Joe stood by the window, his brow furrowed. Graham remained motionless on Poppy’s left, his hand resting on the CS canister at his belt.
Poppy took a step toward the woman. “No one called us. We’re here about a burned-out car. Routine enquiry. Nothing to be concerned about. Let me take her to the bathroom and get her cleaned up. That blood’s going to make a terrible mess of your lovely carpet.”
Joe snorted and Graham gave a disgusted sigh. The carpet was a horrible turquoise swirl.
“Have you ever tried to get blood out of a carpet?” Poppy persisted with her distraction. “It’s a nightmare. You need cold water otherwise the stain sets. You’ve already got a bad mark over there by the couch. Looks like coffee. Was it?”
As his attention shifted, Poppy was quick. A kick to Wally’s knee and she had the woman shoved out of the way toward the door and Wally on his back. Unfortunately, Poppy also had Wally’s knife neatly embedded in the center of her chest.
“Fuck,” Graham gasped as he landed on the man. “Are you okay, Poppy?”
She struggled to breathe, but out of fright, not pain. Poppy knew the knife hadn’t penetrated the vest. Wearing it had saved her life. She nodded to Graham and he turned his attention to the man underneath him.
“You wanker. You could have killed her.”
Poppy felt a flicker of pleasure that Graham cared.
“Have you any idea of the paperwork I’d have to do if she’d died?”
The flicker went out.
Graham read him his rights and cuffed him. Poppy comforted Wally’s wife and made her a cup of tea. The next thing she knew, the house was full of uniformed officers brandishing guns. Someone unfastened Poppy’s stab vest and lifted it off her shoulders.
Joe stood glaring at her. “What did I say about not fucking things up? Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Poppy looked down at her white shirt. Not a mark.
* * * * *
“So how are you?” asked Dr. Martell as Poppy sank deep into the leather chair positioned at a precise forty-five degree angle next to his. Poppy wondered if he measured it. Would the world come to an end if it wasn’t in the right spot?
“Poppy?”
Maybe the cleaners weren’t allowed to move it. He’d probably ask them a million questions until they wanted to strangle him.
“Poppy? Talk to me.”
What did he want her to say? That she was fine? She opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d never be fine. She couldn’t stop screaming, yet no one ever heard.
“Poppy. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Poppy said.
“I understand there was another incident this morning. Want to tell me about it?”
No.
“I think you should talk to me about it.”
Not a good idea.
“I don’t want to have to tell your boss you—”
“It wasn’t my fault.” Poppy wanted those words back as soon as they’d come out of her mouth. Now she’d opened the Thames Flood Barrier. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“And you think the other incidents were your fault?”
Poppy chewed her lip. Don’t blab. She had to be careful what she said. She’d been back at work for three months after the warehouse disaster and this was her fifth “little chat” with the police psychiatrist who clearly thought she was holding out on him.
“It wasn’t my fault I fell in the Thames. The guy pushed me. The car accident, well, I had to swerve to avoid the cyclist and the lamppost…”
“Leapt in front of you?”
Her mouth twitched. It had felt like it. One moment there was no lamppost and then the next it was in the middle of her windshield.
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You wrote off two cars in the space of three weeks.”
“Yes,” Poppy said and she heard Joe snigger. She had to force herself not to look for him.
“Inspector Garside seems to think you’re deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way. Are you?”
“The doctor finally got something right. Hallelujah,” Joe said.
“Shut up,” Poppy snapped.
“What?” The doctor stared at her.
“Not you.” She could feel her heartbeat revving up like an overeager motorbike.
“Then who were you talking to, Poppy?” the doctor asked.
“Don’t tell him,” Joe said. “At the moment, he only thinks you’re crazy. If you tell him about me, he’ll know you are.”
Poppy looked at the doctor. He aggravated her by continually using her name but he had to keep this confidential. He was there to help her and she couldn’t do this on her own anymore. “I was talking to Joe.”
“Idiot,” Joe said.
