Aphrodite's Kiss (9 page)

She frowned, frustrated by the thoughts running through her head. Maybe she should go put in another thousand or so sit-ups. Or chin-ups. She hated chin-ups, but if that didn’t get her mind off Deena and her punishment and Mordi—not to mention those ever-present thoughts about that Buster Taylor—nothing would.

Armed with the promise of an evening free of Buster-Mordi-punishment-Deena-revelation thoughts, she headed for her mailboxes, humming the theme from
Rocky
. She’d left her glasses in her apartment, and now she checked out her mail, trying to decide if it was even worth bothering to get—a few bills, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a “you could be a winner” letter from Publishers Clearing House.
Boring
.

She took a peek at the mail inside Mrs. Callahan’s box, wondering if hers was any better. It was probably some sort of felony offense to examine someone else’s mail that way, but Mrs. Callahan was forever forgetting to pick up the stuff, and Zoë hated to see the sweet woman do without something important.

Junk, junk, junk, Victoria’s Secret catalog, junk, AARP magazine, junk, junk, check. Aha.

She circled the staircase and peered through the woman’s door, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No worries there; the woman was up, watching

Wheel of Fortune
. Zoë rapped on the door.

“Well, hello, dear,” Mrs. Callahan said, after she’d checked through the peephole.

“Hi, Mrs. Callahan.”

“Mary, dear. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

Zoë smiled. “Hi, Mary.”

“You’re all dressed up. Do you have a date?”

“Uh, these are my workout clothes.”

Mary patted her hand. “A man who’ll love you when you look like hell will love you always.”

Somehow that didn’t make Zoë feel better. Especially since there was no man. No boyfriend, no dates, no social life whatsoever. Except for throwing herself off a thirty-story building, the high point of her day was this: chatting about her less than trendy wardrobe with her eighty-something neighbor.

Mary opened the door wider. “Would you like some spice cake and tea? I was just having a snack and watching Vanna. That woman’s outfits, well, I tell you ...”

“No, thanks.” Spice cake sounded, well, too spicy. And Zoë didn’t need to have one of her food moments in front of the woman. “I just wanted to let you know that I got a glimpse of the mail earlier while the postman was filling the boxes. I think your check’s in there.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind Coke-bottle glasses. “I don’t suppose you saw my”—she lowered her voice—“
catalog
.”

“Your catalog?”

“You know,” she said, her voice still in a whisper, “Victoria’s Secret.”

Zoë stifled a giggle. “Yeah, I think I saw it there.”

The woman let out a sigh. “Marvin would have loved that store. Back in my day, all we had was Sears Roebuck.” She leaned closer. “That’s just not the same.”

Zoë nodded, sure that if she spoke, she’d laugh.

“You’re sure about the cake?”

“I’m sure,” Zoë said. “Would you like me to bring you your mail?”

“No, thank you, dear. I’ll get it tomorrow when the postman comes.” She patted Zoë’s hand. “He’s quite a hunk, you know.”

“Right.” She’d never considered Mr. Davidson a hunk, but then she wasn’t over eighty.

She said good-bye, then headed back toward the staircase, sure she was grinning like an idiot. If she was that spunky when she hit eighty-five, she’d consider it a victory.

She headed back up the stairs, mentally ticking off all the things she needed to do before going to bed. She was debating whether or not the dishes could wait until morning—she was on spring break after all—when she felt it.

Someone was watching her.

She whipped around, her head cocked, trying to focus her hearing. She heard the gentle, sand-paperish sound of the cat in 4B bathing, Vanna White and Pat Sajak chitchatting on Mary’s television, someone cooking in the apartment behind the mailboxes. She sniffed... fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and red wine. The guy in 2A must have a hot date.

None of the sounds or smells seemed threatening, yet something wasn’t right.

She listened again, this time picking up sounds from the street behind her. Teenagers laughing and smoking in front of the liquor store down the street, crickets chirping in the dark, the wind whispering through the bushes. And something else. Someone breathing.

