"You've had dealings with his soldiers?"
"Once." Her tone told him the experience hadn't been a happy one.
He didn't dig. "They're needed to control the forty-two wolf packs and the even larger number of vampire nests. We have over thirty master vampires living in the tri state area and each of them governs at least three nests. Sorcerers and witches come in at around 25,000 each. And those are only the ones who've registered."
"You're not kidding, are you?" Mack shook his head. "That's an impossible number of supernaturals for The Director to control."
"Don't underestimate our boss. He and his demons are connected in some way, so he has them pretty much under his thumb at all times. I think he can even channel power to them remotely."
They were on the Verrazano Bridge now, its graceful lines standing out against the newer, utilitarian structures that marked the entrance to the New York Harbor. Guard towers seemed to sprout up like weeds along the Brooklyn and Staten Island shorelines, defending the waterway. The Director was obsessed with the security of his empire.
"Ever think of jumping?" she asked.
Mack frowned, wondering how the bridge had brought about such a depressing thought. A human family had jumped off the Tappan Zee Bridge a few days before. Ingrid must have heard the report and mixed up the two bridges. "Never. My life's been good so far. Have you considered ending yours?"
"I don't run away from my nightmares.” She gave Mack a scrutinizing glance. “You believe your life’s been good?” Before he could answer, Ingrid pointed out the window. “Look at that."
They were already on the Staten Island side. Behind a wired fence, a couple of remotely controlled bulldozers could be seen smashing through a neighborhood, while a group of humans stood off to the side, clutching their few bags of belongings. Some wept. Others raged at the guards who held them back. One male was struck down by one of the archdemon’s soldiers. Judging by the gore on the sidewalk, he wouldn't rise again.
The Director was making a big deal on the news about revitalizing many of the rundown neighborhoods peppered throughout the city, but these families would never be able to afford an apartment in one of the newer buildings. They'd be begging on the street by tomorrow—maybe dead in a month.
Ingrid curled her body into the seat and grew quiet. Perhaps his words of warning had hit home, and she was reassessing the dangers of life in New York City. This was a lesson she needed to learn fast if he was going to be able to protect her.
He signaled for Scott to bring down the privacy shield and said, "I know you're tired, but would you tell me what happened at your last performance?"
She flattened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "You've seen the news reports, I'm sure."
"I have."
She turned her face toward the window. "There's nothing else to tell." She lied smoothly, which meant she'd had lots of practice. "Diane Stone is still in the hospital. Alan and Staci were placed in other troupes last week, but I don't know which ones."
Her pain at losing contact with her friends was clear. "I'm sorry to hear that you and your former troupe are still feeling the effects of the event, but I need the details from your perspective. I've only heard The Director's version."
Her eyes widened, her body growing tense. Maybe she was afraid he'd react badly if he knew her panic had contributed to the deaths. Or was there something else? A secret she hadn't told?
She took a moment to smooth out her skirt and straighten her posture, leaving her hands in her lap. When she met his gaze, she was all business. "According to Annie, with the exception of rehearsals, I'm off until the show on Friday."
She’d changed the subject, but he was a patient guy. They could revisit the Atlanta episode later. "Annie’s correct." He'd flipped his own switch to business mode as well, stilling his tapping fingers.
"Then I'd prefer not to discuss Atlanta. Perhaps after my stay at the hotel, I'll feel more able to..."
"Excuse me, Ingrid, but you've signed the contract with our troupe. It clearly states that beginning with your first day, which happens to be today, you will take up residence in the troupe house. The Director would not have allowed you to sign the contract if he believed you weren’t ready to return to work."
"The Director can stuff it," she snapped, surprising him with her vehemence. "You also signed the contract."
"Which made me your boss."
"And responsible for my health. If I'm unable to sleep, or too stressed to eat or..."
