Lure of the Wicked Part 5

Life just couldn't get any more out of the ordinary.

Until she turned, her key card held jauntily between index and middle fingers. "By the way," she called out, "you should check your security cameras. Betcha a dollar they'll reveal what went wrong."

Phin studied her, one eyebrow arching up slowly. "Are you asking me if we have security cameras, Naomi, or are you hoping we don't?"

Her head tilted. "That depends. If I were to, say, indulge in some very inappropriate behavior with a certain slick operator in some of these halls, would we-" Her grin widened into a slow, sultry line. "That is, would this hypothetical man and I be seen everywhere we tried go?"

l.u.s.t shot straight to his groin. So did all the remaining blood in his brain. "Not," he managed, "everywhere." Close enough, but he knew a blind spot or two.

Or three or four or- Jesus G.o.d, help me now.

Her eyes flashed, pure sensual violet as the elevator doors slid open behind her. "Just wondering," she said lightly.

Phin rubbed his face with both hands as the s.h.i.+ny elevator doors closed on her smile.

Chapter Four.

Failure. G.o.d d.a.m.n it, he didn't do failure.

Joe Carson watched the old woman sleeping in her narrow clinic bed and cursed silently. He'd been so sure of Alexandra Applegate as the perfect bait. She wasn't just rich, after all, she was special. Important.

Sure, it'd been a risk. A calculated one. She could have died in that sauna-the risk wouldn't have been worth it if he didn't make it real-but he knew they had the means to make sure she didn't. All the d.a.m.ned witches had to do was bring out the fountain.

No harm, no foul. The Church got what it wanted.

But overhearing that snot-nosed brat explain about the woman's ludicrous privacy contract was enough to make him want to kill something. Bare-f.u.c.king-handed.

Why hadn't he known that? f.u.c.k. G.o.d take them all, he hated this sacrilegious tomb and its G.o.dd.a.m.ned aberrant clientele.

But he couldn't do anything about it yet. Patience. It was the stakeout to end all stakeouts. He could do patience.

He had to. He'd had the perfect vantage point, the perfect box seat to watch the opera unfold, but no.

The missionary had to ruin it.

That should have driven him insane. It should have worried him. Instead he'd barely escaped her sharp eye and quick mind, and even now he smiled from the cramped hole he hid in.

Naomi West would make it fun. Much more fun than he'd thought when he'd first taken on this operation. It wasn't her fault she'd stuck her foot in it, after all. Like him, she was just doing her job.

But now he had to plan a little more carefully. A little more cautiously. It wasn't like shooting oily fish in a barrel anymore.

The Church had dealt its hand. Joe wondered if it knew that it was playing itself at the table.

He imagined that his fellow missionary was well and truly p.i.s.sed at losing him. It'd been d.a.m.n close. Only the vase he'd thrown at her had given him the time to get away, but she was tough stuff. Mission-suit Teflon.

And if she ever got her hands on him . . . He didn't laugh, but it was close. Swallowing back a bubble of eagerness, he didn't so much as s.h.i.+ft a muscle. Strain already ripped through his cramping limbs, but he could hold it until the Second Coming if he had to. Tenacity. That's what made him a d.a.m.n good missionary.

And based on what he knew about Naomi West, that's what made her almost as good as he was.

Almost.

Joe let out a silent sigh. Of relief. Of antic.i.p.ation.

Of appreciation.

Timeless made it so d.a.m.n easy. He relished Naomi's unspoken challenge. Finally. A woman worth her weight in bullets.

He tipped his head, studying the round figure of the woman perched in the chair beside the bed. She read a book too battered to see the name of, thick-rimmed gla.s.ses on her nose. The golden lamp haloed her brown hair, and anger streaked through him again. Pooled like bile in his skull.

It should have worked. That lock should have held on for a full three minutes longer, a timer set to force the bishop's favored grandmother into cardiac arrest, at least. Emergency services could never get to Timeless in time to save her life.

The Timeless witches would have had no choice but to reveal their secrets then.

Instead she'd been dragged out. In shock and a little worse for wear, but nothing a good night's sleep and some herbal gunk couldn't fix.

d.a.m.n it.

Maybe it was the sudden pressure change in the sauna, or something he hadn't factored. He certainly hadn't counted on his fellow missionary. Why?

He set his jaw, locking his knees tightly in place at his chest, and bided his time. Like a spider, he thought. A hungry, brilliant, venomous spider.

Surrounded by fat, clumsy, little flies.

Chapter Five.

She'd spent most of the night pacing.

When dawn crept into the rain-slick windows of the too large suite, Naomi finally collapsed into a fitful, uneasy sleep. She woke to more gray rain and a thin, wintry light splas.h.i.+ng weakly against the gla.s.s. The desk unit attached to her nightstand chirped brightly.

Blearily she picked up the hand receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Good morning, Miss Is.h.i.+kawa," said a pleasant female voice on the line. "This is your morning program courtesy call."

Her what? Naomi elbowed herself up, shoving back her hair from one eye. "Say that again?"

"Your services start at eight," explained the patient-f.u.c.k-bright voice. "If you prefer to eat first, breakfast is served at the dining floor. Shall I reschedule your services for later?"

Jesus Christ. "No," she muttered, and hung up the receiver on whatever chipper rainbows the voice expected to stream at her next.

Plan. She needed a plan. Wait, no, shower, coffee, and then plan.

It took effort to drag herself into the shower. Sleeping well, Naomi had learned a long time ago, was something that happened to other people.

