Black and Blue

by Gena Showalter

  "Breakfast I can do. I guess I owe you."

  "You guess?"

  "And a report . . . why not? I just hope you can handle an honest critique--since you certainly know how to dish them."

  Hot color spread across her cheeks, and he once again had to deal with a throbbing hard-on.

  Gotta stop reacting to her. Especially over stupid crap like that.

  He rolled from the bed--and what the hell. It was difficult to leave her. First he swept through the entire house, inspecting it for cameras and bugs as well as any indication an uninvited guest had come through unnoticed. All was well. And, okay, all right, he had to give Evie props. Her system was utterly badass.

  So was her home. There were four bedrooms and an office. She preferred bold colors, antique furniture, and modern finishes. She had hung pictures of her father, her sister, Claire, and her adopted sister, Eden, all over the walls. Blue had always considered Eden one of the most gorgeous women in the world, but just then he would have said Evie was the sexier of the two. By far. Something about the fragility of her bone structure, the humor lighting those mysterious, dark eyes. The mischievous curve of her smile.

  A mischievous curve never more apparent than in the photos of Evie and Claire. . . . The girl died three years ago, yes? Yeah, he thought. Three years. Shortly after, Evie left the agency to work at the hospital.

  He'd always wondered why.

  Michael kept details about Claire's death hush-hush, so Blue had no idea what had happened. And he didn't like that he didn't know, he realized.

  Frowning, he turned away from the pictures and entered the game room. There was a pool table and a poker table, a dock for a large-screen television, and a huge sectional couch. The smoked-glass door in back led to a massive greenhouse.

  Lucky girl.

  From what Blue understood, the earth was nearly destroyed during the human-alien war. Plant life was compromised, animals were almost wiped out, and huge bodies of water either dried up or turned to sludge. Now all three were expensive commodities.

  Had Michael paid for the greenhouse, spoiling his precious princess just a little more, or had Evie? As one of the most skilled surgeons in New Chicago, she had to make bank. Not that he'd kept track of her career or anything. He'd just saved a few articles. In case Michael wanted to read them. No big deal.

  "Agent Dallas Gutierrez requesting an interview," a computerized voice said over an in-house intercom system.

  Blue exited the game room and headed toward the bedroom. Evie, in the process of anchoring the length of her gorgeous hair in a high ponytail, met him in the hallway. She'd pulled on a long-sleeved tee and a pair of figure-hugging jeans.

  Hello, erection.

  He looked down at the Python. Keep it up, I dare you, and I'll hack you off. I won't even hold a funeral. Because no one would . . . come.

  One day, I've got to mature. "What's going on?"

  "The agent is at the door," Evie said, pink color flooding her cheeks.

  Had she checked out his package? Wished for a special delivery?

  Idiot.

  "Any idea who he is or what he wants?" she asked.

  Was her tone breathless? "Who he is? Yes. What he wants? No."

  "Come on, then." She led him back to the game room and flipped on the TV. "Record and reveal from the living room cameras."

  "What--"

  "Not you," she muttered, as if he were a few brain cells short.

  No. Her tone was not breathless.

  A large holoscreen appeared above the dock, the air crystallizing to reveal a picture of the living room he'd just searched. "By the way, I'm ready to give my report," he said. "Cool."

  She rolled her eyes. "One word to describe my home's utter magnificence? You're usually more eloquent. But I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. Sentences hard for caveman," she said, banging her chest like a gorilla. "Just . . . stay here. Watch and listen. And who knows? Maybe you'll learn something."

  The little witch always had to have the last word, didn't she. Well, not this time. "You might want to take a breather before you face the agent, Miss Black. The more time you spend with me, the harder your nipples get. I'm beginning to think you don't hate me as much as you've always claimed."

  Five

  TRYING NOT TO TREMBLE--STUPID nipples, and stupid Blue for noticing!--Evie opened the front door, revealing a tall, handsome man with dark hair, dark skin, and freaky eyes so pale they were almost devoid of color.

  He wasn't Arcadian, but he crackled with a muted version of Blue's power.