He laughed, "I've worked with several Ingrids during my training at the institute and also in this troupe. Some of them were on the delicate side, but there is absolutely nothing delicate about you. You sleep and eat well, even taking into consideration all that ice cream you devour, plus you can focus your psycore under intensely stressful situations. You're a powerhouse on stage and I can't wait to see you perform." Her chin was practically in her lap. "Do you think I didn't read your entire file before signing that contract?"
"Did it mention anger issues?"
Mack nodded and smiled. "And a rebellious streak that two of your last Macks reported should be beaten out of you."
She frowned, fisting her hands in her lap. "They tried. Will you?"
And there it was, that dare ya attitude described in all the reports. Why The Director hadn't ended her was a mystery—their boss didn’t take crap from anyone, especially a female. But truth be told, Mack was pleased The Director had given her this one more chance. A female theta with such spirit, despite all the shit they had to tolerate, was rare, compelling, and beautiful.
Whoa, where had that come from?
Mack fisted his hand to keep it still. He had to approach her firmly but without aggression. Win her trust. A good way to start was by easing her mind. "I'll never strike you—I believe those methods are barbaric—but I do expect you to obey the rules and cooperate fully. If I give you a reasonable order, you’ll follow it. If you play your power games at rehearsals, you're out.”
“You understand what being tossed out will mean for me?”
This Ingrid looked him in the eye, not down at her lap like the last one. “I do, but I’m not the one who worked her way through four troupes in five years. The Hudson River Troupe is my family and I’ll do anything to keep them safe. The actors and techs trust each other. We talk things out when there's a problem.” She didn’t look convinced. “I can promise you that no one will hurt you physically, although Diane has a wicked tongue," he teased.
"That's not the way most Macks operate."
"It’s what works best for my actors. We’re the top troupe in the country.” He hadn’t hidden the pride he felt over what they’d accomplished.
Her hands had relaxed. Hopefully his strategy was working. "And after reading my file you still wanted me?"
"Only the best for my troupe." Her eyes met Mack’s for several heartbeats, incredible eyes, the color of southern seas, but she turned away without comment.
They were passing the old courthouse on the left, the ferry building on the right. The Staten Island Ferry still ran, free for all who wanted a stress-free ride into Manhattan. The vampires, wolves, and demons who lurked in private clubs, public parks, and run down neighborhoods avoided the ferry. Magic didn’t work well over water, and few of them could swim. Most supernaturals preferred open fields, secluded forests, or buildings with many available exits.
She sighed, dropping her wariness and allowing her exhaustion to show. "I need quiet, not a million questions from a group of strangers."
"The troupe house is more peaceful than any hotel." He’d used his calming voice, as if gentling a wild animal. Ingrid had that kind of energy, seemingly perched on the verge of erupting. After what she’d survived, peace and quiet might be what she needed most. If he could’ve allowed her to stay at that hotel, he would have, but there was no way to control what might happen to her if she was on her own in a town known for the strength and volatility of its supernatural creatures.
"I'm
supposed to check in at the hotel by four o'clock. I'm not changing my plans."
And whadaya know, the bitch was back. She’d even added a pout, drawing his gaze to her lips. He wondered if they’d taste sweet or spicy.
The sudden tightness in his groin was a shock. Holy crap. What was up with his body? It’s true he'd been a freakin' monk for eighteen months and she was probably the most beautiful female he’d ever been this close to, but he never lost control. Control was everything when it came to running a successful troupe.
Mack turned silent, avoiding her gaze for the last ten minutes of the ride through St. George. Ingrid was quiet, too, probably still obsessed with how to convince him that her plan to stay at the fancy hotel was the right move. The other PMs were right when they'd reported she was tenacious. Maybe headstrong was a better word choice.
When they pulled onto the property on Henderson Avenue, Mack jumped out of the shuttle as soon as it was safe. Taking in a long deep breath of New York City’s version of fresh air, he cleared his mind of inappropriate thoughts and his nose of her lavender scent.
It didn't help.
