Aphrodite's Flame (21 page)

“On the contrary, there seems to be every need for sarcasm.”

She drew a breath. “Okay. Fine. Sorry. I’m just a little off today.”

“Why?”

Genuine concern swirled around him, and she relaxed just a little, waving the question away. “Nothing. Sorry. Just lost in my own world.” That was a lie, of course. But while she might know if he was lying, she sincerely doubted that he could read her well enough to have a clue. “What did you want to talk to me about?” She asked only in the interest of politeness. She already knew what he was going to say.

“My father, of course,” he said, exactly as she’d known he would. There were times when her particular power really took the fun out of life.

“Why did you agree with me about your father? I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t changed your mind since yesterday.”

He laughed. “A sad commentary. I didn’t realize I came off as so obstinate.”

She didn’t answer, just stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I want the treaty to pass,” he finally said. “Banyon’s skittish.”

“So you fibbed.”

“I fibbed,” he admitted. “I lied for the greater good. Or maybe I withheld information for the greater good. Either way, my motives were pure.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Can you understand that?”

She licked her lips.
Did he know
? “I, um, yeah. I think I can.”

“So tell me about the inkblot test.” He stared at her, but she sensed no doubt, no underlying question.

She decided to simply state the obvious. “Mordi, the man’s passed every test we’ve thrown his direction.” She tossed in a casual shrug, just for effect.

“But?”

She looked up sharply, the question actually coming unexpectedly. He caught the reaction, and she cursed herself.

“Then there is something,” he said, triumph in his voice. She realized then why she hadn’t picked up on any scents of doubt. He had none. He was just fishing.

She, like an idiot, had taken the bait. “There’s nothing,” she said. And though she spoke firmly, in truth, she might be lying. She didn’t know. Couldn’t be sure. And that uncertainty ate at her gut.

Hieronymous had hesitated on two answers. Ultimately, his response had been positive, well within the range she’d hoped, and she’d given him a passing— even high—score on the test.

Something, though...

Still, something bothered her. She tried to push the feeling away, but it persisted, nagging at her like an unsatisfied itch.

Was Hieronymous faking?

Was his application part of a huge ruse, and she was merely a pawn?

No
. She couldn’t believe that. She’d seen his sincerity, felt it with her entire being. She couldn’t be wrong.
She couldn’t
.

Her empathic abilities had earned her this promotion. Even more, those abilities had gotten her admitted to the Council despite her pitifully lacking levitation skills. She knew that, and because of it, she could hold her head up when other Protectors whispered about her, saying she wasn’t quite up to snuff and that her uncle had pulled strings.

She trusted her power, relied on it. And she needed it for more than just her job. She needed it for herself.

Because if she was wrong—if she couldn’t trust what she’d seen in his soul—then that meant the mean-spirited whispers were right: She really wasn’t up to snuff.

And that was something she simply wouldn’t believe.

Nothing.

Mordi turned the word over in his head, looking for double meanings.

Nothing.

His father had passed the test, or so Isole said. But Mordi knew that couldn’t possibly be right. Everything he believed in, everything he knew, hinged on the fact that his father was a certifiable nut-job.

She couldn’t be right.

He knew that and yet, even so, one tiny thought poked at his mind. He tried to push it away—he didn’t even want his thoughts going that direction. But it was too persistent: If Hieronymous really was having a change of heart—if he really was serious about re-assimilating, joining the Council, and fighting to protect mortals against the evil that walked the earth—would he finally,
maybe
, be proud of his son?

Mordi pushed the thought away. He knew better than to open the door to hope. He’d wasted too many years tying himself to his father with a fragile thread of optimism. Hieronymous had snapped it every time. The man wasn’t a father any more than he was a true Protector. And Mordi intended to make damn sure that his name never again graced the Council rolls.

Yet Izzy seemed convinced that Hieronymous was turning over a new leaf and wanted to be good. He had no idea if her approbation was genuine, or if she had some ulterior motive, but he was sticking close until he found out.

