sedona files - books one to three

by Christine Pope

  A woman was waiting for us at the airport, a stranger, of course. But she was probably the last person I would have ever expected to be mixed up in an alien hunters’ underground — I was no expert, but her suit looked like Chanel, and the diamonds in her ears and on her perfectly manicured fingers had a wicked glitter that told me they were genuine.

  “Bettina Croft,” she told us. “Dr. Oliver, I have to say this is such an honor — ”

  “We’re just grateful for the help,” he said, after shooting me another one of those embarrassed little sideways glances.

  I repressed a smile. By this time, I was pretty much inured to the adulation.

  “And your eye — do you need to see a doctor?”

  “I’m fine, Ms. Croft. Really, I think all Ms. O’Brien and I need is a place to regroup.”

  “Well, I have the perfect thing for that. I’m sure you’re on urgent business, but I think you could use a decent night’s sleep.” She looked past us to Matt Forrest. “Are you staying?”

  He shook his head. “Got to get back, make sure those girls haven’t gotten into any more trouble. Besides, I was never one for the big city. You take care of them, Bettina, and my thanks.”

  With that he gave us a wave, and got back into the Seneca’s cockpit.

  “As I thought,” Bettina Croft said. “But I do always like to ask. Now, where was I? Oh, that’s right. I’ve set you up in a bungalow at the Fairmont. I hope that will be all right?”

  “All right?” Paul said faintly.

  “It sounds lovely,” I put in. More than lovely. The Fairmont was definitely above my pay grade, but not, apparently, Ms. Croft’s.

  “Excellent. Well, best be going.”

  Feeling a little shell-shocked, we followed her off the tarmac, through the small terminal, and out to the parking lot, where a driver in a dark suit waited next to a massive black vehicle that my befuddled mind belatedly realized was a Bentley limousine. As soon as Ms. Croft approached, he opened the back door, and we all climbed in.

  The smell of expensive leather surrounded me. I took a deep breath and decided a girl could get used to this sort of thing.

  “So…erm…Ms. Croft,” I ventured, as the car glided away from the curb and headed northwest toward the ocean and the hotel, “how do you know Matt Forrest?”

  “Oh, I’ve been part of the network for a long time, and so has he.” Her blue eyes twinkled beneath eyelashes coated with what I guessed was the most expensive mascara money could buy. “My husband always thought I was a complete lunatic for being interested in these things.”

  “Thought?”

  “Oh, he passed away three years ago. Since then, I’ve done what I can to keep busy. Supporting the network is just part of it, but I have to say it’s far more interesting than planning another charity luncheon!”

  I smiled wanly at that, since she seemed to expect some sort of response. The next leg of the journey passed in relative silence, although I couldn’t help wondering who the dead husband had been. Judging by the car, either a Rockefeller or the Sultan of Brunei.

  The Bentley sailed majestically down Ocean Park Boulevard before turning north on Pacific Coast Highway. From there, it was just a slight jog to where the Fairmont was located. Before I knew it, the Bentley had pulled up in front of an impressive lobby.

  “The room is reserved for a Mr. and Mrs. Anderson,” Ms. Croft said, sounding almost apologetic. “I just thought it would be simpler that way. They’re expecting you.”

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Croft,” I began, but she waved a manicured hand, her diamonds flashing under the dome light in the passenger compartment.

  “My pleasure. But it seems you don’t have any luggage?”

  I looked down at my purse, which was the only personal belonging I had with me. “We had to travel light.”

  She looked at me and then Paul with a practiced eye. “I’ll send some things along. Size eight, right?”

  I nodded, and hoped she wouldn’t reveal my bra size while she was at it.

  “And Mr. Oliver — thirty-eight long, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Um — that’s right. But really — ”

  “Nonsense. If there’s anything I love more than sticking a monkey wrench in those conspiracists’ plans, it’s shopping. Consider it done. Good evening — and good luck.”

  Although I really didn’t remember getting out of the car, somehow I found myself standing on the sidewalk outside the lobby, Paul next to me, as we both watched the Bentley pull away.

  “What just happened?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” I replied. “But let’s check in and figure it out later.”

  “Good plan.”

  As stated, they were waiting for us. And no mention of asking for a credit card…and the hotel clerk kept referring to us as Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Neither Paul nor I decided to contradict him.

  The bungalow turned out to be a cozy little getaway roughly three times the size of my apartment, with two floors and French doors that opened out onto a secluded patio. I unlocked the doors to let in the ocean breeze and stood there for a moment, breathing in the salty air and feeling it ruffle my hair.

  “Can we just stay here for awhile?” I asked. “The aliens can wait, can’t they?”

  In answer, Paul came to me and took my hand in his, then stood facing the ocean without saying anything.

  “Um…I take it that’s a no.”

  He smiled. “Persephone.”

  “I know, I know, we have to save the world. It’s just that I’m so damned tired.”

  Then his arms were around me, pulling me close, his mouth on mine. Despite my comment seconds earlier, I knew I wasn’t so tired that I would push him away. I kissed him back, quite thoroughly, then pulled back just far enough that I could look up into his eyes.

