Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here

by Christine Warren

The dark, sweet flavor jolted her back to her senses. Twisting her body away, she ducked out of the space between him and the bed—or, as she liked to call it, The Danger Zone—and put herself in a much more sensible position between him and the door. Also known as The Escape Route.

  He turned to face her, and she thought she saw a hint of genuine disappointment in his expression before it shifted back into what she suspected were its normal lines of vague amusement. “I take it that you are feeling professional.”

  “I’m feeling something,” she muttered under her breath. She needed another minute to let her heart settle back into what resembled a normal rhythm.

  “I’m sorry, I missed that. What?”

  “Nothing.” She straightened her shoulders and met, if not his gaze, then certainly the space between his eyes, which she thought should really count as the same thing. “I’m assuming that if you traced Ms. Addison to her parents’ house here in Connecticut, that you had information leading you to believe you’d find her in residence.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, his expression clearly telling her that her abrupt change of subject amused him, but he let her get away with it. “And since you had an appointment to meet her here this morning, I’m assuming you believed the same thing. Too bad both of us were disappointed.”

  One of us maybe more than the other, she thought.

  Only she said, “I didn’t exactly wander through the whole house to check. I suppose she could still be somewhere around here. The place is huge. Or maybe she’s outside by the pool. I’m assuming a house like this has to have a pool. Or three.”

  “Lucky for you, I did wander through the house, and she’s not in it. Nor was she anywhere in sight of it.” He grinned unrepentantly. “I looked out the windows, too.”

  Danice frowned. Not at his snooping, but because Rosemary should have been here, and it annoyed her that the young woman would take her irritation with her grandfather out on a third party. Danice’s mother would call that just plain bad manners.

  “Well, since I wouldn’t feel right prowling around someone else’s home without an invitation,” she said pointedly, because her heartbeat still hadn’t slowed down and his smile continued to affect her stomach—and other bits—in inappropriate ways, “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ll call Ms. Addison on the way back to the city and ask her to reschedule our meeting for another day.”

  Once again, her subtle admonishment seemed to amuse the man more than anything. That made her jaw clench. Suddenly it seemed like the most sensible thing in the world to get the hell out of his presence while the getting was good. Without another word, she spun on her heels and left the bedroom to tromp back down the stairs to the foyer and the car waiting for her outside. While she couldn’t hear any footsteps indicating that he’d followed her, the way the hair on the back of her neck refused to relax and lie back down, where it was supposed to, let her know he wasn’t far behind.

  He laid a hand over hers when she reached out to lift her briefcase off the entry table. It took more effort than it should have before she was able to turn and face him with an expression of sufficient coolness.

  “Yes, Mr. Callahan?”

  That grin of his flashed again, and cool became the last thing she felt inside.

  “First of all, you should call me Mac. I have a feeling the two of us are going to meet up again pretty soon.” Before she could argue—because she had to argue—he pulled a card out of his left pocket and handed it to her. “My number is on there. Along with my e-mail and my office address. I’d appreciate it if you’d have Ms. Addison give me a call if she gets in touch with you to reschedule.”

  Danice took the card, carefully ensuring that their fingers did not touch during the exchange. He noticed, too, damn him. “If?” she repeated. “You think she wouldn’t return my call for some reason?”

  He shrugged, and his expression shifted from amused and interested to blank and a bit hard. “I think that she was supposed to be here this morning, but she wasn’t. She might have had a very good reason for missing your appointment, but who’s to say that same reason won’t apply to returning your phone call?” He nodded at the card she still held. “In any event, I’d appreciate you passing that along if you speak to her.”

  Danice nodded and slipped the card into a small outer pocket of her bag, retrieving one of her own in the process. “In that case, I’ll say the same thing. If for some odd reason you find that Ms. Addison has decided to relocate to another one of her family’s residences, I’d appreciate you letting me know. Just in case she is trying to avoid me.”

  Mac took the card and held it, but his eyes remained on hers. Damn it, he had to know those things were like weapons. It violated all the rules of fair play for him to use them against her like that. The man should go around blindfolded, for the safety of the female population.

  “I’ll do that, Danice,” he murmured, his voice going all low and intimate again. The jerk. “In fact, I’ll look forward to it.”

  Forget the blindfold. He should just be locked up in a dungeon somewhere and guarded only by devoutly heterosexual men. Nothing less would ever keep him in check.

  Giving him a brisk nod of thanks, Danice hefted her briefcase and strode out the front door, never in her life so relieved to see an anonymous black town car waiting for her. She called out to the driver, who jerked awake and started the engine promptly, allowing her to roll up the power window and put a film of dark, protective tinting between herself and that lethal gaze.

  But not until the car pulled out of the drive and turned on to the road leading back to the highway did Danice finally breathe a sigh of relief.

  If God had any of the mercy in Him that her mom was always talking about, that would be the very last time she ever had to get within thirty feet of McIntyre “Call me Mac” Callahan. The man wore trouble like a double-breasted suit, and that was the last thing Danice needed in her life at the moment.

  The very last thing.

