“Don’t.” Miles’ voice was hoarse. “Don’t start.”
Sveti’s lips tightened up. She looked almost like she might start to cry. “At least you are here,” she said. “How nice of you to make such an effort. So generous of you, no? Such a loyal friend.”
Miles looked relieved. Sarcasm was easier to deal with than tears.
“Thought I’d missed it,” he said. “Good thing Lily was late.”
“Marco had a terrible attack of colic,” Sveti told him. “Lily ended up having to take her whole outfit off so she could nurse—”
“Christ, spare us the gruesome details,” Petrie cut in.
Her eyes flicked over him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Miles peered down at the creature squirming on Sveti’s chest. “Marco. Wow. He’s, uh . . .” He paused, at a loss. “Bigger.”
“Oh, yes.” Sveti held the wriggling striped entity up to be inspected, as proudly as if it were her own. “He’s gained three pounds in two months. Almost up to the 50th percentile in length and weight for a full-term baby. But the colic is very bad. Want to hold him?”
Miles recoiled visibly. “No, no,” he said hastily. “You keep him.”
She cuddled Marco back to her tits again, studying Miles intently, with those huge, exotically tilted eyes that haunted Petrie’s wet dreams.
“This isn’t about Cindy, is it?” she asked, very softly.
Miles shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Ah. That is good. Because, you know, ah . . . she is no longer with that man, hmm? The one she ran away with. You know that?”
“Don’t care,” Miles said, his voice flat. “Irrelevant.”
Sveti gazed at Miles searchingly for a moment, and then nodded, evidently satisfied. “Good,” she said. “She was just an excuse for you, anyway. A reason to hide. No one was contented with her. Not for you.”
Miles shook his head. “Can’t go there with you, Sveti. Not today.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about excuses,” Petrie blurted, and was immediately appalled at himself. What the fuck possessed him? A death wish? A schoolyard hunger for attention? Jealous because she was talking to Miles and not him? Sveti had turned her fathomless dark eyes on him, wide and affronted and furious. Too late to turn back.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, icily.
Petrie gestured toward Marco. “Excuses. Like that one. You’ve always got a baby wrapped around your neck. Like a suit of armor. No guy’s going to get that close to a full diaper, so you’re safe, right? Good old Sveti. Always first in line to help with the kiddies.” He took a long swig, but Sveti was still glaring at him when he capped the flask.
“You are an asshole, Petrie,” she informed him.
“As you have told me many times before.” Petrie clucked his tongue. “Such tough language for Marco’s tender ears.”
“Shut up. My armor is of a better class than yours.” She slapped the capped liquor flask out of his hands, sending it spinning and bouncing off the steps. “Better to stink of baby poop than of bourbon.”
Marco tugged at Sveti’s neckline with a red, dimpled hand that shone with drool, and nuzzled hungrily at Sveti’s cleavage. Petrie jerked his chin toward the kid. “Looks like he wants to top up,” he observed.
Sveti’s face went crimson. She pulled a bottle from her purse, stuck it in Marco’s mouth, and stalked away. The two men waited until the doors of the church thudded shut, and exhaled. In unison.
“Wow, Petrie,” Miles said. “You have such a way with the ladies.”
Petrie retrieved his flask from the steps without comment.
“You are an asshole, though,” Miles went on. “Like she said.”
That pissed Petrie off. “This, from a guy who runs out on his friends without even a message to tell them he’s not rotting in a ditch?”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t see it, and it’s right in your face.”
“What?” Petrie felt his voice rising. “What’s in my face?”
“She likes you,” Miles said.
Petrie stared at the guy, slack-jawed. “Wrong,” he finally said. “Dead wrong. Don’t know where you got that. She hates my guts.”
Miles grunted. “That explains why her heart spikes to one-forty when she gets close to you. Her eyes dilate. And those pheremones must have . . .” He glanced discreetly down at Petrie’s crotch. “Yep. She blushed, too. I only saw from tits up, but God knows where it started from. All those capillaries, expanding just for you, you lucky bastard.”
“Bullshit,” Petrie muttered. His balls tingled, and his belly did a strange, flopping maneuver. He clenched to subdue it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, looking at her tits?”