  "Miss Black?" the agent said.

  She nodded. "The one and only."

  The corners of his mouth quirked up the slightest bit. "I'm Agent Dallas Gutierrez, and I'm with AIR."

  Alien Investigation and Removal. "Interesting, but irrelevant. I'm human and therefore not under your jurisdiction."

  "Well, that depends on certain circumstances, doesn't it?"

  She peered at him steadily, refusing to back down. "Do tell."

  Far from intimidated, he said, "I'm here to ask you a few questions."

  "About?"

  "Your father."

  Heart suddenly racing, she moved back, allowing the agent inside. "Next time, don't bury the lead." After she'd shut and locked the door, she showed him to the living room. And it was weird, knowing Blue was upstairs, watching her every move, listening to her every word. Weird and exciting. Almost . . . arousing.

  Stupid hormones. Now that they'd woken up, they were determined to gain her attention.

  Let us have Blue, just once, they shouted, and we'll go away again. Promise.

  Liars!

  I would rather give myself to an Agamen. The males had poisonous horns and barbs at the ends of their penises. She'd heard tales of human women dying within seconds of orgasm.

  "I'd offer you a beverage, but I don't want you staying any longer than necessary, so let's get to it, shall we?"

  "Let's," Dallas said as he settled on the couch.

  "You mentioned my father."

  "I did. It's funny, but as wealthy and successful as he is, not a lot is known about him."

  Okay, not a great start. Where was he going with this? The world knew Michael as an arms dealer trying to go legit.

  She eased into the chair across from him. "He's a businessman who owns half of New Chicago, as well as a few other states." The typical spoiled-girl response. "Who cares about anything else?"

  No quirking of his lips this time, just a cold, hard stare eerily similar to the one she'd received from Blue only a few minutes ago. She wasn't sure what it meant. Well, she had some idea--nothing good.

  "When did you last speak to him?" Dallas asked.

  "The day before his house went boom, boom. Why?"

  Tone just as cold as his stare, he said, "How about I ask the questions, all right?"

  How about . . . not.

  "Have you ever met Gregory Star?"

  She thought for a moment, recalling Blue's first night here, when he'd mentioned a bomb and a star. Could he have been referring to a person? "Yeah," she said. "I've met him. Several times." Then, just to be contrary, she added, "Why?"

  He ignored her question. Of course. "Where did you meet him?"

  "Social events. I don't remember when or where. Our conversations were limited to the usual hello, how are you, how have you been. Oh, except for the time I told him to brush his teeth, because he had coffee breath. And now I'm done talking, Mr. Gutierrez, until--"

  "Agent Gutierrez."

  "Whatever. I'm done talking until you've explained why you want to know about my father, why AIR cares about Mr. Star, and whether or not Mr. Star could have played a part in the explosion."

  *

  Smart questions, Blue thought. Maybe he shouldn't have given her so much crap over the years.

  Why was AIR, rather than the local PD, interviewing Evie about the bombing? Some kind of otherworldly evidence must have been found at the scene. Something to implicate Gregor
y Star, the very man Blue, Solo, and John were suppose to investigate for the disappearance of seventeen people--two of whom were AIR agents, and one a U.S. senator.

  Had Star set the bomb?

  Star was a fifty-three-year-old self-made billionaire. He'd grown up dirt poor in a part of town known as Whore's Corner. Speculation was rampant about what he'd had to do to survive. The front contender: black-market organ sells. If that was true, he'd had to slice open his victims while they were still alive. Talk about hard-core.

  Over the years, the male earned the ear of some of the world's greatest leaders. He developed an eye for the pretties, and a weakness for gambling. He changed mistresses as easily as Blue changed underwear. He dabbled in recreational drugs--the snorting and the selling--and he would not leave his house without armed guards.

  What reason would he have to harm Michael? How could he have known about Michael's real job?

  He couldn't have. Right? So . . . what if the bombing had nothing to do with the case? What if the culprit--Star, or someone like him--simply hoped to get rid of a business rival?

