Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  "But I thought you said the machine that created the lightning couldn't be smaller than a suitcase."

  She made a face at him. "That machine could be parked anywhere. The drone would pinpoint the target, like a guidance system. Fly it, find it, lock on, and fire."

  "All right. Let's say he's dicking around with a remote controlled lightning maker. And let's say I find one in the next cloud bank, but it gets away from me. It disappears while I'm busy trying to avoid getting struck again. How do I track it without it doubling back and biting me in the butt again?"

  Her mouth dropped open, and she gave him an incredulous look. "I can't believe you just asked me how to LoJack a drone."

  Paul thought for a moment. Ignoring her teasing grin, he continued up the stairs.

  Walking into the kitchen, he paused first to stare at the dishes and pots drying in the drain basket. "You cleaned up?"

  "It was the least I could do to repay you for your kind hospitality," she quipped. She slid onto a barstool to watch him. The loop was nestled in her windblown hair. He eyed her burned face.

  "I have some aloe lotion. You need to use it to keep your face hydrated."

  She snickered. "Quazar keeps aloe lotion on hand? Isn't that ironic?"

  "Shut up and go get it. It's in the cabinet in the bathroom."

  She started to get off the stool, then paused. "What cabinet?"

  "It's behind the mirror. You'll find it."

  As she hurried off, he pulled several items from the fridge and began preparations. When she returned, her face glistened slightly. He also noticed how pink her lips were, and how the lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper. The memory of their impulsive kiss in the cell slammed back to him, along with the desire he'd felt. Gritting his teeth, he tried to concentrate on seasoning the chicken breasts.

  "What are we having, and how soon?" she asked.

  "We're having sautéed chicken in a mushroom cream sauce. And in thirty minutes. You're not lactose intolerant, I hope."

  "Nope."

  "Or a vegetarian? I should have asked you those questions earlier."

  "I'll bite anything that doesn't bite back."

  "That's good to hear."

  She didn't respond. A quick glance showed her watching him in rapt amazement, and realized he'd done the same earlier when she was at work.

  Speaking of work...

  "Sher? Mind if I ask a few questions? Considering our current circumstances, maybe we should get to know each other a little better."

  "Shoot."

  "Do you have a job?"

  "You mean, like a nine to five kind of job? No. You could say I'm currently unemployed."

  "I could say?" He lifted an eyebrow in her direction. "Is that Sher speak for welfare?"

  "Not...really."

  "You're stalling. Out with it. Truthfully."

  "Well, I get a check every now and then, but I'm not taking any government handouts, if that's what you're implying." Her tone was clearly peeved, giving him the impression she either didn't like her present situation, or that she was put off by his insinuation she couldn’t be self-sufficient. Perhaps both.

  "A check from who? How are you surviving? Paying your bills? Putting food on the table?"

  "Why are you so interested, Mr. Canton?"

  He stopped slicing mushrooms to give her a direct look. "Because I saw how thin you were, and I'm willing to bet you're not the vain type who strives for that kind of appearance. You're a very beautiful and intelligent woman, but I get vibes from you."

  One corner of her mouth tilted upward. "Oh, yeah?" she managed to respond with a quiver in her voice. "What kind of vibes, pray tell?"

  He went back to his slicing. "Homeless. Lost. Searching for something purposeful to do with your life. How am I doing? Totally off base or right on target?"

  "I'm not homeless," she admitted.

  "Which leads us back to question number one. How do you pay your rent?"

  She walked her fingers across the granite bar, making sure to place the tips on the random pattern of gold flecks. It drew his attention to the fact that her nails were blunt, not long and fashionable the way many women preferred.

  "Like I said, I get a check every now and then."

  "From who? For what?"

  "I...invent things. Then I sell the patent to a manufacturer for a percentage of the profits." She gave a nod toward his stove. "That wine opener over there? The one that uses heat to pop the cork? That's one of my inventions."

  Paul grinned. "And a good one. Go on. What else?"

