patted the cushion beside him. “Why don’t you come over here?”
Very bold. She could appreciate that. But…
“Micha, you have no idea the guilt I would suffer if I made a pass at you right now.”
“It’s a good time, though. I don’t remember my wife.”
“What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“What kind of guy do you think I’m not? I can’t remember, so it’s now or never.”
This had to be the worst, most obscene, wonderful logic she had ever heard, like allowing drunkenness to facilitate getting it on with a best friend you’d been wanting for years. The consequences ran the gamut from amazing to horrible—and she knew from experience.
“Come here,” Micha repeated, softer. “I won’t hate you even if my memory comes back.”
“Micha.”
“Come. Here.”
The tone of his voice, a hook in the gut, and she was caught by chemical urges.
She lost the ability to gauge the good idea-ness of the situation somewhere between her sofa and Micha’s sofa, upon which she found herself instantly tangled with him and kissing hungrily. He pushed her back and crawled on top of her. So much for romance. His lips were incredibly soft, silky and wet, agonizingly intimate. He gripped her hair, and she liked the gesture. She kissed him harder, parted his lips, and plunged her tongue into his mouth. The barbell through her tongue clicked against his teeth. She had no conscious control over her hands, letting them roam without timidity, over his broad shoulders, down the curve of his back, onto his ass. Micha slid his hands down her sides to the top of her jeans.
“You have a nice body,” Micha murmured against her mouth, when they eased up on the kiss. “Nice and…”
He dug his fingertips in above her hipbones, under her shirt, clearly at a loss for an adjective and making her forget how to speak English as well. He slid a hand lower, and his fingers crept under the edge of her waistband.
“And an amazing ass,” he added. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
The only words she could find in her hormone-scrambled brain made no sense, words like “Kentucky” and “racquetball.” “I think so?”
Micha chuckled.
Of course, the door opened.
The two of them scrambled apart like naughty teenagers caught in a backseat. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, they hadn’t moved fast enough.
“That’s what his ability is,” June muttered. “Cockblocking.”
“I’m glad to see you two kept yourselves entertained.” Sam spoke pointedly.
Muse walked in behind him. June tried desperately to think of something else in case Muse turned out to be as much of an invasive jerk as Robbie, sticking her nose in other people’s heads. June pictured her mother’s little flower garden behind her house, but suddenly Micha was pushing her into the tulips and getting on top of her.
Sam walked between the two sofas. He stopped and stood over her. He had a newspaper in his hands.
“I have news, good and bad,” he said. “I’d give you a choice of which to hear first, but the bad won’t make sense without the good.”
She tensed. “What is it? I don’t think I can handle any more bad news.”
Sam thrust the paper at her, a magazine-type deal. An entertainment paper. She took the offering tentatively. Muse sat on the opposite sofa and clasped her hands in her lap, watching them. The corner of her mouth jerked. She blinked rapidly.
“That him?” Sam asked. “I mean, obviously you’re fraternal.”
The headline at the top of the page said, MYSTERY TWINS ARE IN TOWN. Underneath the headline were separate pictures of her and Jason.
“I don’t know how they got one of Jason’s head shots,” June said, “but yeah, that’s him.” Her picture was from one of the advertisements for her shop. She didn’t care how they got it. She did wonder what the hell made them “mysterious.”
“They ran those pictures in the Tribune earlier this week,” Micha said. “You have no idea how tenacious reporters in this city can be, especially Ethan Roberts.”
June looked up at Sam, her stomach jumping. “He’s alive, isn’t he? You saw him.”
“I didn’t. But the telepath who talked to John McKormic did.”
She dropped the paper in her lap. She feared she might do something stupid, like start crying. “Did he look all right? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know the state of health he’s in, but he’s definitely alive. My spy couldn’t talk to Mr. McKormic too long without arousing suspicion.”
Micha gripped June’s shoulder.
“Wait… What’s the bad news?” Her stomach dropped.
“The bad news is, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get him out of there.” Sam scowled darkly, as if this were more a personal affront to him than an agonizing revelation for her. “They’re keeping him in the Special Projects department, which is under heavy security. And I don’t have any people in the Institute who have clearance for that floor. They’re extremely paranoid about who has access.”
“I’ll go in there myself if I have to,” June said. “I have to get him out.”
“Sure you will. Going in there is not going to save him. The only thing that’ll happen is you’ll be caught as well.”
She wanted to punch something, hard. Hard enough to break all the bones in her hand, make the pain distract her from the horrible sickness in her stomach, the certainty she had made the wrong decision running away. Micha still had his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezed again, tighter.
“Just hold on to your panties,” Sam said. “I’ll come up with something. I’m the smartest man in this city.”
* * * *
Evening fell, the world outside the windows murky and dotted with glittering lights. Micha had dozed off on one of the sofas. Sam had been making phone calls—she assumed—beyond a set of closed French doors on the other side of the room. He had sent Muse off on another mysterious “patrol.” June couldn’t stay still, pacing and smoking, getting dangerously close to running out of cigarettes. Finally, the doors opened and Sam strode out. She glimpsed a bedroom beyond.
“There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour,” Sam said. “They’re going to talk about Rose Bellevue.”
Some political talk show was on right now. “That ought to be interesting.” Maybe they would talk about her and Jason as well.
“Eric Greerson wants to say something, since today was her funeral. So kind of him.”
“Who’s