Who? Her gaze roamed the street. All was quiet, no people around at all. Even the teenagers were out of her line of sight. And this sound was close by. She didn’t know why, but she had a funny feeling. She shivered, her eyes drawn to a perfectly restored Mustang convertible parked right across the street from her building. She frowned, sure it didn’t belong to one of the residents.

Curious, she took a step toward it, and the breathing seemed louder.
Odd
. The top was down. It wasn’t as if there was anyone
in
the car. She cocked her head. Or was there?

Feeling a little silly for being paranoid, she concentrated on the door panel. Metal was always the most difficult to see through, but not impossible, and after she’d taken a few deep breaths, the door shimmered, then became transparent.

Zoë gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth and a dozen butterflies suddenly decided to perform the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies in her stomach.

Buster Taylor.

She was thrilled.

She was pissed.

He was spying on her.

What did he think? That Emily was going to bring some young lover over to Zoë’s apartment? That Zoë was running a love nest for wayward teachers?

Sinking down to sit on the front step, she balanced her chin on her hand, trying to stay calm. This was the man she’d been fantasizing about, remember? The man she’d hoped would call her, ask her out for coffee, proposition her for a wild night of living out X-rated fantasies.

The mortal man she’d hoped she’d never see again so she wouldn’t have to make hard decisions.

Well, she should be grateful. He’d just made her decision for her. She certainly wasn’t going to entertain fantasies of some lying, spying mortal. No matter how intriguing he might have seemed.

Time to teach him a lesson.

She stood up quietly, then checked the street for witnesses. Empty.
Good
.

She ran forward, then sprang up, landing on her hands and whipping up and over into a flip—finally ending up right on the hood of his car. It was a landing worthy of at least a 9.5—
and the crowd goes wild
! She stifled a self-satisfied giggle. Too bad Hale had missed it. He would have been impressed.

As the car shook, Buster sat up, his eyes wide. Zoë dropped into a crouch, which put her face-to-face with him. Just a single thin piece of windshield glass separated them.

Her heart upped its rhythm, and Zoë shivered, wondering if she’d just made her eight zillionth huge mistake of the day.

His face clearing, Buster smiled, and her body started to melt.

“Where the devil did you come from?” he asked, standing up to look at her over the windshield.

All of her intentions to be firm and no-nonsense headed out for coffee, leaving her with a fuzzy, funny feeling in her stomach and the overwhelming desire to throw herself over the windshield and kiss him senseless.

Which was probably not a good idea.

“Does it matter?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant as she climbed over the windshield and settled into the passenger seat. “I’m here now.”

“No kidding you’re here. But how’d you get here? What are you? One of the Flying Wallendas?”

“Not exactly.” She steeled herself, trying to ignore the way his eyes burned into her, the way the scent of his after-shave tickled her nose. He was spying on her, after all. Trying to find dirt and sneaking around to do it. “What are you?” she asked. “A professional jerk, or just an amateur?”

She mentally congratulated herself—at least until he grinned. Then she wondered if maybe her zinger wasn’t all that zingy after all. “What are you grinning about?” she asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“You.”

“Me?”

“You’re so damn sure I’m here doing dastardly investigator things.” He’d lowered his voice, hunching his shoulders and waggling his fingers like an evil magician.

She grimaced, refusing to be amused by his silliness. “Why are you staking out my apartment? Emily and I don’t hang out together.”

“I’m not looking for Emily.” He stretched his arm out, hooking it over the back of her seat.

“Oh.” Zoë sucked in air and tried to keep her composure despite his proximity. “So what are you doing? Looking to interview kids she went to kindergarten with? Find out if she ever showed off her underpants?”

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Except that that would be sleazy. And I’m off the case.”

Her breath quickened. “Really? Why?”

“Emily’s clean and her husband’s a jerk. Do I need a better reason?”

“No. Those are good reasons.” Gutsy, too, if what he’d said about needing the work had been true. Without planning to, she smiled at him, wide and genuine. “So why are you here?”

He leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin. “You,” he said simply. “I’m here because of you.”

“Me?” she repeated, sure her voice was squeaking. “Why?”

