Magick Rising (31 page)

that‘s what counted. Of course, the job only consisted of going to a swanky

club, finding her husband, and getting him to agree to come back and sign a

single piece of paper.

No hazardous duty pay required.

She glanced up at Craft who was giving her a look that suggested he was

in the process of gauging Mrs. Worth’s worth. Belatedly, she berated herself

for wearing one of her better dresses. But wasn’t that the purpose of

secondhand designer fashions? To make the casual observer think you

actually bought them firsthand?

She cleared her throat. “How much is this going to cost, Mr. Craft?”

“Before we talk about money, there’s a complication to discuss.”

Alarm rose in her throat. “What?”

His chair creaked in protest as he leaned back. “As I understand it,

Sinema is members-only, and I don’t have a membership.”

Relief flooded through her. “You don’t have to.” Serenity pulled out

the paper-wrapped bundle from her purse. “David left this behind by

accident.” She unfolded the paper, revealing the coin. “It’s a guest token.

Good for one admission to the Sinema Club.”

Craft leaned forward to get a better look at the token. “You know you

could probably sell this and get five, maybe six hundred dollars for it.”

“Or you can use it to get in there and talk David into signing over the

house and an eighty thousand dollar inheritance to me.” The moment she

spoke, she regretted it. The last thing she wanted the investigator to know

was how much money she hoped to get. It made her sound like a gold

digger.

Or worse.

To her surprise, Mr. Craft quoted a figure, which was about half of the

cost of one of her designer dresses—the original price, that is. Her hands

shook as she hurried to write the retainer check before he could change his

mind or the fee. It was a small—okay, a reasonable—price to pay to get

some resolution in her life. She’d spent the last two year trying to dig out of

the mountainous debt left behind by David’s medical bills with no end in

sight. He hadn’t contributed a penny. But his part of the inheritance from

her aunt would put a big dent in the debt, and Serenity’s part would allow

her to move out of her cheap duplex and into her aunt’s small cottage in

Pasadena.

However, if David reneged on his promise . . .

Serenity pushed her worries back into their usual corner of her mind

and, instead, concentrated on Craft as he typed away on the keyboard. The

man wasn’t what she’d expected. When Father McCauley had described

Craft, he’d spent more time talking about the man’s character rather than his

looks. So her imagination had run amuck, and she’d pictured him like

someone out of a film noir.

However, when Jonathan Craft emerged from his office, she

remembered that in Hollywood, life frequently imitated art. He looked as if

he could have walked straight out of Central Casting circa 1948, from his

mid-morning five o’clock shadow to his slightly dingy white shirt to the dark

suspenders fastened to rumpled black pants.

Perhaps he dressed that way on purpose. Or maybe his wardrobe came

from the mission shop across the street. In any case, the worn clothes

matched the worn look in his eyes. And he seemed entirely too young of a

man to look so . . . tired, so shuttered off from the world.

When the printer powered up, it reminded her that despite the dated

appearances, he was firmly entrenched in the twenty-first century. A

moment later, he slid a piece of paper across the desk to her.

“My basic contract.”

When her pen stuttered out of ink after the first stroke of the ‘S’, he

handed her another pen. For that one brief moment that their hands

touched, their gazes locked.

A blinding light flashed in her mind, blocking out all other sensations.

It was totally unexpected, a tiny bit thrilling, and a whole lot disconcerting.

She tried not to flinch at the intense shiver that sliced through her spine. For

one moment, it was as if they were two people merged as one. She felt his

feelings, saw his memories, understood every fiber of his being.

A second later, they broke contact, and Serenity found herself in the

ordinary, mundane world where she saw only through her eyes, felt only her

own limited feelings.

And felt very much alone.

She drew a deep breath to regain control and managed to scribble a

signature somewhere in the vicinity of the blank line. But she couldn’t help

but wonder. Had he felt the same thing? Had he shared in that one moment

of exhilarating immersion with her? She dared to look up, disappointed to

see that his expression remained distant. Shuttered. Disconnected.

Pushing the paper back across the desk to him, Serenity chastised

herself for her overactive imagination. All the Hollywood talk had sprinkled

fairy dust and possibility over her morning. When she looked up again, his

dark gaze fastened on her.

“Mrs. Worth, you need to be more careful,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” What else could he mean?

Maybe he
had
felt the connection. After all, who could miss a thousand volts

of electricity shooting through his body? However, if he wanted an

explanation as to how or why it happened, he’d have to come up with that

himself.

She was clueless.

He tapped the papers with his forefinger. “You didn’t read this before

you signed them. You could be signing away your future.”

She met his darkness with her own. “You’re right. I should have read it.

But I’m not going to have much of a future to worry about if I don’t deal

with the past.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the photo she’d

brought, one taken during one of the more carefree days in her part.

Back when she and David had been happy.

In love.

The rock that had taken permanent residence in her stomach shifted

slightly. Whoever had said it was better to have love and lost was a blithering

idiot. Losing David had almost killed her.

The changes he’d undergone.

The person he’d become.

The idea that his old personality could be replaced with a new one with

the same face, the same memories . . .

She steeled herself. Breaking this last lingering tie to David would free

her.

At last.

“Here.” She tossed the photo across the desk. “So you know who

you’re looking for.”

