“With you, you say?”
He met his mother’s measured gaze and couldn’t help his sudden smile. “I’d only just introduced myself, Mother.” And how. “Since I was unavailable when she checked in, I was giving her an abbreviated tour.” His smile faded. “When Barbara started screaming about her grandmother, Miss Ishikawa took off like a shot. I don’t know . . .” He sighed. “The sauna door was locked tight and the gauges already in the red.”
She rose, transferring her half-empty glass to the end table beside her, and rubbed the back of her neck with stiff fingers. “Have you informed maintenance?”
“They’ve already been called.” He stood, tired body protesting, and stretched. “But I’ll be going back down now that I know Alexandra’s okay. Will you be all right? Should I stay?”
“You are entirely too big to be sleeping in our bed, Phinneas.”
Her dry humor quirked an answering grin from his lips. “If you need anything—”
“You are one floor beneath us, I know.” Lillian’s smile warmed. “You’re a good boy.”
“I had excellent parents.” He bent to brush her perfectly powdered cheek with a kiss, inhaled the comforting scent of rose and the almond oil balm Gemma made for her wife’s arthritis; so familiar that adoration welled like a warm, soothing tide. Eased his frustration to something he could control. “Give Mother my love.”
“I will. Try to get some rest.”
The answer he gave was as noncommittal as he could make it, and he knew Lillian’s gaze sharpened on his back as he called the elevator and stepped inside.
It couldn’t be helped. Not only did Phin have to locate the cause of the malfunction, but he had to figure out how to explain it to a woman who was very possibly the most powerfully connected client Timeless had ever hosted.
Alexandra Applegate was so much more than Lillian’s dearest friend. She also happened to be the grandmother to the Order’s current bishop and the Church’s most dedicated patron. Ties that helped keep the officials off his back.
Mostly.
Despite the fact that the Church didn’t agree with the concept of two women raising a child in the civilized eye of the city, it was in part due to Alexandra’s strong commitments that they left Timeless alone. Mostly alone.
The right set of taxes helped.
He rubbed his forehead as the elevator eased to a stop. The doors slid open, and he stepped out into one of the many discreet halls marked for staff use. Within seconds, the comm unit clipped to his belt hummed.
“Phin Clarke,” he said by way of greeting.
“Mr. Clarke, it’s security.” Eric Barker’s voice was tinny over the line, but serious. “I’m running back the feeds as we speak. We have another problem, though.”
Phin raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Of course we do. What is it?”
“A new package was set to be delivered tomorrow, but transport canceled.”
He slowed to a stop. “Please tell me that you’ve had one too many and are pulling my leg.”
Barker had worked for him long enough to know when he was being serious. “If I were drinking on the job, sir,” he replied evenly, “I would invite you. I’m sorry. It’s true, we’ve lost one of our checkpoints.”
“Which?”
“The second.”
Damn. Phin checked his watch. “It’s too late to arrange something else. That’s the longest part of the whole route.”
“The backup transport will be notified, but it could take a while. He has to be located, first.”
“Have you tried the Pussycat Perch?”
There was a beat. “Which level, sir?”
“Mid-lows. More lows than mid,” Phin added wryly. “Peter enjoys the crush in the lower city dives.”
Keys clicked in the background as Phin waited. Then, with some relief, Eric told him, “I’m sending some folks now. Sir, should we be rushing the transport?”
“At this point?” Phin rubbed his face. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Can we do that?”
His tone was wry as Phin replied, “We are the operation, Mr. Barker. We can do anything.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send notices through the channels to expect an earlier delivery than normal.”
Damn. Triple damn. This sort of late-notice rush could end up scaring half his contacts underground, but it couldn’t be helped now. “Gather Maia and her family,” he said. “I also want Diego’s family on this load, and if there’s room, put Mary Beth in there.”
“That’s—”
“Pushing it, I know.” Christ. What choice did they have? With the attention Timeless was about to receive, they’d need to get as many of his protected refugees out to safety as possible. “Mary Beth has been separated from her father for three months. I want them together, Mr. Barker.”
