O’Shea held up his hands, palm up. “I didn’t take advantage of you—I simply had to increase the flow of power in order to overcome the voice loss spell the trows had laid on you. I apologize if the sensations were uncomfortable for you but I didn’t want to leave you half healed.”
Uncomfortable? Uncomfortable?” Cass stared at him in disbelief. “You said I might experience ‘some mild pleasure,’” she accused him, her voice shaking. “You never said anything about…about…” She broke off again, too embarrassed to continue.
Jake O’Shea looked intrigued. “So you experienced more than mild—”
“Hell, yes,” Cass cut him off angrily. “It was like…like you were touching me all over from the inside-out. Like you were stroking my entire body until I was just about to…to…”
She stopped abruptly as she realized that he was staring at her with an unreadable expression on his strong features. She wasn’t sure if she saw amusement or heat smoldering in his leaf green eyes but either way it pissed her off.
“Are you really going to have the nerve to pretend all that—the way you made me feel, the way you…you touched me even though you weren’t really touching me—wasn’t on purpose, you big jerk?” she demanded.
“Cassandra, come here.” O’Shea’s voice was a menacing rumble and his black eyebrows were drawn low over the intense pale green eyes.
“No.” Cass stared at him defiantly and kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She wasn’t getting anywhere near him again. She’d had enough of his bullshit for one day.
Moving faster than she could have believed possible, O’Shea reached out and pulled her to him so that she was standing between his thighs once more. He didn’t try to pull her onto his lap again but his grip on her arms felt like iron and Cass realized she was trapped.
“Let me go, asshole!”
She didn’t bother with trying to yank against his unbreakable grip—there was no point in flushing what was left of her dignity. Instead she glared at him and O’Shea glared right back.
“Listen to me, Cassandra,” he growled. “If I wanted to touch you, I promise you, you would know it. But I’ve already told you I have no interest in doing so. You’re involved with someone else, you’re a client and you’re part fairy—which means I’d have to be an unprincipled fool to make advances on you.”
Cass was angry for a whole different reason now.
“So I’m completely beneath your notice because you’re prejudiced against half-breeds—is that it?” she demanded. “I guess I don’t qualify as fae enough to tempt you since I’m only one eighth fairy.”
“I am not in any way prejudiced against humans with fae blood or vice versa and I’m not saying that I don’t find you attractive. You’re bloody gorgeous and you damn well know it.” O’Shea sounded exasperated. “I’m just saying—“ He broke off shaking his head. “Do you realize a moment ago you were angry because you thought I’d molested you and now you’re angry because I’ve just told you I’m not interested in doing any such thing? It doesn’t make sense.”
Cass didn’t care if it made sense or not. She just knew she wanted to slap him but he was holding her arms too firmly for her to get free.
“Forget my half-breed status for a minute,” she said furiously. “You say you have no interest in touching me but you were…were kissing all over my throat a minute ago. Are you trying to tell me that was no big deal—all in a day’s work for a hard-working elf attorney?”
O’Shea looked slightly uncomfortable.
“I didn’t…I don’t usually heal my clients in the course of a day’s work,” he admitted at last. “I did when I lived in the woods of the Realm with my people but it’s been years since I decided…” He stopped abruptly. “The point is, I was only trying to help you and I apologize if you felt taken advantage of. It was certainly not intentional. And now I have to go.” He released her and stood up abruptly, forcing Cass to stumble backwards if she didn’t want to be chest to chest with him.
Cass wanted to say something cutting and sarcastic but she couldn’t come up with anything bad enough.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” she said tightly, nodding at the corner of the bed where his pinstriped navy blue suit jacket still lay.
