Cutie and the Beast

by E. J. Russell

  So Alun had had second thoughts after all. David sank down on the edge of his bed, his bow ties limp in his hand. “No?”

  “Dr. Kendrick has asked that we replace you at once.”

  “But there isn’t anybody. That’s why Tracy—”

  “Tracy is no longer with the agency.”

  “What?” David croaked, as if he were the one with the flu.

  “Her lapse in judgment resulted in offending one of our most influential clients. What do you expect?”

  “Please. Don’t take it out on Tracy. She was totally slammed with you and so many others out sick.” He tightened his hand around the silk of his ties. Why hadn’t he considered that his sin-by-omission could affect Tracy too? But he’d thought only of himself. Selfish selfish selfish. “The mistake is totally on me. I didn’t mention your opinion to her about my . . . my unsuitability for office positions. She was doing the best she could.”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right.” He swallowed hard and laid his ties over his knee, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles left by his damp fist. The poor things would never be the same. “When I bring your tonic by, we can talk about another assignment.” He’d make another pitch for poor Tracy at the same time.

  “David.” Did she sound a little apologetic? Not Sandra. She never did conciliatory. Must be the lingering effects of her illness. “There won’t be another assignment. I’m terminating our agreement with you.”

  “But—but I need the job. My aunt—”

  “I’m sorry, David. I like you, I really do. But you’ve been a disruptive influence in every office placement. I think it’s time for you to rethink your career objectives.”

  He curled forward, arm across his belly, cell phone pressed so hard to his ear that the back of his earring cut into his skin. “Please, Sandra. I need the flexibility of the temp agency. With Aunt Cassie’s health so uncertain—”

  “I’m afraid my decision is final. I wish you luck.”

  Why couldn’t he think? His mind was as dark and empty as a club after hours. “I . . . There are a few of my personal belongings at the office.”

  “Please retrieve them this morning, before Dr. Kendrick arrives for the day. The security guard will accompany you, and you can leave your card key with him when you’re done.”

  A hot beam of anger cut through his mental shadows. “You think I’d steal from him?”

  “It’s company policy, David. Nothing personal.”

  “Of course not.” Because we wouldn’t want anything personal to interfere with the perfectly pristine offices of Dr. Alun Kendrick.

  The need to see David, to seek him out this very instant, had Alun pacing his apartment, unable to concentrate on any of his usual pastimes, this single morning stretching longer than half his life.

  Oak and bloody thorn, two hundred years of perfect control, and he’d lost it because of a human who didn’t back away from his face? No doubt about it, this wooing shite would be the death of him.

  It had been easier when he’d simply paid for the privilege in a discreet brothel in Regency London. Or in San Francisco during the Gold Rush, lured by the downcast gaze of Chinese immigrants who considered him no more monstrous than any non-Asian. Or in the endless Yukon nights when darkness was his refuge and men were willing to ignore pleasantries in exchange for a winter’s worth of venison.

  But now? Here? He hadn’t the least notion of how to proceed, of what constituted a proper lover’s offering. According to the mawkish web pages devoted to romance, flowers were a traditional choice, so he’d frantically called florist after florist until he’d found one willing to do a rush delivery to his apartment.

  He eyed the resulting massive bouquet, the blooms bright and exotically fragrant. Nothing as pedestrian as carnations nor as obvious as roses. Chaotic, yet harmonious, like David himself, and like the feelings that crowded Alun’s chest when he thought of the man.

  He checked his watch for the fifteenth time. Was it too soon to go downstairs? Alun had been ashamed to realize he’d never made an effort to find out when David arrived, nor how much time he spent outside office hours adding all those personal touches and tweaks aimed at comfort for either his clients or himself.

  Awkwardly juggling the flowers with his briefcase, he opened the door to his apartment, taking the stairs slowly, reciting the ogham alphabet in his head to calm his libido.

  Birch, rowan, alder, willow . . . David had been as tender and pliant in his arms as a willow branch— Stop it. Ash, hawthorn, oak, holly, hazel, apple . . . He’d tasted faintly of apple too, from those ridiculous candies he kept in the flame-hearted dish on his desk.

