Her Alien Savior (8 page)

Finn took a spot across the street at a café and kept an eye on the green door. For more than an hour. No one came out, four more laughing couples went in. And a couple of unaccompanied women. And one man.

Finn stretched in the chair, the human epidermis uncomfortable over his own skin in this heat. The sun was lowering. Thankfully. But not going down, not yet.

Maybe he should make an entrance. Just to verify she was okay.
For the mission
, he told himself. Knowing he wouldn’t believe his own lie.

He crossed over and approached the door. Not even a peephole for security reasons. He tugged on the handle. The door yielded without hesitation. Dimness greeted his eyes. And took some adjusting to.

A bar.

This place was a bar. Jazz music drifted throughout the sofa and love seat dotted place. Candles and overstuffed large chairs added to the ambience.

But no Marissa.

He made his way upstairs. More sofas. No bar. Couples were in the sofas, but no one who was unaccompanied. Did he miss those, where were they?

He skimmed down the steps, two at a time. Around the corner. There she was. Her back was to him, but she was in front of the bar’s mirror. A drink in her hand.

He stepped back—quick—but NOT quick enough. She frowned at his image in the mirror, as if to be sure she wasn’t seeing things, and turned around.

She scratched her head, almost childlike in her action. He knew what that meant. Or hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it did.

“Finn.”

Her slurred word confirmed it. She was drunk.

“You’re following. You. Are. Following.” She took a drink. “Me.”

He didn’t know what to say. If he confirmed it would she accuse him of being a stalker? Would the bartender call the cops? That would be ugly. If he denied it—no point in that—she’d know the truth.

“I was concerned.” Might as well go with the truth.

“About me? Little ol’ me?” She set the drink down, and it splashed up, clearly a hard landing. “You’re a scout. For one of those developers.” A sneer marred her features.

He was confused. What developers? Did he want to let her know he didn’t know what she was talking about? May as well, since her thinking that he was a scout for a developer wasn’t working out too well for him. “I don’t know what you mean. What developers?”

She drew back, exaggeratedly so, almost theatrical. The stunned expression that replaced the sneer would have been funny, if the circumstances weren’t the same, if she didn’t hate him without a reason. “What do you mean,
what developers?
You don’t know? You didn’t—Belle didn’t—you—”

Evidently she wasn’t going to assemble a sentence that made sense, so he would have to take the lead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I left right after you did. You didn’t seem to be okay.”

“And you were worried about me.”

“We’ve already established that.” He pushed her drink away. She’d had enough and was too difficult to communicate with.

She brought it closer, took the straw between her teeth. The fluid rose through the opaque straw. She closed her eyes as she drank. If she weren’t getting on his nerves with her incomprehension, he’d have been—

—cancel that thought. Too late—

—he
was
aroused. Very much so.

Cursed woman. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked on the straw and damn if his body didn’t have a surge of electricity that flowed through it. Thoughts ran rampant through his mind. Thoughts and a visual. And just like that—
wham!
—his wings pushed up against the human skin. He hoped they wouldn’t pop through. That’s all he needed. Functional or not, his wings would not go unnoticed, even in a dark bar.

He shifted away, hoping that everything would subside. Not much time in this body and it was already controlling him and in return it threatened results that were uncontrollable.

“Oh, now you’re mad?” Her head was cocked, one eyebrow raised, green eyes gleaming in the dancing candlelight.

“No, but I am wondering what this developer business is all about.”

“Don’t worry about it. So if you’re a scout, but you don’t work for a developer, then . . .” She swirled the straw around and around in the glass, the ice tinkling a soft jingle. Her eyes followed the tiny whirlpool created by the straw. In a flash, her head popped up, her eyes wide, like she’d seen something. Or knew something. “I get it. You’re a talent scout. A headhunter for restaurants? Looking for managers?”

He took a second to evaluate an answer. She didn’t seem to be appalled by that idea, seemed pleased by it. As if that wasn’t a bad thing. As if it might actually be a good thing.

“Yes.” He tried to keep his tone confident, as if this was the truth. He raised himself taller in the stool. “That’s exactly right.”