The first five minutes of skin-searing spray stripped the stupor from her brain. The last five was all she needed to scrub her hair and body with the first bar of soap that came to hand. Her mind slowly eased into gear, and by the time she dragged the fluffy, sinfully soft towels over her wet skin, she could think without feeling as if she climbed through a fog.

"All right," she said. Her own voice jarred in the peaceful morning quiet. "Rogue missionary hiding in spa. Check." She didn't bother with makeup. "A witch hiding in spa. Double-check." Naomi brushed out her hair, dragging the thick bristles through it until it shone with health.

"Why?" she asked the steamed mirror. "What do either have to gain?"

Carson was a missionary. Missionaries hunted witches. Was it possible Carson was tracking the mysterious witch who'd attacked her?

No. That didn't explain Operation Black Tie. Whatever Carson was after-witch or no witch-the Holy Order wanted him dead.

So then why had the witch with the bushy mustache attacked her? To make her afraid? Warn her? a.s.sault could have been a good tactic with anyone else, but she wasn't anyone else.

Naomi didn't do scared.

You're tougher than I thought.

His words. To test her, then. Had he expected her to roll over and die? She rubbed her forehead, grimacing at the dull ache at the back of her head. Two adversaries, then. Until she could figure out who was what and where, she'd have to watch her back. Hard.

"So, why the old woman?"

Good question. Naked, absently fingering the tattoo low on her abdomen, Naomi gathered the only thing she could find that wasn't silk, cashmere, or worth more than she was.

She wasn't sure how appropriate a mesh sports tank and the skintight running pants she'd found were, but the d.a.m.n place was a spa. She didn't think she'd need anything fancier.

She checked the clock on the mantel and sighed. By seven-fifty, she was in the elevator and staring at the digital readout on the schedule surrept.i.tiously left on the front table.

The rest of the team was sure to have a good laugh over this one. They probably s.h.i.+t themselves as they signed her up for these so-called services.

What was Naomi West doing today?

Things that would make her pretty.

Things that would make her scream inside the masked confines of her refined facade.

Naomi didn't do scared, but she did anger. She did it well. "You s.h.i.+tfu-"

The elevator doors slid open, and Naomi clamped her mouth into a determined smile as a short, incredibly curvaceous woman turned to greet her.

Her tamed curls shone in the light, almost the exact shade of Phin's, and her demonstrative eyes were as dark as chocolate. Naomi immediately recognized where he'd gotten his dimples as mirror twins appeared at the sides of her wide mouth.

So that much of his lethal charm was genetic. Fantastic.

A pale purple tailored skirt suit belted the beautifully hourgla.s.s cinch of her waist, outlining the kind of curves Naomi had always admired. Her hair was pinned in a way that made her curls look like an effortless crown.

She was lovely. In a round, polished dumpling sort of way. Even the lines spreading from the corners of her eyes added to the inherent . . . h.e.l.l, Naomi didn't know. Appeal. Comfort.

She was real, somehow, more real than the plastic setup Naomi had expected from the polished Phin's genetic line.

She actually looked like a mother.

Phin's mother.

She swallowed, suddenly feeling every inch of her long, gangly five feet and towering ten inches.

"Miss Is.h.i.+kawa, good morning." Welcome simmered in her pleasant contralto. Warmth practically beamed from her round, matronly features as she held her hands out. "I'm Gemma Clarke. Naomi, thank you, we owe you such grat.i.tude."

Unable to get away from this one without causing more trouble than Phin was worth, Naomi let the woman take her hands. Gemma's palm was warm, dry, her grip stronger than expected as it enfolded her fingers.

Working hands. Despite herself, a sliver of respect uncurled from Naomi's lingering annoyance. "Don't mention it," she said. "I just happened to be nearby." Chasing a witch.

Kissing the woman's son in the dark corners of the strange garden.

But where had Gemma Clarke been?

Naomi's smile masked the sudden surge of adrenaline skating across her nerves. This was the part she hated the most.

Mysteries weren't her thing, either.

It made no sense for Gemma to sabotage her own spa. She'd lose money. She'd lose face and clients.

Would she have more to gain by killing the old woman? Naomi resolved to find out.

"Nonsense," Gemma was saying brightly, unaware of Naomi's closeted scrutiny. "Without you, who knows what might have happened?" She gestured to the readout in Naomi's other hand. "Is that your schedule, dear?"

Another slice of irritation. She gritted her teeth, managed to say with at least a shred of urbane interest, "It is."

Gemma's eyes lit up as her dark curls bent over the screen. Lavender wafted under Naomi's nose, and her mouth twisted.

Most prisons smelled like sweat and bleach. Lavender probably qualified as a step up.

"Oh, lovely. You've been set up with Joel for a ma.s.sage at one. Let me tell you, the man has hands that should be dipped in solid gold." Casually Gemma linked her arm through Naomi's and guided her toward the second elevator. "You want the fifth floor for the rest, of course."

Feeling like a bit of flotsam caught in a hurricane, Naomi allowed herself to be bustled across the courtyard and into the elevator while Gemma babbled cheerfully. She covered a lot of ground in a few short minutes, from the amazing properties of the minerals inset into each special room in the above floors, to the staff she'd combed the world to find.

Her head spinning, she was caught entirely off guard when the shorter woman reached up and seized her chin in strong, short fingers. "My dear, what on earth happened to your face?"

"A gla.s.s bottle." The words slid out of her mouth before the rest of her caught up. Naomi edged her grin upward, forcing herself to sound as relaxed as she didn't feel. "Seriously, it's nothing."

Brown eyes sharpened. Appraised. "Can I ask you a personal question?" In that slow, steady, steely tone, Naomi recognized Phin.

He certainly was his mother's son.

Naomi's smile twisted at one corner. "Can I stop you?"