Good Things: An Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Mia Darien

  He held her gaze with his steady one until her shoulders dropped slightly. After a deep breath, she nodded, and the acceptance of his offer of protection hit him like an arrow to the heart. He would protect her from harm, he silently vowed, at the same time perplexed about his unusual reaction to her. While he helped a lot of people in his line of work, emotional attachment wasn’t his thing.

  “Time to get to work,” she murmured, businesslike demeanor firmly in place, and she tuned him out as she turned back to her computer and flipped on her microphone.

  Almost immediately she began translating, taking notes here or there, he guessed to help her remember what the delegate had said. Cain watched and listened in fascination as, real-time, she took what was being said in English and repeated it in French with hardly a pause and no ums or uhs or other verbal fillers. Making it more difficult in this instance, the delegate from China was speaking. Consequently, the Chinese interpreter would first interpret any spoken Chinese into English, and Quinn would translate into French. Not that she needed the assist, but still.

  After twenty minutes, she indicated he should switch on his own microphone. Before he did, he took her hand—warm and delicate under his grasp. Momentarily, he was distracted by an odd sense of peace that washed through him at her touch, but shook it off and closed his eyes, concentrating. A sensation like ice slithered up his fingertips, through his nerves, up his spine and, like shards splintering through him, into his brain. Gaining someone else’s knowledge, even temporarily, was never pleasant. Agony might be a better term.

  Suddenly, a cacophony of noise fractured through his mind as her ability to understand all communications kicked in. Holy crap. She hadn’t been kidding. What she hadn’t mentioned, however, was she received everything, like every radio station playing at the same time. Even phone calls, the computer thinking through its programming. Everything. The urge to slap his hands over his ears and make it stop was overwhelming. How had she not gone crazy listening to all the noise?

  His Knowledge Replication took over next. That part usually took longer to sink in. Gradually, he found he could tune out the noises, focusing only on what he wished. He wondered how long it had taken her to master the skill? How long had she lived with the voices and chaos inside her head?

  As the pain of his ability faded to prickling, he had everything he needed. After what constituted ages to him, but probably only a minute to her, he opened his eyes to find Quinn watching with avid curiosity. Like a seasoned vet, he switched on his microphone and started interpreting the words being said in the delegation hall on the other side of the glass.

  None of the Mauritolla delegation turned or acted surprised in any way to hear a man’s voice. Good.

  CHAPTER 4

  Quinn watched the streets of New York blur by as the taxi took her and Cain away from the headquarters after they’d finished work for the day. “Explain to me again why we’re going back to my apartment, rather than the hotel?”

  The hotel with all the other members of his team. Wasn’t there supposed to be safety in numbers?

  “We want to act as normally as possible.”

  “Normal doesn’t include having a man in my apartment,” she muttered at the window.

  “Oh?”

  Quinn scrunched up her face. Shoot. She’d said that out loud. Again. What was it about Cain that had her blurting out her thoughts like this? If she didn’t know better, she’d think interest had sparked in his deep voice, but she refused to turn his way. Resigned to the next few hours, she remained quiet the rest of the ride home.

  George, the super for her building, stood outside working on a window. “Hey, Quinn!” he greeted when she stepped onto the sidewalk. “Thanks again for those Broadway tickets. Sally loved it.”

  She grinned. “I’m glad.”

  He glanced at Cain with avid curiosity, but she kept going inside.

  “Tickets?” Cain asked as they hiked up four flights of stairs.

  “I did a personal interpreting job at a party for the French delegates, and they gave them to me as thanks. Sally had mentioned wanting to see that show. No biggie.”

  Cain’s grunt told her he wasn’t so sure, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue with the man.

  She unlocked and opened the door to her apartment cautiously, semi-expecting her place to be ransacked, like in the movies. But her apartment was exactly as she’d left it. Relief surged through her in a wave. The mere thought of strangers going through her things gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  She put down her laptop bag and purse by the door, kicked off her shoes, and moved further inside, flipping on lights as she went. Wrung out didn’t begin to cover her current state of being. “So this is what? Friendly dinner with the new colleague?”

  It didn’t escape her that Cain filled her small one-bedroom apartment more than was comfortable, taking up her breathing space.

  He didn’t comment. Instead he searched the place thoroughly, not that it took him long. Even after five years here, she still kept it pretty basic. Bed and dresser and night stand in the bedroom. Couch, coffee table, and TV in the living area, and a small kitchen table in the kitchenette. Even the décor was still the generic stuff Delilah’s team had furnished the place with at the time—reds and tans. She liked it well enough, so she didn’t bother to change it. Cain took off his jacket and draped it on the back of a kitchen chair before he dropped casually onto her couch and loosened up his tie.

  She ignored the pitter-patter of heart at the sexy image he presented and lifted an eyebrow. “Make yourself at home.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a lot of pictures.”

  Especially of family. Damn observant man. “I’m camera shy.” She’d rather not hear his psychoanalysis of her life. “Can I get you a drink? Water? Iced tea? Beer?”

  He let her change the subject. “Beer sounds good. Thanks.”

