by Ash Krafton
He stretched in his chair before shifting to a more comfortable position, hooking one arm behind the back. “Well, to an extent. I suppose I could die. I never tried.”
“Nor have I.”
He smiled, perfect white teeth in a predatory row. “We have much in common.”
She pushed back her chair, giving a little bit of extra distance between them. “We—no. Mr. Burns, we are not here to talk about me.”
“What’s the fun in that? I’m not paying you to sort my issues. I seek conversation.”
She closed his file. “I’m sorry. Whatever you want from me, you need to realize I’m a counselor. I’m not a paid conversationalist.”
“I apologize.” He lowered his head slightly, sounding genuinely contrite. His softened tones deepened his voice and gave it the texture of honey. “It’s just been…ages since I spoke so freely of the truth. Please. If I step out of bounds, by all means, correct me. I mean no offense.”
His eyes disarmed her with their soulful plea. Gone was the volatile temper, the fury replaced by sincerity. “None taken. Now, let’s backtrack. You said you’re gin.”
“Djinn,” he corrected, accent resurfacing. He added an extra layer to the g sound before spelling out the word.
“You mean…” She realized she was plucking at her lower lip and pressed her hands together again. “You’re a genie?”
“I prefer djinn. Genie sounds…flamboyant.”
A genie. Hmm. This might make an interesting case study. When was the last time a genie came in for counselling? Besides never. “Do you ever wear harem pants and a topknot?”
His left eyebrow arched sharply, dramatic and menacing. “Again, flamboyant.”
“As opposed to flammable.”
“Ah.” His expression relaxed, and he pointed at her, grinning. “I like your sense of humor. I see my research paid off. You truly are the right one.”
Something in his eyes made her acutely uncomfortable. She looked down at the file, needlessly straightening the already-neat stack of paper. The intrusive sense of his gaze lingered even though she could no longer see it. He had scrutinized her again. This time, the look in his eyes had been personal.
Normally, she’d stare back. It wouldn’t have unsettled her at all.
She had never reacted to anyone. Never. None of this was normal. She cleared her throat, glancing around for her coffee cup. “Ah, research?”
“I didn’t throw darts at the phone book. I’ve considered many others before I selected you.”
“Well, I’m glad you chose my qualifications and credentials.”
“You had one qualification, although your personality and your physical attributes are definitely bonuses.”
“Are you flirting?” She tilted her head, not quite encouraging but not condemning. Her mental pen was poised, ready to check off transference, that tightest of tightropes to walk. That one word reminded her who she was and what she should be doing. She became grounded and capable once more.
“I wouldn’t want to be labeled a flirt.”
The sparkle in his eye told her the exact opposite. He was probably very comfortable with the notion. “I don’t—”
“Label. Yes, I know. Fortunately, I’m not a flirt. If I see something I want, I’ll take it.”
His expression was not seductive, coy, or even alpha male. It was serious and still and suggested that what he took wasn’t likely to be given back. She rewound to the previous topic. “Who else have you considered?”
“Freud didn’t work out; I didn’t have any problems with my mother.”
“You’re joking, right?” She regretted the words the minute they left her mouth.
He shrugged. “Only a little. We did have a row over a previous girlfriend but, in the end, I respected my mother’s wishes.”
“I mean, about Freud.”
He looked at her like she’d sprouted horns and a tail. “Why would I joke about him? I had to learn to speak German. What a terrific pain in the ass that was.”
“Mr. Burns.” She raked her hair back from her eyes. “How old are you?”
“Older than God.” His voice was reverent and the pronouncement sent a shudder through her chest. After a moment, he smiled. “Just kidding. Older than your Christ but not older than God. I’m three and a half thousand years young. Give or take.”
“And you’ve been looking for a therapist all this time?” She smirked. “Wow. I must be special.”
“You are special,” he said.
That look again. This time, she weathered it.
“But I’ve only been looking for counsel for a few hundred years,” he said. “See, I keep humans to confide in but I always feel more like their owner. I suppose I am; I have to take extreme measure to ensure their confidentiality and, since that eliminates a great deal of their will, the relationships feels…one-sided.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward. “I want a real relationship. I want honesty. I want the vigor of debate. I want more than yes, master. That’s why I know you are the right one. You’d fight back.”
She leveled a calm stare straight at him. Fighting implied a passionate reaction to an unpleasant stimulus. That wasn’t something she’d ever had to worry about. “I don’t fight back.”
He smiled, a subtle stretch of lips that curled knowingly. It looked sly. He seemed to have no problem putting sincerity behind his expressions. “You’ve never been in a position where you had to.”
She swallowed, her tongue parched. With a pang she remembered she’d left her coffee in the break room. The suddenly impossible distance made the dry discomfort even worse.
“Tamarinda?” His tone lost the bantering brashness. His liquid gaze held hers and he inclined his head. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m—fine.” Another reflexive swallow. Almost choked on her own tonsils. She cleared her throat. “Would you excuse me just a moment? I left my coffee—”
He waved her out with an indulgent nod. “Be my guest.”
She hurried to the door and slipped out, resting up against the wall in the hallway, catching her breath.