  Shite. Next time, he’d stick to the DSM-5. The list of obsessive-compulsive disorders. At this rate, he’d present half of the diagnoses himself.

  He reached his clinic and stood in the corridor, the tissue wrapping the bouquet crinkling in his fist, his other hand locked on the handle of his briefcase.

  You’re a two-thousand-year-old Sidhe warrior, not a stripling at his first fete. Open the thrice-damned door and face the man.

  Tucking his briefcase under one arm, he turned the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Alun frowned. David was always early. Always? It had only been three days. Alun blinked in surprise when he realized exactly how quickly he’d succumbed to temptation. What did that say about his character? All he needed was the correct leverage, and his vaunted ethics toppled like a stone down the hillside.

  With his briefcase still clamped under his elbow, his other hand full of flowers, Alun fished for his card key in the inner pocket of his jacket. Damn and blast, where was the bloody thing? Aha—got it.

  He opened the door, his gaze snapping immediately to David’s chair. Empty. The skin prickled along Alun’s spine, and his hair lifted on his neck. Wrong. Something was wrong. What was it?

  The desk was bare except for the telephone and the computer workstation. No brilliant-crimson candy dish. No row of tiny figures marching in the shadow of the monitor. No cobalt mug in pride of place on the credenza.

  Alun’s briefcase slipped from his lax fingers and landed on the carpet with a muted thump. He turned slowly, surveying the room. The handblown vases were gone. The magazines cleared from the tables. The stack of woven rainbow-hued coasters missing from the sideboard.

  The office was exactly as it had been before David had arrived. Exactly as Alun had told David he preferred. David might never have been here at all, save for the whisper of potpourri vanishing under the heavy lemon scent of the cleaners’ furniture polish, and the pathetic bouquet Alun was still clutching in his fist.

  He trudged into his office, disappointment riding him like a banshee on the wind.

  How could David leave without a word? Didn’t Alun deserve the courtesy of a reason? Even Owain had given him that, however little Alun had wanted to hear the truth.

  He glared at the ridiculous flowers and flung them in the trash.

  David hadn’t struck him as a coward, had never avoided a confrontation, so why hide now? Was it his face? That he could understand at least, but it hadn’t deterred David last night. Alun needed the man to look him in the eye and give him reasons.

  Then he’d try like all the hells to get him to change his mind.

  Alun checked his schedule. Nothing until four thirty. He had time.

  He strode through the office, locked the front door, and barreled down the stairs to the underground parking facility two at a time. Thank the gods for the heavily tinted windows of his Land Rover that allowed him to drive in full daylight without causing mass hysteria on the roads. But when he climbed into the driver’s seat, it dawned on him that he had no idea what David’s address was.

  He let his oversized forehead drop onto the steering wheel. Bloody fool. But as he was about to give up and go back inside, his long-dormant tracking sense lit up like a sunrise, revealing David’s location as clearly as if the man were standing on the top of a hill in a single beam o
f moonlight.

  When he pulled out of the parking garage, though, he realized the instincts that had served him so well in Faerie—leading him in the shortest, straightest path to his quarry—had significant drawbacks in the Outer World. Here he had to contend with traffic and one-way streets and thrice-damned freeways. By the time he pulled up in the shade of a tree outside a pristine Sellwood bungalow, a persistent growl was rumbling in his chest and his teeth ached from clenching them in his battle grimace.

  David was here, his presence bright as the flame of a torch. Alun shouldn’t feel this connection, not with a human. How do you know? You’ve never kissed one before. For all he knew, this happened with everyone. He made a mental note to ask Mal about it the next time he saw him.

  The sidewalks were empty, but he donned a wide-brimmed hat to shield his face from anyone watching from curtained windows, and hurried up the walk to the wide front porch.

  He knocked on the door with the pent-up anger of the frustrating drive, with the disappointment of discovering that David cared as little for him as the shallowest of fae courtiers. Had David kissed back only to keep his job?

