“By now you must realize that you were set up tonight. I took out the front desk clerk and disabled the camera system, but it won’t be long before whoever is running this op realizes that things have gone wrong. I give you my word I don’t want to do you any harm. The dust bunny likes me. Is that enough for now?”
She wondered whatI took out the front desk clerkmeant.
She had a million questions, most of which boiled down to: Who was Owen March, and why was he claiming responsibility for her current disaster? But he had a point. The door of her room had been wide open for a few minutes and there had been a lot of violent action. Someone should have heard something—someone besides Owen March.
And he was right about the smoke. Now she could smell it, too.
Was this a case ofThe enemy of my enemy is my friend? Probably not. Given her track record, it was far more likely an example ofThe enemy of my enemy is another enemy.
But it was midnight, and she was in a hotel room with a dead man in the shower and two unconscious would-be kidnappers on the floor. She could not afford to be too picky about new acquaintances, even if they did happen to know her real identity.
“Come in,” she said, trying for a crisp tone—the voice of a woman in command. “With your hands in the air.”
“Understood.”
The man who called himself Owen March moved into the doorway. His hands were raised, but he still held his flamer. She winced inwardly. So much for trying to make a forceful first impression. She should have instructed him to drop the weapon before inviting him inside. For all she knew, he was a rival kidnapper trying to con her.
Then again, he could have flamed her right after he dealt with the two would-be kidnappers, but he had not taken advantage of the opportunity. Another point in his favor.
Her thoughts were starting to whirl in increasingly muddled circles. That told her she was really rattled. In her head she could hear Dr. Webber insisting it was a sign that she needed to continue with the medication; proof that she was not ready to leave Serenity Gardens.
But Cadence Ballantine’s soft voice whispered somewhere out on the psychic plane, silently reminding her of Core Principle Number Two:Focus is the key to control.
The flamer immediately steadied in her hand. Note to self: When in doubt, return to the Core Principles. Dr. Nathan Webber could go to hell—preferably the same hell in which she had been imprisoned for three endless months.
Sebastian bustled past Owen, only his innocent baby blues showing, and chortled reassuringly. He dashed across the carpet and into the bathroom to retrieve his oversized designer sunglasses. When he had them propped on his furry head, he trotted back out to examine the unconscious men, hovering over them with an avaricious air. She never knew what would catch his eye, but in general he liked bright, shiny things.
Owen casually slipped his flamer into the shoulder holster under his jacket. “Mind if I take a look?” He nodded toward the intruders. “They’re professionals. We should collect their weapons. Also, it would be interesting to see if there’s any ID.”
“Okay,” she said, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else that sounded logical. Of course they needed to confiscate the attackers’ weapons and check for identification. She should have thought of that immediately.
“While I’m at it, you might want to smother the fire before it takes hold. We’ve got enough problems.”
“What?”She remembered the smoke, turned toward the bed, and sawthat a section of the quilt was smoldering. Now she knew what she had hit with that last wild flamer shot. “Oh, damn.”
She set the weapon down, rushed to the bed, grabbed a throw pillow, and batted out the small flames.
“Speaking of ID,” Owen said. “Here’s mine.”
He took a small leather folder out of a pocket and offered it to her. Gingerly, she inched toward him, snatched it out of his hand, and retreated.
He crouched beside the first intruder and performed what appeared to be a fast, thorough, professional pat-down. Sebastian paid close attention.
Satisfied that the quilt fire had been extinguished, she rezzed a nearby lamp and flipped open the folder, braced to learn that Owen March was a law enforcement officer, a bounty hunter, or maybe a private investigator—any one of which would make him a threat.
She was thrown off-balance when she saw the business card.
Owen March
President and CEO
Forensic Psi-Genetics Consulting
The address was Resonance City, a long way from Cape Midnight, on the isolated stretch of the coast where the Gothic monstrosity of the Hotel of Dreams was located.
She looked up, comparing the image on the driver’s license with the man who was in the act of retrieving a nasty-looking knife from the ankle sheath of one of the intruders. The photo matched the man—dark hair with features that could be described as fierce, resolute, and possibly dangerous, but not standard-issue handsome.
“No ID on these two,” Owen announced. “That settles it. They are pros.” He got to his feet and tossed a collection of weapons onto the bed.“Judging by the boots and the gear, I’m pretty sure they are ex-Guild men. A lot of them are on the streets these days because the Guilds are trying to clean up their image by getting rid of guys like this. Bad for the brand.”