  Made sense. But that wasn't enough for Blue. Because, as much sense as it made, it failed to explain the coincidences. And Blue didn't believe in coincidences.

  As Evie showed the flustered agent to the door--guess the male had never come across anyone like the Black Plague before--Blue returned to her office and logged on to her computer. Priority one: finding his friends. They had to be alive or he would . . . he would . . . He banged a fist against the keyboard, cracking the casing, and cringed.

  Deep breath in. Out.

  They were alive.

  Evie came up behind him. He didn't have to see her to know she was there. He sensed her. The heat of her. The scent of her. Every muscle in his body tensed.

  "Good job, pudding pop," he said, trying to keep things light. "He got nothing out of you, but you got a few things out of him."

  "I know. And don't call me 'pudding pop' or I'll empty out your scrotum and make you enjoy it."

  He covered a laugh with a cough. The little firecracker had these moments of utter hilarity. Although she wasn't as animated as she'd been four years ago. She no longer used her hands to punctuate every word. He wondered what had changed. Because honestly? He'd liked the hand gestures and kind of missed them. "If I'm going to enjoy it, I might as well keep calling you names. Like 'pinkie pie.' "

  She waved her fist at him. Okay, so that was a hand gesture she hadn't lost. A habit?

  He hoped so. One day he might grab that fist, jerk her into his lap, and--

  Nothing.

  He'd do nothing.

  "What are you doing in here, anyway?" she asked.

  "Looking for clues."

  "Oh, well, I'm one step ahead of you. As always." She jimmied open a secret drawer he'd missed and handed him a digital reader. "Check out the most recently downloaded articles."

  He did. Apparently, a body was found at the explosion site, one burned beyond recognition. Testing was done, and though the identity was unknown, it was clear the bones belonged to a Caucasian male with a broken spine--who was not Michael Black. Has to be my Fry Guy.

  Michael Black was missing. Assumed abducted.

  Two days ago, his former assistant had been found dead in her home. Drug overdose.

  Blue knew the woman. Three months ago, at the age of forty-one, she quit working for Michael to become a stay-at-home mom. If she'd had a drug problem, he would never have sex again.

  Blue inhaled a waft of honey-almond and nearly snapped the e-reader in half. Guaranteed, he was having sex again.

  Just not with Evie Black.

  Right. Right?

  Michael's former assistant must have been killed, the death made to appear accidental. But why kill her?

  Perhaps she came to see Michael, spotted the killer, and was eliminated as a precaution. Or perhaps she aided the killer for money? After all, stay-at-home mothers made less than slave labor. And if she'd aided the killer, she would have been eliminated as a possible witness.

  Her aid would explain how the killer had gotten the bomb inside Michael's.

  He turned to the computer, and typed in "Corbin Blue." He needed more data.

  "Oh, you're going to like this," Evie said, her arm stretching over his shoulder. She pressed a fingertip against the holoscreen, selecting a gossip website. "This is a particular favorite of mine. Fascinating stuff. Really delves deep into the past and current antics of the world's most famous Romeo. But who knew the press could actually print the truth?"

  Can't choke the life out of her. No longer so amused by her, Blue scanned the website's report. The writer listed every female Blue was thought to have bagged over the years, and claimed he had panicked about his upcoming nuptials and was hiding out in Bangkok, sleazing his way through the female population.

  Pagan had to be foaming-at-the-mouth worried. Not because of the women but because of his absence. On all of his football trips and all of his out-of-country missions, he'd always kept in touch with her.

  "Just . . . shut it, Evie." He swiped his hand over the text until the screen went blank. "Not another word out of you."

  "Word."

  He rolled his eyes. "Real mature."

  "Thank you."

  He threw a file at her.

  "Are you on your period or something?" she said, her tone snippy. "First you looked ready to laugh, and now you look ready to commit murder. Your mood swings are a wee bit out of control, yeah."

  He was not the one with a freaking emotional disorder! "There's nothing wrong with sleeping around," he gritted. He'd just never wanted to do it, had always craved monogamy. He knew how precious it was.

  "There is something horribly wrong when you've got a partner."

