Like Amys shades, I think. Going green has become a mantra in Southern California.
A door opens somewhere down the hall and Barton moves back to the desk. She pushes a button and speaks a few words into her headset before looking up.
Dr. Barakov will see you now.
She moves ahead of us, walking gracefully down the long corridor. The sounds of her stilettos on the wooden flooring announce our approach. We pass several closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall and holds it open.
Barakov is seated behind another mahogany deskthis one bigger and more ornate than his receptionists. He rises at our entrance and comes to meet us. The doctor is impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit, most probably custom made, given that hes shorter than I am, and well-polished loafers. Carefully cut hair accents a perfectly oval face and smooth, high forehead. His stature, hair, and finely chiseled features remind me of Nero. I wonder what else he might have in common with the ruthless tyrant who foolishly burned down nearly half of Rome.
Barakov takes our proffered hands and urges us to sit.
Zack tells him why were here. Gives me a chance to scope the place out. The office is at the front of the building. Theres lots of glass here, too, but its just as coolly comfortable as the reception area. Besides the desk and wall of windows, there are bookcases lining two walls. A couch is positioned in front of one, along with a coffee table with a fan of current news magazines. Behind the desk is the largest ego wall Ive ever seen. There are well over a dozen diplomas and certificates, not to mention framed magazine articles about Barakovs work, and an impressive array of signed celebrity photos. On the desk Barakov has a computer with a flat-screen monitor, an in-box with two or three stacked files, and a set for holding clips, pens, and pencils.
There is also a door in the back of the office. For the confidentiality of patients, I presume. A way for them to discreetly come and go, avoiding the reception area.
When Barakov hears Amy Pattersons name, a concerned frown darkens his face. I was shocked when I read about Amy in the papers yesterday. I dont see how I can help you, though. There is an issue of privacy in terms of my consultations with her, and I certainly dont think I know anything that could shed light on her disappearance.
Zack is frowning, too. His frown doesnt reflect concern. Its deliberate, with a touch of menace thrown in. Its the disapproving frown of a hard-nosed cop, the stereotypical bad cop who doesnt like the answer hes getting. Or, in this case, the answer hes not getting. Zack clearly thinks Barakov is stonewalling. We arent asking you to break doctor/patient confidentiality, he says, his tone clipped, sharp. Were asking if she kept her appointment.
Apparently its time for Basic Interrogation 101. I assume my role of good cop, keeping my voice soft, suppliant. You may have been the last person to see Amy. You must understand how important it is that we establish a timeline. Any help you give us brings us one step closer to finding her.
Barakov fastens his gaze on my more sympathetic face. After a few seconds, his expression softens. Very well.
We really appreciate it.
I shoot Zack a subtle approving glance. He meets my eyes and winks.
Barakov has turned to his computer. He punches a few keys, and then scrolls up and down the screen. Yes, he says finally. She kept her appointment. She left at eleven a.m. He narrows his eyes at Zack. Thats all I can tell you.
Zack has produced a small notebook and pen from his jacket and makes a notation. Then, without the least bit of hesitation, he casually asks, And what about Isabella Mancini?
Isabella Mancini? Barakov asks, eyebrows furrowing.
I expected the same kind of rebuff we initially received when mentioning Amy, but Barakovs demeanor is decidedly different.
Another patient, Zack replies. You saw her about two months ago?
The shift to irritation doesnt happen. His expression is merely perplexed. He leans back, casually, in his chair. Im quite good with names. I dont recognize that one.
Shes another young woman whose disappearance were looking into, I explain. And according to her records, she had an appointment with you, too. I gesture to the computer. Would you mind checking your records?
Barakovs fingers work the keyboard. Yes, he says at last. Here it is. Isabella Mancini made an appointment by telephone for an initial consultation. He looks at Zack and me in turn. But she never kept the appointment. Thats why the name didnt ring a bell. I never met her.
Do you know why she wanted to see you?
I would assume it had something to do with my line of work, cosmetic surgery. Other than that, I have no idea.
His answers flow freely, without hesitation, yet I sense an uneasiness creeping into his manner. I am tempted to dial up my powers and press him to find out why, but at what cost? Zack would get caught in the wake. Demeter, were she to find out, would see it as reckless. Two problems I dont need.
