by S. J. Harper
A casual remark, delivered softly, a whisper into the air.
The suggestion, however, is anything but casual.
The couple turns, moves toward the door, and disappears inside. Instantly.
“Dr. Barakov?”
About to take a drag on the cigar, he pauses. Stares. “Agent Monroe?”
It takes no effort at all. Once our eyes lock, I have him. “Follow me.”
For a moment, his eyes go blank. Without knowing why, without even questioning, he follows. To him, it merely seems like a good idea.
I lead him to a corner where there’s a cluster of trees and shrubs.
Once he adjusts to my presence, his eyes clear. “You’re beautiful tonight, my dear.” His whisper is reverent as he reaches out and tilts my face up into the light. “What have you done? That bump, it’s—”
I push his hand away. “A little makeup can do wonders. No touching. And I’m asking the questions.”
“Whatever you want.”
The adoration in his eyes is nauseating. I could have Barakov on his knees in seconds, begging, with the way he worships beauty. Such games no longer bring me satisfaction. I barely remember when they did.
I get right to the point. “Where is Amy Patterson?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea.” He takes another puff on his cigar.
It’s not the answer I expected. I lower the barriers further, allowing my mind to penetrate Barakov’s. The temperature around us rises. The wind subtly picks up, rustling the leaves on the trees. “A man like you, so connected, so smart. You must have some idea what happened to Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini.” My voice is soft, slow, steady.
Barakov sets his drink down on a nearby table, then removes his coat. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead.
Is it from the warmth of my powers or from anxiety?
I hold my breath.
“No.” He pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. “I already answered your questions about Amy and Isabella.” The cigar falls unnoticed from his hand. His eyes glaze and his focus turns inward, as if he’s trying to understand how I can exert such influence.
He would never be able to fathom it. I push on.
“What about your wife Charlotte?”
At that question, he becomes instantly tearful. He reaches for the drink and takes a fortifying sip. “You think I had something to do with Charlotte’s disappearance?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
His answer is not only truthful; it’s full of reproach. He’s shocked that I could even think such a thing.
I stir restlessly. I haven’t much more time. Using power like this always comes with risk. I could easily draw unwanted attention . . . from both innocent passersby and Demeter. She has spies everywhere.
There’s only one other angle to explore. “Do you know of Amy’s and Isabella’s nature?”
His eyes narrow. “Nature?”
“You know what I mean.”
Does he?
He looks about surreptitiously. “You know about”— Barakov swallows, then lowers his voice before finishing— “vampires?”
I avoid outright validation by ignoring his question and asking another of my own. “Why were you seeing them?”
For the first time, a smile. “So that I could give them eternal beauty.”
“How?”
His demeanor shifts immediately. Barakov now bursts with pride as he launches into an explanation. “Although I don’t know what Isabella Mancini had hoped to accomplish, Amy had inherited her father’s rather unfortunate nose. The surgery wasn’t going to be extensive. But it was going to be expensive.” He finishes off the remains in his glass. “And under the table, of course. I accept only cash from special customers who are of a special nature, shall we say? The income never has to be reported that way. It’s my little nest egg, tucked safely away in an offshore account.”
I don’t bother to ask where. Just make a mental note to see if Zack thinks we should alert the IRS when we’re done with Barakov. “So you’re telling me that vampires get nose jobs? Why?”
“An eternity is a very long time, Agent Monroe—nose jobs, breast and cheek implants, chin implants . . .”
“Chin implants?”
“Very popular with the men. Imagine having all that strength and speed, a physique you can hone to perfection. Then the overall effect is completely undermined by a weak chin or pitiful cheekbones. I surround the implant with a little microlayer of silver, providing a casing that can’t be assimilated, and voilà.”
It occurs to me grudgingly that this is a medical miracle of sorts. In some ways it explains his arrogance. Even to the immortals, he must appear a god.
“Was Evan Porter one of your patients, too?”