One shoulder rolled slightly. “I came by tonight hoping to ask you out.”

“Oh.” He wanted to go out with her? This incredible man? The man who had taken up residence in her dreams? This man wanted to go out on a date ... with her? “Really?”

“You’ve been on my mind all week. Constantly. Pervasively. Hell, I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” He smiled, his eyes dark, dangerous. Dangerous to her heart, to her head. “You’ve become my obsession.”

She smiled, unreasonably delighted at the thought of being someone’s obsession. That wasn’t exactly status quo for her.

But he’s a mortal, Zoë. Dangerous territory, very dangerous.

She took a deep breath.
Righto. That it is
. She shouldn’t get involved,
couldn’t
get involved. No matter how tempting he might be ...

“I should go.”

“So you hate me, right?”

“What? No.” Hate him? Her feelings were a heck of a long way from hate. “Why on earth would I hate you?”

He shrugged, looking sheepish and adorable. “That stuff about Emily. All of this.” He spread his arms, indicating the car, the street. “I mean, most men use the telephone.”

“I have a feeling you’re not most men.”

The smile that touched his lips just about brought her to tears. “No,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m not.”

She gasped as he took her hand, the pad of his thumb caressing her palm. Like a phoenix, she burst into flames, only to be reborn over and over and over from his touch. She squirmed, trying to settle her insides, trying to block the wonderful sensations shooting down the tips of her fingers all the way to the ends of her hair.

She was on fire. She was
alive
.

She was anxious and fascinated and oddly at peace, all at the same time.

Oh, mother of Zeus
. How she wanted his touch, wanted his hands on every part of her body. Wanted more than that, so much more.

But she couldn’t handle it, shouldn’t even try.

Every cell was singing, every atom in her body spinning out of control. She’d left his car and was floating on a rainbow of colors, electricity zipping through her, leaving her gasping for breath. Leaving her wanting, needing.

Terrified.

She summoned her strength and pulled her hand away, the loss of contact leaving her hollow, a shell of herself. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t get involved.

She clasped her hands in her laps and tried not to cry.

“Are you okay?” Real concern shown in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. But I’m ... I’m...” She took a deep breath, grappling for an excuse. “I want to, so help me, I do. But I can’t. I’m not.... There’s some—”

“I know.” His jaw tightened.

“Know?”

“You’re already seeing someone.” He said the words like a curse. “Right?”

In a way, he’d pegged the situation just right. She was taken. Not by a man, but what did it matter? The bottom line was still the same.

“Yes,” she said, the words costing her everything. “I’m not available.”

From the far end of the street, Mordi watched Zoë talking with the investigator. That made twice he’d seen her with the man—first at the library and now here. And from the look in her eye, Mordi doubted this would be the last time they would be together.

Interesting.

And potentially useful.

His mind turned over the possibilities. The stone was lost in the mortal world. True, he had use of Hieronymous’s tracking device, but it was proving sadly unreliable. All it seemed to be able to determine was that the stone was in Los Angeles. But L.A. was a rather large haystack.

Good old-fashioned legwork had led him to the thrift store where the stone had turned up. And through good, old-fashioned luck, he’d seen the woman who bought the gem. But when he’d tried to snag it, Zoë had interfered. His target had retrieved her purse, and Mordi had lost track of the gem. It could be with the first woman, it could be with Zoë, or it could be lost somewhere on the streets of L.A.

If he had to go poking around in the mortal world, what better way than to enlist the aid of a mortal? Especially a mortal who would, quite likely, be in a position to know if the stone reached Zoë.

Mordi smiled. Tomorrow he would engage the services of Mr. George Bailey Taylor, private investigator.

The ringing phone woke Taylor from a particularly pleasant dream. He groped for the handset, finally grabbing it and pulling it to his ear. “What?”

“Pardon me, Mr. Taylor.” The cultured voice was smarmy and definitely not that of the librarian of whom he’d been dreaming. “Did I wake you?”

Taylor glanced at the clock. Almost noon. “No. Up for hours.”

“I have a job for you, if you have the time to take it on.”