“What about Diego? His family is only half gathered.”
“Who do we have?”
“Looks like we’ve got his aunt and niece in laundry, and his nephew’s working the grounds. We’re missing Diego’s mother and brother, and . . .” The man trailed off.
Phin ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. “Tell me.”
“No one’s seen his brother since the missionaries went sniffing around Diego’s old apartment.”
“Damn it!” He fisted his hand, lowered it before he did something stupid. Like slam it into the wall in front of him. “We have no more time to waste. Gather who we have and send them. Diego will . . .” What? Come to terms with the fact that the Church had just hunted down and probably killed his brother?
Not likely. Phin closed his eyes. “Get on it, Mr. Barker.”
“Yes, sir.”
Phin disconnected the comm, reattaching it to his belt with practiced familiarity as he studied one of many wallpapered panels that made up Timeless’s maze of hallways. Behind it, hidden beneath the brilliant mechanics of a tiny, invisibly placed switch, one of a handful of concealed corridors tunneled through the resort walls.
If all had gone well, thirteen hours from now would have seen a small knot of people ferried through those tunnels.
Smuggled like illegal goods. Or slaves.
They might as well have been, as far as the Church was concerned.
Instead, in about ten minutes, eleven people were going to be guided through the nest of hidden corridors that was Timeless’s dirty little secret. If the Church—if anyone beyond his carefully cultivated little nest of contacts ever found out about his illegal underground railroad, Timeless would be screwed.
And so would his family.
They all knew the risk. It was worth it.
Except when they lost one. Jesus. Diego had been smuggled out almost six weeks ago, the Church hard on his heels, and Phin had personally promised to deliver his family to him.
Every loss bit deep.
Sighing, Phin turned and strode for the discreet door that would place him in the main quad again. First he had to work with maintenance to fix the sauna, figure out what the hell had gone wrong with it. He needed something, anything to tell his guests.
To tell the Church.
He pushed into the courtyard and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim atmosphere of the garden illumination. As it always did, the whispered rush of the running water slipped over him like a soothing blanket.
The carefully nurtured park, small as it was, made him smile.
Shadowed by the old-fashioned lamps, towering trees reached for the skylight far above, spreading slowly shedding limbs in every direction. Red, gold, and wilting brown crowned oaks sharing quarters with naked cherry trees, green firs, and leaf-bare maples. A hunkering, twisted weeping willow greedily drank the saturated earth around the cultivated pond.
The courtyard had won awards from the city government. It had sheltered lovers in the shady niches of its twisting paths and provided a small boy ample opportunity to work out excess energy raking its interminably shedding leaves. It was as much home as the buildings around it.
It pissed Phin off to think that a careless slip of technology would put that at risk. He set his jaw, then froze when a shadow moved beneath the hanging willow branches.
Black hair. Long, slender legs.
He hesitated, swallowing a sudden frisson of nerves as Naomi Ishikawa’s slender body skimmed through a patch of light. She crouched at the edge of the artificial pond, dipping her fingers into the clear water. Her jeans faded into the gloom, but he didn’t need light to see the taut muscle of her thighs as she balanced neatly on her heeled boots.
Phin found himself turning, stepping off the landing and along the paving stones winding through the miniature forest. Her head tilted as if she heard him coming. But she didn’t turn around.
“Don’t you have media reports to spin?” Her voice was as cool as the water caressing her fingertips, and Phin raised his gaze to the skylight before he gave in to the sudden surge of terse words clogging his throat.
She’d saved a woman he loved dearly. He owed her more than petulance.
“I’m sorry if you think that I was out of line,” he said instead. The water whispered, babbling softly through the foliage. Through her fingers.
Naomi chuckled. The husky sound jerked his gaze to the line of her back, shoulders bare and pale in the dimness beneath the willow tree. They moved, once. A kind of shrug. “I could almost take that as an apology, Mr. Clarke.”
