Spirit Song Page 6

  The face staring back at her was one she barely recognized. Her skin had long since lost the lively glow from afternoons in the sun, laughing with friends over cups of coffee and harmonizing with whatever played on the radio. Stress had carved darkened circles under her once bright blue eyes, high cheek bones that had once given her a stately and refined appearance now added to her cadaverous pallor, the shadows cutting too deep to be considered attractive.

  Was this the reason her secret admirer disappeared so quickly? Did he somehow see how empty and hollow she had become?

  Her imagination conjured a pair of smoky topaz eyes staring back through the foggy glass. Black brows and long black lashes framed the dangerous whiskey orbs, full lips curled into a wicked smile as the mirage solidified. Her breath came in shorter gasps, heat painting her throat as she delved deeper into fantasy, her fingers becoming his lips that trailed along the column of her throat. His hands would be rough, strong and masculine as they caressed her body.

  A sharp rap on her door startled her out of her sensual daydream, her knees knocking the spindly vanity’s legs and nearly spilling the bottles scattered about. The voice on the other side of the wooden barrier boomed with bland information.

  Lock-up time. Ten minutes to finish changing and to put this fiasco in her rear view.

  She called out an automatic thank you as she unzipped the only costume she was ever given. Asking Sal about another outfit had only been met with strange stares and scoffs. “Doll, ain’t no one caring what you wear. As long as they get a hint at your goodies, they’re happy.”

  Still muttering complaints, she pulled on her jeans and layered on the sweater, scarf and cap, before ending with her father’s worn leather jacket and her boots. She flipped the switch, not looking back at the broken dreams hanging in the narrow dressing room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Although the deserted highways and streets offered no moving hindrances, the late hour and the round trip did enough damage. By the time Bastian returned to the restaurant, the lights had long since been turned off, the front doors buttoned up tight. His lip curled in impotent frustration. The drive back was one long, ball-crunching experience that he never again wished to duplicate. His slacks, though not as confining as jeans or his leathers, gave little in the way of wiggle room for his painfully erect pocket pal. Not to mention the seat belt that seemed on a single-minded goal of cutting right across the sensitive tip of the Louisville slugger tenting his thick woolen slacks.

  Growling at his watch did nothing to make the time go backward. The gleaming dial of his Akribos XXIV continued to mock him with the very late hour of 3:05 a.m. All he could do was glare and mutter frustrated curses between his clenched teeth.

  Gone. He had missed her.

  He closed his eyes, pulling the cold night air into his lungs, wishing he had something to use as a homing signal for her. Yet all he had was her name. Even with his unique skills, he needed more than that, especially since the word was given to him secondhand. Had she told him her name, he would have her voice and the powerful connection between sound and soul. Far too many singers were able to masterfully manipulate their voices so much that the end product sounded nothing like their regular speaking voices.

  Thank you, Jim Nabors.

  But she had spoken at the end of her set. Not face-to-face with him, but he might have a chance. Flipping through the events of the last couple hours in his mind, he fought to retrieve that one moment, those precious few words, but to no avail. The energy was too scattered, her words following the pathways of every person in the room as they exited the building.

  He might try to touch the door handle, hoping for some lingering contact there to solidify one stream. Yet as he turned his face toward the entryway, his closed eyes searching the ether, he met with a barrage of over-information. Paths leading every direction imaginable spun kaleidoscopically from the round brass knob, splintering rays of light and dark against the muddy puddles leftover from the earlier snowfall.

  Dangerous expletives spilled from his snarled lips as defeat seeped in with the cold night air. His eyelids dragged up, the silent street still just as deserted as when he closed them. Blue-balled frustration egged him to call Viktor. Maybe interrupting him in the midst of what he knew to be another tumble in the sack as a “thank you” to the officer with the earlier tip would brighten his night. Instead, he chose to walk back to the driver’s side door. One last look back at the brick façade, a final growl, and he slid uncomfortably back behind the wheel.

  “A domani, tesorina.”

  Lights pulsed and strobed into the silent interior as he raced up North Lake Shore Drive, the arctic air blowing off Lake Michigan doing little to cool the fires beneath his skin. She was only an itch, the repeated words spinning around in his mind like a hamster on steroids. Just an itch that he had neglected for far too long. Nothing more.

  Maybe Viktor was right. He did need to get out more. But would she have been anywhere else for him? He cranked up the radio, hoping the death metal would drown out the sultry voice that whispered in his head. God, she had the voice of angel. No, he thought, taking La Salle away from the dark of the lake. The entire heavenly host could not spark the dormant hunger inside of him as she did.

  Her face rose up in the glow of his headlights. Pure blue eyes, skin as fine as china. Long slender limbs, full lips. Yards of tumbling blond waves. And a heart-shaped ass. His mouth watered at the mere thought of dragging his tongue along those round curves. Would she have fossette di Venere?

  The dimples of Venus.

  This time, the growl of pained and voracious anticipation thrummed through the car as he drove the final leg of his journey homeward, the quiet Lincoln Park zip code just around the corner. He had first heard the term referring to those seductive dips right above a perfectly shaped ass long before that night in the piazza. Two delectable divots on either side near the base of the spine, as if God himself pressed His thumbs into those spots. And it was good.