  If that was the case, why leave?

  The light shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door was his only warning before it swung open to reveal a bird-frail old woman leaning on a whimsically carved cane, her head swathed in a handwoven head scarf the color of new leaves.

  She looked up into his eyes, and when their gazes locked, he staggered back a step, although she held her ground.

  A druid.

  Here. In Portland. In David’s house. Not just any druid either. Gwydion’s bollocks, the last time he’d seen an aura that large, with that many colors, it had been on the Arch-Druid of Salisbury Plain before Julius Caesar and his bloody Romans first set foot in Britain.

  She drew herself up to her full height—not more than five feet at a guess. “Lord Cynwrig. I never thought to see you in the light of day. Have you done with hiding away in the dark, then?”

  Alun drew in a sharp breath at her use of his title and his Welsh name, although he shouldn’t have been shocked. She was a druid. It was her job to know everything about everything. Druids lived nearly as long as the Sidhe, although from the way her aura was wavering at the edges, this one’s end-of-days was near.

  “I am Dr. Kendrick in this life, Elder.”

  Her sloe-black eyes narrowed. “Kendrick. You are the man who dismissed my Davey.”

  “Your Davey?” Impossible. If David were a druid, Alun would have been able to tell.

  “My nephew, but he is as a son to me.”

  “I never tagged him as a druid. Your shielding spells must be formidable.”

  She folded both her hands on the head of her cane, shaped like a smooth-capped acorn. “He is not a druid and is unaware of our ways. I would prefer . . .” she fixed him with an imperturbable stare “. . . that he remain so.”

  Alun inclined his head. “As you wish.” Only an idiot fae crossed a druid unless he had the full might of the Sidhe host at his back. Even then, the outcome wasn’t assured. “I could ask the same courtesy.”

  A smile quivered on her thin lips and glimmered in her eyes. “You may ask. I will consider. But Davey’s safety shall always drive my purpose.”

  “Understood. May I speak with him?”

  “Why?” Her voice held a hint of steel under the quaver of the elderly. “You wish to make him even more unhappy?”

  Goddess, he had upset David last night. But that still didn’t give David the right to scarper off with no reason given. “I wish to understand why he chose to leave. Surely if we speak of courtesy—”

  “Auntie. What are you doing out here? You should be resting.”

  Alun’s head snapped to the left at the sound of David’s voice. Goddess, he was even more beautiful in this sun-filled room than in the dim order of the office. He was wearing a sky-colored Henley and faded jeans that looked softer than well-worn leather. Alun’s mouth went dry with the desire to fold him in his arms. But clearly David didn’t want that, or he’d not have left.

  David crossed his arms over his chest, a frown wrinkling his brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “For what? For not clearing out fast enough to suit you? Did I leave a nongray item in the office to offend you? Forget to close the blinds and allow a stray beam of sunlight to break in and wreak havoc?”

  Alun scowled, off-balance again as he always was with David. “You know very well that’s not it. If you objected to my—to me, you should have said so. I would have respected your wish.” Although I’d have tried my damnedest to change your mind.

  “My wish?” David clenched his hands at his sides and stalked, stiff-legged, into the room. “My wish was to keep my job.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “I didn’t leave, Dr. Clueless. I was fired.”

  “Fired?”

  “With extreme prejudice.” David glared at him, his lips pressed in a flat line, but Alan caught the telltale tremor nonetheless. “The freaking security guard had to escort me back to collect my stuff.”

  “But—”

  “Do you know how humiliating that was? You could have at least asked me. Warned me that I was out of line, that you didn’t—”

  Alun grabbed him by the shoulders because, at this rate, the man might never shut up. “What are you talking about? I didn’t fire you.”

  “You’re not technically my employer, remember? I got the ax this morning from Sandra Fischer herself, thanks to your eloquent complaints about my inappropriateness for the job.”

  Goddess, all those messages he’d left for Sandra. They’d slipped his mind, chased away by the taste of David’s mouth and the scent of his skin. He’d intended to call back, to rescind his request for replacement, but he never thought she’d be back on the job so soon, not after a bout with F1W2.