A mirthless smile twitched the corners of Miles’ hard mouth. “I may be fucked up, but I’m not dead. Watch yourself, dude. Sveti’s the untouchable virgin princess. Rescued from evil ogres. They’ll shred your ass if you look at her funny. Let alone touch her.”
True enough. There was an unspoken dictate against thinking dirty thoughts about vulnerable, waif-like, china-doll perfect, tragically orphaned Sveti, always and eternally way too young. If anyone did think such thoughts, eight different guys in the McCloud Crowd, plus Tam Steele, who was worse than all of them put together, would rise up and smite him down. Splat.
“So it’s true, then?” Petrie said. “What they say, about your new superpowers? You saw all that? Or are you just jerking me around?”
Miles laughed and then put his hand abruptly to his head, wincing. “Superpowers, my ass. I heard the heart rate, I heard her breathing, I smelled the pheremones, I saw the pupils dilate. I’ve got a sensory overload problem. It comes at me like a fire hose. I can’t block it out.”
“I don’t see why you’d want to,” Petrie said. “Sounds handy.”
Miles just looked at him. The guy’s stark gaze gave Petrie a guilty twinge. It would seem that the guy was not having any fun at all with his super-senses. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to make light of your, uh . . . disability.”
“It’s okay,” Miles said. “I’m used to being out there. I was a freak before. Now I’m a freak with brain damage. Just a little category shift.”
“So, it hurts?” Petrie pressed for more, unable to help himself.
Miles rubbed his temples. “Cigarettes and bourbon on your breath. Pert shampoo. Old Spice aftershave. Arid Extra Dry, the chemicals they used to dry-clean your suit, the plastic they wrapped it in. Christ, if I took a step closer, I’d pass out from the toxic fumes.”
Petrie uncapped his bottle, drank. “Keep your distance, then.”
“I will,” Miles assured him. “Sveti smelled way better than you. Those pheremones pumping out of her, man. Yum.”
“Keep your dirty mind off her pheremones,” Petrie snapped.
That smile twitched across Miles’ face again. Caught out, in his fucking schoolboy crush. What a dickhead. He held out the flask, in silent invitation.
“Tried that,” Miles said. “Doesn’t help.”
Petrie stoppered the flask, stuck it in his jacket. “That’s sad, man,” he said. “I’m sorry for you. Let’s get on with this.”
They pushed into the church. The organ blared, and lace fluffed, orange flower-scented matrimonial hooplah swelled to greet them.
If managing his disability was like walking a tightrope, managing it at this wedding was like walking a tightrope with an army of screaming maniacs constantly trying shove him off. The kids alone, Jesus. The McCloud Crowd’s brood had pelted straight for him, en masse, shrieking for joy. He could armor himself against the adults, barely, but man, he loved those kids. Even through the shield, he felt it.
He’d gotten through the ceremony without losing his shit, evading Zia Rosa, but he could not evade everybody. And nobody was satisfied with his lame mumblings about camping to “get his head together.”
A few hours of that treatment, and he found himself circling the reception restlessly, like a shark that had to
keep swimming or die. Pretending he was going someplace specific with great speed and purpose so he had a reason to avoid eye contact.
“Miles! I was hoping I’d find you here!”
He jerked his head around, nerves jangling. Holy shit.
It was Cindy, looking stunning, in a skin-tight, red cocktail dress like an old-time Hollywood star, her lips painted red to match. He had not expected to see her here. By no means. He had to scramble to keep his shield strong and steady, he was so startled.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Were you invited?”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Crashed it. Erin and Connor are furious, but everyone else is too polite to say anything.” She threw back the last of her flute of champagne, and exchanged it for a fresh, full one from a passing server’s tray. “I mean, like, what harm could I possibly do?”
That was a question he would not care to debate. He edged back, hoping she wouldn’t try to touch him. The shield, the shield. It was all about the shield.
“Wow, you look different,” she said, her eyes wondering as she circled him. “I’ve never seen you so brown, not even in the summer. And you’re so thin. Your face. You look sort of, I don’t know. Feral.”