  “You sure you’re up for this? I mean, those guys did a pretty good number on your face.”

  “Indiana Jones got dragged behind a truck and beaten up by at least five men and still was able to have sex with Marian afterward.”

  “How do you know they had sex? The movie just faded to black.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, all right, they had sex. But — ”

  And I couldn’t say anything after that, because he was kissing me again, tasting me, his hands cupping my face. No reason to resist the flood of heat that came over me — after all, hadn’t I fought my way past armies of hybrid alien soldiers just so I could be in Paul’s arms again?

  Well, when you put it that way…

  “Race you to the bed,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I opened an eye. For a second I couldn’t think where I was. Certainly the Route 66 Motel didn’t have sheets with a thread count so high they felt like silk against my naked skin, or windows that opened out onto a foggy beachside morning.

  Oh, right. Fairmont.

  Holding a wad of sheets and down comforter against my bare torso, I sat up. Paul was nowhere to be seen, but the sound of running water and a somewhat off-key baritone from the vicinity of the bathroom told me he hadn’t gone very far.

  A determined search turned up my panties from under the foot of the bed, while my other clothes, including my bra, had somehow gotten strewn across one of the arm chairs. I didn’t bother with anything except the panties, and went to retrieve one of the terrycloth robes from the closet.

  I’d just finished tying it shut when a knock came at the door. Despite myself, my heart started pounding a little bit more quickly, but I told myself that was just silly. There was no way anyone could know where we were. Well, anyone who wished us harm, that is.

  When I opened the door, I saw a valet standing there with one of those wheeled luggage carts, the type you can hang garment bags from. Only this one wasn’t carrying garment bags, but instead a series of plastic bags, each enclosing its own article of clothing. Below them was a set of matched Louis Vuitton luggage. Bettina Croft had apparently made good on her threat to m
ake sure we were outfitted.

  “The front desk said to send this up,” the valet offered.

  I closed my mouth. “Oh — okay. Right. Um…just put it in the closet.”

  He shrugged and did as I had instructed, then paused by the empty luggage cart. It took my brain a few seconds to realize he was waiting for his tip.

  “Oh, right.” Thank God my purse was in plain sight on a side table; I hurried over to it and extracted a twenty from my wallet. I hoped that would be adequate. I didn’t have much experience with the tip scales in four-star hotels.

  He seemed pleased enough with the twenty, though, and I barely held in a sigh of relief. I shut the door behind him, and went to inspect what Bettina Croft had sent over.

  It looked as if she’d raided every boutique in Beverly Hills after dropping us off. I wasn’t sure why she thought I’d need a black cocktail dress for chasing aliens, but hey, I was not about to turn down free Prada. A little more digging revealed slightly more practical articles of clothing — jeans and shirts and sweaters, expensive underwear and shoes. Not to mention a small bag filled with toiletries, including the entire line of La Mer facial products, which alone must have set her back about a grand.

  “Hey, Paul!” I called out. “Take a look — it’s like Christmas out here.”

  He emerged from the bathroom, drying his hair with one towel, another wrapped around his waist. In the light from the bathroom I could see bruises on his arms and legs and back that of course hadn’t been visible the night before as we made love in the darkness.

  “Those guys weren’t fooling around, were they?”

  For a second or two he just stared at me quizzically, and then he glanced downward. “Oh, well. I probably got worse on the thirty-yard line during a home game back in high school.”

  Paul had played football? I tilted my head and inquired, “I thought you were supposed to be a science nerd.”

  “I was. But my high school was small enough that just about every guy taller than six feet ended up on the football team.”

  I supposed that was part of the fun of getting to know someone — you never knew when you’d stumble across something new and exciting. “I was on the debate team.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Hey,” I began, then caught the twinkle in his eyes.

  Was it supposed to be like this — feeling so comfortable with someone you’d only known for a few days? I guessed the movies and books said it was, but I’d never experienced anything remotely similar in any of my past relationships. Then again, none of those men had had the advantage of trying to bond with me while chasing down aliens and government conspiracies.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “Bettina seems to have burned a hole in her platinum Visa for us, which is just as well, because I think those poor flats from Kohl’s have decided they’re not up for hazard duty. You done with the bathroom?”

  He nodded, and I went on in. The air was still steamy and damp from his shower. I breathed in the moisture, then climbed into the shower and turned my face up to the hot water. Sometimes a hot shower is the only medicine you need.

  Eventually I climbed out and wrapped myself in a towel, and twisted another one around my head. Paul was standing in the dressing area, scrunching his face this way and that as he shaved with a shiny new electric razor — another bonus from the Bettina Croft care package.

  I watched him carefully for a moment, then said, “We’re going to have to do something about that.”

  “About what?”

  In answer, I pointed at the blue-black bruise surrounding his left eye. “About that. If you go out looking like you were just in a bar fight, you’re sure to attract attention…and that’s the last thing we need.”

  “So what do you propose? A bag over my head?”

  “Bettina the ever-resourceful thought of that, too.” I reached past him to the vanity top and pulled out a tube of Dermablend.