“Phin.”
She rose with a fluidity that stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth, turned to face him with nothing of her earlier anger in her features. Her eyes were cool, banked, hard as hell to read. “Is that woman all right, then? I’d assume you wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.”
“She’s fine. Resting, now. Miss Ishi—”
“Naomi.” Too fast. Her lips quirked as if she knew it; a half-tilted, mind-altering curve. “Just Naomi.”
Tension ratcheted through his body. “Naomi,” he repeated. “Thank you. If you hadn’t been there . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the thought that hovered so close. Wordless fear gathered into a tight ball in his throat, and his voice trailed to silence.
She shook her head. “No gratitude required.” Easing past him on the narrow path, she flicked her wet fingers as easily as if she were flicking his appreciation away. Droplets scattered into the dark.
Without thinking it through, without even realizing he’d meant to, his hand snaked out. Caught her arm before she could ghost past him.
Her body stilled. Her head tilted, blue-violet eyes settling on his hand as if surprised. Thoughtful.
Too damn nonchalant.
He wanted her disturbed. Phin wasn’t sure where it came from, or why. Maybe it was the anger he nursed about Diego’s brother. Maybe it was the pent-up adrenaline of the night.
Maybe it was her.
He didn’t stop to consider the implications or consequences. His fingers tightened. “Naomi.”
“News flash, slick. I’m not one of your paid women,” she said, her husky voice low and even. Her gaze flicked to his. Burned. “You can’t manhandle me, and I don’t suggest you try.”
The barb landed squarely through the fine layers of his control. Irritation should have undercut the sexual haze coloring his brain, but to his surprise, her prickliness resonated like a challenge thrown at his feet. His gaze sharpened.
Hers pushed. Provoked.
Screw it. “Offhand,” Phin replied softly, “I can think of half a dozen ways to manhandle you.”
He didn’t wait for the dare. Didn’t wait to see if she’d deny the offer he hadn’t spoken aloud. The knowledge of his intent slid into her eyes, curled in behind their shadowed depths an instant before he let go of her arm to slide his fingers along her jaw.
She turned slowly. Degree by breathless degree.
Somewhere, deep in the part of his brain not beating its chest in masculine claim, he decided that he really liked her boots. They added a full four inches of heel that topped her off at exactly his height. It didn’t take any effort to tilt his head, just a fraction, and slide his lips over hers.
Naomi didn’t fight him. He half expected her to take a swing, was ready to duck if she did. He gave her room to do it, his fingers loose at her chin, gentle. Just a touch.
And she stayed.
Shocked still in the shadows, she let him kiss her. Slowly. Deliberately. Rubbing his lips against hers, Phin did nothing to deepen it, to invade her space any more than he already had. But as her mouth parted, as his upper lip caught against the insanely sweet fullness of her lower, a muffled sound caught somewhere in her chest. Hitched her breath.
Wanton. Feminine. Music to his ears.
He wasn’t the only one treading on thin ice.
Her fingers slid over the open collar of his shirt and fisted. Phin angled his head more fully and took her mouth in a new kiss, a wicked, thorough tasting that left nothing to chance. Nothing to imagination. Lips and tongue, he swept into her mouth, into damp, welcoming heat to claim the attraction he knew simmered just under her so-cool facade.
She met him, stroked his tongue with her own on another sound, one that rocked straight to his gut, right to the hard erection she might as well have grabbed, he was so aroused. Her response wrapped around him like a noose, pulled tight until he went nearly blind with wanting.
He didn’t close the distance between their bodies, didn’t dare risk the shock, the sheer torture of what the feel of her curves would do to him. He feasted at her mouth and knew, knew this single kiss was going to replay in his dreams for a long damn time.
It would have to do. He didn’t dare take it any further than this.
Naomi Ishikawa was a lot more fragile than she let on. He knew it, the split second she opened her mouth to him. The way her breath caught in her chest and her eyes drifted shut under his practiced, teasing exploration.