He choked off a bark of laughter. “I’m still housetrained.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, batting her eyes. “I think it’s hot. Have you been, like, not eating? Missing me, maybe?”
That he did not want to touch. He shook his head, backing away.
“Wait!” she lunged forward, trying to grab his hand. He whipped it away just in time, and she looked hurt. “You’re still mad?”
He almost laughed, but it was just too miserably sad, that she could be so self-absorbed and dense. That he had endured it for so long.
“No, I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m done. There’s a difference.”
Her brown eyes shimmered with tears. “I broke up with Aengus two months ago,” she confided. “Turns out he had a serious girlfriend back in Ireland. A seven-year-old son, too. He was just playing around.”
“Ah.” He waited. “And this is relevant to me exactly why?”
She snapped her empty glass angrily down on a nearby table, and beckoned to a passing waiter until the girl passed by with another tray of glasses. “Don’t be a prick,” she snapped, taking another swallow. “I’m trying to apologize, and explain, and you’re making it really hard.”
“Don’t waste your breath, Cin,” he told her. “I’m not interested.”
“Oh, come on.” She gave him that look from under her sooty lashes. “You’re furious, and you have a perfect right to be. And I am so ready to make it up to you. I checked the place out when I got here. There’s this administrative office in the back that’s unlocked. No one there. We’ll lock it from the inside, and I’ll do anything you want. And believe me . . . I know just what you want. I know you so well.”
Oh, Jesus. He wished there was a way he could make her understand what was wrong with this picture.
If he were a different kind of guy, without scruples or complicated sensorial brain damage, he might just take her up on her offer. She was gorgeous, skilled. He could just enjoy it, and walk away, vindicated.
Bummer for him, he was not that guy.
Cindy took his hesitation to mean that he was tempted, and started moving in on him, penetrating his danger zone. He tried not to lurch back. God forbid he make a spectacle out of himself. He was sure they were being minutely observed as it was. By everyone.
“Don’t touch me, Cin,” he said quietly.
Cindy laughed, throatily. “You know you want to, baby.”
Not. He genuinely didn’t. Maybe it was the shield that had changed him, or maybe he’d finally just grown the requisite brain cells. But the spell was definitively broken.
Cindy didn’t know what to make of him now. The only weapon she had was seduction, so she ramped it up, even when it was the wrong weapon for the situation. Ironic, that she only genuinely wanted him when he’d finally disinvested. A long, painful process, and not one he could reverse. She tossed off the third glass of champagne. He caught himself wondering if she was planning on driving. Had to remind himself that it was no longer his problem.
He no longer had to save her, or understand her. Or encourage her to mature into someone who could be his partner in life, someone he could trust and rely on. This flushed, glassy-eyed girl with plunging cleavage and the lipstick on her teeth . . . nah.
“So?” She leaned, brushing her breasts against him.
“No, thanks,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, come on. You’re just going to sulk?”
He walked steadily away, until the appetizer buffet table blocked his trajectory. Not where he wanted to be. The food smelled too damn strong.
“You need rescuing from Cindy?”
It was Sean, behind him, jiggling his chubby toddler son Eamon in his arms. Frowning.
“Nah,” Miles responded. “I’m good.”
“So good, you had to bury your head under a pile of rocks in the mountains for weeks?” Sean chomped grilled shrimp off a skewer, scowling as he did so. “What were you thinking, not calling your mom all that time? Dude! You suck! That’s domestic abuse!”
“Sean, don’t start with—”
“Shut up, man. Just shut the fuck up. The poor woman drove all the way out to the SafeGuard headquarters, and tried to hire Davy and Seth and Connor to find you! Have you called her yet?”
Miles shook his head, trying not to inhale the odor of shrimp, which was oh, so very far outside his olfactory comfort zone. “Not yet.”
“Call her.” Sean’s voice was hard. “Right now. She’s hurting. Not a pretty sight, man. Big fucking fail.”
“No, not yet. I want a crack at him while he’s still on his feet.”
Aaro, behind him. Miles hardened his belly into cast iron and turned. Aaro was clutching Nina, the woman he insisted was his wife, though they had not yet legally tied the knot. Everyone humored him, of course. Only smart thing to do, with Aaro. Behind him was Kev McCloud, his wife Edie, Tam Steele, and Connor and Davy McCloud. A phalanx of people, all accusing him with their eyes.
