Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  Sighing, he started to go back upstairs when his phone rang. Cheyenne's tune. She wouldn't be awake unless there was an emergency. Going over to the worktable, he snatched up the cell.

  "What's wrong, sis?"

  "I think Bob's back," she crisply replied.

  "You sure?"

  "Four pylons holding up the St. James River Bridge collapsed. Initial eyewitness reports claim they exploded or were blown up. What do you think?"

  He heard the faint growl of an engine in the background. She was calling him from her car. "Are you on your way over there now?"

  "Yeah. Matt's going to meet me there."

  Paul knew Matt was one of the remote cameramen.

  "Give us ten minutes," he told her.

  There was a slight pause. "All right," Cheyenne finally said, and ended the call. Without needing to ask, Paul knew why she had hesitated. He'd told her "we" would be coming to the scene. Him and Sherandar. She remained highly suspicious of Sher's motives, but knew she couldn't do anything about it.

  "Better get used to it, sis," he murmured, and rushed for the stairs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Purpose

  "I think we should make this a more permanent arrangement," Paul announced the next morning.

  Sherandar stared at him, totally speechless, as he set the platter of pancakes on the table. She continued to eye him when he took his place at the other end of the table, and she vaguely wondered if his seat was as cold on his bare tush as her seat was on hers.

  "Please tell me you're not joking," she managed to reply.

  He grinned at her and shoved a fork into the pile, taking three pancakes to his plate. She continued to watch as he casually poured syrup over the stack, then dug in.

  Thinking she had heard him wrong, she gave a little shrug and started to grab herself a few pancakes when he spoke again.

  "So, I guess the question is, do you move in here? Or do you want to maintain a second residence, since those are your only two options?"

  She almost choked on her food. "Stop pulling my leg."

  "I'm not joking, ma cher." And by his tone of voice she knew he was totally serious.

  "You want to make our arrangement permanent? As in lovers?"

  "Unless you want to throw in a ring and a piece of paper. It's up to you."

  She'd lost all appetite. Setting her fork down on her plate so as not to accidentally stab herself, she looked back at him. "Paul Canton, are you asking me to marry you?" she inquired in a hushed whisper.

  "Sher?"

  She rocked a little.

  "Sher, wake up."

  Something pushed her shoulder.

  "Sherry Ann Darby!" The tone was more urgent. Insistent.

  Sherry Ann Darby?

  And then she realized he'd spoken her full name. Her real name.

  Grudgingly, she let reality sink in. She managed to peel open one eye to find it was still dark. Or somewhat dark. A glowing figure hovered above her, and disappointment fluttered in her chest.

  Oh, hell. There'd been no pancakes. No casual request to hook up and share a future together. She'd been dreaming. And such a wonderful dream it had been, too.

  "Sher, get up. We have to go."

  Throwing the covers over her face, she muttered, "Unless you plan to nail me to this mattress, leave me alone."

  "Bob's struck again," he told her flatly.

  That got her attention, and she turned over to stare at him. "What? Where?"

  He motioned for her to follow him. "Come on. We need to hurry."

  She padded after him, out of the bedroom and through the living area, to the small closet with steps that led down into the basement. In the semi-darkness, he was easy follow. In fact, she made it a point to observe his cute, illuminated bare ass all the way downstairs.

  Curiously, she noticed the way he pounded his feet on the wooden steps. Before she reached the bottom, the rear wall near where the work table sat disappeared, revealing a dark, rectangular tunnel. Paul paused at its entrance to glance back at her. "Grab your gear and outfit, and follow me." Without waiting for her to respond, he plunged into the darkness. Sherandar scrambled to snatch up her bags and necklaces, and hurried to catch up with him. Which wasn't difficult since he lit up the narrow passageway like a walking fluorescent bulb.

  She figured they'd gone about thirty yards when the tunnel's ceiling disappeared, and she realized they'd entered some sort of cavernous area. Paul's bare feet made slapping sounds on the cement floor as she watched him move over to a section of wall and slam his hand against a large, silver disk.

  Immediately, lights came on, at first dim, but quickly growing brighter. At the same time, an entire wall of monitors came on. A whole slew of monitors, and every one of them showing something different. Slack-jawed, she stared at the displays. The man had to be plugged into every traffic, surveillance, and security camera in the city.

  "Close your mouth, Sher, and get dressed," he ordered, and slid open a wall panel to reveal several dark blue uniforms hanging inside.

  Dropping her bags onto the floor, she dug out her pants and began pulling them on. "Where are we?"

  "Think of it as my nerve center."

  "I meant, where are we? This can't be part of your basement. We walked too far."

  "Actually, it's part of the old air raid shelter underneath the McKenzie Arms apartments."

  She paused in zipping up her boot. "And no one's discovered you're here?"

  He motioned with his head to the wall behind him. "There's a three-foot-thick concrete barrier between here and the rest of the shelter."

  "Yeah, but how... I mean, how can you have access to a basement in your own apartment and to this area here?"

