by Jaye Wells
“Her boss is an ass,” Logan said to his mother an hour later. He hadn’t needed to use his psychic powers to figure that one out, but the thoughts he picked up from the man put Logan in a bad mood. Normally reading people’s minds was a handy skill to have, but at times likes these he wished he could be as blissfully unaware as a mortal.
“I understand your concern, but you must remember the reason you are doing this. We will finally have a piece of your father back,” replied Kira.
She sat across from Logan in the blue parlor of her elegant townhouse. The light blue silk-upholstered Queen Anne chair complemented her ivory pantsuit. But her curly hair, as black as a raven’s wing, stood in stark contrast to the pastel colors surrounding her. Knowing his mother, she had chosen the colors specifically because they made her dark beauty stand out. She looked damn good for a woman her age. After all, most 723-year-olds were dust in the wind while his mother looked no older than a college coed.
“I have already talked to the lawyers. Since possession is nine-tenths of the law, it is up to us to prove our case to the museum.”
“Well, darling, that should be no problem. I will simply have the boxes moved to your house.”
Logan groaned. “Why bother moving them at all? Miss Worth can do the research here.”
“Logan, you are already overseeing this matter quite capably. Besides, I am sure this curator will be much more comfortable with you since you have already met. And don’t give me the line about your experiments. Alaric can assist you both at the lab and with the curator,” she said, waving off his concerns.
“I still have a bad taste in my mouth about including Miss Worth. Having her dig through our files could be risky, but I got a clear message that Stiggler is trying to get rid of her. I couldn’t in good conscience leave her without any way to save her job.”
“Why don’t you offer a donation to the museum with the stipulation she keep her job?” his mother asked.
“I find resorting to bribery with that man extremely distasteful.”
“Well, I think what you did is honorable—chivalrous even,” she said with a smile.
Logan nodded absently as the front door opened. A few seconds later his brother Callum strode into the room. He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and then dropped next to Logan on the couch.
“So, big brother, I hear you found your painting.”
Logan nodded.
“Why don’t you look happier?” Callum asked.
“It seems Logan didn’t anticipate some road bumps in the painting retrieval process,” Kira supplied.
“Like what?” asked Callum.
“Proof,” Logan responded sullenly.
Callum laughed. “Poor Logan’s not used to dealing with pesky mortal bureaucracy.”
“Instead of laughing, why don’t you help me figure out how to prevent a very clever woman from discovering our family’s little secret while she digs through all our old papers,” Logan retorted.
“I am sure it will be fine,” said Kira. “We are always very careful when wording our correspondence. Besides, we can weed out anything incriminating. And you’re forgetting we were alive when the painting was completed and when those hooligans stole it. It’s simply a matter of putting the right papers in front of Miss Worth.”
“So what is this curator like?” asked Callum.
“She’s . . . competent,” said Logan, trying to avoid the subject of Sydney Worth with his brother.
“Tell him about the ladder incident, Logan,” his mother said with a grin.
He scowled at her. He hadn’t revealed the more interesting details about the interlude to his mother, but she got the gist of it.
Callum immediately noted his brother’s discomfort and pounced. “Do tell,” he said with a wicked grin.
Logan reluctantly told his brother everything from saving Sydney to Stiggler’s ridiculous claim about discretion. By the end of the story, Callum was doubled over laughing. Logan wanted to punch his brother but knew his mother wouldn’t tolerate their immature antics in her favorite parlor. But he’d get his revenge. Perhaps he’d mix skunk’s blood in with his brother’s next meal. That would teach him.
“Let me get this straight. She was straddling you with her . . . assets in your face? Then she carded you? Priceless!” Callum snorted again with laughter.
“You know, I have been meaning to ask you why you didn’t just use a mental nudge with the girl.” asked Kira.
Logan shifted in his seat. “I just thought we should do this the correct way.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “When you left this morning, you were determined to get this done quickly. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Wait a minute,” Callum interjected with suspicion clear on his face. “Logan, you could read her mind, couldn’t you?”