When he disengaged his lips from hers, moved his head back far enough that he could look into her slowly opening eyes, it thrilled him down to his toes to see her shock. A hazy wash of arousal.
Phin let go of her face, slid his palms along her bare arms, and reveled as she shuddered under his touch. Curling his fingers around her wrists, he gently tugged her hands away from the wrinkled disarray of his collar.
Her tongue flicked out, slid a slow, wet line over the center divot of her bottom lip. It knocked an answering pulse of heat through his blood.
“Oh . . . kay,” Naomi murmured. Awareness slowly filtered back into her eyes. Returned the shadows, the wariness. It warred with the arousal coloring her cheeks.
Phin’s smile widened. “I just wanted to make it clear,” he said, finally giving in to the temptation that had gnawed at him since the moment he met her. He touched his thumb to her bottom lip.
Felt it firm, move as she murmured, “Make what clear?”
“That I don’t have to pay for my women.”
He expected anger, maybe indignation. Naomi surprised him. Laughter rose like a visible warmth behind her exotic features, and Phin suddenly hoped to be surprised by her again.
Frequently.
“Good night, Phin,” she said, amusement thick in her voice as she stepped deliberately out of reach.
Dismissed again. Phin’s smile was wry as he watched her turn, his eyes on the sleek, denim-clad ass sauntering away. Even at an easy lope, she walked with purpose. With surety.
And, he noticed as she leaped over the three steps that joined the quad floor to the landing, without the refined sort of grace he expected from a finishing school–trained heiress.
Easing out a hard, laughing breath, he curled a finger into the suddenly too-warm fold of his collar and couldn’t help but feel in over his head as he turned resolutely for the pool hall. Near-death malfunctions, drop-dead gorgeous heiresses, and the threat of breaking his own cardinal rules.
Life just couldn’t get any more out of the ordinary.
Until she turned, her key card held jauntily between index and middle fingers. “By the way,” s
he called out, “you should check your security cameras. Betcha a dollar they’ll reveal what went wrong.”
Phin studied her, one eyebrow arching up slowly. “Are you asking me if we have security cameras, Naomi, or are you hoping we don’t?”
Her head tilted. “That depends. If I were to, say, indulge in some very inappropriate behavior with a certain slick operator in some of these halls, would we—” Her grin widened into a slow, sultry line. “That is, would this hypothetical man and I be seen everywhere we tried go?”
Lust shot straight to his groin. So did all the remaining blood in his brain. “Not,” he managed, “everywhere.” Close enough, but he knew a blind spot or two.
Or three or four or— Jesus God, help me now.
Her eyes flashed, pure sensual violet as the elevator doors slid open behind her. “Just wondering,” she said lightly.
Phin rubbed his face with both hands as the shiny elevator doors closed on her smile.
Chapter Four
Failure. God damn it, he didn’t do failure.
Joe Carson watched the old woman sleeping in her narrow clinic bed and cursed silently. He’d been so sure of Alexandra Applegate as the perfect bait. She wasn’t just rich, after all, she was special. Important.
Sure, it’d been a risk. A calculated one. She could have died in that sauna—the risk wouldn’t have been worth it if he didn’t make it real—but he knew they had the means to make sure she didn’t. All the damned witches had to do was bring out the fountain.
No harm, no foul. The Church got what it wanted.
But overhearing that snot-nosed brat explain about the woman’s ludicrous privacy contract was enough to make him want to kill something. Bare-fucking-handed.
Why hadn’t he known that? Fuck. God take them all, he hated this sacrilegious tomb and its goddamned aberrant clientele.
But he couldn’t do anything about it yet. Patience. It was the stakeout to end all stakeouts. He could do patience.
He had to. He’d had the perfect vantage point, the perfect box seat to watch the opera unfold, but no.
The missionary had to ruin it.
That should have driven him insane. It should have worried him. Instead he’d barely escaped her sharp eye and quick mind, and even now he smiled from the cramped hole he hid in.
Lure of the Wicked Page 4