  "That's basically how I manage. Unfortunately, the checks are few and far between, but I get by. By the way, I still have a little cash left over from what I took this morning. It's in one of those bags downstairs."

  "Forget about that. Where do you get your supplies?"

  "Lots of places. I went to the Army surplus store down the block and put together a new outfit for me. Sherandar can't wear your hand-me-downs out in public, now, can she? As for my gizmos, auto junk yards and resale shops are a gold mine. So are landfills. I'm also not ashamed to admit I've done my share of dumpster diving."

  "Where do you get your ideas?"

  "God, that smells good. My ideas? I don't know. If I can dream it up, I can pretty much create it."

  "Like those necklaces?"

  She smiled. "You mean my calcimite bombs and stuff? Yeah. I found it's a lot easier to carry my little playthings that way rather than try to stuff my pockets, or have a heavy belt pulling on my pants."

  "Calcimite bombs, eh? Never heard of such a thing. Hand me that box of chicken broth, would you?"

  "They're my own concoction."

  "And those little gooey-legged spider things?"

  She laughed. "My invention, too."

  "So, are you from around here?"

  "Home town girl, born and bred."

  "Ever go to college?"

  "I went to Northeastern U for a few years, until I got bored and quit."

  "Major in anything?"

  "A few subjects."

  "Such as?"

  She heaved a sigh. "I have degrees in chemistry, mechanical and electrical engineering, physics, and marine biology. Impressed yet?"

  He couldn't help chuckling. "Marine biology?"

  "Oh, stuff it. I like sharks, whales, and dolphins, okay? Besides, I thought it would be fun." She waved toward the stove. "You never explained why the old gas oven."

  "Because it's not electric."

  "Duh!"

  He sighed. "An open flame makes it easier to control the temperature. Lessens the chance of burning the food. I take it you don't cook."

  She snickered. "Didn't we have this conversation earlier? I can boil water, and I wield a mean can opener. I'm also very efficient with a toaster. Speaking of cooking, is it soup yet?"

  "Getting there." He motioned toward an upper cabinet. "Care to clear off the table and get a couple of plates?"

  She slid off the stool and came around to get the plates as requested. He was very aware of the way his old sweat pants curved around her buttocks. Her breasts, although small, were high, tenting the T-shirt enough to where the tips were visible. Clearing his throat, he turned around to carry the pan into the next room, when they bumped each other.

  Paul glanced down to see where those breasts were pressed against his arm. She stared up at him, eyes wide, as she held the plates and utensils to one side.

  Excuse me. Pardon me. A litany scrolled through his mind as his gaze dropped to those beautiful lips.

  It was as if a greater force than he could resist drew his face downward toward her mouth until her breathing echoed in his ears. She didn't move, didn't try to stop him, as he felt his lips touch hers, and the world came to a complete standstill.

  Seconds passed as they both remained frozen in place, neither of them making a move that would deepen the kiss, or end it. It was as if she had been waiting for him to take the initiative. Or maybe he wanted to believe that. Either way, the
ir softness was undeniable. He caught a faint whiff of his preferred body wash on her skin.

  Aware that he continued to hold a hot pan in his hand, he started to pull back, when his phone went off, bleeping Cheyenne's tune. Sherandar sighed when he drew away, put the spatula in with the chicken, and reached to retrieve the cell from the bar.

  "Yeah, Chey."

  It took great effort to carry the pan to the table, set it down, and hide the growing bulge in his shorts all at the same time. Almost too casually, he sat down in one of the two chairs and rested his elbows on the table as he cradled the phone next to his ear.

  "Robert Merriam Duncan, age forty-three. CEO of VanderMark Industries, which happens to own an old processing plant over on Renfrow. Sound like your guy?"

  Paul glanced over at where Sherandar remained standing in the kitchen, watching and listening. He wished he could read what was going through her mind at that moment. With deliberate movements, he lowered the phone to the table and hit the speaker button so she could hear the full conversation.

  "Yeah. That sounds like our Bob. Didn't take you long."