Logan grimaced.
“Royce Logan Murdoch! You couldn’t read her mind!” his mother declared, ready to launch out of her seat in excitement.
Callum slapped his knee. “Hot damn! Big brother’s found his soul mate!”
Logan’s glare would have stopped a mortal’s heart, but his brother carried on unaffected. “Logan’s in lo—” he began before Logan’s elbow to his ribs cut him off. “Ooof. Hey!”
“That’s enough,” Kira barked. “Callum, you know I don’t consider soul mates an issue to take lightly.”
She turned on her eldest. “Logan, I can’t believe you tried to hide this from me. You really couldn’t read her mind?”
“Mother, it’s no big deal. She could just as easily be a psychic or witch. It doesn’t automatically mean she’s my soul mate.”
“Did you pick up the scent of magic on her?” Callum asked.
Logan shook his head reluctantly. Then he narrowed his eyes at his mother.
“I am telling you right now to leave this alone. Even if I believed in the soul mate myth, which I don’t, it wouldn’t matter. I do not get involved with mortals. Period. Do not, I repeat, do not pursue this. I have humored you with this painting debacle, but if I get the slightest hint of matchmaking from you, I will wash my hands of the whole mess.”
Kira just stared back at him for a moment. He refused to feel guilty about his words. This was his life—his very long life—and he’d be damned if his mommy was going to play yenta between him and some mortal woman. His mother knew the scars he carried around on his heart from his last encounter with a mortal woman. So, no, Sydney was off limits.
Even if she represents a prime example of her species. Even if her impertinence makes me want to kiss the sass right off her mouth. Even if . . . He shook his head. He couldn’t risk it.
“Logan,” Kira began softly. “Darling, I know why you are hesitant to get involved with another mortal. We both do,” she said looking over at Callum, who nodded sympathetically. Logan couldn’t stand the pity he saw in their eyes. “But give it a chance. All mortal women are not like Brenn—”
He slashed his hand through the air, cutting his mother off. “This isn’t about the past. The simple matter is you are reading things into the situation that don’t exist. Sydney Worth is not my soul mate. I want you to promise you will not interfere.”
Kira took a deep breath. Again, he felt a twinge of guilt, but he knew if he gave her an inch, she’d take a mile. He couldn’t chance it. His reaction to Sydney today had been too strong to risk involvement with her beyond the minimum required to get the painting back.
He still couldn’t believe he’d flirted with her like some mortal lothario. How long had it been since he had flirted with a female? He couldn’t read her mind, but her interest was as clear as the breasts she’d shoved in his face.
However, she had reservations too. Her actions at the museum showed her dedication to her career came first. He could relate. He had too much riding on his own research to complicate it with a dose of estrogen.
“I promise from now on I will not try to convince you Sydney is your soul mate,” his mother conceded. He kne
w her carefully worded response left her plenty of room to interfere. Nevertheless, he’d said his piece and knew she would be careful to respect his wishes, at least to his face.
“However, I want both of you to listen,” she said. “I have lived for almost three-quarters of a millennium. I do not want to see my 750th year without a daughter-in-law to adopt and a grandchild to spoil. You both owe it to me as your mother and to the Brethren to produce a new generation. So I am warning you: The time is coming when I won’t accept the ‘no mortals’ or the ‘I’m too busy’ excuses any more. Am I understood?”
Logan and Callum exchanged uneasy glances and then nodded in unison. They each had won battles with their mother over the years, but her feminine wiles and maternal instincts gave her the edge to ensure she would win this war in the end. If she wanted them to settle down with a nice woman and produce heirs, they’d soon be picking out bassinettes. Fortunately, being immortal meant the definition of “soon” was subjective.
“I am glad that’s settled. Callum, tell us about your trip,” said Kira.
“The Brethren Council was quite excited about the direction of our research. They are anxious to know when Logan’s synthetic blood will be ready for distribution,” said Callum.
