in the center of what was ironically an absurdly romantic set: white roses trailing over a gazebo, a bridge over a mirrored stream. Probably the backdrop to a waltz competition.
“Don’t tell me you’re a ‘Dancing!’ fan,” she said dryly, and was proud of her nonchalance.
“I never miss it,” he deadpanned back.
He sounded so almost-serious that for a moment Barrie had a fantasy of what it would be like to dance with him. Of course she was dreaming—men just didn’t dance anymore—but if he could…oh, if he could lead even half as well as he kissed…
Focus, she ordered herself.
“You’re following me,” she accused aloud.
“Or maybe great minds think alike,” he suggested. “You were just here to see H.H., right?”
She was silent, unable to deny it.
He gave her a killer smile. “That’s why we need to team up. This is a big enough story for two people, and we’re obviously on the same track… .”
She raised an eyebrow. “If we’re thinking alike, what is it we’re thinking?”
His luminous green eyes met hers and held them. “I’m thinking about last night.”
Immediately her heart was racing again, and she was finding it hard to breathe. She struggled for distance and control. “Last night was—inappropriate. Adrenaline rush, the circumstances…it happens, but it doesn’t mean anything. If you want to team up on this, then we have to focus on the case and the story.”
For a moment she thought she saw a flash of amusement on his face, but he nodded seriously and said, “Per-fectly understood. Strictly business.” He held out a hand for her to shake.
She hesitated, then put her hand in his. “Strictly business,” she echoed, even as a betraying rush of lust raced through her veins at his touch. She pulled her hand away quickly. “So, what are we thinking? About the case?”
“That the same person killed Mayo and that poor kid,” he said softly, and she felt a jolt, realizing that he did know about Tiger, and more than that: he seemed to care. He continued, still holding her gaze. “That someone didn’t want the remake of Otherworld to go forward, so that someone hired Tiger to lure Mayo to his death, dose him with a fatal exotic cocktail, and then the killer fed Tiger the same stuff.”
She had to hand it to him: it was exactly what she was thinking. But she wasn’t about to let him know that. Not yet.
“Is anyone saying there was a third person in that bungalow at the Chateau?” she demanded. If he wanted to work with her, he had to prove he had something to offer besides lethal charm.
“Not that I’ve been able to find out. Most of the rest of the town is so focused on Mayo they’re not looking anywhere else.”
“And someone went to a great deal of trouble to make Mayo and Tiger look like unrelated cases,” she pointed out.
“Someone who knows how the LAPD is structured,” Mick agreed. “Mayo’s case went straight to Robbery Homicide, while the Hollywood division detectives who caught Tiger’s case just accepted the obvious.”
Damn, he was good. Barrie could feel herself weakening, even though she knew it was madness. But how much did he know? That was the question.
“So, why do you think this someone used Tiger to get to Mayo?” she hedged, probing.
Mick looked grim. “Mayo wouldn’t be the first power player to have a taste for underage prostitutes. Word is this Tiger had some kind of resemblance to Johnny Love,” he said distastefully. “Which explains the bellhop saying he saw Johnny with Mayo. Add a touch of pseudo necrophilia to Mayo’s list of perversions.”
So, he’s assuming Tiger looked like Johnny Love. She was relieved, but also suddenly deeply conflicted.
What am I doing? I can’t work with a mortal.
It was against all the rules. One of her primary duties as a Keeper was to guard the existence of the Others. She couldn’t very well team up with Mick without revealing far too much unless she flat-out lied to him. And that was just too risky. As discreet as she knew how to be, it would be too hard to keep up the front if they were actually working together. She felt a kind of pang, too, a surprising realization that she didn’t want to lie to him.
Yes, the real puzzlement here was this pull she had to work with him, even knowing that it would be nothing but trouble, that it would violate every aspect of her job.
Mick was watching her. “What’s wrong?” he asked directly, and she realized she hadn’t said anything for several moments.
“I just…I’m sorry, I have another appointment,” she said lamely. “Not related to the case,” she added quickly, in case he decided to follow her, although so far there didn’t seem to be any way to stop him. “But I have to go.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit somewhere and talk?” he asked, and those green eyes were on hers again. “I think I can spring for coffee at the Farmers’ Market.”
“Can I get a rain check?” she hedged, and immediately regretted it. Now she would just have to fend him off again. And the problem was, she didn’t want to fend him off.
It was all too confusing. She had to think.
“I have to go,” she repeated gracelessly, and left him, hurrying over the bridge, past the luxuriant fake white roses.
She was upset enough over the encounter that she decided to drive straight home. She needed to remember who she was. It was absolutely crazy to bring a mortal into Keeper business; there was something wrong with her head that she had even been contemplating it. But she was sure her cousins could set her straight.
She made one stop, though, on her way up toward the canyon: the great Amoeba Records on Sunset, where she bought a collector’s edition DVD of Otherworld.
She had homework to do.
Chapter 6
Barrie staggered into the main house, her arms loaded down with bags of microwave popcorn, M&M’s, ice cream bon bons—all her favorite movie foods—plus a bottle of good red wine and the Otherworld DVD. She’d made another spur-of-the-moment stop on the way back to the house for munchies—might as well make work fun—and also called her cousins, requesting an emergency meeting. Luckily both of Rhiannon’s employers were Keepers themselves, though of different districts, and were accommodating of her sometimes unusual schedule. And Sailor didn’t have to be at the House of Illusion, her night job, this week because she’d landed a voice-over gig.
“I’ve got treats, too,” Sailor told Barrie, standing by the butcher-block table in the kitchen and waving a knife. Barrie dumped her bags on a counter and peered over her cousin’s shoulder suspiciously. As usual, Sailor’s idea of treats was not Barrie’s—everything looked morbidly healthy and low-fat and sugar-free: cut-up fruit and vegetables and fat-free dips.
Barrie sighed pointedly,