“Thank you,” O’Shea said stiffly, reaching for it. “I expect to hear from you tomorrow morning if anything goes wrong with your birthday wish.” He cleared his throat and straightened the cravat at his throat, which had gone slightly askew. “It’s possible your fairy godmother has been cowed into being more careful with her magic but if a disaster occurs, you only have to call my name. Say, ‘Come Jacobin O’Shea for my hour of need is near,’ and I will find you. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, right.” Cass crossed her arms over her chest again and patted her bare foot on the floor. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever yell for help from you, you bastard. But she had a feeling if she told Jake O’Shea off and let him know she had no intention of calling him no matter what happened to her birthday wish, she’d be in for another fight. And right now she just wanted him to go and never come back.
“Very well.” O’Shea seemed about to hold out a hand to her and then he reconsidered and simply nodded. “I’ll speak to you later, Cassandra,” he said quietly, fixing her with one last intense stare. There was a whooshing noise and her bedroom was suddenly full of roiling clouds of navy blue smoke that smelled like leather and masculine spice and pine needles.
Cass coughed and ran to open the window before the clouds set off the upstairs smoke detector.
“Not if I have anything to say about it, asshole,” she muttered.
Come Hell or high water, she was never going to ask him for help. As far as she was concerned, Jake O’Shea was out of her life forever.
Twelve
“Crap. Damn. Shit. F—”
“Language, Cassandra!”
The voice behind her caused Cass to drop the paintbrush. She turned guiltily to see not her Nana, but her little sister Rory standing in her doorway, a mischievous grin playing around the corners of her mouth.
“Rory, damn it! I’m trying to work,” she complained, bending to retrieve the brush.
“Hey, your voice is all better.” Rory came in and plopped herself on the bed, pushing her long red hair out of her eyes. “That Mister O’Shea fixed you right up.”
“Yeah, he fixed me all right.” Cass ran a hand through her black curls and sighed.
“How did he do it?” Rory, wanted to know with her usual insatiable curiosity.
“None of your business,” Cass snapped. She could feel her cheeks heating and she turned away quickly so her sister couldn’t see. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked pointedly, hoping Rory would take the hint and leave her to her unfinished painting and her confused thoughts.
“Uh-huh. You can tell me why you’re blushing.”
“I am not blushing!” Cass whipped around, putting both hands to her hot cheeks. Inwardly she cursed her snow-white skin that always showed her emotions the minute she got upset or angry.
“Sure. I guess you just got a sudden severe sunburn then.” Rory sounded smug. “Or maybe you’re just thinking about our court-appointed elf.”
“That jerk!” Cass said vehemently. “I could care less if I ever lay eyes on him again and I’m sure as hell not going to waste my time thinking about him. He’s gone—out of my life, I mean, our lives forever as far as I’m concerned. And that’s the way I like it.”
“He’ll be back pretty quick if the FG screws up your birthday wish,” Rory pointed out. “And I’d say there’s about a ninety-nine point nine percent chance of that happening.”
Cass glared at her.
“Since when did you turn into a Vegas odds expert? And anyway, I don’t give a damn what she does—I’m not calling him.”
“What?” Rory looked concerned. “But you have to, Cass! And anyway, I heard you—you practically promised him you would.”
“What?
What did you hear?” Cass demanded. “Were you listening at my door a minute ago?”
Rory’s emerald green eyes went wide.
“No, I meant earlier at court—when he told you that you had to call him if the FG screwed up.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But now I’m intrigued. What was happening while you two were up here all alone? And how exactly did Mister O’Shea cure your voice?”
“That’s none of your business,” Cass snapped, examining her paintbrush closely to avoid meeting her sister’s eyes. “And it’s going to stay that way so you might as well stop asking.”
“I think he likes you.” Rory plopped on the bed again, oblivious to her sister’s anger. “I mean, the way he was holding onto your arm the whole time. And the way he rescued you from those weird little brown tree-looking men…”
“Oh? I’m surprised you had time to notice. I thought you were too busy making a friends with that weird black horse thing,” Cass said acidly.
Rory’s normally creamy skin grew very pale.
“He’s not a thing, he’s a phooka,” she said in a low voice. “He has a name—he told it to me.”
“And what might that be?” Cass turned back to her painting, scanning the unfinished portrait with dissatisfaction. After a long pause she looked back at her sister. “Well?”