He urged himself to stay professional, pulling some paperwork out of his briefcase and handing it to Ingrid. "I know this info was already zipped over, but please look at the June and July schedule one more time. The daily breakdown on rehearsal and performance days is quite specific and includes meal times. Your thumbprint will allow you access through the gate and the front and back door. Alan will help you set that up a little later. Because we have a rehearsal tomorrow at noon, it’s important that you spend some time with Gene tonight."
His phone beeped. "The pizza's here. Scott will get your bags inside. Take a seat in the kitchen, it’s to the right. I'll be back in a few minutes." Mack unlocked the back door with a scan of this thumb then strode to the front of the house to collect the meal from the delivery guy.
"Hey Mack!"
"Tony, how are you?"
"Great. Did the old Ingrid get off okay? We're all gonna miss her at the shop."
"Yeah, I’ll miss her too. She called me yesterday. Said everything’s fine there." The troupe's last Ingrid had been lovely, creative, obedient and on the serious side. She’d left to take a job as an instructor at the Colorado Institute because performing, and what went with it, had drained her badly. The Genes and Ingrids, the troupe ingénues, always had it the worst, especially the female.
"And the new Ingrid?" Anthony peeked around Mack hoping for a glance of the new girl. "I saw a picture. Wow."
"Yeah, she's wow all right.” With some pain in the ass thrown in for good measure, he chuckled to himself.
When he got back with the pizza, she was checking her H-tab. Sass. Who names their H-tab?
"Will Gene be here soon? I have less than an hour."
He placed the boxes on the table then got out plates and napkins, red pepper flakes and garlic powder. "Water, soda or beer?"
"Water is fine."
After placing a bottle of water in front of her plate, he sat. "Help yourself. Gene will be here in a few."
"But the shuttle..."
This female had stubborn down to a science. "For your safety, I've already canceled your hotel room. I suggest you call the shuttle company, unless you want to pay a cancellation fee."
Ingrid slammed her fork on the table and stood, already fuming. "You had no right to do that."
"When you signed your contract you became an official member of this troupe, and as your PM, the troupe's safety is my main responsibility. You'll be sleeping here tonight and every night, unless we're on tour. This is non-negotiable.”
CHAPTER THREE
And it’s starting already. Sleeping here tonight and every night, huh? Sure, until The Director sends me off to screw one of his alpha cronies. Ingrid shivered with anger, pulling Sass out of her bag.
"Cancelled? We'll see," she mumbled, hoping Mack would hear. Why were PMs all asswipes? "Sass, call the Marquis Grand Hotel. The concierge extension."
Sass spoke in her sultry electronic purr. "In approximately ninety minutes and thirty-two seconds you may speak to the concierge personally."
"Sass, I'm not in the mood."
"Yes, Mistress."
The call went through. "Hello. Marquis Grand Concierge Desk. This is Samantha. How may I help you?"
"This is Ingrid Stone. I'm confirming my check-in time this afternoon."
Silence greeted her statement. "I am extremely sorry, Ms. Stone—forgive me, I mean Ms. Harbor, but your room was cancelled."
"I did not cancel my room. No one else has the authority to cancel a reservation that I made personally."
"That is incorrect. As your production manager, Mr. Harbor has the right to cancel any reservation you make. Of course, The Director has final say. Shall I put in a call to his secretary?"
She was tempted. Boy was she ever tempted, but no. The Director would side with Mack and then there'd be another strike against her. This was her fourth troupe and her last chance. She had to make this work.
"No, thank you." She ended the call.
Mack was trying not to smile, but it seemed to be a struggle for him. "Eat, Ingrid. You can use a meal and maybe a nap. I've called our regular masseuse, Deborah, and asked her to come this evening. She's excellent. We all use her."
She was pissed, hungry, and exhausted, but she wasn't an idiot. A meal, a nap, and a massage sounded like heaven. "Thank you."