The doctor blinked. “Where is he?”
Poppy looked over her shoulder and gave a little smile. “Standing by the filing cabinet.”
“What’s he doing?”
Poppy glanced at him again. Joe unzipped his trousers, turned and mooned her, his perfect butt exposed for a few seconds. She smothered a grin.
“He’s…he’s smiling.”
“Poppy, you know Joe’s not there. You can’t really see him.”
Joe stared at her. She could see him. His beautiful face, his long lean body, his silky hair, his smile. He was there. Sort of.
“He may seem real to you, but he can’t be here.”
Poppy shrank in on herself, wishing the chair would swallow her.
“You know why, don’t you?”
She swallowed hard. Although it had happened six months ago, it felt like yesterday.
“Tell me why Joe can’t be here in this room, Poppy,” said the doctor.
Her shoulders slumped. “Because I killed him.”
Chapter Two
Joe awoke at sloth speed, facedown and dribbling into his pillow. He slid his cheek a couple of inches onto a dry spot. His eyelids fluttered but stayed closed. Too much effort. His back itched—no, ached. Shit, it really ached. Joe gradually became aware something was very wrong with his back. It hurt like he’d been hit with a barstool. What the fuck had happened last night? Had he been hit with a barstool? He tried to roll over. Pain shot down the length of his spine, spiraling into his legs and he froze. What the hell hadhe been doing? Joe pressed his face deeper into the pillow. Damned if he could remember. His head didn’t swim, nor did his stomach so this wasn’t a hangover.
Memories trickled through the thick sludge in his brain, filtering into pockets of sense. An accident. Yeah, come to think of it, he remembered…falling. Joe lifted his head and blinked. He must have hurt his back. What else? An exploratory hand between his legs ushered a sigh of relief. Backache he could cope with, but not damage to his wedding tackle.
Joe tried to shrug off his duvet and it flopped back in place. He sneezed in the disturbed air and howled at the knifelike pain between his shoulder blades. Howled seven times as he sneezed seven times. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t in hospital, this was definitely his room. Joe levered himself out of bed.
His body felt heavy and sluggish and while that wasn’t entirely unusual for a guy who liked sleeping, Joe prided himself on the fact that he was physically fit. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. One roll of his shoulders and a flurry of activity erupted behind him. The next moment Joe lay sprawled on the carpet and everything had gone dark. His eyes were open so why had the light dimmed? He forced his dull brain to cooperate. The duvet must have fallen over his head. He reached up and touched a feather. No wonder he’d sneezed. He was allergic to feathers which was why he’d purchased a synthetic-filled duvet. Joe felt the fluttering of alarm.
Every movement slow and careful, Joe got up again. He might not be firing on all cylinders but he knew he wasn’t alone. Someone was behind him. Joe tensed. Fuck, a burglar. Now his brain worked too fast. Someone had broken into his apartment. Someone was in his bedroom. That someone had fucking knocked him over. That someone was dead.
Joe whipped ro
und and watched in horrified fascination as everything sailed off his bedside table. His Ferrari alarm clock hit the wall with a high pitched whine, followed by a glass of water and his watch. Joe whipped the other way and the music system on his chest of drawers sailed halfway around the room before crash-landing on the carpet. Joe seethed with fury. The fucker was wrecking his room. Where the hell was he? Joe spun again and three black and white prints of mountain peaks flew off one wall to smash on another.
He yelped. That hurt. Not just the ruined pictures. Him. It had hurt him. Joe glanced down at his naked body, a rapidly diminishing morning woodie and dark gray feathers.
Feathers? “What the fuck?”
Staggering to the wardrobe, he flung open the door to look in the mirror. A pale face stared back, his unruly dark hair wilder than usual. Joe looked down. Jonny and his two pals seemed okay, only now rather timid and retiring. He tried not to look at the other things he could see, but there was no way to ignore them. A fleeting hope a pinch might wake him, dissipated like snow falling in a puddle. This was no dream. Overnight, he’d grown wings. Fucking hell.