“I am close. I am awaiting a shipment of blood for comparison against the synthetic product. Once the testing is done in the lab, I will try it on volunteers,” Logan explained.
“I can’t tell you how excited everyone is. Imagine a day when we don’t have to rely on human sources for nourishment. Utilizing bagged blood made everything easier, but this will mean true freedom for all of us,” Callum said.
“Any other news from the meeting?” Logan asked.
“Word is Raven is stirring up more trouble. Seems she found out what Logan is up to and has vowed to fight it. I guess it makes sense. Once Logan’s product hits the streets, the Brethren Council will raise the penalties for feeding from humans,” Callum explained.
“Raven,” Kira said with distaste. “One of these days the council is going to lose patience with that young one, and she will have hell to pay.”
“Did you hear what she said to the council when they insisted she try the sun shield therapy? ‘No vampire worth his blood would be caught dead in the sun!’” Callum chuckled. “I know she’s a nuisance, but you have to admire her spunk.”
“Spunk? Callum, she is a threat to everything we work toward with our research: To one day be able to safely live among mortals. Her kind perpetuates the fears most mortals still harbor about our kind,” Logan chastised. “She is a menace that needs to be reined in. Imagine any vampire in this day and age refusing to go in the sunlight. And don’t get me started on the velvet capes and the coffin she sleeps in. It’s ludicrous.”
“Either way, we need to keep our eyes open. You know Raven never goes in for a direct attack. She’ll most likely just make a nuisance of herself,” said Callum.
“I’ll warn Alaric,” said Logan. “But I honestly doubt she could do much to hinder our efforts.”
“Plus you have other things to worry about,” Callum said with a smirk. “When does your girlfriend start work?”
Logan sent a menacing look to his brother. “Miss Worth will begin on Wednesday. Would you like to volunteer to help her go through the archives?”
“But, Logan, if I worked with her, she would probably just become smitten with me. And we can’t have that since she’s your soul mate.”
Logan groaned. Where was a sharp stake when he needed it?
Chapter Three
Jorge Smith’s black Ferragamo loafers were propped on Sydney’s desk when she found him. He didn’t look up from his phone conversation when she entered.
“Get off my phone,” she said.
Jorge held up one manicured finger and continued talking.
“Now!” Sydney shoved his feet off her desk, grabbed the phone, and hung it up.
“Geez, boss lady, what’s got your panties in a twist? It’s not that time of the month is it?”
Sydney took what she hoped would be a calming breath. Nope, not working. She counted to ten. Twenty. Another breath. Okay, maybe she could refrain from murder for a few more minutes.
“How many times have I told you not to use my office for personal calls?”
“You weren’t using it. I don’t see what the big deal is. You know I do it all the time.”
Sydney plopped down on the chair across from Jorge, who was still enthroned in her desk chair.
“You’re right; it’s not about the calls. Where the hell did you disappear to this morning? You were supposed to help me straighten the Gainsborough landscape.”
“I had to pee. And I hadn’t had any coffee, so I decided to go grab some. Then on my way to the kitchen, I ran into that hot new security guard. You know, Bruce? Lordy, girl, I tell you that man is so hot he’s smokin’!”
“Let me get this straight. You left me perched on a ladder without backup to go ogle the new security guard?” She fought to remain calm. Yelling at Jorge was futile.
“Syd, Syd, Syd. You were doing fine. Plus, I didn’t leave with the intention of checking out Mr. Hot Pants, I just got sidetracked. You make it sound sordid.”
Sydney just looked at him. Jorge was at best a barely competent assistant; at worst, he was a flighty drama queen. Although he was only quarter Cuban, Jorge played up his Latino roots when it pleased him. In fact, Sydney knew his real first name was “George” pronounced the English way, not “whore-hey” as her assistant preferred. She never questioned him about it though; the Spanish version seemed to fit him better.
