felt, like sitting on a cloud. “What are you looking for, anyway?” I asked morosely.
“Any objects that were magically tied to Balthus,” he replied, his voice muffled by the door of the walk-in closet. “Such things can be dangerous to unsuspecting humans who find them. It’s just a precaution—I doubt there’s anything here,” he continued as he stepped into the bathroom and flicked on the light switch. “He only checked in today.”
After a moment he reappeared and took one last appraising look around. Then he strode over to gracefully lower himself onto the bed beside me. He sighed, his muscular arms distributing his weight as he tested the tension of the mattress. “Quite comfy, isn’t it?”
His proximity sent awareness cascading through me, and for the first time I noticed just how attractive he was. His eyes were an incredible shade of deep blue, and they radiated warmth and kindness when he smiled. His tanned skin glowed with health, his dark hair looked touchably soft, and his broad chest appeared toned beneath his white shirt.
He smelled good too—a warm and woodsy scent that stole over me and set all my senses tingling.
Stubble roughened his features and the edge of a tattoo peaked from beneath the sleeve of his sports jacket, hinting at a ruggedness beneath his polished appearance. And that Irish accent of his definitely wasn’t a turnoff.
Sparrow rubbed a hand wearily across his shadowed cheek. “Listen Sydney, I know you’ve had a rough night here. And I’m sorry if I made it worse by being hard on you earlier. You didn’t deserve it. Is there anything I can do for you before I take off?”
I dismissed the absurd vision of him suddenly taking flight over the balcony railing. I hesitated to ask, but I needed to know—“What would Balthus have done to me if you hadn’t shown up?”
Sparrow studied me before answering, a shuttered look dimming the warmth that brightened his eyes. “He would have claimed ownership of your mortality and your soul. You’d have died a mortal death and returned as an immortal slave, at Balthus’ beck and call for eternity. If you had a talent for spell craft, he may have used you for that purpose.”
Sparrow’s gaze pierced mine as he continued, “But seeing as you claim no connection with that discipline, and judging from the interplay between you this evening, his interest was probably more…sexual in nature.”
I blanched, visions of being forced into an eternity of sexual slavery filling my mind.
“That doesn’t seem like much of a deal to me,” I mumbled. “Three wishes and then I get to spend eternity wishing I was dead? How is that ‘granting a death wish’?”
Sparrow exhaled harshly. “You make a good point, Sydney, and an objection that has been put forth many times. However, I believe that the implied death is that of your mortality and the accompanying loss of your soul. The granting of your additional three wishes and the gift of immortality is considered a fair trade.
“Not to mention that it becomes the responsibility of the djinn in possession of your soul to keep you in relative health and comfort, if only to protect his assets—an arrangement that some find preferable to the uncertainties of mortality, believe it or not. Granting of wishes aside, souls are valuable commodities. The death djinns’ contract to gain them is ancient and cleverly worded.”
I snorted. “Sounds convoluted and dishonest to me. And I still don’t think Balthus should have been able to interpret what I said as a real wish.” I couldn’t help wanting to avoid the unsettling fact that, apparently, some part of me had truly wished to die tonight.
Sparrow placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes glowing with a curious intensity. “I, for one, am glad you didn’t really intend to wish yourself dead this eve,” he replied, sincerity whispering through his lilting brogue.
My entire body shivered to life at his touch. His voice and his nearness were doing wicked things to my libido, and I mentally chastised myself for my shameless reaction. You’d think that after Balthus, my sex drive would have shut itself down for the night—if only out of self-preservation.
Sparrow stared at me for a moment longer and then stood, breaking the tenuous connection. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help noticing the way the thin material of his shirt molded the muscles of his chest when he pulled his shoulders back. And my glimpse of a darker image beneath the taut white cotton had me heatedly imagining where else he might have tattoos.
“Well, I’m exhausted, and I’ve still got one hell of a report to write before I go home for the night. You should probably go ahead and get some sleep, Sydney,” he advised as he pulled his jacket straight and made to leave the room.
“Sleep?” I asked in confusion. “You mean here?”
“Why not?” he asked over his shoulder.
“This is Balthus’ hotel room, not mine,” I called, thoughtfully keeping the ‘duh’ to myself as I pursued him through the penthouse and out the door into the foyer.
Sparrow snorted in amusement as he pushed the button for the elevator. “Not anymore. Haven’t you been listening, Sydney? This penthouse is yours now. It was your second wish.”
I was so astonished, my jaw dropped. “Are you sure?” I whispered.
“Yes, Sydney, I was standing right there.” He laughed at my shocked expression. “You wished you could live here. The key’s on the bar.”
I could only stare; speech was a traitor that had deserted me.
“And by the way,” he added as the elevator arrived and he stepped in, “I wouldn’t make any more wishes out loud if I were you. You have an open death djinn contract—any one of them can fulfill it if you make your third wish within earshot.
“And they tend to have excellent hearing,” he called out loudly just as the doors slid shut.
“Of course they do,” I muttered as I watched the tiny blue lights on the wall panel blink their way from 10P down to L. Mind reeling, I slowly turned and made my way back inside the penthouse.
Chapter 3 – Ironing Out the Details
The key to the most luxurious penthouse in Palm Beach was on the bar—just as Sparrow had said.
I plunked down on the buttery-soft leather couch and tried to collect my thoughts. Could I really stay here? Even if Sparrow was wrong about the wish thing, it wasn’t like I would be charged for sleeping here. The hotel had Balthus’ info, not mine. And for some reason, the thought of going home made me a little nauseous.
I tried to pinpoint why, but my brain kept going blank when I reached for an answer. With a sigh, I gave up and looked around the well-appointed living room instead. The silence was a little creepy, so I set my mind to figuring out how to turn on the huge, flat screen TV that eclipsed the wall.
The remote was easier to navigate than I feared, and the channel line-up appeared to be about the same as mine at home. I kicked off my heels and wiggled the circulation back into my toes as I flipped through the digital music stations. I debated over Salsa, and then settled on Light Classical.
It’s hard to be freaked out when you’re listening to something as upbeat as Salsa, but right now I figured I was more in need of serenity. I turned it up and pushed myself off the couch for a little barefoot