Puzzlement clouds his face. “The Greenleaf lawyer? Why would you ask—?” His expression clears. “You mean Evan is a vampire, too?”
Shit.
“Am I interrupting?”
Zack is suddenly standing a few feet behind Barakov. I never heard him approach. His shoulders are drawn up, his hands fisted, every muscle taut. His eyes lock on mine. The undisguised need in them momentarily takes my breath away. He is feeling the effects of my unguarded power, getting another glimpse of my true self. I wonder how long he’s been standing there.
“Go back to the party, Doctor. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Even as I say the words, I start reining the power in, bringing up the walls, locking down what I look upon as both a gift and a curse.
Barakov prepares to take his leave with a questioning glance to me. He’s aware that we had a conversation and that he revealed more than he intended. As did I. Hopefully the revelation about Evan will get lost in an alcoholic haze. Before the last bit of my ability to exert influence is contained, I take pity on him. “Don’t worry about what we’ve talked about. Chalk it up to the scotch. You’ll have more than you should tonight. In fact, it looks like you could use a refill.”
After a quick glance at his empty glass, he heads for the bar.
“You should go back to the party, too,” I tell Zack.
I expect him to follow my suggestion. He was exposed, after all.
Instead Zack loosens his bow tie and unfastens the top button of his shirt as he watches Barakov go. “I take it Barakov didn’t confess?”
Zack’s question seems straightforward enough and yet . . . I try to remember the last time someone was able to exhibit such control around me. Zack alluded to having had special training earlier. Am I seeing the results of that? He doesn’t appear to be struggling with the effects of exposure and yet he got a good dose of my power—more than in his kitchen, where I let loose a fragment of the magic. But then I look close. The way he’s looking at me, the tenseness in his posture, belies his offhand return to a business-as-usual manner.
I tuck an errant strand of hair back behind my ear, affect a sense of calm I’m not really feeling. “He doesn’t know anything about the disappearances. We need to look elsewhere. Within Green Leaf maybe.”
“Are you sure?”
I was sure I’d read Barakov right. It’s what’s going on with Zack that I’m unsure of. There’s a knot the size of a fist in my stomach. “Yes. I’m sure Barakov told me the truth.” It’s you I’m concerned about. I square my shoulders. “Go back to the party, Zack. With a little time and distance between us, what you’re feeling will dissipate.”
He shoves his hands inside his pockets, then leans against the wall. The mask of indifference falls away. “Just out of curiosity, how long a separation are we talking about? Weeks? Months? Years?” The pose he’s striking is casual. The turn our conversation is taking isn’t.
“Minutes, like last time, at your house. By the time you finished showering, things were . . . back to normal.”
Zack straightens. He strolls over to where I’m standing, closing the gap between us. “I’m a good actor, Emma. In fact, you may be the only lie de
tector I haven’t been able to best.”
“I’m not trying to read you, Zack.”
He holds up a hand. “I know. If you were, you’d realize things have never been normal between us. I can pretend. I can keep my distance and my word. But you should know the attraction isn’t going away. It’s building and that has nothing to do with your mojo.”
My mojo may be under wraps, but the air between us is as charged as it was that night in his kitchen.
His gaze is unwavering. We’re venturing into dangerous and confusing territory. The time has come. A decision has to be made. It was good between us in Charleston, better than good. We worked well together as partners both in bed and out. What I doubt is what’s happening here and now—whether we can keep things in what I’d come to think of as the safe zone.
Friendship.
Sex.
Not love. Never love.
Seconds pass. I can’t bring myself to look away. To speak or move. A myriad of images, all depicting possible tragic endings, flit through my mind. Including the one Demeter so cleverly and callously placed there. The blood. Zack’s head in her hand.
I’ve waited too long. Zack turns and starts to walk away. He’s a man of his word. And I realize that despite the pull, the temptation, he’s managed to find the strength to keep it. He’s not going to push. He’s going to walk away. No one’s walked away. Ever. What if Zack is somehow different? What if we could make this work?