  "I know that. Cheating isn't what I meant."

  "Besides," she continued, "no one likes a himbo."

  "Actually, everyone does."

  "Yeah, for the whole five minutes they have of his attention."

  "I promise you, I grant my women more than five minutes of my time."

  She opened her mouth to comment and he decided he'd had enough.

  "Instead of obsessing about my sex life, princess," he said, "why don't you get one of your own?"

  She backed a step away from him. "First, I am not obsessing about your sex life. Second, who says I don't have one?"

  "Do you?" He tensed all over again as he waited for her response.

  She never offered one, and he could only wonder what that meant. That she didn't have a man and was embarrassed, or that she did--as the sweatpants and boxers suggested--and wanted him kept out of agency business . . . kept safe.

  The thought ticked Blue off, and it had nothing to do with wanting her for himself. He'd been sleeping in her bed. He simply didn't like the thought of sharing sheets with some lame asshole who was going to end up with a broken face the next time he put his skeevy hands on Evie Black!

  You want to fight the guy now? Seriously?

  He forced himself to get back to work, and searched for articles about Solomon Judah and John No Last Name. There wasn't a single mention of either male. But then, neither had ever led a public life. When Solo wasn't working, he spent his time at some hick backwater farm without any kind of modern convenience (shudder). And John . . . well, Blue wasn't sure what John did in his off time. The warrior had secrets, and Blue and Solo never pressed.

  I have to find them.

  When a friend's life was at stake, he had to question everything and everyone. Nothing could be overlooked. Every piece of information had to be verified.

  Blue leaned back in the chair and ran a hand through his hair, swiveling to face Evie. Beautiful, irritating Evie.

  "John and Solo are out there. They need me."

  Her expression softened, and she nodded. "Believe me, I know how you feel. My father is out there, too."

  He was struck by the most insane urge to pull her into his lap and hug her close. To offer comfort . . . and to t
ake it. "I won't stop until all three are safe. You have my word."

  "Good," she said. "Because I won't stop, either. I'm officially on the case."

  Uh, what now? "Counteroffer. You go back to the hospital and let the big boy do all the heavy lifting. I'll report in at least once a day. You'll never have to wonder what's going on."

  She shook her head, ponytail dancing. "My counter to your counter. Go screw yourself."

  "I have. It's not actually half-bad."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Pig."

  "Prude."

  "A name I'll wear with pride. But take a moment to think this through. As Michael's daughter, I'm your superior. What I say goes."

  Please. "Give me an order. Let's see what happens."

  Looking ready to spit nails, she said, "I'm helping, Blue. Got it?"

  "No. You're not an agent anymore. You'll only get in my way." And possibly get one or both of them killed.

  Anger sparked in those chocolate eyes. "News flash. You're either going to work with me, or against me. One way or another, I'm investigating. But before you decide, maybe think back and remember what happened to the people who got in my way during my agenting days."

  They'd ended up in the hospital, either physically ill or physically broken. "Coincidence."

  Wow. Way to stand up for what you don't believe in, Blue.

  Her grin was cold and certain. "Step one of my solo mission. Proving you wrong. I hope you enjoy raging diarrhea."

  Fine. Why should he care if she got hurt?

  Michael, that's why. Right. Not Blue's ongoing . . . attraction to her. There. He'd admitted it. It wasn't just arousal. Wasn't something he could tuck away and easily forget. Horror of horrors, some part of him found the moody woman appealing. And sexy. And sensual. And thrilling.

  Arguing with her turned him on.

  Who are you trying to fool? You've been turned on since the moment you woke up.

  Maybe it was the forbidden aspect of their relationship. Yeah. That had to be it. He couldn't have her, so of course he craved her. Like the sugar he loved but couldn't eat, because it screwed the hell out of his heartbeat.

  "What about your real job?" he asked, trying one last time to get rid of her.

  She grinned again, but it was smug this time. "My father owns St. Anthony. Bought it just for me, in fact. So I can take off as many days as I want."

  "My review of you as an employee?" He gave her a thumbs-down.