  Fuck yeah, it was better than good.

  He turned onto the circular drive and threw the beast into park when he reached the front of the house. A painful readjustment later and he was limping at a passable rate to the front door, passing by the white columns to reach the mahogany barrier. Muted sparks of light and dark spilled out from the stained glass side lights and peaked from the transom as well.

  Fuck.

  Aggravated, he glanced over his shoulder and spied a second vehicle parked beyond the driveway, the dark camouflaging the pale blue VW Bug. His back teeth creaked as his jaw locked in anger. As he reached to the handle, he swallowed back more rage as it swung open easily. Inside, past the darkened entryway, light flickered from a wall-mounted flat screen in the game room. Voices poured from the screen, spouting high school romantic drivel and pleadings of eternal love. His growls curled his upper lip as he stepped into his house and shut the door with all the control he could muster.

  After all, it wasn’t the door’s fault Crazy had a key to his house.

  “Sebastian? Is that you?” The fake falsetto felt like sandpaper against his ears, and the object of his objection rose from the couch. His eyebrows drew together as he spied the outfit she was almost wearing.

  “Veronica? What are you doing here?” He kept his arms dangling at his side. If he dared to move them, he would no doubt find his hands around her neck. And given the fact he could smell her arousal from the doorway, she might take the action as some kind of twisted foreplay.

  He remained still as she flung herself at his chest. The black chiffon robe trailed in her wake as she pressed her body against his, her ample and augmented bosom nearly spilling out from the black satin merry widow while her ass did peak below the edges of the sneeze of silk that deemed to be called panties. Those damned silly feathery-heeled slip-ons completed the ridiculous ensemble. Were he living in a different time, he would have chucked her right out the front door to land on her satin-draped ass in the middle of the street.
>
  Instead, he lived in the forward thinking 21st century and in a quiet and very affluent neighborhood where old money resided and gossips were a dime a dozen. It was bad enough his odd hours and generally unfriendly manner had made him the target of watchful eyes; he didn’t need to top off that screwed-up sundae with a half-naked cherry at almost four in the morning.

  “Oh, Sebastian. I was so worried. When you didn’t answer your phone, I thought something horrible happened to you.” The sound of her forced tears raked along his skin, her voice nails on the chalkboard of his soul.

  It was hard for him to believe it had only been a month since the insanity had truly begun. Veronica Ashton had been suggested to him by one of his more nosey neighbors about a year ago when the state of his house had gotten out of hand even for him. Never known to be too fastidious, it didn’t bother him if a house wasn’t immaculate. A place should look lived in, after all. But once he realized the cobwebs and dust on the books in the study predated his car, he opted to look into a cleaning service.

  Now he wished his Guardian powers looked forward instead of back.

  When she arrived for that first meeting, dressed in a conservative long-sleeved uniform, minimal make-up and her fire-engine-red hair in a high, tight bun, he had been mildly intrigued. She appeared professional, spoke eloquently, and came highly recommended. He didn’t find her overly attractive, but neither did she repulse him, so he hired her for a six-month contract. She was to do one major overhaul, then visits every two weeks for upkeep. Her fees sounded decent and the place could use some serious TLC.

  He should have paid more attention to the subtle changes, but he had been so focused on his duties keeping the city out of the hands of the devils that walked on human feet, he missed many details until it was too late. It started as all avalanches start, with the smallest shift. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact day when he’d realized that the tight bun had loosened to a tumble of loose curls and the modest, baggy jumpsuit had become a close-fitting, cropped tank and a pair of thigh-hugging capris. Pale cheeks were soon highlighted with pink and thin lips were plumped with ruby red. Smiles became more frequent and her hours began to fluctuate, her start times seeming to meld miraculously with the end of his daily sparring workouts. Twice a month turned into once a week, then every couple days, with the rationale of other assignments keeping her too busy to finish all that was required in one day. She was still putting in the same number of hours, and the place was clean, so he let it go.

  He was not thoroughly oblivious to the minor changes. He simply took them to be a way of settling in to a new environment. Then came the food. Cookies were the first. She claimed she’d baked them for a friend’s party and did not want to let the leftovers go to waste. Cakes and sandwiches followed, each of which he would decline but eventually accept with only a gruff word of thanks in reply. All this led up to that night he arrived home after another fruitless search to find a four-course dinner spread across the Danish black walnut Baroque table.

  In a moment of need, fueled by weeks of aggravating roadblocks in tracking the newest Rogue agents in town and a handful of double bourbons from O’Malley’s down the street, he gave into his baser instincts and took her on the dining room table. She was a willing and enthusiastic partner and the itch was scratched.

  As he cleaned up the broken bits of china scattered on the slate floor and thought through his snap decision, he knew he’d screwed up.

  He just did not know how screwed he would end up.

  Exercising a level of self-control that should be lauded in song, he gripped her shoulders and held the blubbering woman at arm’s length from him.