“I…” Rory shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right then.” Cass sighed. “Look, you stop teasing me about that big elf jerk and I won’t ask about the…uh, whatever his name is. Deal?”
“Deal.” Rory sighed and sat up a little straighter on the bed. “Okay so let’s plan your birthday wish.”
“A strategy session of two?” Cass frowned. “Where’s Phil?”
Rory put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, I forgot, you don’t know.”
“Know what?” Cass asked in exasperation.
“Well the minute you went upstairs with Mister O’Shea, Josh called her and said he’d just gotten word that his grandma out in California had broken her hip—really bad too.” She frowned. “Anyway, he was calling her from the airport and he wanted her to come meet him so they could fly up together. You know she’s never gotten a chance to meet his family and he’s really close to them so…” She trailed off, looking unhappy.
“What? And she couldn’t even say goodbye?” Cass put her hands on her hips and glared at her little sister as though it was her fault their older sister had suddenly decided to fly cross-country to visit her fiancé’s family.
Rory shook her head unhappily.
“She knew you’d be upset, but she thought you’d be more upset if she interrupted you and Mister O’Shea while he was, uh, healing you.”
“Damnit! I am so sick of everyone in this family just assuming that—” Cass broke off abruptly, her cheeks heating again.
“Anyway, she said she’d call you tomorrow morning to see how your wish went,” Rory said helpfully. “So I guess as far as a planning committee goes, I’m it. Sorry.”
Cass blew out a breath and went to rummage in her messy desk drawer for a picture of Brandon.
“Okay, well let’s just try and make it quick,” she said as she clipped the picture to the top of her easel, right above the portrait. “I just got another threatening phone call from Albert Rodriguez at the I.C.U. gallery demanding I give him the centerpiece for my show ASAP and I need to work.”
Rory laid on the bed on her stomach and propped her chin in her hands.
“I thought you said you can’t work from a picture. I thought you had to have the subject right in front of you.”
“Well, yes, that has always been true in the past.” Cass squinted at the photo and frowned. “But in this case I’m trying to make an exception.”
“But it’s almost done,” Rory pointed out. “Why can’t Brandon just come sit for you for a half an hour so you can finish it right? I know you work fast when you really love what you’re doing.”
“He’s doing something with his band so he can’t come over right now.” Cass sighed. “If he’d just get over thinking he’s going to be the next Gerard Way, we might be able to make this relationship work.”
“So wish that,” Rory said. “That he’ll get over himself, I mean.”
Cass turned from the portrait to frown at her sister.
“You know the wish can’t directly affect anyone but the wisher, Rory—it’s part of the rules. And besides, even if I could wish that, I wouldn’t. As an artist myself, I would never wish for anyone else to give up their artistic passion or ambitions.”
“Oh, I never thought of it that way.” Rory looked abashed. “But wouldn’t you be kind of doing him a favor in a way? I mean, I’ve heard his demo tapes, Cass. His band sounds like cats being killed. What are they called again? Biscuits for the Devil? The Evil Pancakes?” She frowned. “I can never remember but I know it’s some kind of daemonic breakfast bread.”
“The band is called Satin’s Stud Muffins and they have a very experimental sound,” Cass said defensively, although she privately agreed with her little sister’s opinion. “But it doesn’t matter what they sound like, I would still never wish Brandon’s musical, uh, aspirations away. His artistic temperament is what I love about him—it’s what we have in common.”
“Nana always says that opposites attract,” Rory said thoughtfully. “She says that Phil was so tightly wound she needed somebody laid back, like Josh turned out to be. And she always says that since you’re such a free spirit, you need a man who’s practical and realistic—somebody who’ll drop everything to take care of you.”
“That is not true,” Cass said, frowning. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me—I can take care of myself. And anyway, consider the source, Rory. Are you really going to take Nana’s advice on romance?”
“I dunno.” Rory shrugged. “She does have plenty of dates.”