Jennifer stuck her head out of the filing room and shook her head. Lawyers, she mouthed with a wink.
If only. What she wouldn’t give for it to be that easy.
He’d given her at least a half-dozen reasons to refuse taking him on. And yet—
She thought of the pencil she snapped between her fingers when he told her what he was. That one word triggered a thunderous visceral response—and she didn’t have many of those. But when she heard him say the word fire—
She bit her lips and tapped her head back against the wall. Yes, it was her trigger word, if ever she had one. But never before had all that happened. Would it—could it—happen again?
That settled it. The curiosity would kill her if she didn’t go back in.
She retrieved her mug from the break room and went back to her office. Composure regained.
A glance at her cup, held in a white-knuckled grip. Okay. Almost regained.
“Breathtaking view. Before that park was there…” Standing at the window, he glanced over his shoulder when she entered. He gestured with his left hand, sunlight glinting off a thick gold watchband. “There was a slaughterhouse. Railroad tracks ran along this street. That factory was second only to the great houses in Chicago, though few remember.”
He waited until she resumed her seat before taking his. “That beautiful park, fountain, playground, bandstand…all of it built upon a field that was once sown with blood, pain, and flies.”
“Lovely,” she said. Taking a sip, she grimaced, the cold coffee pooling under her tongue.
“Sorry.” He kneaded the palm of his hand with his thumb. A nervous gesture, as if he had to be in constant motion. He seemed to be a very kinetic being. “Sensitive stomach?”
She shook her head. “Coffee is cold. I didn’t think to check.”
“I can warm it for you.” He leered as if he’d suggested something licentious.
She liked the smile.
Liking it made it inappropriate to accept the offer, despite the inherent innocence, and the fact that she wanted to see him do it, to prove what he claimed to be. “No, thank you, Mr. Burns.”
“Please. Mister is so formal.”
“I’m guessing you lived in this city longer than the average resident, if you know about the old packing plant.”
“I read. I have a lot of free time. And I travel, quite a bit more than I would prefer.” He gazed out the window again, his gaze unfocused. “I could never live here. These seasons are dreadful. I prefer the southwest. Only two seasons there. Summer and February.”
“Ah.” She ventured another sip. It was no better. This time the coffee made an unpleasant streak of chill toward her stomach that took a moment to fade. “You travel, then. Business?”
“Yes and no.” He rubbed his mouth. “You might say I’m…laid off at the moment.”
“What sort of business are you in? I thought genies were servants.”
He stiffened, his liquid gaze turning to malachite. His voice was little more than a growl. “Servant is very impolite.”
What a reversal. Didn’t he just tell her he kept servants of his own? “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just curious.”
“Perhaps a little education would be in order.” He crossed his arms, emanating a strange heat that Tam could detect from her place behind her desk. “My temper is quick. I’m easily offended.”
“Are you easily assuaged?”
“Oh, no.” He leered, a wicked gleam of teeth. “You’ll have to hard work for it.”
She set her mug at the edge of her desk and folded her hands in front of her. Clients often made grand displays. This, though, was different. He wasn’t performing for her. This was genuinely himself. “Am I your therapist, or not?”
“Depends.” He settled back, resuming his business-like veneer, and adjusted his cuffs. “Will your offer of confidentiality extend to outside this office?”
“I don’t see clients outside the office.”
“What if we had a separate relationship outside the office?”
“We won’t.”
“Cease this evasiveness and answer me.”
Okay. He needed to know the boundaries. Not that it would do much good; some clients never understood the unbreachable boundary between client and counselor. “Therapists don’t have personal relationships with clients. End of story.”
“We’ll see. For now, suffice it to say I accept your word as bond and will be watching closely.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice and sounding very much like a dark magician at a circus side-show. “Should you break our confidentiality, I will wreak unholy havoc on you and anyone you’ve told.”
“Is that a threat?” Her voice slid into steely tones and she fingered the pin of her personal alarm. She had been threatened in the past, which was one of the reasons she kept security.
“Only if you break your word to me.”
“Well, then.” She dropped her hand. “I have nothing to worry about.”
His brows pushed up, giving him the appearance of a disappointed child. “Not the slightest bit?”
“Nope. Confidentiality is non-negotiable.”
He nodded. “Good. I’d hate to kill you.”
“That makes two of us. You can see Cindy on your way out for your next appointment.” She stood up, ending the meeting.
He mirrored her, rushing in front of her to open the door. It was gallant and unnecessary. She faltered, stepping awkwardly around him and gesturing down the hall toward the scheduler’s desk.
He took his time, sauntering, head high, quite at ease. Almost cat-like, with a fluid grace. At the corner he turned, flashing her a slight grin when he noticed she watched. He dropped a very obvious wink at her before disappearing around the corner.
She gusted out a held breath and headed straight to the coffee pot. She took it black, the first mouthful hot enough to sear her tongue. It was as close to a tonic as she’d ever get at work.
The bitterness had a sobering effect and, by the time Jennifer delivered the next case file, she was once again sturdy, logical, objective Tam Kerish. No more dry mouth, no more broken pencils, no more tripping heartbeat.