  “I said, ‘What are you doing here?’” he growled, the gravel in his voice rising in anger, not arousal. God, how he wished they were back in his time. He glared down as garishly painted nut-brown eyes batted up at him, concern bordering on obsession mixing with the ghostly flickering of TV reflecting back.

  After that one tumble in the sack, things had taken a strange turn. With his head still pounding in the post-alcoholic afterglow, he found her at his door, much earlier than normal. However, given the nature of the previous night’s activities, he was hoping she was arriving to aid in the clean up. He let her in and left her in the kitchen, fully intending to head back to his bed and sleep until Viktor called. Apparently, cleaning was not in her plans, and she followed him up the stairs, undressing as she kept pace with him up the staircase.

  Growling his displeasure at her forward assumption, he carefully and directly told her that what had transpired between them was a one-shot deal and a mistake. She did not hold such sentiments and had spent every moment since that night attempting to convince him that she was his true match.

  Two days in, he fired her, but this did not deter her. It seemed to spur her on, since now she did not have duties to keep her from her pursuits. More food appeared in his kitchen while more surprise gifts made their way into every other room. Frilly pillows and fragrant candles popped up in his man cave of a bedroom, their bright tones standing out in girlish glory. Still, no matter how many times he removed them, threw them out, even burned one Pepto-Bismol pink set of Hello Kitty shams, she would only smile and continue in her annoying pursuits.

  His phone was another matter altogether. It was essential that other Guardians were able to get a hold of each other, so he couldn’t completely ditch the cursed thing. But he could choose when he carried it with him. Which was never. If he was out, he was not alone, and Viktor would handle any calls relating to their current assignment. He blocked her number, only to discover that for each number he blocked, she would just change hers. All of his brethren had been assigned unique and fitting ringtones, which made screening out her attempts to contact him easier.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked, biting her lip. “Well, what else was I supposed to do? You didn’t answer your phone and your lights weren’t on, so you weren’t home. I was so worried. Are you all right, darling?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I didn’t take my phone. Mystery solved. Now it’s time for you to leave.” He let go of her shoulders and turned back to the front door, intent on doing at least one gentlemanly thing in this whole fucked-up puzzle and show her to the door. She flung her arms around his shoulders, her dragon lady red nails clutching at his deep gray sweater.

  “Please don’t send me away, darling. I’ve missed you so much. And I dressed just for you. Do you like it?” The panic in her voice vanished in a flash of flirtatious fire as she spun to stand before him. The slinky fabric strained against her plump curves and the far-too-thin robe flared in a spiral around her bare legs.

  “No. Get out.” His gruff answer was direct and honest if nothing else. He had never found pleasure in frilly panties masquerading as clothes. Plus, at this moment, he had the image of only one woman in his mind and did not want to taint the dreams of his current obsession with the nightmare of this unwanted infatuation. As soon as he thought of Miranda, he pictured her in the outfit parading before him. Would she wear something like this? Would he want her to?

  The blood began to tiptoe southward, but first he had to get rid of Veronica lest she think his growing hard-on was in response to her attire.

  Her hands slapped flat on his chest stopping her mid-twirl, her bold red lips parting and her eyelids fluttering down in preparation for a “rock your world” kind of kiss.

  Oh, hell no.

  He grabbed her shoulders once again, his muscles tensing, and her body jerked in response.

  “Veronica. There is no us. Never has been. Never will be. I told you before that night and I have told you since. Now please. Go home. I am tired and this conversation is over.” He walked her to the door, snatching her pale yellow overcoat from the rack by the door and tossing it over her shoulders.

  “But, darling, it’s freezing outside, and I’m in naught but my naughties.” Her bottom lip jutted out in an immature pout, even adding the batting of her eyelashes to complete the sc
ene. God, he struggled not to bare his teeth, worried she would misread his sneer as a seductive smile.

  “Then you should’ve thought about that before you showed up here. Now, good night.” The door sent in an icy blast that cooled his anger but only heated another fire burning much deeper. One that centered around a voice like velvet.

  Veronica curled against his chest, her face buried into his armpit as violent and overly dramatic tremors coursed through her body. She sobbed his name into his Burberry cashmere, which only made his desire to physically throw her out grow.

  The outside light across the street flared bright, the front door creaking open slightly, wide enough to let in a sliver of darkness. Or let out a pair of curious peepers.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  He never gave a shit what his Old Money busybody neighbors thought before. Why should he care now?

  Because, asshat, you want to bring home that beautiful singer and don’t want her to hear about your escapades from the Johnsons next door.

  Bastian closed the door as gently as he could, knowing that as satisfying as a splintering slam would be to him, it would only draw more unwanted attention to an already unwanted situation. He pushed her away as his long legs ate up the stairs, his voice thick with menace.

  “You will be gone by morning. Come up these stairs and I will hurt you.”

  He didn’t stop to listen for any response from her. And the lack of needles in his brain told him just how lucky the daft female downstairs truly was. He stalked up the stairs, snatching the unopened bottle of Jack off the dresser. As a precaution, he locked his bedroom door before yanking off his clothes and heading to his bed. A growl filled the silence as he tossed the latest cluster of lacy throw pillows onto the floor.