She sank into a more relaxed pose.

He didn’t exhale in relief, not wanting her to know, but he felt his pulse going back to normal. And his
passion,
and with it his wings retracting.

Chapter 17

Marissa

It was as if suddenly everything was better. And it was. Everything. Except, the room was spinning. Okay, so maybe not everything. And her tummy wanted to spew its contents. Which for now were purely liquid.
So much for a liquid diet.
But at least this guy wasn’t one of the enemies. That would have sucked. She didn’t want to dwell on why it would have sucked. That would have meant dwelling on something else. But who wanted another enemy when things were as bad as they were?

Could he be the answer to a problem? A job? Ugh.
Get it together, Marissa. You still have Two West Two.
Really? She wanted to rail at the whisper in her head. I won’t in ten days. If I don’t come up with a plan I won’t have enough capital to open up another restaurant. God, her head started to pound, thinking of it all. She wanted a drink, or twelve. Not to think about the future, to slip into a nice, inebriated, little state. One where she didn’t need to deal with life for a few hours.

He had to follow her here, just had to, didn’t he? And now she was thinking about everything, and suddenly she wanted to drink more. She raised her glass to the bartender and nodded.

Then she saw it. Was that for real? In the reflection of the mirror, this guy—Finn, and what kind of name was
Finn
, anyway?—was shaking his head at the bartender, as if he could tell him not to make her another drink. She was grown, dammit. Who the hell did he think he was?

She turned to him so fast her head felt like it was going to pull a Linda Blair move. Totally. And never stop spinning. She placed her fingertips on her temples. But still the room was swimming. Or maybe she was swimming. Wait, that wasn’t possible.

“I don’t feel so good. Why are you here again? Are you my guardian angel? Wait, wait. Angels have wings. You don’t—” She pushed his stool, trying to swivel it, pretending to look for wings.

But his face, it changed. It went from sexy and sweet to—

Aloof.

Forbidding.

Like he was someone different altogether.

She drew back. Something was wrong. He jerked away, returned his seat to facing her. “Don’t be silly.”

“Jeez. It’s a joke. Aren’t you overreacting a little?” She reached for her drink. It was empty. She hunted for the bartender, but he was gone, before he got her a refill. How convenient.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am your wingless guardian angel. Don’t you think you should let me take care of you if I am?”

“Um, no. You’re still a stranger, guardian angel or not.”

Spinning. The seat felt like it was spinning. Or maybe it was the room. Whatever it was, the flavor of Kahlua and cream flowed in her throat. But very definitely from the opposite direction. White Russians did not taste as good coming back up. She swallowed the liquid down.

No. No. No. It was the wrong thing to do. Now it was worse. Her stomach heaved. A glance up confirmed Finn was watching her, concern on his face. She turned away from him. If she didn’t she’d—

God, too late. Just as she turned away, six White Russians projectile-erupted from her mouth. Out of her peripheral vision she caught his jump backward, his barstool flipped, clipping hers. Evidently clipping it just right.

Marissa tumbled to the floor, vomit cascading around her. She slipped on the nasty, grimy, chunky floor and landed right on her ass.

Chapter 18

Finn

In seconds, Marissa, the human firebrand was vomiting a white-ish concoction in his direction and he made a swift flip out of her way. Finn didn’t count on his barstool tipping, or knocking hers over. He sure didn’t count on her falling down and her own vomit pelting her.

She sat on the floor, this forlorn, former firebrand, lost, covered in her own vomit, miserable. Pitiful.

Now what? Fueled by alcohol, and embarrassment, what would her temper lead her to do? He paused, waiting for her reaction. The other thing he hadn’t counted on—

A flood of tears burst from her eyes, while her face maintained no emotions at all. This woman was beyond confusing. He leaned in, hoping she’d accept his help. Help? Help her what? What could he do? The only way to get this woman help would be to throw her in a bathtub. Preferably one filled with cold water to shock that alcohol’s effects out of her body and bring her to her senses. What could he say that would make it better? Nothing. So he put his hand out to help her up.

