Robin Owens - Enchanted Again

“Call him Conrad, and call me Rafe.”

Now his posture was more casual, his long legs stretched out. He stared into the bottom of a cup that had to be near empty, then looked up. “He’s my best friend. He has been since we met freshman year in college. He’s loyal.” Rafe jerked a shoulder. “He’s solid, will keep his word. He loves Marta and Dougie and he was too good for her. She was a schemer from the beginning.”

Amber recalled the feeling of darkness that had made her uneasy when she looked at Marta Dimir’s name. She shook her head slightly.

“What?” asked Rafe.

“I looked you two up on the Net.”

“Of course you did.”

“And on the main database I use.” But not all the databases. There were others, more obscure. If there were information on Conrad and his family curse, she’d find it. “The Tyne family tree is online.”

Rafe grunted. “Bunch of tight asses.”

“But the Cymbler family tree isn’t.”

He didn’t look at her, but said, “You were going to make a comment about Marta?”

“It seemed to me that she was more…used…than a schemer herself.”

Rafe sat up. “What?”

“I just got that feeling.”

“Yeah, feelings.” He frowned, then stood and walked back to the counter, placed his mug in the dirty dish bin, then leaned on the bar and asked for a hot black espresso. He drummed his fingers and looked out the main window to the street. Amber thought he was considering her words.

He was still here, because of his friend. Conrad wasn’t the only one who was loyal and solid.

Then Rafe yanked his phone from his pocket, called. Scowled. He left a message, then made another call and words shot from him in what she already knew were orders.

She drank her own cocoa. He was an interesting man. The barista shot Amber a grin as she placed Rafe’s mug on the counter before him. Oh, yeah, Amber’s gaze had wandered along his body. It was evident that he was in prime shape from all those sports of his.

All those extreme, risky sports. One of which could kill him in the next few months. Would that be fate or free will?

Heavy questions she’d never really wanted to contemplate.

Rafe nodded to the server as he laid down a bill, flashed her a smile that Amber hadn’t been given. Then he prowled back toward her, stood over her with narrowed eyes, drank from his cup. “You have a feeling that Marta is being used.”

“Yes.”

He sat back down in the chair opposite, his entire attention focused on her in a way he hadn’t done before. “If Marta is being used, then someone tougher than her might be after Conrad, and now he’s going to their playing field. I called him and Ace Investigations.”

Again Rafe glanced aside. This part of the coffeehouse didn’t have windows and she believed that bothered him since he spent so much time outdoors. Thinking back, there hadn’t been a free table in the front room—except the table saved for group and community events, and he hadn’t encroached on that.

There were a lot of things to like about Rafe Davail.

“Conrad also believes in psychic crap.” Rafe drank more, didn’t look at her. His expression turned to one of scorn. “Nothing I could say could talk him out of spending money on those fakers. He claimed Marta was psychic, was fascinated with her because of that. She hosed him good. Now I’ve got to deal with another woman with feelings.”

And there was a lot to dislike about Rafe, too. “Like I said before, I didn’t seek you two out.” She stood and rolled the charts, stuck them in the tube and picked it up. “I’ll get right to work.” The smile she aimed at him was cool. “You’ll be pleased to know that I do work on weekends.”

“Marta married Conrad, broke his heart, took his money and his kid,” Rafe said. He stood, too. “I can see that I should have gotten this to go. Wait for me.”

“Why? You hired me to do a job for a friend of yours. You don’t like me. You don’t respect me.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“That’s not necessary,” she said.

He moved his shoulders, not quite a shrug, more like an itch in his back. Amber looked at Tiro. He was glowering, as usual. At Rafe.

“I’d rather you let me walk you home,” Rafe said.

She cleared her throat. “You have a hunch or something?”

“No,” he snapped. Then he grimaced, ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. It’s been a very long couple of days. Probably shouldn’t have hinted that your feelings make you a bad person.”

“No. You shouldn’t have done that.” She waited for his rationalization.

“Sorry. And Conrad dumped me, and there’s something about this place that feels funny. No offense.”

She stared at Tiro. “None taken, though you were uncomfortable in my office, too.”

“Okay, I get it. It’s me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This whole damn thing has made me twitchier than usual.” He managed a smile at her. “And Conrad left me flat. I’d just as soon wait near your place—”

“Mystic Circle?” She leaned on the words.

Rafe winced, nodded. “Yes, Mystic Circle. Please. Wait.” He hesitated. “Not quite done with this discussion.”

Amber heaved a put-upon sigh, but stayed while he charmed—and tipped—the barista for putting his drink in a to-go cup. Rafe was old money and big city and it showed.

But she was Mystic Circle. Magic. Brownies. Right now she was hiding that fact, but it warmed her insides. And she’d match that as an exclusive club against any other Rafe might belong to: winners of extreme sports, old money wealth, Manhattan home owner.

Death cursed.

Yes, that might be very exclusive, too, but not a group anyone would want to belong to. And she should remind herself that whether he believed in curses or not, most of his male forebears had died before they were thirty-three. He was thirty-two.

That would certainly weigh heavily on her. Almost as heavily as Tiro’s doomsaying.

They left the coffeehouse in silence and began walking back to Mystic Circle. They were away from the storefronts and into the residential area before he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my curse?” His smile was sharp.

“No.”

“It was a gypsy woman—”

She lifted her brows. “Really?”

“That’s the story. Really common story, isn’t it? What else would someone say if you talked about such a crazy thing? Hell, who else did curses? But we don’t have much in the way of histories, stories or notes. Too many deaths in the family.” His expression was shadowed again, dim with brooding. “I was five when my dad died. He and Mom were estranged.” Another quick smile, this one humorless. “Though they got together a few months before he died—long enough to make my brother, Gabe.”

“I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“Hit-and-run car accident.”

“Even worse.”

“Yeah. It was bad. Lived with my great uncle after that.” Rafe glanced at her. “’Til my teens. Then he and Mom decided I’d be better off in an academy. That wasn’t too bad. It was European and we were all into sports.” He chuckled. “I’m not too bad of a polo player.”

“Uh-huh. Is your mother still living?”

His athletic stride became stiffer, she didn’t think he’d noticed. “Yes. She’s not in our lives. Never really wanted to be. What of your own parents?”

Well, she’d asked him. But she was the genealogist and interested in families. She didn’t know why he’d ask about hers except it was small talk people did when they were attracted to each other. Though she couldn’t gauge how much he was interested in her. He might like looking at her, but she wasn’t in his league—any of his leagues—and didn’t think she’d care to be. Didn’t guys like him date supermodels or minor European royalty?