“Wait!”
He turns back to face me. “You don’t want me to go back to the party?”
I shake my head.
“It’s your move, Emma.”
I know this is the moment that will change everything between us—a moment I want to happen. I push all my fears and doubts aside and rush into Zack’s arms. One arm encircles my waist, the other the back of my neck as his lips cover mine.
He moves us effortlessly, the way he did that night in his kitchen. The wall is suddenly at my back. My mouth opens in surprise and his tongue slips inside. The kiss is demanding, urgent. Full of pent-up promises, of things left unsaid and desires denied. I lift my hand to his chest and grab hold of his shirt. I don’t want it to stop. I can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing into me. I push back, eliciting a moan that I vow will be the first of many I coax from Zachary Armstrong tonight.
Zack whispers, “That was some move.”
My skin is heated. My body burns with desire.
Footsteps. An embarrassed “Excuse me.”
With a low groan in my ear, Zack pulls reluctantly away from me. “Yes?”
It’s one of the men who had previously been working the door. “I . . . I’m interrupting.”
Zack waves a hand. “Can we help you?”
I turn away, using the moment to smooth the desire from my expression and the wrinkles from my dress as the embarrassed party worker says, “The auction’s about to start. I’m rounding up guests.”
“Thanks, we’ll be right in.”
He leaves us with another mumbled apology for the interruption and heads quickly toward another couple standing a few feet away. It startles me because I hadn’t noticed them before. They must have come out while I was busy with Barakov. But their eyes are on me. They saw it all, felt the pull of my power. They don’t even look away while being shepherded toward the door.
Zack watches them watch us. When they’ve disappeared inside, he says, “Well, that was awkward.”
I’m still breathless with the implication of what I almost let happen between Zack and me. I was as caught up in the moment as he was. I get a sudden chill—I can fool myself into thinking a fling with Zack would mean nothing, but Demeter? She who feels every emotion I try so hard to hide would know better.
The sound of applause spills into the entry. We pass through the double doors of the Crown Room just in time to hear Green Leaf’s founder, Alan Pierce, make his introductions. I refocus my thoughts, ignore the fact that Zack’s arm is around my shoulders, and watch.
Alan Pierce is younger than I expected. His tuxedo is well tailored, traditional. He thanks the guests and talks briefly about the company’s mission. He speaks with the passion of a man who believes in what he is doing, and his delivery is smooth and polished. Alan ends by publicly recognizing the members of the board of directors who are present.
First, he points out Dr. Alexander Barakov and Dr. Barbara Pierce. His parents.
Zack leans down and whispers, “There’s an interesting connection.”
“Yes, it is.”
He moves on, introducing Taylor Cummings. The former soap opera actress is lapping up the applause. In fact, I get the distinct impression that’s why she came. Cummings gave up a not so promising career a couple of years ago to marry Southern California construction magnate Jack Reynolds. I remember some talk a few years ago about her having a drinking problem. Tonight, not only is Cummings quite tipsy, she’s quite conspicuously alone.
The final introduction is of Gordon Jacobs. I recognize the name and the connection. I tug on Zack’s sleeve to get his attention. “Jacobs is a partner at the same firm as Evan. What if Polk and Wagner is involved with whatever is going on at Green Leaf and Evan stumbled upon it?”
“There’s one sure way you can find out,” Zack says. “Can you do it?”
Each use of my powers ensures Demeter’s disapproval and places me further from the possibility of forgiveness. But we’re at a dead end. Lives are at stake, one of them Evan’s.
“Yes, I can do it.”
Although an auctioneer is managing the bidding process, Alan Pierce is reading the item descriptions. The one currently up for bid is being “modeled” by an attractive young woman. It’s a colorful tote bag made from brightly colored recycled candy wrappers.