Its quite a coincidence, Zack says, you having a connection to two missing women. Perhaps he feels the shift in Barakovs manner, too.
Id hardly call it a connection.
No missing the shift this time. Barakov is indignant. Do you have any idea how large my practice is? How many women have plastic surgery these days? They feel the need to tweak this, enhance that, always striving for perfection. I have one of the busiest practices in Southern California. The busiest practice in San Diego. He leans forward. When a woman decides to have work done, she wants the best. She wants me.
Then, in an instant, the annoyance is gone. Hes turned his gaze on me. For example, Agent Monroe, have you ever thought of getting that bump on your nose fixed?
Suddenly both men are looking at me. Reflexively, I touch my nose, then curse myself for doing it.
Barakov laughs. Of course, its not a terribly noticeable flaw, but without it . . . well, we all strive for perfection.
Not all, Zack says, his voice tight. Some might say perfection is boring.
Barakov peers at Zack as if tallying a score, then waves a dismissive hand. Spoken like someone who has no obvious physical flaws.
Zacks shoulders bunch. We all have flaws, Doctor.
Of course. Thats why I made the distinction and said physical flaws.
The tension in the room is building and I doubt well get anything else from Barakov. Especially with Zack looking as though he wants to add a bump or two of his own to Barakovs perfect nose. I rise and extend my hand. Thank you for your time.
Zack jumps to his feet. Hes as anxious to get out of the doctors office as a racehorse chafing to leave the starting gate.
Barakov motions to the door behind his desk. You can leave this way. I hope you find Amy. She is a beautiful young woman, so vibrant.
After the door closes behind us, Zack lets out a breath. It echoes in the stairway like an explosion. I dont like that guy.
Really? It didnt show. He seemed quite fond of you.
Zack shakes his head. I cant put my finger on it. Theres something not right about him. I dont care how famous a plastic surgeon he is, its too much of a coincidence that two missing women are among his patients.
Amy was his patient, I correct. He said he never met Isabella.
Yeah. Thats what he said. Im going back three to six months, look through some unsolved cases. Ill start with women over eighteen and see if his name comes up.
I raise an eyebrow. He also said Amy is a beautiful young woman, not was.
He concedes the point with a shrug. Just means hes clever enough to weigh his words around cops.
I follow Zack down to the car, glancing once to look up at Barakovs office window. Its decided. If the investigation stalls, Ill come back and pay the doctor a return visit.
Without my partner.
Were pulling out of the parking lot when Zack points to a traffic camera at a stoplight across from Barakovs office.
See that? he asks.
The traffic cam?
When we get back to the office, Im going to get the tape from the day Isabella went missing so we can review it. The image might not be clear enough to definitively identify Isabella, but itll be clear enough to see if a car of her model, make, and color was in the area at the time of the appointment. The one she didnt keep.
His sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. I ignore it. Im too busy reading a text that just came in from Johnson. Apparently the district attorney is already bugging him for an update on the case. He wants me to swing by his office before the end of the day. I hate these command performances. The DA wants to see me. How about you check the tapes? Ill call you as soon as Im finished downtown.
CHAPTER 6
The last two hours have been a complete waste of time. Not only did District Attorney Derek Walker keep me waiting outside his office for an hour before seeing me, once I was in his office, Walker took no fewer than three phone calls. After the last, he had the gall to hit on me, suggesting we continue our debriefing over a drink. Next time he needs a debrief, Im sending Zack.
Once back on Highway 8, I call to check in. Hopefully hes had a more productive afternoon than I did.
Zack answers with a cheery hello.
Sounds like you had a better afternoon than I did, I grumble. What have you got?
A couple of baked potatoes, a thick-cut London broil, a twelve-pack of Negro Modelo, andwait for itconfirmation that a red 2003 PT Cruiser went through the intersection of Tenth and J fifteen minutes before Isabellas scheduled appointment. He pauses. The one the troll said she never kept. Score one for Armstrong!
His enthusiasm makes me smile.
How sure are you that its Isabellas?
The photo of the drivers a little fuzzy, but I could make out the license plate clear as day. He rattles off an address. Come over. Join me for an early dinner.
Dinner at his place, just the two of us? The last time we had dinner together, we ended up in bed. Alarm bells go off. Best I hold the line. I appreciate the offer, but when I told you to find a girlfriend earlier, I didnt mean me. I dont date my partners, Zack.