Right now, she was staring at Mr. Lincoln, her face pensive. He wondered what she was thinking, and the wondering nagged at him, all the more because he knew that with just a touch, Izzy would know
exactly
what
he
was thinking.

Which, of course, meant that he couldn’t touch her.

Not a hardship, he told himself. He had no reason to touch her, no matter how much his fingers itched when he stood near her, and no matter how much the lavender scent of her perfume teased his senses.

If he plucked out the pins that held her hair up, would it fall soft and loose over his hand? If he stroked her skin, would it burn under his touch?

He didn’t know. He
couldn’t
know. And naturally, that made him want it all the more.

“Come on,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

She turned away from Mr. Lincoln to look at him, but didn’t seem inclined to move. “Come where?”

“Are you staying here all night?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you my chaperon?”

He exhaled, clenching his fists against rising frustration. “Actually, I thought I’d be civil and offer you a ride home.”

“Thanks, but I flew.”

He frowned, his gaze taking in her tiny purse. “Where’s your cloak?”

Her laughter rang out, the light sound echoing off the stone walls of the monument. “American Airlines,” she said.

“Oh,” he said stupidly. “Well, when’s the return? I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”

“I haven’t booked it yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure how long we’d need to stay here.”

“Then why don’t I give you a lift home?”

She blinked at him. “Home? To New York?”

“Sure. Why not? I’ve got my car. It’s not even five. We’ll be there by dinnertime.”

She licked her lips. “That’s getting us in awfully late. I’ve got piles of work to get through.”

“The piles will be there tomorrow.”

“I don’t know...”

His desire overwhelmed him. “Why are we fighting this?” He knew the answer, and still he blurted out the question.

“Because it’s a bad idea,” she said, not missing a beat.

“Probably,” he said. He crooked his arm in invitation. “But can we at least do dinner?”

She frowned but shifted slightly, and he knew he’d almost convinced her. He told himself he simply needed to keep an eye on her—but it was so much more than that.

“Dinnertime’s too far away,” she said. “I skipped lunch.”

“I’ll buy you dinner on the way home.”

The color rose in her cheeks, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “It’s a bad idea, Mordi,” she said. “Getting in your car together, alone...”

“Probably,” he agreed. “Are we going to let that stop us?”

Her mouth twitched. “No,” she said. “We’re not.” She slipped her arm through his. “So long as dinner’s still included, I’ll accept your gracious invitation.”

“Good,” he said. And then, because he couldn’t resist: “I promise you won’t regret it.”

They chatted about nothing for the first twenty minutes of the drive, then eased into a companionable silence when they hit the countryside. Mordi was taking them some back way, and after they’d passed out of the city, open fields and charming homesteads filled Isole’s vision.

Just as well; the silence made it easier for her to hear her own thoughts. And right then, Izzy’s thoughts were all clamoring for her attention, wondering what in Hades she was doing accepting a dinner date from Mordichai Black.

And no, she couldn’t tell herself that this was simply two business companions dining together. It wasn’t. And she didn’t want it to be.

Oddly enough, despite the fact that she’d told herself over and over that getting up close and personal with Mordichai was bad news, she felt lighter and happier than she had since the day she’d met him. She’d taken a step, and although the direction might be dangerous, she had to admit she was craving the excitement.

“Any chance your powers include teleportation?”

Mordi’s words pulled her away from her thoughts, and something in his tone set alarm bells off in her head.

“Why?”

“We’re being followed.”

She swallowed. Apparently she’d been right about the danger.

“Don’t,” Mordi said, closing his hand on her shoulder. She realized she’d started to twist around for a better look. “I don’t want the driver to know we’re on to him yet.”

She considered arguing—she hated feeling out of the loop—but settled instead for flipping her visor down and using the makeup mirror to peek behind them. Unfortunately, she really couldn’t see a thing.

Damn.

“Mortal or Protector?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I think Protector, but I could be wrong.”

She squirmed, slammed the visor back up, frowned, then yanked it down again. Beside her, Mordi laughed.