She stared at his hand like it was a cobra.

What was wrong with her? “Let me help you.”

“I’m beyond help.” The snot that dribbled from her nose merged with the tears.

He was happy she was too drunk—hopefully too drunk—to remember the sight she was. Yes, hopefully tomorrow morning she wouldn’t have any inkling of this performance.

And why did that matter anyway? In a short time, she’d become a part of the mission to help his people.

What would they do to her? Or to any of the women? What exactly happened once they were in Asazi custody? He should have asked. Why? Why would he have asked? It wasn’t his business. His assignment was to bring them in. he wasn’t a scientist. But now, suddenly, this woman made him want to know. To know that she’d be okay. To know that she wouldn’t come to harm. To know she’d still be that human spitfire, not a corpse. Or even an incubator.

What was wrong with him? Why did he care? Was it the human genomes in his body that made him ask—care? Or was it the fact he’d taken on a human appearance? What was going on? He leaned back, fought to keep his confusion, and concern, from showing on his face.

“Hey bud.” The bartender was back and tugging on Finn’s sleeve. “She’s a nice lady, and a good tipper and all that.” His face grew concerned as he looked down at Marissa. “But you’re going to have to . . . well, she’s drunk. You’re going to have to take your girlfriend out of here.”

“She’s not—” Before Finn could say
She’s not my girlfriend
, the bartender raised his hand in the universal
Halt
gesture.

“She is drunk. She’s definitely drunk.”

That wasn’t what Finn was going to dispute. A person would have to be deaf, blind, and have no sense of smell if they would have disputed that Marissa was drunk. He nodded in agreement.

The bartender continued. “She’s going to cause me trouble with the law.”

“How so?” This was out of Finn’s area of expertise.

“Public intoxication, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. What I need you to do is get her out of here.”

“I don’t think she can walk and her house is quite a distance away.”

“Yeah man, I called a cab for her.”

That seemed to settle the matter. He lifted her, cradled her head under his chin, and held his breath so he wouldn’t have to breathe the combination of cream, Kahlua, vodka, and stomach bile. “Let’s go, Marissa, honey.” That was for the benefit of the bartender. Since Finn was going to be taking her home, or was he? At least he had to go along with the bartender’s theory that he was her boyfriend. He carried her to the door, the bartender flicked the knob, Finn kneed it open the rest of the way. Sure enough, a cab was waiting at the door.

Seeing Finn, the cabbie came around and opened the door. “I’ve been here a few minutes. The meter’s been running.” His accent was thick, his smile broad and even-toothed under a knit cap.

“Thanks. No problem, I understand about the meter.”

Marissa moaned, but didn’t open her eyes as he set her in the seat, careful not to jostle her too much, and still very careful not to breathe in too deeply. That odor—not pleasant.

“Where to, brother?” The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror.

Luckily Finn had no problem remembering her address. Good thing he took this seriously and learned the details in her file. “1483 Feather Hollow.”

The cabbie put it in gear and nosed it out of the parking lot. And still Marissa gave no indication of waking up. She was out for the whole trip. Not a long trip, less than twenty minutes’ drive while they left that area of town and progressed to a part that was better kept up. A whole lot better kept up. Suburbia, pretty much.

While the driver drove, Finn took her keys out of her purse and pocketed them. It’d make opening a door easier if he didn’t have to dig through the purse while carrying a passed-out-Marissa on her front doorstep. He paid the driver, tipped him well, took Marissa out.

The door yielded to the key without issue, but he didn’t push it open. Stopping to listen, to be sure there wasn’t a dog. The last thing he needed was to have to fend off—or worse, kill—her dog. That’d be hell to explain to her when she came to, later. Explanations would be the easy part. The hate she’d have for him. That was something he didn’t want to think of.

He waited a full three minutes. Scuffled a little, made some noise. No barking, no growling, no canine toenails skittering on wood or tile. Finn pushed the door open and was greeted by a small lamp’s light. Thankfully because else, he’d have tripped over the pile of junk just to the left of the door, almost barring his entrance. “Damn, it’s an obstacle course.” He muttered under his breath.