Joe closed his eyes. He had to be imagining them. No way could this be happening. He lifted one lid and took a quick peek. Shit. He stared in disbelief. Long gray wings hung behind him, their tips brushing the floor. Joe reached backand felt where they entered his body around his shoulder blades. It had to be a joke. Someone had stitched him up, super-glued the bloody things in place. The bastards. What the fuck had he been up to last night? Why couldn’t he remember?
“So sorry…I’m late,” a female panted at his back.
Joe spun around and the woman in front of him ducked as a gray wing whistled inches over her head.
“Careful, Joe. You could take someone’s eye out.”
Joe tried several times to speak and never managed it. In front of him stood a gorgeous, six-foot Amazon with smooth, chocolate-colored skin and curly black hair. She was dressed in a short, tight red dress and wore shoes with impossible heels. Aware that his mouth was opening and closing like a cartoon clam, Joe snapped his jaw shut.
“I’m Desiree.”
The woman smiled, revealing a mouth full of dazzling white teeth. Joe tried to concentrate on her teeth, because he was all too aware of her dazzling huge cleavage. Wow, what fabulous breasts. She held out her hand and Joe was reaching to shake it before he came to his senses and dragged his fingers back to safety.
“I know you’re a bit confused,” Desiree said and twirled one of her curls between her fingers. “I should have been here when you woke. Sorry. I was shopping. There’s a sale on in Harrods and I just had to have these shoes. Aren’t they adorable?”
She pirouetted and gazed with delight at her footwear.
Adorable? Joe thought. Yes, if she was trying to break her ankles or needed something sharp as a weapon. The words “sharp” and “weapon” broke him out of his trance. He grabbed a pair of boxers from the untidy pile of clean ones on the floor, next to the untidy pile of dirty ones. He felt much braver once they were on.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment? How do you know my name? And what the fuck are these things on my back?” That was better. Now he was in control.
Desiree giggled as though that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Joe glared.
“They. Are. Wings,” she said, speaking to him as if he were three.
“Right. So take them off now. The joke’s over.”
Desiree frowned and wrinkled her lovely forehead. “No, they really are wings. They don’t come off.”
The woman was certifiable. Joe checked her out with his professional, police-trained eye. No weapons he could see, apart from the shoes. His male eye took over—oh yeah, she had a killer cleavage. His mouth watered. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, near his age. Desiree gave him a broad smile. Joe frowned. Mostly, she seemed normal, but Joe was a policeman. He knew normal could be a stiletto-wielding murderess in her spare time. How the hell had she gotten into his apartment?
Another twinge in his back and he automatically flexed his shoulder blades. The wings unfolded, swept out and stayed there. Joe looked from one side to the other and gasped. How the hell had he done that? Wingtip to wingtip across the room stretched twelve feet of dirty gray feathers.
When Joe realized he could feel the walls as though he touched them with his fingers, he freaked out. He tried to bring the wings in again and found himself shooting straight up. Two collisions with the ceiling later, he tumbled to the floor, accompanied by a shower of plaster dust. Now his head hurt as well as his back. Joe started to raise his hand to his hair and changed his mind. He didn’t want any more surprises. Like budding horns. God, maybe a tail.
“Wow, that was impressive.” Desiree’s eyes opened wide. “I can see you’re going to be quick to pick things up.”
Joe didn’t feel quick at all. He hated not being in control of a situation. He swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you need to sit down.”
Joe didn’t like the sound of that. They were the words he used when he had to give someone bad news. He moved carefully over to the bed, had a brief tussle with the wings as he tried to push them out of the way and then sat. Without him doing anything, the wings neatly arranged themselves by his sides. Bastards.
Desiree sat next to him and patted him on the knee.
Joe turned to look at her. “Am I dead?”
She screwed up her face, winced, twisted her mouth, sucked her teeth, sighed and then nodded. “Yes.”
Joe’s head dropped and he groaned.
“How much do you remember?” she asked.