  Quinn spun on her heel, headed into the kitchen, and pulled a bottle of her favorite beer and a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge, then got down a glass.

  “I assume you’ll get a taxi back to the hotel?” she called.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  She paused pouring the tea into a glass.

  “Why not?”

  “As your new fiancé who moved here from Paris and got a job with you to be closer, it would look odd if I went and stayed with a bunch of men. Don’t you think?”

  Quinn snorted and opened a canister of sugar which sat on her countertop. “Good one.”

  Silence greeted her. She stopped spooning sugar into her glass and glanced over the counter to find him watching her with patient expectance.

  She scowled. “Hell, no.”

  “I’m afraid so. We need to appear normal. You need protection. There’s no chance I’m leaving you alone.”

  “Has it escaped your notice there’s not enough room here?” She waved at the apartment. “Where do you think you’ll sleep?”

  “In your bed.”

  Her heart kicked it up a notch and her body screamed yes, but her mind balked. “You really don’t value your life. Do you?”

  Was that a smile tilting the corners of his mouth? Nope. Not sexy. Do not think of him as sexy. She chanted the mantra in her head, refusing to acknowledge how she was failing miserably to adhere to her own instructions. The man was sex appeal wrapped up in a fabulous package. Instead she narrowed her eyes. “What? You think I’m funny?”

  “I think you’re fighting the inevitable.”

  “I think you’re delusional. It’s sofa city for you, sweetheart.”

  Cain broke out in a full-bellied laugh. His smile transformed his face from broodingly handsome to drop dead gorgeous, and heat pooled low as fierce attraction swept through her in response.

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me sweetheart before.”

  She didn’t doubt it. She pointed her spoon at him. “I’m serious. You’re not sleeping
in my bed.”

  “Your fiancé would.”

  She spread her arms wide. “No one is here to know the difference.”

  “Honey, we’re dealing with demons.”

  His calm logic only infuriated her more. If rumors were to be believed, demons could see through walls. Quinn gritted her teeth. “Fine,” she spat. “But I sleep on the left. Touch me and I’ll cut off your hand. And you’d better not snore.”

  He held up both hands. “I make no promises.”

  “Grrrr.” Quinn growled her frustration and refused to acknowledge the panic tingeing the emotion. What if she did something really stupid? Like jump Cain in her sleep?

  She moved around the counter, shoved Cain’s beer at him, then yanked her cellphone out of her purse. She’d had a crappy couple of days. She needed pizza. Her favorite place picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Tony. It’s Quinn. Yeah, I’ll need the usual, please.”

  She glanced at Cain, who listened with raised eyebrows. “Make that a double order. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Quinn bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. Her nightmare, the one she had every night, dissipated as consciousness returned. But fear of a different sort seized her in the dark of the middle of the night—someone was in her room, in her bed. Without zero hesitation, she whipped out the knife hidden between her mattress and box spring and was on top of her intruder, knife at his throat, in a flash.

  She froze as recognition slammed into her. Daniel Cain lay under her as she straddled him, his hands held up in a surrender-like gesture. Only the blaze of his pale blue eyes told her he hadn’t surrendered. The sound of her panting breaths was the only noise in the room.

  “Quinn?”

  “Oh, god, I’m so sorry!” she mumbled.

  As fast as she’d jumped him, Quinn rolled away, careful not to nick him with the knife. She sat with her back to him, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and stuffed her weapon back into its hiding place before dropping her head into her hands.

  “If you didn’t like my beard, all you had to do was say so. No need to shave it off for me.”

  His unexpected teasing pulled a huff of a laugh from her. “Normally, I don’t like beards on men.”

  “But you like mine.” An interesting tone of satisfaction layered his words. The rustle of sheets told her he sat up.

  In fact, she found his beard, neatly trimmed to a point and sporting streaks of grey that gave him a distinguished air, sexy as all get out. “Maybe. Not very comfortable for kissing though.” Dammit. Did I just say that out loud? This was becoming a bad habit.

  “Were you planning on kissing me?”

  She scrunched up her face. She had said it out loud. Time to screech this conversation to a halt before she said something that got her in real trouble. “Sorry about the knife.”

  His grunt told her he’d caught the change of subject. “Was it your nightmare or having a stranger in your bed that set you off?”

  “Both.” She lifted her head from her hands and scooted around to face him, crossing her legs. That she was comfortable with him as she sat there in a t-shirt and pajama shorts, and he in nothing but his boxers, struck her as odd. Though she didn’t mind the eye candy his bare chest provided.

  “Tell me.”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t take the softly couched words as a command, more an invitation.

  “I’m guessing Delilah didn’t share much with you about me?”

  His lips quirked. “Remind me to thank her for that, by the way.”

  She gave him a half-smile. “Like most telepaths, I came into my powers when I was seventeen.”

  “Did your family have any history of Psys?”

  She shook her head. “Not that they knew of. I had a great-aunt who’d been institutionalized at the same age for schizophrenia. One day, she just stopped talking.”