Today, Jorge’s outfit included a bubble-gum pink button-down shirt accented with a pink and lavender polka dot necktie. The black trousers were the only conservative element of the outfit, except they were tight enough to highlight his world-class buns, now unseen as he continued to laze in her desk chair. Mischief danced in his heavily lashed emerald eyes. The expertly mussed dark brown hair completed the look, which he spent a fortune on styling products to attain.
At times like this Syd didn’t honestly know why she kept him around. His typing was abysmal. He spent more time filing his nails than paper and had a bad habit of disappearing when heavy lifting was necessary. On the other hand, he had great aesthetic sensibility, knew the art world like the back of his hand, and his catty comments never failed to make her laugh. Maybe she was being unfair in taking her bad mood out on the guy.
“I’m sorry. It’s just been a day from hell, and it’s barely lunchtime.”
“Why don’t we go to Herrera’s for fajitas and margaritas, and we can talk about it?”
“You know we aren’t supposed to drink during work hours.”
“Technically we’re off the clock during lunch, so it doesn’t count,” he rationalized.
“I’d love to, but we have a serious problem,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh no, you have that look on your face like the time I spilled the copier toner all over the forms you spent hours filling out for The Enforcer.”
“This is much worse.”
“Worse than the time I accidentally wrote the new program for the deaf was ‘good pubic relations,’ but we didn’t catch it until it had been distributed to every media outlet on the Eastern Seaboard?”
“Worse.”
“Well damn, girl. Did your vibrator break?”
“Jorge!”
“Well, you’ve been cranky. I’m just sayin’.”
“This is serious, okay? We may lose the Hot Scot.”
“The Hot Scot? My dishy dream lover in a kilt?”
“Exactly. Logan Murdoch, of the infamous Murdoch family, is the Hot Scot’s identical twin. Apparently the painting was stolen a couple of hundred years ago from his family, and they want it back.”
“You’re kidding! I hit on Bruce when I could have seen the Hot Scot in the flesh? Damn!”
“Can you focus for a moment, please? If they can prove their claim, Stiggler will use it as
an excuse to get rid of me.”
“That little weasel,” he said while slamming his fist on the table. “Wait, if you lose your job, then I lose my job! I feel faint.”
“Settle down. We can’t do anything about Stiggler right now. On Wednesday we are both going over to look through the Murdoch archives,” she told him. “But before then we have to find out everything we can about the painting and the family. Hopefully we can find a way to keep our jobs.”
“We’ll figure something out. Maybe if we can convince them to donate some money, Stiggler will be pacified,” Jorge said.
“Agh, this is all giving me a headache,” Syd complained.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I call the deli and have them deliver some sandwiches for lunch? You can get started on the research.”
“Not so fast, mister. You’re in this with me. If you have a hot date tonight, cancel it. We’re going to be here late,” Syd warned.
“You want some Midol with that sandwich, dragon lady?”
She just stared at him. He took the hint and whisked out of the office on a cloud of Issey Miyake cologne, his signature scent.
Syd reclaimed her chair and then banged her head down on her desk a few times. Maybe if she knocked herself out she could forget this day and start over. Yes, a nice case of amnesia would do nicely. The buzz of the intercom interrupted her.
“Syd, The Enforcer is on line two,” said Jorge.
“Why didn’t you tell her I was in a meeting or something?”
“What do you think I am? You don’t pay me enough to lie for you, lady.”
“Fine, just fine. This is exactly what I need right now.”
Syd took a deep breath before picking up the phone.
“Good morning, Geraldine. How can I help you?”
“Sydney, I am calling about the expense reports you filed yesterday. How many times must I remind you both the forms and the receipts must be copied in triplicate and stapled before you submit them to me for approval? Paperclips are not acceptable.”
Syd winced. Geraldine Stern, a.k.a. The Enforcer, served as gatekeeper for Stiggler’s office as well as taskmaster to the curatorial staff. The woman was so anal retentive it was creepy. Make an error in filing paperwork or show up thirty seconds late for a meeting with Stiggler, and The Enforcer would bear down on you like the wrath of God.