“You mean, do I remember how I died?” Joe furrowed his brow. “I remember falling, but that’s all.”
“You must have a lot of questions.” She nodded in encouragement.
Why me? Joe thought. He was only thirty-four years old. What had been the point of his health insurance? What had been the point of paying all that money into his blood-sucking pension fund? Why me? hovered on his lips but Joe already knew the answer. Why not him? He’d seen enough as a policeman to know that life wasn’t fair. Criminals won the lottery and murderers escaped on technicalities.
“Well?” Desiree asked.
“Why don’t you have wings?”
“I do. You’ll learn how to disguise yours in time. Watch.”
Desiree stood and her wings unfurled in graceful swirls behind her, an expanse of brilliant white feathers that looked as soft and delicate as cherry blossom. Joe’s fingers reached out and Desiree pulled back.
“We don’t like having our wings touched, unless it’s done by a lover. Touching mine would feel as though you were stroking my breasts.”
Joe sucked in his cheeks and sat on his hands.
“So why are my wings a shade of dirty gray?” He watched in fascination as Desiree absorbed her appendages back into her body, through her dress.
“You’re an early angel. A seeker. You have to earn white wings and a place in heaven.”
Angel? Heaven? Joe didn’t believe in God, let alone life after death. How come this was happening to him? Why couldn’t he have stayed dead? His mother had been very religious which had been enough to make Joe the exact opposite. She was the type of woman, who, after pushing open the pearly gates, had probably elbowed Jesus out of the way so she could sit next to God and tell Him to eat his greens. Then a thought struck him. If there was a heaven, there had to be a hell and he sure as shit didn’t want to end up there. Joe couldn’t cope with a trip to the dentist for a checkup, let alone the concept of everlasting torment. He imagined a line of dentists’ chairs and whining drills waiting for him day after day and shuddered.
Desiree stared at him, expectation all over her face. What was he supposed to say? Was this like that film that came on without fail every bloody Christmas—It’s a Wonderful Life? The big difference being Desiree couldn’t save him. He was already dead. Her eyes opened wider, waiting for him to ask th
e obvious question and Joe gave in.
“What do I have to do to earn white wings?”
She beamed. “You have to figure that out for yourself.”
Joe stared at her in disbelief. “What? You mean like do a good deed? I was a bloody policeman. Didn’t I do enough good deeds? I served the community, put bad guys in prison and protected the innocent. What the hell else was I supposed to have done?”
Desiree smiled, but said nothing.
Joe walked over to the window and looked down onto the street. “Can people see me?”
“Only those like you, other seekers.”
All at once, Joe had a thousand questions. “How long since I died? I’m not lying in a hospital having an out-of-body experience, am I? I didn’t stare too long at a bright light and rush down a tunnel without checking what was at the far end? I am a bit impetuous.” He slumped back on the bed, sat on a wing and yelped.
Desiree shook her head. “No, sorry. You really are dead. It happened six months ago.”
“Six months?” Joe leapt to his feet again, tripped on a wing tip and went sprawling. “Ouch,” he moaned from the floor, amidst an untidy heap of feathers.
“We kept you asleep for six months while your body healed and your wings grew. You were badly injured, Joe.”
No shit, he thought.
“Growing wings is a painful process. Might still be hurting a bit. Once they’re fully grown, we let you wake in a familiar environment.” Desiree screwed up her face as though she had to concentrate. “Research has shown that 95.4 percent of people feel it makes the whole experience less traumatic. You come around in your own home and become peacefully aware of your new situation.” She smiled.
Joe gaped at her. “Well, it didn’t fucking work. I’m one of the 4.6 percent who are freaked out. You’re looking at a severely traumatized individual. I mean, what did you do, recreate my room and the street up in the sky?”
“No, this is your two-bed apartment in Blackheath, London.”
“In six months nobody bought it?” The estate agent had assured Joe it was a good deal when he’d sold it to him. The bastard.
Power of Love Page 2