She kept her voice cool and professional, hoping that when he’d said they used the girl, he didn't mean other than as a masseuse. Humans had very few options when approached by a supernatural, and it wasn't only vampires, demons, and wolves that took advantage of their weaker neighbors. Thetas might be born from human parents, but that didn't necessarily mean all of them treated the human race with respect.
Thetas were born with a core of psychic ability, based in an area of the brain that was relatively dormant in humans. To power that psycore, thetas were born with an extra organ known as their axis, a tiny generator that when boosted, gave them access to as much magical energy as a high level vampire.
Mack smiled as he put a slice of pizza on a paper plate and slid it across the table. She reached for it, their fingers accidentally touching. A lovely tingle danced across her skin, warming it in such a pleasant way, urging her to move closer.
Would his face feel rough with stubble or smooth?
Ingrid loosened her grip on the plate, scooting her chair back from the table. Holy hell. Their axis energy had connected, their energies bridging the psychic walls they kept in place to keep this kind of thing from happening. "Did you push power at me?" she asked. The rules were clear, allowing energy exchanges only during rehearsals, performances or when rebooting. Any other exchange was forbidden.
"I would never breach protocol." Mack tilted his head, looking more puzzled than angry by what had occurred. "Did you push power at me?"
"No, of course not. I'm an actor." An actor's axis was traditionally very weak, their strength centered in their psycores, which they used for projecting fantasies. Ingrid was a freak in that regard. Thankfully, Mack wouldn’t have been able to sense…
"You have a powerful axis. It's not in your file. The Director never..."
Oh great. "The Director doesn't know." She slumped in the chair, instantly regretting her outburst. Now he'd go to The Director and that would be the end. But how could Mack Hudson tell how strong her axis energy was with only a touch?
"This is a recent development?" She nodded. “When did it change?”
No point in lying now. "When I joined the Atlanta troupe."
"And what was different there?"
"Gene Stone and I..." Ingrid blinked, biting her lip to stop the tears. Over the past month, she’d only allowed herself to remember the good times: flying above his head during a show, sharing a meal or a dance at a club. She and Gene hadn’t been in love; they’d been taught in the institutes it wasn’t a possibility for a theta to fall in love, but they�
�d been best friends—family.
"Tell me..." Mack angled his body toward hers, showing only his interest.
"Gene and I cared. We were very close friends."
Mack's expression was thoughtful; his warm hazel eyes glittering with golden streaks, his mouth twisted to the side as he puzzled out what she'd told him. He had such a nice face: intelligent eyes, a strong jaw, a tiny bump on his nose. His hair, a darker brown than hers, was a bit longer than the current style. She decided she liked it that length. She'd like it even more if she could twist it around her fingers.
Uh…wait a minute. This was her PM. PMs were off limits for actors. Plus they were power-hungry assholes. Except…this Mack didn’t seem to fit that mold. She gave her libido a mental slap. He’d show his true colors soon enough.
Mack sat up straighter, seeming to come to a decision. "The pizza might have cooled, but we shouldn't waste pizza this good." He opened his mouth and took an enormous bite of his slice, chewing and swallowing, then smiling blissfully.
A bit of the tension between them drained away. He was letting it go for now, although she was sure he'd bring it up again later. The pizza smelled like heaven. She slid her chair back in place, drawing the plate closer and taking a bite. "What is this cheese?"
"Fresh mozzarella." He'd given the word an Italian flare.
"It doesn't taste like mozzarella." He smiled when she imitated his pronunciation.
"That's because it doesn't come out of a package at the market. Salumerias sell it, those are Italian delicatessens, but Tony makes it himself.
She smiled, finally starting to feel normal again, whatever that was. "And the sausage. Yum." She was shocked that she'd already finished the first slice and was reaching for another. She’d trained herself to eat slowly and sparingly.
"Homemade sweet Italian sausage. I told you, Anthony's Pizzeria is the best."
"Mmm."
They ate for a minute without talking, Ingrid concentrating only on the food, trying not to think about the energy exchange. "I want to explain my reasons for canceling the hotel," Mack said.
Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 Page 3