  "No, it didn't, and that's what worries me," Cheyenne admitted. "He's not covering his tracks very well, if he's even trying to, and I don't think he cares. It's almost as if..."

  "As if he wants me to come for him again."

  "That's what I think, too. I'm emailing you some info, including a photo of the guy."

  "Thanks. What's VanderMark Industries? It rings a bell."

  "They have their hand in lots of things. Manufacturing and textiles, mostly. Some esoteric importing of fine art from other countries. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Everything but whatever it would take to create that black lightning you told me about. That would require some heavy duty equipment, and I don't see how you could create a negatively-induced charge and run it through a self-created storm with nothing more than a press machine and weaving rack."

  "It's possible VanderMark Industries could be fronting something larger," he suggested.

  "My thoughts, too," Cheyenne admitted. "I'm still digging into it. I'm waiting to hear back from a few sources, but I wanted first to give you a buzz and let you know what I'd found. And to check on how you and your newfound friend were doing."

  Paul looked at Sherandar, who had made her way over to the table and set down the plates. "So far so good. One more thing. I need you to go by..." He pointed to her. "What's your street address?"

  "Forty-three-oh-fourteen Crowley."

  "Got it," Cheyenne responded. "What do you want me to do when I get there?"

  "Check to see if you spot any suspicious activity or persons."

  "No problem. Anything else?"

  "That'll do for now. Thanks, sis. Listen, I need to go. Call me when you find out anything."

  "As always. Later, Paulie."

  He ended the call and reached for the spatula. "Hand me your plate."

  "Who's Cheyenne, Paulie? Your girlfriend?"

  "Jealousy does not become you. She's my sister." He noticed how she relaxed a little. "Crowley, eh? What a coincidence. That's near where I was hit the first time. What were you doing, Sher? Rushing home before the storm hit?"

  "Truthfully, I was staring out my kitchen window when I saw you take the nose dive."

  "That area of town is the dregs. It isn't safe, even for you."

  "Yeah, I know, but what other choice do I have? Besides, it's a loft apartment, and it's rent controlled. Cheyenne, huh?"

  He noticed her obvious attempt to switch topics. "Yep. Cheyenne Cox."

  Sherandar's eyes widened. "Not the Cheyenne Cox with Channel Two News?"

  "That's her. How's the chicken?"

  "You two look nothing alike, you know that, don't you? I'd have never guessed."

  "That's because I look nothing like my adoptive parents."

  Sherandar laid her utensils on her plate. "You're adopted?"

  "I am. Chey isn't. She was born four years after."

  "Hmm. Adopted. It makes sense."

  "What does?"

  "Why you have powers unlike those of mortal men," she finished with droll humor, quoting a phrase the news media often associated with Quazar. "Do you know who your real parents are?"

  "Nope. My folks got me from one of those orphanages in the Ukraine when I was barely a week old. Dad worked for the American Embassy in Russia at the time."

  "The Ukraine? Paul, Chernobyl?"

  He gave a slight nod. "That's where I think I got my power. Of course, I can't prove anything, although I've tried."

  "Have you tried to find out who your parents are?"

  He sighed. "Yes, but unfortunately they didn't keep good records."

  She twirled her fork on her plate. "Guess we're more alike than I thought," she remarked softly.

  "How so?"

  "You have no idea who your parents are, and I couldn't care less about mine."

  "Why not?"

  Sherandar made a face. "Child services took me away from them when I was about two. The court terminated their parental rights. No one came forward to offer to take me in, so I spent my schooling years hopping from one foster family to another, until I hit eighteen."

  "How did you end up here? And in a rent-controlled apartment?"

  A corner of her mouth lifted. "One of my many grandmas sort of took a liking to me. Her name was Cora. Granny Cora. She and I were close. It's her apartment. She willed it to me."

  He could tell the topic was too sensitive for her, and changed the conversation. "Listen, something else I was wanting to ask you. It has to do with that black lightning. What would you need if you wanted to do something like that?"

  "What would I need? Like equipment and such?"

  "Precisely. What would it take to create a negatively charged bolt of lightning? And a storm to hide it in?"

