Ilona Andrews: Wildfire

“No,” he said. “But I do have some handcuffs.”

“No,” I told him. “Okay, maybe. Who’ll be wearing the handcuffs?”

He grinned.

We reached the warehouse.

“I have to go,” I told him. I didn’t want to.

He opened his mouth and I put my finger on his lips. “Please don’t say my name. If you say my name, I won’t be able to get out of the car.”

He smiled against my finger. It was a wicked male smile, and it made him look both handsome and evil, like a demon.

“I mean it, Rogan. Don’t say my name, don’t kiss me good night, and don’t look at me . . . yes, like that. Don’t look at me like that. I have to go investigate your ex-fiancée’s husband’s disappearance tomorrow, and I need sleep.”

I still couldn’t move from the seat. He pulled at me like a magnet. It wasn’t the spectacular sex and it wasn’t his looks, although both helped. It was the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching him. Like I was the center of his universe. When he looked at me like that, I would do anything for him. It scared me that I could love someone that much, so I fought like crazy to keep every shred of independence I had left.

“I see Caesar’s shadow,” he said.

I did too. But until we had some evidence, jumping to conclusions did no good. “It does seem like a big coincidence—Rynda’s mother dies, then, within weeks, her husband disappears. But, apparently, he has a history of taking off when things get rough, and things are rough for her right now.”

He fixed me with his Mad Rogan stare. “If you find the connection between Brian’s disappearance and the conspiracy, I want to know about it. Not eventually, not when it’s convenient, but immediately.”

“Yes, sir. I was going to kiss you good night, but now I can’t. It’s against the rules to fraternize with my superior officer.”

“Hilarious,” he said.

I opened the door and climbed out.

“Nevada,” he called after me, sinking a world of promise into one word.

I kept walking.

His voice caressed me like a touch. “Come back and let me kiss you good night.”

“I can’t hear you.” I sprinted to my door, got inside, and closed it. It was a big thick door. I couldn’t possibly have heard him laughing behind me. I must’ve imagined it. Yes, that was it.

I walked through the house. The light in the kitchen was on. Voices floated to me. Everyone was still awake and waiting for me.

Tomorrow I would have to go to BioCore and start looking for Rynda’s husband. Tomorrow I would see Rogan again. But first, I had to get through tonight. I sighed, squared my shoulders, and went to talk to my family.

It was morning. Bright sunlight, cheery blue sky, and a massive headache hammer that pounded the inside of my skull. I’d popped two ibuprofens as soon as I’d clawed my eyes open, because I had things to do today, but they didn’t even make a dent.

Last night I came home to all sorts of questions. And once I told them what happened, they came up with even more questions. My mother wanted to know about Victoria Tremaine, Leon wanted to know if he would eventually get a gun when we became a House, Catalina wanted to know about her trials, Arabella wanted to know if Michael was cute, and Grandma Frida said she met Linus Duncan once during the war and wanted to know if he still had that “hot, dark-eyed, Scottish thing” going. By the time I fought them off, it was close to two o’clock in the morning. I went upstairs, took off my clothes, fell into my bed facedown, and passed out. I dreamed of Rogan, woke up an hour later, and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t in the bed. Now it was morning, and as I walked into our office, I felt like I was dragging a bulldozer behind me.

Cornelius was already at his desk. He wore a dark grey suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His blond hair was neatly brushed back. Even at his worst, Cornelius always had a certain style. He was trim, neat, and calm. You’d never guess that the same man sang a horde of rats into devouring a living human being.

Today no rats were in attendance, but Talon, his chicken hawk, perched on top of the bookcase, glaring at me with amber eyes.

Cornelius raised his head from his laptop. His serious blue eyes widened. I was wearing a black Armani pantsuit over an expensive light grey blouse and Stuart Weitzman pumps, which had the wonderful advantage of being comfortable enough to run in, if the occasion required. My hair was straightened and pulled back from my face into a knot. My makeup was applied with all the skill I could muster, considering my headache.

“You look like a CIA agent,” Cornelius observed.

“Have you ever met any CIA agents?”

“No. But I would imagine they would look like you.”

“This is my inspire-confidence-in-clients look,” I told him. “I own two expensive suits. I wear one to the initial meeting and the other when I come to close the case and collect my payment. The rest of the time the suits hang in plastic in the back of my closet.”

“Are you planning to impress a client?” he asked.

“We already have a client. I need to impress her House. Her husband is missing, and if his family had something to do with it, I’d like them to consider me a serious threat, so they can focus on me instead of her. I would like you to come with me. It would be a good experience for you, and it would help my credibility.”

“Of course.” Cornelius rose.

“Our client is Rynda Sherwood. Formerly Rynda Charles.”

He froze.

“She showed up here last night,” I explained. “Her husband is missing.”

Cornelius found his voice. “Does she . . . know?”

“She knows that Rogan and I were present. She doesn’t know exactly how Olivia was killed or who did it. I understand if you would rather stay.”

“But why would she come to you?”

“Because all of her mother’s friends abandoned her, and House Sherwood doesn’t seem to be concerned about her husband’s disappearance. She truly has no place to go.”

“Do you think this is connected to the conspiracy her mother was involved in?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe her husband is a stressed-out workaholic who snapped and decided to disappear for a few days.”

Cornelius pondered it.

“I also should mention that I filed to be recognized as a House.”

He blinked again. “Congratulations.”

“Victoria Tremaine is my grandmother,” I continued. “She was none too happy about this development, and while there are rules which prevent her from interfering, I can’t promise she won’t try something.”

“Are you nervous?” Cornelius asked.

“Yes.” There was no point in lying. “Given a choice, I would rather hide here until the trials, but I promised Rynda I’d look for her husband.”

“You can’t hide,” Cornelius said quietly. “Your name is in the book. People are watching all of you, but especially you, to see what sort of House you’ll become. First impressions matter.”

“First impressions?”

Cornelius paused. “When the petition of House formation is filed, it’s read before the Assembly and, more practically, it’s announced in their internal newsletter.”

Great. Every House in Texas would see our name in their email box. “So everyone knows?”

“Yes. This is done to discourage interference from other Houses.”

“Will they know what talents we are requesting to be tested?”

“Yes.”

So the cat was out of the bag. I had announced myself as a truthseeker to the entire state of Texas.

“You will be watched,” Cornelius said. “The way you conduct yourself now is very important.”

He was right. Hiding was out of the question. We couldn’t afford to look like cowards.