Siren's Call (A Rainshadow Novel) (10 page)

Forty minutes later Ella said her good-byes and walked out into the mist-bound night with Rafe.

A little buzz of energy tingled through her. She loved the streets of the Old Quarter after dark, especially when they were laced with fog. The lightly roiling mist was infused with the eerie green energy of the ruins, creating a fascinating chiaroscuro. She had always enjoyed the otherworldly atmosphere, but tonight the sensation was enhanced because of the man at her side.

It would have been a wonderful night for a stroll through the safe, gentrified streets of the Quarter with a real date, Ella thought. But Rafe was not a real date.

She was very aware of him at her side as they made their way through the well-tended gardens of the faculty club.

“You’re sure there’s nothing more I need to know about your relationship with Wilson Parsons?” Rafe asked.

“Positive,” Ella said. “He’s just mad because I left his firm and went out on my own.”

All of which was the truth, as far as it went, she thought.

“What about the son of a bitch who attacked you?” Rafe asked. “What happened to him?”

“That part is a little more complicated,” Ella said.

“This may surprise you, but I can be a good listener.”

She had told herself that it would not be a good idea to discuss the Gillingham affair, but Rafe already knew a lot about what she could do with her talent. What was one more secret?

“Harold Gillingham had a thing about dream analysts—a sexual thing.” She shuddered at the memory. “He seemed to think that just because I could analyze his aura and manipulate some of the dreamlight currents, I must be eager to have sex with him. When he came on to me, I informed him I didn’t do that kind of therapy and tried to leave. He was furious. Said he’d paid a lot of money for me and he wanted his money’s worth. There was a struggle. He was very strong.”

“I assume you fought back using your talent.”

“Yes. I only intended to make him fall asleep, but as it turned out he slept for two days. When he woke up he tried to convince everyone that I had knocked him out with a drug and stolen one of his First Generation antiques. But he had no proof, of course. He was furious, not just with me but with Wilson. He blamed the agency for sending him a therapist who had turned out to be a thief. Wilson blamed me for mishandling the client and creating the problem in the first place.”

“What happened?”

“Gillingham went to the police. I called Jones and Jones.”

“Arcane’s investigation agency?”

“Cost me a small fortune but one of their investigators was able to direct the cops to the missing antique in about five minutes and that was the end of the matter.”

“Where was it?” Rafe asked.

“Right where Gillingham had hidden it—in a secret closet in the library. The accusations were all about revenge. He was furious with me and wanted to punish me so he made up the theft charge.”

“You resigned from the Wilson Parsons Agency because Parsons took the client’s word over yours,” Rafe said.

“That’s it.”

“Think Parsons knows that you can sing a man to sleep?”

“No, of course not. I don’t go around advertising that little fact. You’re the only person outside my family who knows what I can do with my talent.” She stopped short at the edge of the drive, searching for the correct limo. “I don’t see Bill and the car,” she said.

A young, uniformed valet attendant hurried toward her. “Miss Morgan?”

“Yes,” she said. “I had a driver tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. He went home sick. Something he ate. Your car service sent another vehicle. The driver is waiting for you. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The valet raised a hand to signal. In response, a sleek black limo identical to the one Bill drove pulled out of the line of waiting vehicles.

“Poor Bill,” Ella said. She unfastened her small evening
bag to take out some tip money for the valet. “I hope he’s all right.”

“I’ve got this,” Rafe said quietly.

He slipped the cash to the valet before Ella realized what he intended to do. Irritated, she closed her bag with a sharp snap.

“That was not necessary,” she said stiffly.

Rafe’s mouth curved slightly at one corner. “You’re welcome.”

The long black car rolled to a halt in front of the valet stand. The attendant opened the door of the passenger compartment.

Ella discreetly hitched up the hem of her skirt and slipped into the car. She scooted hastily across the leather seat, making room for Rafe. He eased in beside her.

The valet closed the door and rapped on the driver’s window a couple of times to let him know the passengers were safely on board.

The driver spoke from the front seat. “Good evening, Miss Morgan. I’m Briggs. Sorry about the change of cars. Your regular driver reported in sick. I’m the replacement. We’re going to 321 North Wall Lane, right?”

“Eventually,” she said. “But first we’re going to drop Mr. Coppersmith at his hotel. The Colonial Inn on Quartz Drive.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand. I’ll give you both some privacy.”

There was a soft hum as the glass shield that separated the driver and passenger compartments slid into place. Ella was once again enfolded in the sensual intimacy of
black leather and low lighting with Rafe. She tried to focus on the fog swirling in the neon-and-psi-lit streets.

“When, exactly, are we leaving in the morning?” she asked.

“As early as possible, but since we’ll be on a Coppersmith jet we don’t have a precise timetable,” Rafe said. “Six o’clock work for you? I’ll instruct the pilots to pick up some takeout for breakfast on the plane.”

She winced. “Okay. Six o’clock.” She still had some packing to do. Might as well not even bother to go to bed, she thought.

Rafe seemed satisfied. “That should put us into Thursday Harbor by midafternoon. Time enough to get to Rainshadow before dark.”

“I apologize for that little scene with Dr. Suarez,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry she assumed you were my date for the evening.”

“So what if she leaped to the wrong conclusion about us?” Rafe turned slightly and settled deeper into the corner. He rested one arm along the back of the seat and watched her with unreadable eyes. “No big deal. You set her straight. I’m just a client.”