  He straightened out the one-piece, smoothing it until it lay flat against his skin. "I own that building and this one. Unless something happens to Quazar or Paul Canton, no one will discover it." Dark brown eyes glanced at her. "My agent, who is also a very dear friend of mine, takes care of the maintenance and rental aspects. The supers of both buildings answer to her. They have no knowledge of my ownership."

  He saw her glancing around, obviously searching for something. "What are you looking for?"

  "You woke me from a sound sleep. What do you think?"

  He pointed to a corner where the lavatory was located. Sherandar walked over and glanced inside. "There's no door."

  "I never needed one," he told her.

  She shrugged. "Okay. If you don't mind listening." When she was done, she threw some water on her face to wash the sleep from her eyes and wiped her hands on a sheet of paper towel. Exiting the alcove, she noticed him adjusting the cup over his genitals, and she smiled. It would have been nice to awaken and take on that boner he thought she hadn't noticed. But duty calls.

  She slipped her necklaces over her head, except for one which she wrapped around her wrist until it became a bracelet.

  "What do you use to thread them together? Fishing line?"

  "Dental floss." She grinned. "Tough and cheap. Check the dollar store." She freed her hair from beneath the strands when she noticed the row of digital clocks lining the room, just below ceiling level. There were two dozen of them, each with a different city and time zone labeled beneath. The one for the city glowed 5:21 AM in bright green neon. Pausing, she did a slow three-sixty to reevaluate the room.

  "What now?" he asked impatiently.

  "Why are you showing all this to me, Paul? Why are you revealing this to me? Letting me in on your deepest, darkest secrets, when there's every possibility that, after we put Bob the Booby Prize in his own private little cell, we'll go back to the way things were before? We'll be enemies again, playing one-upmanship and trying to irritate the snot out of each other. Why?"

  Paul turned away and started to draw on his mask, when his fingers apparently felt the whiskers on his face. Sherandar watched as he deftly burned away the hairs with a few swipes of his hands.

  "You know, you should patent that technique.
You'd make millions, and put several razor blade and shaving cream companies out of business."

  Again, he ignored her remarks. Turning to her again, he inspected her new outfit as she daubed a black cream around her eyes, using her reflection in one of the television monitors to guide her. "What's that stuff?" he asked.

  "Camouflage face paint."

  "I like the leather bra," he remarked almost casually. "I didn't know they sell stuff like that at the surplus store."

  "It's pleather, like the pants, and no, they don't. But the thrift shop next door to it did. I lucked out finding this in a size that would fit me. Now, how do we get out of here?" Cleaning her fingers on the damp paper towel, she tossed it into a bag and looked about for emphasis.

  "We go up," he answered. He waited for her to shrug on the old leather jacket she'd also purchased before leading her to a corner of the room and making her stand on a large metal disk that reminded her of a sewer cover. Turning her around to face him, he drew an arm about her waist and pulled her close. "Hold on."

  "But won't someone see y—"

  She didn't get to finish when he hit another small metal plate on the wall next to them. A circular tube opened overhead, and they zipped upward, emerging almost immediately into the night sky. A look down showed they'd exited via an unused smoke stack.

  Sherandar glanced at him and noticed the glow that had surrounded him earlier was gone. "You can turn that internal nightlight of yours on and off at will, can't you?"

  He smiled in answer.

  She kept her face averted from the cold night air. She was acutely aware of his firm, sculpted body molded against hers. The rock hard muscles of his thigh, hip, and chest were an undeniable turn-on. Memories of their lovemaking flashed wildly in her mind, and her inner thighs responded to the visuals to throb with need. Unconsciously, she squirmed in his embrace, but the pounding heat in her abdomen only grew worse. She was running both hot and cold with desire and tension.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, his mouth next to her ear as the wind rushed by.

  "Just trying to find a comfortable spot," she quipped. "Since you didn't tell me earlier, tell me now. Where are we going? What has Bob, whose name is probably longer than his dick, done now?"

  Quazar pointed in the direction they were headed. Lifting her face, she squinted against the wind to see a wide arc of light in the distance.

  "What's that? Wait! Isn't that the..."

  "He blew up the St. James River Bridge," Quazar told her. "Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on it this time of night, but there's no telling how many casualties there may be, or how much damage has been done."

  "Think he's still hanging around, waiting for us to arrive?" she asked.

  "We'll find out when we get there," he grimly replied.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Confronted

  Whoever planted the explosion, if that's what destroyed the pylons, that person had known what he was doing. The four cement pillars targeted were about a third of the way past the north shore, directly over the water. Traffic traveling in both directions would not spot the huge gap until it was too late.

  Flashing lights clustered around the southern entrance, which was blocked off to prevent any vehicles from going onto the bridge. Another smaller group of lights were gathered on the opposite shore, and search crews were already dragging the water for survivors.

  "Quay?"

  He tilted his head closer to her mouth as he honed in on where the search and rescue team would be stationed. At the same time, he began radiating that familiar soft glow that would identify him to aerial surveillance.

  "You know as well as I do that's Bob's handiwork. But why would he blow up just a few supports? Why not the whole bridge? And why do it this early in the morning when he could have caused major chaos an hour or so later, during rush hour?"