Cass snorted. “Yeah, but ever since she dumped Arturo to play the field, they’ve all been disasters. Who is she going out with tomorrow night, anyway?”
“Some guy she met in that Internet Chat room called ‘Great Group Dates,’” Rory said. “I saw them chatting the other night. He goes by ‘Spock17.’ Weird, huh?”
“Exactly.” Cass nodded. “And that’s why you shouldn’t listen to Nana when it comes to men. As much as I love her, she really can’t pick them to save her life.” She lifted her paintbrush to try and correct the lopsided mouth on Brandon’s portrait and put it down with a sigh. “Look, I really have to concentrate on this. I’m just going to wish something small and incidental. Maybe I’ll wish my favorite Mac lip gloss will never run out so I won’t have to buy anymore—the FG couldn’t screw that up even if she wanted to.”
“That’s a good one.” Rory nodded eagerly. “Yeah, just wish for that, Cass. Cause I’m pretty sure after that scene in the court room today, she does want to screw up your wish. Did you see that look she gave you as we were leaving?”
Cass snorted. “How could I help but see? I was giving it right back to her.” She frowned. “Look, Rory, I know you mean well but unless I get this painting exactly perfect, I’m going to have more than a spoiled birthday wish to worry about. So I hate to be rude but could you leave me to it?”
“You don’t hate to be rude—you love it.” Rory scrunched her nose and grinned, taking the sting out of her words.
“Wait.” Cass waved her brush at her little sister as she started to slide off the bed. “Are you getting up early to be at the kennel again tomorrow?”
Rory nodded. “Uh-huh. Have to give the dogs their early run.”
“Good.” Cass nodded. Then would you mind getting me up before you go? I have to be at the Tight Ass academy to teach those little brats art by eight o’clock. So I need to be up by seven in order to have time to grab a quick shower and get over there. You know what the drive is like in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know. But won’t you be up at six to make your wish?” Rory asked.
Cass nodded. “
Uh-huh, but as long as the FG doesn’t turn me into a lump of coal, I’m rolling back over and snoozing until you bang on my door. I need as much rest as I can get before I deal with those little monsters.”
“You should stick to animals,” Rory said. “They’re easier. But, sure, I’ll wake you up.” She slid off the bed. “Okay, I’ll leave you to your art. I think Nana wanted me to help her design her costume for her date tomorrow night anyway.”
“Her costume? Don’t you mean her outfit?” Cass asked, frowning at the faulty portrait. “Or is she going to some kind of a costume ball?”
Rory might have answered before she left the room but if she did, Cass didn’t notice. She had slipped into the world of her art once more and was concentrating on getting the mouth on her Brandon painting just…exactly…right.
Thirteen
“Crap. Total crap.” Cass stood back wearily and stared at her work. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands shook with fatigue. From under her tightly pulled shades, the gray light of morning was seeping into the room. She’d been up all night working on the damn thing and still it wasn’t right—in fact, it was worse than ever. The eyes were blank and soulless, the nose was crooked, and the lips were too big in addition to being painted a glossy purple. Cass had thought that maybe a subtle change in shade would make them work but no, all she had accomplished was making Brandon look like a mentally challenged Mick Jagger wearing purple lip gloss.
It was no good—she just couldn’t work from a picture! She needed a live subject. But when she’d called Brandon around midnight, knowing full well he would still be up, and begged him to come over, he had put her off again. His excuse was that the band was still practicing even though the clink of glasses and the bawdy sounds of a bar in full swing could be heard clearly in the background. Cass hung up on him with the irritating feeling that the subject of her painting was as sub par as the painting itself.
“Son of a bitch!” In a fit of pure temper, she threw down her palate and brush and gave the lifeless painting the finger as though it was the real Brandon standing there in front of her. “This just isn’t working,” she said, still talking to the canvas. “Damn it, how am I supposed to do this without a live subject?” Tears, hot and angry, stung her eyes and she pressed her paint-smeared palms to her face, trying to hold them back. She hated to cry.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 10