She could not decide if he sounded irritated, bored, or simply unconcerned about Dr. Suarez’s assumption.

“Right,” she said briskly. “I will admit I took some pleasure showing off my new high-end client to Wilson. But, then, I’m probably shallow that way.”

Rafe surprised her with a grin. “Where I come from that kind of thing is called good business. Never let the competition think it’s got the upper hand.”

“Good to know.” She frowned. “The question is, how many other people in that room assumed you were my date for the evening?”

“My advice is, don’t worry about it.”

“Easy for you to say, but this is my business reputation we’re talking about. There’s a fine line between being seen at a public function with a prestigious client and having everyone think I’m—”

She broke off sharply, horrified at what she had been about to say.

Rafe finished the sentence for her. “Having everyone think you’re sleeping with your client. I get that.”

She tightened her grip on her little purse, grateful for the deep shadows. She was sure she was turning bright red. “Mmm.”

“Don’t worry so much. We’re leaving town tomorrow. By the time you return everyone will be talking about something else.”

“I hope you’re right.”

There was a long pause from Rafe’s side of the car.

“Would it be so bad?” he asked eventually.

She glanced at him. There was a little heat in his eyes. For a moment she went quite blank.

“What?” she said.

“Would it be so bad if a few people leaped to the conclusion that you and I have something more than a client-consultant relationship?”

Anger crackled through her. “Well, of course it would be bad.”

She adjusted the wrap around her shoulders and turned
her attention back to the nightscape unfolding on the other side of the window.

The limo had left the gentrified neighborhoods behind and was moving deeper into the Quarter. The trendy, fashionable restaurants and nightclubs disappeared. There were fewer people on the streets now and most of them looked like the sort who preferred to hide from the light.

Garish neon signs advertising bars and low-rent eateries with dark windows glowed briefly and then disappeared back into the night. It was not, she thought, the route she would have taken if she had been driving, but the driver seemed confident.

She was chagrined to realize that the intimacy in the back of the limo was starting to affect her nerves. She was feeling edgier by the minute. Her pulse was kicking up, too, and it seemed to her that it was getting harder to take a deep breath.

She was alone in the limo with a man who had a psi-fever burning in his aura.

She really did not know much about Rafe Coppersmith, she suddenly realized. Sure, she’d researched him online, but the Coppersmith family was reclusive and powerful. It obviously controlled much of what showed up in a routine search. There had been nothing about a scion of the clan suffering from a dangerous fever of the paranormal senses, for example. Who knew what else had been concealed from the media and the public?

“Something wrong?” Rafe asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. Just making a mental list of the things I need to pack for the trip.”

“The climate on Rainshadow is semitropical. You won’t need a heavy coat, just something for the rain and maybe a light jacket or sweater for the evenings. As for Wonderland, it’s like the rest of the Underworld—comfortably warm night and day. The temperature never varies.”

“Good to know.” She tightened her hand on her shawl.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Rafe asked.

“Yes,” she hissed.

But she wasn’t all right. She was starting to feel a little light-headed. Just nerves.

Rafe shifted slightly in the seat, leaning toward her a little as if to get a better look at her face. Her throat tightened. She was not alone in the car, she reminded herself. If she screamed for help the driver would hear her. The glass partition was not that thick.

But what if she was unable to scream? What if Rafe slapped a hand over her mouth and tried to overwhelm her para-senses just as Gillingham had done? Memories of the moments of shock and panic flooded over her. Her talent spiked in response. But this was Rafe. He would never try to overpower her like that.

She glanced at him again. Alarm flashed through her when she realized that his fever was spiking. She could see the wild heat in the shadows of his dreamlight. It was much stronger now than it had been that afternoon. A chill iced her senses.

In the low light she could see that Rafe’s forehead was damp. As she watched, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked several times.

“Damn it, something
is
wrong,” Rafe said. His voice
was tight and grim, the voice of a man who was using everything to hang on to his control.

She flinched and retreated as far as she could into the corner of the seat. She was overreacting; allowing her imagination to get the better of her. She was losing it. She could not afford to do that, not with the most important client to come her way since she had opened her business.

She pulled hard on her jittery senses.

“I told you, I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little tired.”

“Do you always take this route home?”

“What?”

She stared at him, bewildered by the question. But he was not looking at her. He was focused on the view through the heavily tinted rear window.

She turned back to the side window, trying to orient herself.

“No,” she said. “I always take Blue Amber Street through the Quarter. So does Bill.”

“But Bill isn’t driving tonight.”

Rafe slipped a small phone out from under his jacket. “Can’t get any reception.”

“We’re too close to the Wall.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“No, not exactly.”

Rafe seemed cooler now. The fever spike was settling down in his aura. But her own senses were frazzled. She searched for familiar landmarks but she could not seem to focus on the street scene. She was well acquainted with the renovated and gentrified sections of the old Colonial sector, but there were vast stretches of urban dead zone
still waiting for developers and their money. Most of those bad areas bordered the West and South Walls. No knowledgeable professional limo driver would take his passengers into such dangerous neighborhoods.

Still, the big car hummed along, as if Briggs was very certain of his path.

She glanced at her watch. By now they should have been nearing the hotel. She started to turn in her seat to speak to Rafe.

“The driver is lost,” she said. “I’m sure of it. He must be new—”