  “Makeup?” he asked, sounding about as horrified as if I’d asked him to go outside wearing the Prada cocktail dress Bettina had gifted me.

  “Well, technically, but it’s made for covering scars, that sort of thing. It’s not as if I’m proposing you put on lipstick and false eyelashes.”

  Obviously Paul was no metrosexual, because he continued to give me the side-eye. Still, he didn’t say no, so I unscrewed the cap from the concealer and squeezed a bit onto my index finger, then sidled up to him and began dabbing it around his eye. He endured these ministrations in stony silence, although I could actually feel his jaw clench as I moved lower and smoothed a bit along his jawline, where another contusion stood out in shades of dark red and purple.

  I worked as quickly as I could, even though there was something intoxicating about standing that close to him, surrounded by his clean shower smell, feeling the heat radiating from his body. If we hadn’t spent a good chunk of the previous evening making love — and if we still didn’t have that pesky alien problem to deal with — who knows what I would have done next? What I really wanted to do was drop my towel and see what happened, but…

  “There,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too breathless. “No more bar fights.”

  He leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting my handiwork. “Doesn’t look too bad.”

  “It’s supposed to look natural, you know.”

  In response he gave the barest of nods, then went to the closet and ruffled through the items Bettina had sent over, selecting a button-down shirt in a dark green-gray that looked great with his eyes, along with a pair of jeans and some sturdy-looking lace-ups. I took the cue from him and also grabbed some jeans, and a cardigan and tank. Judging by the skies outside, it was going to be one of those days where the marine layer never lifted completely, and Los Angeles would be covered in a bank of thick gray clouds.

  Since I wasn’t going to worry about impressing anybody, I kept the makeup to a minimum, and scrunched some frizz-taming serum into my hair so I could let it air-dry. I’d just finished zipping up a pair of flat ankle boots — I figured I could probably use the support in case I ended the day running away from commandos or clambering through a ravine — when the phone rang.

  Paul and I both looked at each other.

  “Did you order room service?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Another ring.

  “Guess I’d better answer it,” I said. “It’s probably just Bettina checking in on us.”

  “Probably.”

  Still, my heart thumped a few times before I picked up the phone. After all, it was entirely possible the MIBs had somehow managed to track us down here. Then I told myself not to be silly, that if they’d really discovered where we were, they wouldn’t be calling politely.

  I put the handset up to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Persephone! It’s not too early, is it?”

  It took me a couple of seconds to recognize Kara’s voice. “Hey — Kara. How are you?”

  “Oh, fine.”

  “And Lance and Michael? They made it back okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. They had to dump the Suburban in a ravine and hike back into town, but they’re all right. We all went out for tequila shots at Javelina’s afterward.”

  And here Paul and I had both been worrying about them…not to mention being careful teetotalers last night, since we wanted to make sure we were as sharp as possible today.

  “Well…that’s good. So what’s up?”

  Kara’s tone became a bit more businesslike. “Oh, we’ve got contacts there in L.A. who’re ready to come over and pick you up, but we wanted to make sure you were up for it.”

  “Contacts? Bettina?”

  A short laugh. “No. Bettina’s a great facilitator, but she really doesn’t get out there and get her hands dirty, if you know what I mean. No, their names are Justin and Troy, and they can be there in about fifteen minutes if you’re ready.”

  “Well, we haven’t eaten anything yet — ”

  “Even better,” she
said. “You guys can discuss the next stage over breakfast. I’ll send ’em on over. Just be out in front in fifteen.”

  “But — ”

  “Good luck!” And she hung up.

  Feeling just a teensy bit blind-sided, I set the receiver back in the cradle and turned toward Paul. “We’re meeting Justin and Troy out in front in fifteen minutes.”

  “Who?”

  “Our L.A. contacts. But at least they’re buying us breakfast. I think.”

  “Okay, good…I guess.”

  “Come on,” I said, and went to retrieve my purse. “It’ll be an adventure.”

  “Haven’t we had enough of those?”

  To that, I could only shrug.

  * * *

  SOMEHOW THE NAMES Justin and Troy had conjured the image of a couple of surfer dudes who would pull up in a grungy ’70s van, but my instincts in that case proved dead wrong. A Lexus SUV waited for us at the curb, and a thin-faced man in his forties peered out the passenger window.

  “Dr. Oliver — and Ms. O’Brien?”

  I resolved then and there that at some point I’d have to take Paul to a psychic convention just so he could be the one tagging along with the rock star for once. Oh, who was I kidding? Not that many people knew about me; I guessed “psychic to film editors and accountants” didn’t have quite the same ring as “psychic to the stars.”

  “That’s us,” I said, in resigned tones. “Troy?”

  “Justin, actually. Justin Cole. Come on in.”

  Paul opened the door for me, and I got in on the passenger side behind Justin while Paul went around the back so he could take the seat behind the driver, a tall black man, also in his forties, who presumably was Troy.

  “We thought we’d take you over to the Coastside Café for brunch,” Justin said. “Plan our strategy.”

  “About that,” Paul said. “We don’t really know what the strategy should be. We’ve pretty much been winging it this whole time.”