It would take more than a genie to distract her for long.
Chapter 4
Success.
Burns stepped out of the elevator, a furious heat coursing through his veins. It made him smile, wide and open-mouthed, as if the feeling were too great to contain and spilled upward, outward.
Who was she, exactly? He had researched her. He’d devoured every public detail about the woman but none of it had prepared him for the firestorm she invoked within him.
Who was that woman with the warm auburn hair, the dancing eyes, the shimmering skin he wanted to inhale, like incense? She was tough, that one, and he wanted nothing more than to grab up that hair in his fists and devour her one kiss at a time—
He exhaled slowly, letting the air leak out between his teeth. Not here. He couldn’t give in to his impulses here, in plain sight of mortals. He needed to pace himself, remain hidden until he got to his chambers. Then, he could revel in the flames that threatened to singe him from the insides.
Tamarinda. Even her name was a spice upon his tongue. She was a friction fuse, and he was primed.
No wonder she had this thunderous effect on him. He’d spent eons searching for his talisman and, he wasn’t sure how, but she had it.
Twenty-seven years. That was how long it had been since he’d last detected his talisman, when he’d stepped foot in that dreary English town. The talisman’s familiar vibration had made his lungs quiver, intense with proximity, and as he neared the patrician white hospital where it lay, it blinked out of existence, as if it had never been.
So close…then nothing. It took years to cope with the loss.
And he had to start his search anew, one empty city at a time, every day hoping to feel that familiar tremor of magic.
Now, here—Philadelphia, is it?—he felt it again. This time, he would not lose the trail. He had to succeed. He had to get it back.
That this woman possessed the ring of Solomon was indisputable—he knew well the feel of the talisman’s energy to which he’d been bound thousands of years ago. He knew it as intimately as he knew the feel of his own skin, his own fire. When she walked into the room, it was as if a wretched fog had finally burned off in the morning sun, the mist of time and space that had, until this day, kept him from the talisman. All veils, all obscurity had been lifted, and the feel of its presence burned bright and clear.
The entire time he spent in her office, that mental itch tickled his brain, his lungs, jangled every nerve. The talisman recognized him, beckoned to him, almost yearning for him. It wanted to be connected to him nearly as much as he wanted it. It took all of his effort to keep from seizing her.
Finally, the talisman was within his grasp. But where was it?
It wasn’t on her fingers and he hadn’t glimpsed it dangling from an ear; perhaps it was suspended from a chain of gold, nestled between her breasts. Another wash of heat flooded him as he recalled the suggestion of her curves beneath her navy blue blazer. He’d enjoy examining her closer to discover where she’d hidden that talisman.
And once he found it, he’d claim it—and perhaps the woman as well. Depended on her stamina. She looked like a good enough sport.
He recalled the shape of her lovely mouth, pursed in a stern frown. The strength of her hands when she snapped a pencil between her fingers. Oh, he suspected she’d be a very good sport, indeed. Someone just needed to tell her so.
She hadn’t even reacted when he revealed himself as a djinn. She blinked, maybe. Rather disappointing. He was a showman at heart, and prone to exaggeration and over-reaction. He’d been expecting a scream, at least. A swoon, if he was lucky.
And he
always got lucky.
But not her. She’d sat back and analyzed him. That was new. After having seen nearly everything under the sun, that was a first.
Curious, that woman. He rubbed his mouth with his fingertips. He’d have to proceed carefully. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met.
All that remained was discovering the actual location of his talisman, and devising the plan that would make her give it to him.
He strolled around the corner to an alcove, intending to transform into smoke—his preferred method of travelling in this loathsome city. Just as he was about to initiate the change, he paused.
Upstairs was the very physical reminder of his reason to exist, and she caused physical reactions within him. Perhaps today was a day for maintaining his physical form.
The sun was shining, the air was warm, and there was no hint of rain on the wind. Perhaps he’ll walk.
Perhaps it was for the best. Because if he sought the form of smoke, he’d have no choice but to rise, to wind his way back to her, and to have her. He thought of her strict expression, her folded hands. Odds were that she’d hold it as an offense against him and make it harder for him to regain his property. She had dared rebuke him for lesser things and imagined she’d deal a harsher punishment if he misbehaved.
Echoes of his mother’s ancient voice wound through his thoughts. He who wants a rose must respect the thorn. He’d waited and searched and chased that talisman around the globe time after time. He had it cornered now. It was a time to proceed with delicacy.
Perhaps she just needed to be seduced. She was, after all, a mortal woman. He’d charm her, play her heartstrings until they sang out. Women were terribly emotional things.
He grinned and pushed through the revolving door out into the sun-washed city streets. How complicated could this possibly be?
Chapter 5
Tam sat up in bed, panting, the cotton sheets twisted and damp. She searched the room in darting glances. Definitely her room. And in her own bed.
Not in the endless desert, facing down a sandstorm.
Her thumping heart stumbled her breath, and she drew deep, blowing out each exhale through pursed lips, trying to slow the gallop in her chest. The panic faded, the intense emotion seeping away as if it had never been. The worry, the fear, the longing—it all just melted away.