Christ on a crutch. And he’d thought that dealing with Cindy was challenging. He zapped more energy into his shield, and hung on to the image he used as an emotional anchor. Himself, barefoot, bare-chested, perched on the top of the longest tine of the Fork, staring at the wind-scoured, snowy heights of Mr. Rainier. Looking down on clouds, wind nipping his ears, whipping his hair. Poised on that fine balancing point between hanging on and letting go. Clean. Empty.
The calming image wavered, blurred and broke up. “Back off,” he said. “I’ll head back the way I came, if I piss everybody off so much.”
“Don’t threaten us, punk,” Aaro growled.
“Shut up, Aaro!” Nina hissed. “You’re not helping.”
Miles felt a ticklish brush against his mind. Nina was trying to use her telepathic talent on him. She’d gained it months ago, in a freakish series of adventures that Miles tried not to think about. She’d come out of that mess a telepath, while Aaro had unearthed a talent for psychic coercion. Which struck Miles as amusing. And redundant.
Aaro and Nina had found each other, and true love along the way. Not a bad bargain, even considering the terrifying shit they’d gone through. Too bad it hadn’t turned out such a sweet deal for Miles. He’d been the one left bleeding out of his eyes. Monumentally fucked up.
Whoa. Self-pity alert. Cut that shit out fast.
Nina couldn’t get past his mental shield. Not even that psycho Rudd had breached it, using the psi equivalent of high explosives. Anabel, Rudd’s bimbo henchwoman from hell, hadn’t breached it either, using her turbocharged sexual allure. It was a good, sound shield, if he did say so himself. If there was one thing he had totally nailed in his lifetime, it was computer security, even the analogous mental kind.
He just looked at Nina. “Don’t try.”
&nb
sp; She gave him a limpid, innocent look. “Couldn’t you just drop the shield?” she coaxed. “It might help, if I could see what’s going on. If I knew more about what you’re going through, we could—”
“Don’t. Try.” It came out louder this time.
She nodded, but his ordeal was far from over. The feeling started small. Anxiety, like the start of the brain-ripping agony Rudd had inflicted on him, but just a distant roll of thunder on the horizon.
His stomach flopped with ugly associations. He looked at Aaro. “Try that again, and I’ll rip your limbs off,” he said.
Aaro’s nostrils flared, but the feeling dissipated quickly.
Miles took a deep breath, and visualized the mountaintop again. He fumbled in his pocket for his sunglasses. Wearing them indoors looked affected, but he had nothing to prove to anyone.
“So?” he said. “Everybody done poking and prodding?”
“Not even close,” Sean said. “Brace yourself.”
Miles let out a painful sigh. “It’s all I ever do.”
“Let’s go out on the terrace,” Nina urged. “We can talk.” She touched his arm. The contact took him by surprise. He recoiled so violently that everyone froze, shooting glances at each other.
“Jesus, Miles,” Kev murmured. “That bad?”
“I’m okay,” Miles said. “Just please don’t touch me. It’s nothing personal, I swear. Just . . . don’t.”
“Double shot of Scotch?” That was Davy’s dour suggestion.
Miles shook his head. If only it were that simple.
The place was set up for the dessert orgy later on. They all sat down at a couple of the white-draped tables, the chairs of which had been tarted up with padded, puffy, brocaded skirts. Edie grabbed one of the cards that had been folded into a tent and left on each table. Dessert menus. A glance at the one in front of Miles showed baba’, boccanotte, tiramisu and flauti filled with raspberries and crème chantilly. Plus the cake. Overkill, as usual. The hand of Zia Rosa was evident. The thought of all that sugar made his teeth ache.
Edie pulled a stub of pencil from her handbag, turned the dessert menu over, and gave him a questioning look. Miles shrugged. Edie had a psychic talent of her own. Sometimes her drawings took on oracular meanings. She’d drawn for him before, even after the Spruce Ridge debacle, but he’d never made any sense of the images.
10 Fatal Strike Page 5