  "Because he wants to get our attention. This isn't his real purpose. He's keeping that under wraps until he can get us out of the way." He motioned toward the lights. "I'm going to set down by that tent down there, where the response team is headquartered. I'll leave you there while I scour the river for survivors."

  "What's my job?"

  "Keep an eye open for anyone who looks like they may be associated with Bob. But whatever you do, don't go after them. Hear me? Flag me down and stay low. Let me be the one to throw a few heat grenades at them."

  "Hey, macho man. I can take care of myself."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  He landed them vertically next to a canvas structure. Moments before, they were spotted by several police, one of whom detached himself from the group and walked forward to greet him.

  "I'm Captain Stevens." The man held out a hand, and Quazar shook it.

  "You're in charge?"

  Stevens gave him a nod as he eyed Sherandar.

  "We think we already know who's behind this," Quazar noted.

  The captain nodded again, once. "I got the memo. Some character named Bob, right? And you two teamed up to fight him."

  Sherandar looked to Quazar. "I'm going over to check on what they've discovered. See if I can recognize what was used for the explosive. Hopefully, I'll spot a similar MO."

  "Keep your eyes peeled," he commented. She flashed him a smile and hurried away. Quazar turned back at the captain and pointed toward the river. "Can I give you a hand with the search?"

  "Please."

  "How deep are they dredging?"

  "Thirty-seven feet, give or take. We've already recovered two survivors and two bodies, but there's several vehicles we're still in the process of searching. Anything you can do to aide us will be appreciated."

  "Will do."

  Lifting off, Quazar aimed for the section of water where the divers were searching.

  * * *

  Sherandar watched as Quazar zipped away from the tent and toward the bridge. His body flashed like a shooting star seconds before he hit the water, lighting the bottom of the river for yards, and giving the divers more visibility.

  By now she knew she should be able to handle the difference between Paul and his super persona, but in fact it was more difficult than she thought it would be. Whereas Paul the cook was insightful, funny, intelligent, and a wowser when it came to sex, Quazar was hard-nosed and all business. Put on the mask, and your whole temperament and frame of mind changes. Like you're two different people, or identical twins. But it fits you, considering you're a Gemini.

  Hurrying over to where sections of the pylons were laid out on the bank, she crouched down and studied the jagged edges. Pulling one of the smaller beads from her bracelet, she squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger, until it exuded a pinpoint of light, which she played over the cement surfaces.

  "Don't touch the evidence," a voice derided her.

  "I'm not stupid. I won't touch it. I want to examine it." She glanced up at the cop wearing an orange rescue vest. "You know what caused this, right?"

  "That's still under investigation, but we suspect some sort of deterioration. A structural collapse."

  "Deterioration, my ass. This was caused by an explosive." She pointed to a section. "That was caused by C-4. It has all the earmarks. If you don't believe me, bring in a chemical analyst or a bomb expert." The light faded; she wiped her fingers on her thigh.

  "How can you be so sure?" the man demanded.

  "Trust me on this. I know what I'm talking about." She stood and walked over to another chunk of debris. "And if C-4 was involved, then I know who might be resp—"

  A movement at the corner of her eye interrupted her. She turned to find another cop, also wearing an orange vest, had joined him. Both men were aiming their service weapons at her. Sherandar noticed the grim expressions on their faces. She also realized the three of them were alone, isolated momentarily from the rest of the rescue groups. Cursing her stupidity, she flashed them a smile.

  "Hey, guys. You can put away the water pistols. Didn't you get the memo? I'm one of the good guys this time around
."

  She knew she couldn't make any sudden moves, but slowly raised her free hand for the string of miniature smoke bombs hanging around her neck as she kept talking, hoping to keep them distracted.

  "Quazar's going to want to see this as soon as he's done with his swim lesson. You might want to rope this area off to keep everyone—"

  A sound from behind her alerted her of another person approaching. Sneaking up on her. She managed to glance around in time to see a third vested cop aim his taser at her and fire.

  It was all over in seconds.

  * * *

  Cold and soaked to the skin, Quazar helped the female survivor onto the waiting stretcher, then watched as the woman was hauled into the nearby ambulance.

  "That makes four," Captain Stevens proclaimed.

  "And that makes the last of them," Quazar told the officer. Both men looked over at the crowded bank where all eight vehicles rested. It had taken him nearly forty minutes to pull them and five survivors from the river. He rubbed a shoulder to work a kink out of the muscle. "Looks like morning rush hour is going to be a bitch."

  "Yeah, but we already have alternate routes laid out. Shouldn't take too much longer for their commute," Stevens commented. The man gave Quazar a smile. "Thanks for the assist."

  "Anytime." Glancing around, Quazar added, "You haven't seen Sherandar, have you?"

  "No. Sorry."

  "Hey, Quazar!" A reporter from the Chronicle stepped forward. "Were you asking about Sherandar?"

  "Yeah. Do you know where she is?"

  "Last I saw her, she was being taken away in a squad car," the man replied.

  Quazar frowned. "She what?" He glanced at Stevens. "I thought you said all officers had been notified."