She glared at him. “You have the rearview mirror,” she said. “And I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t gloat.”

“I’m not gloating,” he said, his hands on the wheel. He looked perfectly calm and reasonable.

How could he be so calm? They were in the middle of nowhere, right smack in the kind of wide-open spaces where an Outcast, a Henchman, or a traitorous Protector would have few qualms about attacking. A secluded place.

He turned his head slightly and smiled at her, his green eyes reflecting her concern, but holding another message:
optimism, concern
—
and a promise of safety
?

Sweet Hera, the man intended to protect her!

The thought should have made her angry. After all, she was perfectly capable of protecting herself. More or less, anyway. But instead of annoying her, she thought he was sweet.

Almost shyly, she turned in her seat to glance at him more directly. And that’s when she realized ...

Feeling bold, she leaned closer, then reached out and stroked his shoulder, taking care to touch only the twill cotton of his jacket. He raised one eyebrow, turning just slightly so that he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She tried out a slow, sexy smile. The gesture was a little uncomfortable—certainly slow and sexy wasn’t in her usual repertoire of looks—but she wanted to put up a good show in case their pursuer had super vision and was getting an up-close-and-personal look. Or, in case their pursuer simply had binoculars and was getting an up-close-and-personal look.

“What are you doing?” Mordi said, his voice holding a hint of amusement.

She leaned closer until her lips were almost brushing his ear. She tilted her head, giving her a dead-on view of the sleek black Porsche following a good twenty yards back. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she whispered, because whoever was in the Porsche might be reading her lips.

“It looks like you’re coming on to me,” Mordi said, his voice low and rough as sandpaper. “But I have a feeling I’m not that lucky.”

Izzy swallowed and flushed. She could feel the hot blood flooding through her body and face. Her instinct was to pull away, but she fought it, instead keeping her eyes on their tail.

She focused her thoughts, willing herself not to sneak inside Mordi’s head, then nuzzled his ear, the gesture designed to hide her words. “He’s gaining on us,” she whispered.

“Yup.”

She slid her fingers through his hair, fighting her own visceral reaction. Sweet Hera, she was losing it here, and this was really not the time to get all mushy over a man. Even Mordi. Especially Mordi. Pulling herself together, she shot one more glance out the back window, then used the press of her fingers against his hair to camouflage her words. “That Porsche is the least of our worries,” she announced. In the distance, a hundred or so yards back, a blood-red Dodge Viper was careening toward them.

Maybe a reckless teenager or some hotshot trying to impress a date?

She didn’t really believe that.

“No kidding,” Mordi said.

She looked up, expecting to see him looking into his rearview mirror. Instead, he was focusing straight ahead. She turned, following the direction of his gaze, and then gasped. Three hulking creatures on motorcycles, clad head-to-toe in black leather, were heading straight toward Mordi’s Ferrari.

“Mother of Zeus!” Izzy yelped as Mordi whipped the wheel to the side, sending his car careering up onto the rough shoulder and barely missing one of the cyclists. “Who the devil are those guys?”

“No clue,” Mordi said, his mouth pulling into a frown. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Call in a backup team, would you?”

She nodded, then pulled out her holo-pager. Nothing happened. “It’s jammed.”

“Try the cell phone.”

She grabbed it, flipped it open, but wasn’t able to get a signal. “Nothing. We’re on our own.”

“Hold on.”

He floored it, and Izzy felt the rush of acceleration force her back into her seat. She scowled, hating the idea of running, of fleeing, but not really wanting to tangle with five attackers. Five against two were fine odds if their new acquaintances were mortal. But if the five stooges were Protectors or Outcasts or Henchmen ... well, in that case she had no particular philosophical problems with simply escaping with her life.

Neither, apparently, did Mordi.

The sun was fast setting on Mordi’s side of the car, casting long shadows and painting the tall, thin trees by the side of the road in shades of orange and purple. They were beautiful, but Izzy didn’t really have time to notice.