  Cain nodded. In families who didn’t already know the signs, blaming mental illness was common.

  “I was taken to a series of doctors because of the voices in my head.”

  Another nod.

  “One of those doctors turned out to be a Psy. With my parents’ permission, he had me taken to what they were told was a hospital to treat my illness.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  Quinn swallowed. “No. It was a…cult, for lack of a better word. Not unlike being slaved out. I was taken to a facility in the middle of the wilderness, impossible to escape. I was used for my powers.” For two long years. She shuddered.

  “How did you get out?”

  As usual, the black hole where that memory existed sneered at her. “I don’t remember. I woke up in a hospital. Delilah was there. She said her team got me out. After I recovered, she got me my job here and this apartment.”

  “When was that?”

  “Six years ago.”

  A flicker of emotion passed over his face, too quick for her to catch. “Where were you held? Do you know?”

  “Somewhere in Alaska.”

  He was silent so long she wondered what was going on in his head, but his expression was carefully neutral.

  “What’s your nightmare?”

  She blinked at his sudden question, then inhaled before speaking. “I’m still there. Trapped. Used. Terrified. I promised myself I’d never be vulnerable again. Delilah helped by having me trained to fight.”

  Again that flicker behind a mask of blankness. What was running through his head?

  “I might be able to see more about your escape. Do you want to know?”

  She’d bet her life the offer was a rare one for him to make. “So Retrocognition is another one of your skills?”

  A hum of affirmation.

  “Why?”

  He seemed to understand what she was asking—why was he helping? “Maybe knowing will help your nightmares go away.”

  Doubtful. They came to her every night. Still…maybe finding out was worth the try. She licked her dry lips. “Okay.”

  He gazed deeply into her eyes, as if searching for any shred of doubt, but she gazed back steadily. Finally, he nodded. “I have to touch you.”

  Quinn grimaced. “Okay.” Physical touch could be weird for Psys—a constant bombardment of their senses making it difficult for them to form relationships. For her, the connection could make the voices in her head, the ones she’d learned to block out, louder. Although come to think of it, today at work, when he’d touched her to gain her abilities to translate, nothing had happened. Weird.

  Cain reached out and placed both hands on either side of her face. Again, no amplification of the voices. If anything, an unusual peace settled over her. Was he using his power on her? But no, a psychometric couldn’t soothe. Maybe being near another Psy helped?

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deep and slow. “I see caves? Cells?”

  “Where we lived. An abandoned mine system.”

  “You’re locked in a room.” His lips tightened. She knew what he was seeing. How pitiful her living accommodations were. The room where she’d been held had sported a bed and small table. Overhead lights swung from the rock ceiling, but she hadn’t controlled when they were on or off. At least she’d been well fed and had books supplied.

  “I wasn’t kept in there all the time. Mostly at night. They needed my…services…too often.”

  “You’re asleep.”

  His brows drew down. “Loud noises. An explosion.”

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  “Gunfire now.”

  Total black hole for her.

  “It’s gone quiet.” He continued to concentrate. “Someone’s coming down the hall. You can hear footsteps. The door is opening—”

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  “A man opened the door. He’s holding a samurai sword. You asked him if he was there to kill you.” The way he said kill made her shiver. A bottomless depth of fury laced the word. Why? For her? At her captors?

  “What’d he
say?”

  “He said he was there to get you out. That you’d be okay now.”

  Cain opened his eyes, a blaze of heat lashed at her from his gaze—anger, desire, triumph, something darker that she couldn’t identify. A confusing cocktail of information. He didn’t need to say the words for her to hear the emotions.

  She licked her lips. “What did I say?”

  He didn’t speak. She wasn’t even sure he caught the question, too intently focused on her. Her lungs squeezed tightly, making it difficult to breathe. Carefully, she placed her hands over his. “Cain?”

  He jerked slightly under her touch. “You kissed him.” The words were dragged from him—rough and tortured. His gaze dropped to her lips, and need pulsed through every nerve in her body. What was going on?

  “Daniel?”

  With a low groan, he pulled her to him, his lips covering hers in a kiss both possessive and demanding. Sensation blew through her, the heady scent of his skin, the rasp of his beard against her face, the taste of his tongue as he claimed her mouth. Needing more, she practically climbed into his lap when, suddenly, the tenor changed. Gentle hands pulled her away as he broke the kiss.

  “Not a good idea.”

  He set her away from him, on her side of the bed, then got up and left the room.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ten days later, Cain followed Quinn into her apartment. After putting her purse and laptop bag down, she stood there with her hands on her hips.

  Concerned, he put a hand to her shoulder, her tension screaming at him through the stiffness of her shoulders. “Hey. You okay?” She’d been unusually quiet at work today.

  “We’re not getting anywhere, Cain.” Frustration filled every syllable.

  Quinn Ridley truly cared about the people the Mauritollans had taken and were selling to the highest bidder. After learning about her history, he understood why she cared so much. That she hadn’t run away in terror, to protect herself, impressed him. That he shared her frustration connected him to her in a way he didn’t understand and was reluctant to explore.