Craft stared down at the picture for several seconds before he picked it

up. With great deliberation, he folded the photo, hiding her image. At first,

she was miffed that he would damage a picture in such a fashion. Then she

realized there was no reason left to keep it intact, and she shouldn’t be upset.

At least he hadn’t ripped it into two. She wasn’t quite ready to face such

overt symbolism.

Craft clipped the folded photo to the contract. “What about the papers

you need your ex to sign? You have them here?”

If it were only that easy.
“Both of our signatures have to be witnessed by the

same notary public. But if you bring David to me, I’ll furnish the papers and

the notary.” She pointed to the check sitting by the signed contract. “That

address. Any time of the day or night. The notary is my next-door neighbor,

and he’s agoraphobic.”

“That’s convenient.” Craft ran his finger down the photo’s crease.

“You said your husband—ex-husband has changed. Is it safe to invite him

back into your home?”

She appreciated the unspoken concern. “Maybe it’s not the smartest

thing I’ll ever do, but a necessary one. I realize he’s not the same man he was

before, but I can take care of myself around him, and he knows it.” At least

she hoped he did. Craft gave her one last soul-penetrating look then nodded,

signaling an end to their conversation. After they rose, she extended a shaky

hand in the obligatory handshake.

He paused then accepted her gesture.

There were no shivers. No fireworks. No nothing. It was as if both of

them were fighting hard to prevent any connections from taking place.

“I’ll call,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

JON STARED AT THE discreet sign which consisted of two stylized

letters, S and C. There was nothing else that identified the building as the

legendary Sinema Club. No overt security—
overt
being the operative word.

Two cameras were integrated into the outside lighting and one in the sign

itself so that every visitor could be viewed before reaching the door. Jon

held up the coin to the closest camera and waited. A few moments later, the

lock clicked, and the door opened.

A burly man dressed in a tailored suit greeted him with an open palm.

Jon handed him the coin and waited while the man examined the gold disk.

With a nod, the man stepped aside, allowing Jon passage into the club

proper.

The place was done in black and white—the walls, tables, bar, stage

curtains, even most of the patrons. Jon’s own non-descript dark suit allowed

him to blend into the surroundings. Although he avoided crowds in his

personal life, when it came to business, the rules changed out of necessity, if

nothing else. He spotted an empty table in the far corner where he’d have a

view of both the main entrance and a backroom door used by the

employees. As he worked his way through the crowd toward the vacant seat,

he raised—for the lack of a better description—internal shields to protect

himself from unwanted connections. But that didn’t protect him from

everything. Someone bumped him, and he felt a hand slide into his inside

jacket pocket.

He only had a moment to make his decision. Catch the pickpocket and

risk calling undue attention to himself or let her—and it was definitely a

her—continue with her exploration. All she’d get would be the bogus wallet

in his breast pocket. He’d put his real ID and most of his money in his shoe.

When she withdrew her hand, he realized that all she’d lifted was the

picture Serenity Worth had given him.

Not exactly negotiable currency, darlin’.

No loss. He really didn’t need the picture any more, having memorized

the man’s features in the special way that only he could.

Once he took his seat, he scanned the club, categorizing the showbiz

patrons as loud but harmless, the high-priced female escorts on their arms as

lovely but vapid, and the security guards as wary but muscle-bound and

slow.

At least he hoped. He wasn’t charging his client enough to warrant

putting himself in a tight spot.

Ah, yes.
My client.

There was something . . . different about Serenity Worth. Back in his

office, when something electric passed between them, it’d taken him by

surprise, having never experienced anything quite like it. And that begged

the question: why?

As soon as she’d left, he called Father Mike and pumped the priest for

info.

Pure and simple, Father Mike McCauley was the only reason why Jon

hadn’t gone to the dark side. Mentor, friend, and force to be reckoned with,

when Father Mike sent someone to you, you helped them.

“She’s a good one, Jon,” the priest had said, “and she deserved better

than a lousy ex making her life even lousier.”

“I thought your type didn’t believe in divorce.”

“Consider her a widow. The man who survived the wreck isn’t the man

she married. That guy died. Take the case, Jon. She needs you.”

Now, sitting in the club, Father Mike’s words continued to ring in his

ear.
She needs you.

What did the good father know that he wasn’t saying?

A distraction slinked Jon’s way, interrupting his thoughts—a woman in

a red gown, balancing a drink tray in one hand. She leaned in close as if the

noise level in the club warranted the action. However, it was nothing more

than a ploy to give him an unobstructed view of her cleavage.

“Welcome to the Sinema Club,” she drawled. “May I take your drink

order?”

“My drink order, my heart.” He shot her his best grin.

She laughed as if she’d never heard that one before.

“How about joining me?” He patted the empty seat beside him.

She didn’t even hesitate. Once seated, she purred, “My name’s Laila. I

don’t think I’ve seen you here before. You a first timer?”

He nodded. “A client liked what I did and gave me his gold coin.”

“Lucky boy,” she said with a perfectly executed tinkle of laughter. She

brushed his jacket lapel with the same hand she’d used to pick his pocket

earlier. “And good looking, too.”

“Good looking is in the eye of the beholder.”

Her smile deepened. “Bet you’re looking for a good beholder.”

He shrugged. “Good? Maybe. Bad? Definitely. How about that drink

first? Bourbon and branch, light on the branch.”

Laila pretended to pout, scribbled down his order as if she’d forget it

between the table and the bar, then rose gracefully. She took a few steps