  "Gee, you don't ask for much, do you? Well, let me think." She tapped the tines of her fork against her lower lip as she stared sightlessly at the wall.

  "What I'm wanting to know is, how much space would you need to contain the equipment to generate it?"

  "Oh, now you're talking old school, Paul. You're thinking Frankenstein's laboratory, aren't you?" She snickered, then shook her head. "If I wanted to do things on the quick and dirty, I'd first need a huge power source. Other than that, I could do it all with a mobile unit say, about the size of a refrigerator, give or take a really fast micro-processor and laptop."

  "That small, huh?"

  "Now, if I wanted to spend some time putting a little finesse on it, and I had an unlimited supply of funds, I could whittle it down to suitcase size, I think."

  "What you're saying is Bob wouldn't need a big factory or warehouse to hide it in?"

  "Oh, goodness, no. Shove it in the back of a van or converted SUV, and don't forget the plug."

  "Huh." He motioned toward her plate. "How's the chicken breast?" he repeated.

  She took another bite. "It's good. I can't believe how moist it is. Whenever I cook white meat, it always turns out dry." She grinned at him. "I saw your notes over there. I guess cooking is your thing, huh?"

  "The same way you like to invent things, I invent dishes."

  "I saw your books over in the wall divider. You're a fan of the Decadent Diner?"

  Paul snorted. "You could say that."

  "So what do you do for a living, Mr. Canton, when you're not fixing meals or flying around in that skintight suit of yours?"

  "Oh, I write a column for the newspaper and I maintain a blog. I've published a couple of books, too."

  "Oh? Any technical manuals? I seem to have a penchant for How-To books."

  "More like cookbooks."

  "Ah! That explains the oatmeal and all. You're trying to be like the Decadent Diner," she grinned.

  "Umm... Actually, I am the Decadent Diner."

  He heard her fork clatter onto the plate. Looking up at her, he noticed her eyeing the kitchen. When she glanced back at him, he knew she almost believed hi
m.

  "You are the Decadent Diner?"

  "It brings in a check every now and then," he admitted with a smile.

  "You're the Decadent Diner. Quazar is the Decadent Diner. Unbelievable."

  "Actually, Quazar is the superhero. The Decadent Diner is simply another alter ego, but the one that pays the bills and allows me to go flying around in my skintight suit."

  "World famous cook and superhero. Umm, umm, umm." She got up from the table. "I need a drink of water. Want a glass?"

  "Yes, please."

  She filled up two glasses from the dispenser in the refrigerator door. Putting hers on the table, she walked over to hand his to him. Paul took the glass, his fingers touching hers, but she didn't let go. He lifted his face to find her staring at him.

  "You owe me," she whispered. There was a headiness in her voice. A deep, rich timbre that went straight through his heart and into his dick.

  "How do you figure that?" he murmured.

  "One drink, payable with one kiss."

  His heart sped up. "You've already received a kiss," he reminded her.

  "That was for washing your dishes, Mr. Canton. This is for the water."

  "So, you're saying that every time you do something for me, I have to give you a kiss as payment?"

  "You catch on quick."

  "And what about me? What do I get for saving your life? For bringing you here to recover? For feeding you, and letting you steal from me so you can buy stuff to concoct more of your ingenious lit―"

  He was unable to continue when she bent over and took his mouth for her own.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Passion

  She could stand it no longer. Seeing him sitting there in his skimpy little silver briefs, trying to hide the boner that was practically splitting the seams. She had been surprised by his kiss in the kitchen. That moment had seared its way into her heart because he had meant it. He had wanted to kiss her. It hadn't been a spontaneous, off-the-cuff buss, like the kind one gives a friend or acquaintance. It had been full-on, with emotion and depth they had yet to explore but couldn't because of that damn phone call.

  When she'd kissed him in that cell, thinking it would be the only time she would have that chance, she never believed they would get out of their dilemma alive. Yes, she'd believed he had a plan that might succeed...for him. But she hadn't given any hope of surviving herself.