  “Sandra took you off the assignment?”

  “You must have been exceptionally persuasive, because she did better than that. She terminated me from the agency. I’m officially unemployed, so I’d appreciate it if you would leave so I can wallow in my self-pity.”

  Alun’s hands tightened on David’s shoulders. “Listen to me. First, I don’t believe for one instant that you intend to waste a minute on self-pity. That’s not your style.”

  “That’s all you know.” He sniffed and lifted his chin, nose in the air. “For your information, I’ve been positively wretched. No Oreo is safe when I’m in the throes of whinging.”

  A smile tugged at Alun’s lips, but he fought it off. “What do you know about whinging?”

  “I’m an expert. Ask anyone.”

  Alun met those lake-storm eyes, noted the stubborn set of the pointed chin, the dip of those slanted brows over the narrow nose. He’d have to work for this one.

  He held David’s gaze and pulled out his cell phone, keying in Sandra’s number from memory. She answered on the first ring.

  Of course she did. Even cursed and banished, he was a gods-forsaken Sidhe lord. She was a third-level panther shifter from the worker class. He outranked her.

  “Dr. Kendrick. I expected your call. Naomi said the office was locked. Should she locate building security?”

  “Who’s Naomi?”

  “She’s your new office manager. A coyote shifter from the Umatilla tribe. She comes very highly recommended by the Wiccan Health Collective.”

  “I don’t need an office manager.” David’s brows dipped lower and his lips curled downward, but he didn’t drop his gaze from Alun’s. “I already have one.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize Vanessa had returned to work.”

  “Not Vanessa. David Evans.”

  “But . . .” She coughed, a sound that morphed into a throaty yowl. Apparently she wasn’t entirely over the F1W2 virus.

  Why couldn’t the woman have stayed in her cave until he’d had a chance to sort out his own tangled feelings? He
hated having his hand forced.

  “I expect you to correct this. Reinstate David with your agency. Immediately. Reactivate his assignment as my office manager.”

  “Tracy,” David murmured, a definite challenge in his eyes. Alun raised his eyebrows. “She needs to rehire Tracy too.”

  “The reactivation order extends to your assistant as well, who was astute enough to place David in my clinic. Please see to it at once. Otherwise, our arrangement is terminated, and you’ll find all the clients I’ve referred to you will likewise seek other staffing resources.” He hung up on another tortured yowl and took a step toward David. “There. You see? Proof.”

  David put his hands behind his back and retreated, keeping the same distance between them. “Being a therapist must be difficult for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t just order your clients to get better.”

  Alun scowled and paced forward. “I don’t . . . What else can I do? I’ve given you your wish. I’ve given you proof.”

  “I don’t want proof, you stupid man.” David’s backpedaling brought him up against the wall. “I want explanations.”

  Alun reached out with a tentative hand and brushed his thumb over David’s clavicle, feeling distress vibrate in the elegant bones. “How about this? Any message Sandra received from me was from before last night.” He gazed into David’s eyes, willing him to believe, but unwilling to get any more specific under the knowing gaze of the druid. “Before. Understand?”

  “No. I don’t understand why you complained about me in the first place, let alone why you changed your mind.”

  “He objected to you because you’re human.”

  The air shivered with the truth of the druid’s statement, reverberating in Alun’s brain like the call of Herne’s horn. Damn and blast. He should have remembered. Druids, because their job was to know everything, weren’t bound by the Secrecy Pact. They could reveal information when they deemed it necessary. Since he’d agreed to her request for secrecy, his word bound him. Her reply hadn’t been so explicit.

  Trust a druid to hedge her bets.

  David hustled over to her and took her by the elbow, leading her gently to a tall-backed rocking chair padded with patchwork cushions in shades of blue and green. Alun had assumed David’s fondness for rainbow-hued objects had been a statement about his sexual orientation, but no. He’d been raised by a druid. They always surrounded themselves with the most vibrant colors of nature.