  Mac watched the car pull away with a smile on his face and a bulge in his jeans. Danice Carter made a tasty little treat. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d met anyone who intrigued him as much as the attorney with the smart mouth and the honey-dark skin. A long, long time.

  Glancing down at the business card in his hand, he read the elegantly engraved text with a considering eye. danice l. carter, attorney-at-law, worked for the remarkably prestigious and eminently stodgy firm of Parish, Hampton, Uxbridge, and Yorke, a law group so well known, it represented senators, actors, former presidents, corporations, and even the leaders of a few foreign countries, when their concerns landed on American soil.

  On a more metaphorical level, it represented law as big business, and wasn’t at all the kind of working environment where he pictured Danice Carter making her mark. He could much more readily see her in the kind of small, independent firm that forged a place for itself by waging war on the clients Parish Hampton worked for and pulling out stunning, come-from-behind victories that law schools would lecture on for years to come. The kind of win you could read about in a John Grisham novel, or see acted out in a heartwarming Holly wood blockbuster.

  Working for Parish Hampton seemed like the kind of job that would slowly rob a woman like Danice of her spirit. And that, he reflected, would be a shame.

  Tucking the card in his pocket, Mac dug out his cell phone. He jogged down the steps of the empty house and made his way to his own car, which he’d pulled around to the garage located behind the side of the house. As entertaining and intriguing as his encounter with Ms. Carter had been, it was time to get back to work. Rosemary Addison was out there somewhere, and he needed to find her.

  Before whoever had hired him started to get cranky.

  Punching in a familiar number, Mac listened to the line ring as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  “Under Belly,” a voice grunted.

  “Let me talk to Quigley.”

  “Ain’t here.”

  Ma
c scowled. “Where is he?”

  “I sound like his mommy?”

  Considering what some of the female imps he’d met in his life had sounded like, Mac decided not to answer that question. Instead he asked, “Did he leave a message for me? It’s Callahan.”

  The bartender of one of the biggest Other dives in Manhattan grunted again, which amounted to eloquence in his case, and said, “Told me to tell you his boss is gettin’ impatient. Said he needs results soon and he’ll be checkin’ in with you tonight. An’ unless you wanna pay me like the guy at Western Union, I’m tellin’ both of you to stop usin’ me like a damned telegraph office.”

  Mac bit back his retort, though it wasn’t necessary since Hedge had already hung up on him. The golem had never been the most cheerful conversationalist, but then again, most of his customers didn’t drop in for conversation. They dropped in to drink, fight, and conduct the sort of business transactions that weren’t welcome in most other establishments. A long time ago, Mac had started to wonder if the Under Belly wasn’t just a pit, but actually the kind of pit that made up one of the levels of the fiendish underworld. He wouldn’t really be surprised.

  Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he started the car and pointed it west. If his client was already pressuring their go-between for results, Mac had better get back to the city and get back to work. He’d known when a few minutes at his computer had yielded the information about Rosemary Addison’s current whereabouts that the case had seemed too easy. Now it looked like he’d been right. Time to start pounding the pavement, knocking on doors, and knocking heads together. It might not be the easiest way to make a living, but Mac had done it before, and frankly, he was damned good at it.

  The only thing he had to worry about at the moment was keeping his mind on his job and off Danice Carter’s lush little mouth.

  Somehow, he knew that would be easier said than done.

  Seven

  Since she’d wasted her entire day on Thursday traveling to and from Connecticut to an appointment her client hadn’t even bothered to keep, Danice found herself more than a little buried in catch-up work on Friday. A Friday that just three days ago she had hoped would yield the infrequent treat of allowing her out of the office by 5 PM.

  She should have known better than to hope.

  At six forty-five, she sat at her desk with one hand poised over the brief she was reviewing and the other vainly attempting to rub some of the tension out of the muscles at the back of her neck. Neither task seemed to be going at all well.

  Her phone rang, the call coming straight through since her assistant had already left for the day. More than an hour ago.

  Not that Danice felt bitter about that, or anything. Oh, no.

  “Danice Carter,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, it never being a good idea to make clients think you hated having to talk to them. Even when you did.

  “What, in the name of all that is holy, are you still doing at the office? It’s nearly seven o’clock!”

  The voice was familiar, as was the accusation, but at least Danice didn’t have to play nice with this particular caller.

  “I’m still here because I have a damned job to do, whether it’s seven o’clock or midnight, Corinne. Thanks for asking so nicely.”

  Her friend grumbled. “Don’t take it out on me just because you work for a bunch of fascist slave-drivers. Tonight’s Girls’ Night. Did you forget?”

  Danice rolled her eyes. “No, I didn’t forget. I’m just not going to be able to make it. I have too much to do.”

  “But you can’t miss Girls’ Night! It’s…it’s…it’s sacred!”

  “Corinne, it’s an excuse to drink too much wine and talk about sex. I don’t think that qualifies as the next thing to a papal inauguration.”

  “Well, it should.”

  “Then why don’t you call the Vatican and voice your opinion? With a name like Corinne D’Alessandro, I have no doubt the operators in Rome will patch you right through.”

