by S. J. Harper
CHAPTER 15
The Hotel Del Coronado looks as spectacular today as it did when it opened over a century ago. Since that time, the red-roofed Victorian hotel has become a favorite of presidents, royalty, and Hollywood’s darlings. The beachfront resort is luxury at its finest and most elegant. There is a long line of cars sitting at the entrance. Zack veers to the left to Self Park.
“Why didn’t you valet? We’re never going to find a spot in here,” I grumble. To say nothing of dreading the idea of hiking across the asphalt parking lot in four-inch heels.
Zack raises an eyebrow. “O ye of little faith.” He pulls up to the console and pushes the big green button. The machine spits out a ticket, the gate goes up, and Zack drives into the lot. The taillights on a white Mercedes come to light as we round the corner. Just as we round the corner. The Mercedes pulls out, we pull in. We’re within a hundred feet of the hotel entrance.
“How did you do that?” I ask, properly impressed.
Zack grins. “Another of my many talents.” He springs from the car. “Let me get your door.”
But I already have it open. “I know how to open a door and get out of a car. I’ve done it a bazillion times.”
Just not in these damned heels.
The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I stumble.
Zack is there, reaching out a hand to steady me.
“Thanks.”
He offers his arm. “You clean up nicely, Monroe.”
I don’t take it. “This isn’t a date. We’re working, Zack.”
That’s what I say. What I’m thinking is, he cleans up nicely, too. The tux is obviously tailored. The white shirt is crisply starched and the shoes, if I’m not mistaken, are Italian.
“Okay, okay. Strictly business.” He touches his hand to his heart. “Just try to blend without falling.”
I ignore the hint of humor in his tone. A wisp of hair escapes from my French twist. I tuck it behind my ear, then smooth down my dress. The gown is off-the-shoulder, black lace with a nude lining. It fits like a surgical glove. The shoes like a medieval torture device. I lift up the edge of my dress and start to walk. “Easier said than done. I don’t know how Liz does it. These shoes are already killing me.”
Zack places his hand at the small of my back as we cross the drive and go up the steps to the entrance. “Want me to carry you?”
“What I want to do is find Barakov.”
Every time I walk into the Del, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time—dark wooden paneling, rich fabrics, antique furnishings, and an abundance of fresh flowers all set the stage. Guests are milling about, dressed in formal attire—the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Except for the modern cut of the dresses and the scandalous height of our heels, we could be waiting for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to sweep in the door.
A low whistle comes from Zack, telling me he’s impressed and that he’s never been here before.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You don’t see woodwork like this anymore.” Zack pauses a minute to take it all in before asking, “Do you know where we’re going?”
I tilt my head in the direction of the Crown Room. “Michael Dexter said there would be tickets waiting for us.”
There is a man at the door welcoming guests. Zack mentions my name and he checks the list in his hand. Seconds later, we’re motioned through with a smile.
Once inside, Zack swipes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and hands one to me. “We’re trying to blend, remember?”
And blend he does. Zack looks as relaxed and at home in a tux as he does in T-shirt and jeans. He takes a sip from his champagne and starts to check out the room. To the casual observer, he could merely be looking for a face in the crowd, but I know he’s taking in every detail, because I’m doing the same.
There are a couple of dozen ten-tops, covered in crisp white tablecloths. An extravagant buffet is set up on the far side of the room. There’s a bar in the corner. Waitstaff in black slacks and white short-waist jackets with gold brocade epaulets are circulating with trays. Some, like the one that passed by earlier, hold champagne, others hors d’oeuvres. In the middle of the room is a sizable dance floor, at the back, a stage. A very retro-looking orchestra is now playing “Moonglow.”
A plaque on the wall behind me catches Zack’s eye and he steps closer to better read it.
“Did you know this?”
I’m too busy scanning the crowd for Barakov to pay attention to the plaque.
“Not a single nail was used in this room.” Zack lifts his glass toward the ceiling. My eyes don’t bother to follow. I’ve heard this little fact before. “Just pegs and glue. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Fascinating. You take this half. I’ll start my sweep from the other side,” I tell him before stepping away.
I weave my way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, pausing to sample some of the appetizers and trade the champagne in my glass for ginger ale. Safer. I love champagne, and this is a good one, but tonight I want to keep a clear head.
There’s no sign of Barakov. Yet.
“More champagne?” It’s the third time this particular young waiter has asked me. Before I can refuse again, he leans in and smiles sheepishly. “I’m under strict orders to be generous with the booze. We were reminded that happy guests are more generous with the donations. You’re making me look bad.”
His Italian accent is charming, his smile disarming. I glance at his name tag—Fabrizio. What harm could come from one more glass? “Can’t make you look bad.” I’m placing my empty glass on his tray with the intent of taking a new one when I see Barakov at the exit, a cigar in one hand, a glass half-filled with an amber-colored liquid in the other. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”
I resist the urge to kick off my shoes and run to catch up with him. Instead I move as quickly as I can, cutting straight across the dance floor. Once outside the doors, I spy Barakov heading into the deserted courtyard. There’s no one with him. He’s alone. Perfect.
I watch from inside for a moment as he lights his cigar and enjoys a few leisurely puffs.
Then I take a deep breath, step outside, and let the dampening spell fall away. I say a silent prayer that Demeter isn’t watching. The air stirs around me as I approach Barakov. The power begins to build, unleashing a warm, perfumed mist, unseen but felt by anyone in its sphere of influence. My hair loosens, a strand curling over my right eye. I move closer.
The courtyard is not deserted as I first thought. There’s a young couple standing off to the side. They look at me, startled by my sudden appearance, caught up in the wake of my power. “Enjoy your drinks in your room,” I say to them as I pass.
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 ga
mes 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 detector 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.”
