Part 9 (1/2)

Still, the offer touched me. Despite everything I'd done to them, the Fearless Five was still willing to help me. Perhaps there was a reason they called them superheroes after all. I stared down at the sidewalk. ”I appreciate the offer. I really do. And I want to thank you for it. I know it must have been a difficult decision, given my history with Tornado.”

Silence greeted me. I looked up. I whirled round and round, but Striker had disappeared into the night.

There was no sign of the s.e.xy superhero.

How the h.e.l.l did he do that?

KarmaGirl.

9.

I stood in front of my dresser, brus.h.i.+ng my wet hair. A cold chill swept through my body, and a familiar current flooded the room. I glanced into the mirror. He was there behind me.

I put down my brush and faced him. Without a word, Striker pulled me into his arms. His lips captured mine. They were just as warm and firm as I'd imagined. I opened my mouth, and his tongue slipped inside. I loved the clean taste of him, the feel of his muscled arms around me, his musky scent. He filled up my senses until there was nothing else.

Striker laid me down on the bed. I pulled him on top of me, enjoying the feel of his weight on my feverish body. My clothes disappeared. So did his leather suit. Only the black mask that covered his face separated us. His gray eyes burned into mine. I kissed him, long and hard and deep. Our hands explored each other's bodies with hungry purpose. He trailed his fingers down my breastbone over my quivering stomach. I opened my legs, and he sank his fingers into me.

I cried out. Waves of pleasure rippled through my body. Striker stroked me until I was dizzy with desire.

Then, he pulled back. I whimpered at the loss of contact, at the loss of his touch. Striker loomed over me. His eyes s.h.i.+mmered with the brilliance of a thousand stars. I knew what he wanted. It was the same thing I did. I opened my legs once more, and he plunged into me. He began to move- I gasped and sat up. My eyes flew around the dark room. The door was shut, the windows locked.

Everything was in its place. No s.e.xy superheroes lurked in the shadows that pooled on the floor around the bed. Alone. I was alone. All alone. It had been a dream. Just a dream. I flopped back against the pillows.

d.a.m.n.

After a long night of heated dreams, I walked down to the police station the next morning. I met up with Chief Newman, and we headed for the morgue in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

I'd been to the morgue many times before when I'd been working the investigative and police beats. It was a dark, depressing place that smelled of harsh chemicals and decay. Sometimes, I thought I saw the blood of all the murder victims puddling on the floor and dripping down the walls. Not a pleasant vision.

We entered the viewing area. A gla.s.s part.i.tion separated us from the autopsy room. The coroner, a tall, square man, stood on the other side of the gla.s.s in front of a large metal table. Blue toes peeked out from under two white sheets.

”I'll warn you, this isn't a pretty sight,” Chief Newman said. ”Are you ready?”

I nodded. The coroner pulled back the sheets.

I gagged and turned away.

”Easy, easy,” the chief rumbled. He put a hand on my arm to steady me. ”Is that them?”

”Yes.”

I forced myself to turn back and look at the two bodies. I recognized my kidnappers, despite their condition. Their skin was pale as ice and looked twice as hard, while their hair had turned an unnatural white. Blue and purple veins popped out on their faces, reminding me of some kind of macabre spider's web. The men's eyes and mouths gaped open, frozen in sheer terror. Even their tongues had turned blue.

Even though the men were dead, I could still feel their horrific fear as they realized what was about to befall them. A chill crawled up my spine. This was what Malefica and Frost had in store for me if I didn't uncover Striker's ident.i.ty.

”We haven't identified them yet, but it's only a matter of time. Why don't you go back home and get KarmaGirl.

some rest? If I find out anything, I'll give you a call,” Chief Newman said in a comforting tone. ”I don't think there's anything more you can do here.”

Dazed, I made my way back up to the ground floor. My stride quickened with every step. I stumbled outside and started to run. But even as my sneakers smacked against the concrete, I knew I couldn't outrun Frost or my own inevitable, chilly fate.

My days fell into a pattern. I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon doing research, searching for the slightest clue that would tell me who Striker and Malefica really were. I went to the latest society bash at night, wrote my story, and left. More often than not, Striker popped up outside The Expose and walked me home. He never said much, but he was always there, watching me.

I didn't know whether to be frightened or flattered. I strained to hear his silent footsteps, peered into the shadows hoping to get the smallest glimpse of him, breathed in the night air in hopes of catching a trace of his musky scent. It was pathetic, but I could no more stop myself from searching for Striker than I could quit breathing.

And I always knew when he was around. My inner voice slyly whispered his presence to me. An electric current surged through my body, and I felt all warm and tingly inside. And when I finally spotted him, well, my hormones kicked into overdrive. It was all I could do not to drag him into the shadows and kiss him senseless.

But I could never, ever do that. I could never have Striker. I could never even do anything as simple as just be his friend.

Every time I looked at Striker, I could see the pain of Tornado's loss in his silvery eyes. Striker's grief, his sorrow, radiated off him. It intensified my own guilt and shame.

Every day, I told myself there could never be anything between Striker and me.

Never.

But oh, how I wanted there to be.

One night about two weeks after our initial meeting, a cool breeze kissed my back while I worked in the kitchen. Electricity charged the air, and my stomach tightened.

”h.e.l.lo, Striker.”

I stirred the pasta salad I was whipping up for dinner. I'd left work early for a change and hadn't seen Striker on my way home. I'd been planning to drown my disappointment in a bowl full of food. A poor subst.i.tute, I know.

”How do you always know it's me? I could be a burglar.”

I stared at the superhero, who leaned against the refrigerator. ”Well, I don't have any other superheroes stalking me. At least, not yet. Besides, a burglar could never be as quiet as you are.”

”And yet you always know when I'm here.”

I wasn't about to tell Striker about my inner voice, my gut instincts. He'd just laugh. He had real superpowers, not strange, imaginary twinges like mine. As I stirred the pasta salad, Striker's gray eyes traced over my body. I gripped the spoon tighter to keep from s.h.i.+vering.

More than once, I wondered what Striker thought about me. Why he kept coming back to see me.

Whether he felt anything at all toward me. Sometimes, I almost thought I saw a s.h.i.+mmer, a faint spark of desire in his eyes when I neared him. But that was just my wishful, s.e.x-starved imagination.

It had to be. Striker could never want somebody like me. Somebody so out of his league. Somebody so unworthy.

I dumped the pasta in a bowl and turned around. Striker stood between me and the kitchen table. I KarmaGirl.

hesitated. I didn't want to get within arm's reach of him. Didn't want to get close enough to see the blue flecks in his silvery eyes. Didn't want to smell him. Didn't want to feel his hot breath on my cheek. I would only be tormented that much more by my attraction to him-and the complete hopelessness of it.

But this was my apartment, not his. It was bad enough Striker waltzed in whenever he wanted, and I did nothing to discourage him. I wouldn't let him dictate where I walked too. I squared my shoulders and stepped forward.

”Excuse me,” I said.

Striker moved back a fraction of an inch. I squeezed by, so close that I brushed up against his tall form.