“Should I take Taylor Cummings or Barbara Pierce?” Zack asks.
I look around. Drs. Pierce and Barakov are nowhere to be seen. “I think Pierce and Barakov left.” Was he uneasy over the conversation we had? Perhaps he was afraid of running into me again.
Zack checks his watch. “Taylor Cummings it is,” he says. “Let’s meet back at the car in thirty minutes?”
I nod.
Zack grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, then heads off. I see Jacobs making a beeline for the bar and follow. The man is in his mid to late fifties, overweight, red-faced. He orders a scotch, neat. I do the same. The smell coming off him confirms this scotch is not his first.
“It’s a little warm in here.” I fan myself, then offer him my hand. “Emma Monroe.”
“Gordon Jacobs. How are you connected to Green Leaf?”
“I’m not, really.” Michael Dexter’s piece is about to be introduced and Alan has called him to the stage. I gesture toward Dexter. “I’m a guest of the artist.”
Jacobs’ eyes drift to the front of the room. The bidding has started. “Boyfriend?”
“God, no. Michael’s gay. I was just going to step out for a breath of fresh air. Care to join me?” I offer him a smile filled with promise. He predictably takes the bait.
We go out the front door, circle around the side of the hotel, past some of the quaint shops that are closed, and then onto the ocean veranda. The entire time, Jacobs talks about himself, his illustrious career, and his passion for golf and deep-sea fishing. I feign fascination. Despite the leisurely pace, by the time we get there, Jacobs is out of breath. Thankfully, the veranda is empty. This time, I make doubly sure. The large open space ensures that I won’t make the same mistake and miss another couple half-hidden by shrubbery.
The air has grown chilly. The moon is still bright enough that I can see the waves as they crash onto the shore in front of us. Since I’d rather not spend any more time with this bore than necessary, I tap into my powers and get down to business.
Jacobs succumbs to my influence even more quickly than Barakov. The alcohol in his system and my power break down any resistance he might feel to answering my questions. I spend ten, maybe fifteen minutes grilling
him and get nothing of value. He thinks Evan is exceptionally talented, with the courtroom presence and breadth of knowledge rarely found in a man his age. When I ask if he’s aware that Evan’s missing, he thinks I mean from the party and says he’s probably just running a bit late—there’s a very high-profile case he’s in the midst of trying. Mention of Isabella and Amy elicits empty stares.
Essentially, Jacobs’ connection to Green Leaf is financially motivated. Scoring Green Leaf as a client helped Polk and Wagner lure in Evan and gave the firm an entrée into what’s become a very lucrative niche. As a senior member of the firm, he’s more than happy to attend a few board meetings a year in order to keep that highly visible cash cow happy. Privately, Jacobs thinks global warming is a bunch of hooey. He couldn’t care less about the mission.
There’s only one thing on Jacobs’ mind tonight and it has nothing to do with charity. Finally tiring of his feeble attempts at seduction, and with a silent apology to the other women at the party, I send him back inside.
I hope Zack is doing better than I am.
When I reach the parking lot, Zack is already in the car, waiting for me. My first thought is that he, too, struck out. Not only did he beat me back to the car, but his jacket and tie are now gone, his sleeves rolled up.
“Any luck?” I ask, steeling myself for disappointment. I’d so hoped to have news of a break for Liz.
Zack pulls a cocktail napkin from his pants pocket. “I got Taylor’s phone number.” He dangles it in front of me. “She put it in my pocket herself. You?”
“Nothing.” I climb into the passenger seat and kick off my shoes.
Zack crushes the napkin into a ball and tosses it into the backseat. “Now what? We’re no closer than before. All we’ve got is a thin connection between Green Leaf and the disappearances.”
He’s staring straight ahead, into the darkness, his brow furrowed. His profile is sharp and clean, his lips turned down at the corners.
I have to steel myself to keep from giving in to an impulse. I want to turn his face toward mine, brush my lips across his.
