forsythia bush. The painting told a story. This little girl didn’t beam like a rosy-cheeked cherub. Her mouth was set and determined. Her dark eyes were furtive. It made Petra wonder what the child was hiding from.
Brady showed Margaret around, flipping through canvases stacked against the wall and spreading out pencil sketches on a work table. As far as Petra could tell, all the artwork was portraiture. She wanted to take a more in-depth look, but she couldn’t act like this was the first time she�
��d seen these pictures.
Margaret glanced over her shoulder at her. “I don’t see any drawings of you.”
Brady explained, “I did a million pictures of Patty when we first met. A lot of them sold. These are my more recent projects.”
“Well, they’re beautiful,” Margaret said. “I’d like for you to do my son. He’s three.”
“I’d be delighted. And do you think Miss Francine might see fit to let me sketch you ladies?”
She rested her thin hand on his bare bicep. “No harm in asking.”
“That’s good, real good.” He caught her hand and gave a squeeze. “You head back over to the Lost Lamb. We’ll get dressed and be right behind you.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Miss Francine won’t be happy if I come back without Patty.”
Petra wondered if Francine had an ulterior motive in sending Margaret to fetch them. She might be here to check out their story and make sure they were who they said they were. That could be a problem. It was obvious that she and Brady had slept in different bedrooms last night.
“Here’s an idea,” she said. “Brady can take you downstairs and get you a cup of coffee while I get ready. When we’re both dressed, we’ll follow you in the truck.”
Brady steered her quickly toward the staircase. As soon as they were gone, Petra dashed into her bedroom and made the bed. If anybody asked, she’d say this was the guest room.
She dived into an old pair of jeans. Her purple shirt and sports bra were okay for the top. No time for a shower. She splashed water on her face and yanked her hair into a knot on the top of her head. In less than eight minutes, she descended the staircase, carrying a large backpack filled with a variety of items she used when delivering babies.
As Brady went past her, he whispered, “Don’t leave her alone. I don’t trust her.”
Petra joined Margaret who stood behind the counter in the kitchen, sipping her coffee. Even though Margaret seemed too timid to be spying on them, there was a calculated look in her eyes as she studied the kitchen. “You must have worked late last night. Everything is put away.”
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