Part 13 (2/2)
”s.h.i.+fters can't do that.” Now that I wasn't afraid for my life I was starting to get p.i.s.sed and my tone said so.
”He's not exactly a s.h.i.+fter.” Bran lifted one shoulder as he returned to the dog and leaned over to scratch Francois between the ears.
Francois just growled, which I understood perfectly. When he s.h.i.+fted or morphed back to his human form he'd have a lot of explaining to do but right now I had other questions for Bran.
”What were you fighting in the kitchen?” I asked, moving to a fifties-style couch set dead center in the cavernous room and sinking down on it. My legs no longer felt steady.
”Another Were. No idea what kind.” he said, crossing over to sit beside me. He shot me one of his cla.s.sic focused looks. The kind you want to squirm under. ”You hurt?”
”Mostly my pride.” No way was I going to admit I felt bruised from one end to the other. Noziaks took their lumps and kept on going. ”You?”
”A few scratches.”
It was my turn to glance at him, too many questions pus.h.i.+ng against me. ”Why do you think they didn't immediately attack as Weres? They'd have been a lot deadlier.”
”Don't think they wanted corpses.”
”What did they want?”
”Hostages? Something other than to kill us that's for sure.”
”Did you recognize them?” I asked, bracing for the answer.
He gave me a WTH look then he must have decided not fighting with me was a better idea as he sighed and shook his head. ”Never saw them before.”
”Did they follow us?”
”Only thing that makes sense. No one knew where we'd be otherwise.”
”Were they after all of us?”
”Not likely.” He sounded tired, or maybe it was just thoughtful. ”If they followed us they would have had to have known we'd been at the museum, which indicates forethought and planning.”
”Vaverek?” The name popped out.
”That would be my guess.”
”But why?”
”Tell me what happened back at the museum, with Cheverill.”
I summarized as succinctly as I could, aware that even with the door closed, I was shaking. Muscle burn? Possibly. Fear was more likely. Fear of the unknown. Someone was pulling strings, playing a game I didn't understand. One with high stakes.
I finished telling Bran everything I knew, except for the dying man's words about the Seekers and the name Jebediah. The first was strictly agency business and the latter was n.o.body's business but my own.
He remained quiet, which usually worried me because his silences were not the peaceful kind. They were more the all-h.e.l.l-is-going-to-break-loose once the thought process was finished. But here in this open, strange place I found I liked just sitting next to him. Francois, if that was indeed who the mastiff was, acted more like a family pet instead of a killer Fido at our feet.
I leaned against the couch back, aware how tired I was. What happened to Jaylene and Mandy? Had they told Ling Mai what had transpired at the museum? Why I'd bombed out of the place? Or was I on my own?
And what was happening with Van? Another day had pa.s.sed and still no word on my brother.
”When was the last time you ate?” Bran asked, his shoulder brus.h.i.+ng mine.
Good question. ”I had some pastry while at the cafe waiting for Fido here to show up.”
The dog c.o.c.ked one ear toward me but otherwise didn't stir.
”You hungry?”
”Nah.” I wasn't. I was too tired to be hungry. Was it only this morning that we'd had the rumble outside of Vaverek's apartment? I glanced at Bran, seeing the way the single room light cast shadows across his face, slas.h.i.+ng lines that made him more dangerous warlock. It was a good look and I could feel the kick start of my libido responding.
I never did have the sense not to get involved with the bad boys. And Bran was as bad-a.s.s a bad boy as I'd ever crossed paths with, even when dressed like the international businessman he was.
”Why are you being nice to me?” I asked, so wiped out the words escaped before I could corral them.
He turned his head, a lazy smile playing about his lips. I remembered the taste of those lips. Man, did I remember. His words sounded like slow, warm mola.s.ses. ”Maybe because you look like you were on the losing end of a fight with a Were.”
”You charmer you.” But there was no heat behind my words. To have sparks you needed energy.
As if he heard my exhaustion, or wondered who was sitting next to him without taking his head off, he straightened, facing me. ”Turn around,” he said.
”Why?” Okay, maybe there were a few sparks left.
”I want to give your shoulders a rub. Looks like it might help.”
d.a.m.n, way to sneak under a woman's defenses. I was so stiff though that it took a while to turn enough to give him access to my back.
By all the Spirits his hands felt good. Strong and sure and perfect. He kneaded muscles like he did everything else, very thorough and intense.
I may have released a small moan as his fingers started loosening knots I didn't know I possessed.
”The only thing holding you together is tension,” he murmured in that low, s.e.xy way he had. Sort of a cross between a rumble and a caress.
”Hmmmmmm.”
”You keep this up and you won't be any good to anybody.”
I had to smile as his words implied I mattered, at least a little. Something he'd never dare to tell me face-to-face. Guess it'd be hard to threaten and compliment in the same sentence.
”You should give up dress designing and become a ma.s.seuse,” I sighed as the silence stretched between us. Not the usual tautness since Dominique's death, but a calm hush that let my shoulders relax, the misgivings of the day slide away. I leaned forward, wallowing in the warmth of his hands along my neck, down my spine, heating my lower back.
If he kept it up I'd weep. Or turn around and crawl all over him.
”Your tensing up again,” he said, stroking my back with long, sure touches. ”What are you thinking about?”
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