  There was a brief silence on the line, followed by a low whistle. “Sheesh, Niecie, what the hell crawled up your ass and died? Is something the matter?”

  Danice dropped her pen and went back to rubbing her neck. “No, everything’s fine. I just have a lot of work to do. Even more than usual. I’m feeling a little stressed right now.”

  “Then Girls’ Night is exactly what you need. And it’s at Ava’s place tonight, so you don’t even need to worry about Frick and Frack, the monster men, hanging around. It’s an Other-Free Zone.”

  “Dmitri and Graham aren’t that bad,” she said, chuckling reluctantly, referring to Regina’s and Missy’s husbands, neither of whom precisely qualified as human.

  “Sure, if you like ’em fanged and furry. But since we all know that Ava does not, tonight will be entirely humans only.”

  “What, isn’t Reggie going to be there?”

  Corinne paused. “Of course she’ll be there. When I said ‘humans only’ I wasn’t talking about her. She was human just last year, after all.”

  Regina had allowed her husband, a vampire, to change her into one as well when she agreed to marry him. Danice still hadn’t figured out how she’d brought herself to do it, but apparently a girl didn’t like to think about getting all wrinkled and saggy while her hubby surfed that whole wave of eternal youth.

  “I’m sorry, Corinne.” Danice sighed. “I’m just not gonna be able to make it. I’ve got at least another hour or two of work to plow through here, and when I’m done, all I want to do is go home, soak in the tub for a while, and then crawl into bed.”

  “Ava is not going to be happy to hear that.”

  Danice grimaced. “Don’t threaten me, girlfriend. Besides, right now Queen Ava is the least of my worries.”

  “Holy shit,” Corinne gasped, the sound just faintly exaggerated. “Niecie, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Do you need help? Do you have to fake your own death? Get a new identity? What?”

  Corinne was only half joking, Danice knew. It was kind of hard to fathom what could worry a person more than getting on Ava Markham’s bad side. The woman might be one of the closest friends either she or Corinne had, but that didn’t mean they didn’t live in fear of her. If Ava had been born a few hundred years earlier, even Genghis Khan would have quaked at the sound of her name.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured her friend. “I’ve just got a bit of a caseload overload at the moment. And that thing for Yorke is turning out to be an even bigger pain than I was afraid it would be.”

  “The girl still hasn’t called you back?”

  “Nope. I’m starting to think she plans to use me as another way to piss off her grandfather.”

  “Yeesh, no wonder you’re in a mood.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Good point.” This time, Corinne sighed. “Well, if you’re sure I can’t persuade you to say screw it all and come out tonight, I suppose I’ll let you go. I’ll even try to cover for you with Ava, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “And I’ll accept that as proof you haven’t completely lost your mind yet. Try and keep it that way, okay?”

  Danice agreed and hung up the phone a minute later feeling even wearier than she had before it rang. She just couldn’t tell if the conversation itself had exhausted her, or if she was regretting missing Girls’ Night more than she had expected to. She did enjoy the get-togethers, when she was able to make them. Each of her friends had either a career or a man to keep her busy—Reggie and Missy had both—so setting aside one night every month or so where they could all gather in one room and enjoy one another’s company had become an important part of their friendship. Too bad it looked like yet another thing she would have to sacrifice on the altar of a partnership at Parish Hampton.

  There were days lately when Danice found herself wondering if it was worth it. She’d known since she was a girl that she wanted to be an attorney, an
d she’d pursued that goal with the kind of single-minded focus she dedicated to everything she considered important. From the National Merit Scholar Program to Phi Beta Kappa to the top 5 percent of her class at Columbia, she had worked her tail off all her life to ensure that she always stood head and shoulders above the students around her. She didn’t want anyone assuming that the girl with the darker skin received special treatment; she wouldn’t have tolerated that. But she also didn’t intend to be overlooked for a position with the kind of top law firm she had always envisioned.

  Parish Hampton had made her short list before she’d finished her first year at Columbia. By the time she’d started her third, all three firms on that list had been courting her, promising her the kind of bonuses and benefits she’d worked so long to achieve. In the end, the offers had been so similar that she’d based her decision more on the prestige of the name than on anything else. She’d agreed to work at Parish Hampton because that’s where the best lawyers in New York all wanted to work.

  Danice just couldn’t be sure that she still did.

  Groaning, she dropped her pen and raised both hands to rub at the persistent throbbing in her temples. Obviously the headache was beginning to affect her thinking. What the hell could she mean that she wasn’t sure she still wanted to work for Parish Hampton? She had always wanted to work for a firm like this, and having achieved that desire, being as close to earning a partnership as she was now, she’d be a raging lunatic even to contemplate giving it up. One more thought like that and she’d be driving herself down to the admitting entrance of the Bellevue psych ward.

  Danice blamed it all on Mac Callahan.

  Right now she’d blame the crash of the Hindenburg on him, if she could just spend a few minutes working out the logistics. As far as she was concerned, he was responsible for everything currently wrong with the universe and a few things that had happened before he’d ever been born. Mostly, though, his sins boiled down to one very simple problem: She couldn’t stop thinking about him.