My mother will be relieved. She thinks its unseemly for a woman to carry a big gun. She wants me to marry Betty Crocker.
There is no Betty Crocker. Besides, maybe I have a date.
A chuckle rolls out. With that hideous bump on your nose? On a Wednesday night? Unlikely.
Screw you.
I bite my lip. If I could have taken back that last response, I would have. Thankfully, Zack is still prattling on.
Besides, this isnt a date. I have something youll want to see.
His voice is low and lilting. It does things to me it shouldnt, conjuring images of a night Id be better off forgetting. Zack seems to have done so. Hes been nothing but professional.
Okay, Ill bite. What have you got? I reach for the iced tea in my cup holder and take a sip.
The security tapes from the lobby of Barakovs building.
The cup slips out of my hand, spilling all over the passenger seat. I completely miss the turnoff to the 163.
Shit!
Not the reaction I was expecting.
I just spilled my tea. You expect me to believe Barakov just called you up and volunteered the security tapes?
Theres a pause. Not exactly. I remembered seeing cameras inside the lobby. The videos were just sitting there . . . on a secure server.
You know how to hack into a server?
I can be handy that way.
My head is spinning. He sounds jubilant, talking as if hes oblivious of the implications of his actions. He has to know well never be able to use something illegally obtained against Barakov. I watched Zack skirt the edge when we worked together, but he never crossed the line. This most definitely crosses the line. This is major. My jaw tightens.
You coming or arent you? he asks.
Damn it. Yes.
Are you coming now? Again, theres an almost imperceptible lowering of his voice. I tell myself Im reading something into it, that I should chalk it up to Southern-boy charm.
Im ten, maybe fifteen minutes away, I tell him before signing off and pulling onto 8 West.
The traffic is horrendous, as I get closer to the beach. I have more time than I thought to consider what to say to Zack when I see him. I understand temptation. I also understand that giving in to temptation always comes at a cost. What he did was stupid, plain and simple. We could have gotten that security footage the right way, the legal way.
Just when I think I have what Im going to say to him all figured out, the address he gave me comes into view.
Every thought in my head flies out the window.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
I pull into the drive behind Zacks SUV, the one identical to mine. Id assumed when Zack gave me the address that he lived in an apartment building. Or that perhaps he was renting a condo. Either of which would be pricey enough at the beach. But this is neither. Its a house. Two stories of oceanfront property.
I grab my phone and search for the address. A recent MLS listing pops up. Escrow just closed. I pull up the details. The house sold for over five million. Dollars. Five million.
Now, there are really only a few ways for an agent just over thirty to get his hands on that kind of money: marriage, inheritance, winning the lottery, or hes done something very, very wrong. Zacks cavalier attitude about getting the security tapes from Barakovs building plays over and over in my head. Maybe Zack is comfortable cutting corners, comfortable living large and taking risks. I havent worked with him long enough to know.
But I do know Im not.
Doing something that could jeopardize a case? That could end up shining an unwanted light on me? Definitely not something Im comfortable with. Zack may be a liability I can ill afford.
What kind of man is Zack Armstrong really? There is one sure way to find out. This has become a matter of self-preservation.
I climb out of the SUV and pocket my cell on the way to Zacks door. I dont bother to knock. I barely even bother to take in my surroundings. The living room, dining area, and kitchen flow into one another. Zacks behind the counter, knife in hand. Hes wearing a pair of red board shorts, nothing else. No shoes, no shirt. Theres a towel draped around his neck and his hair is damp, as if he just came in from a swim. I remove the gun from my clip and slam it down on the cutting board alongside the sliced cucumber.
Zack jumps. The knife in his hand slips. Crap. I almost sliced my finger off. He sets down the knife, yanks the towel from around his neck, and wraps it around his finger. Whats the matter with you?
For the past twenty minutes Ive been thinking about what you said. The more I think about it, the more pissed off Im getting. I figure we should not be armed for this conversation.
Zack checks his wound. Not surprisingly, the small cut has already mended itself. The bleeding has stopped. The towel is tossed aside. Im not armed. Talk to me. He raises both of his hands, taking a step back.
What are you up to, Zack?
He gestures toward the counter. Im making salad. Is this about your nose? Youre upset because I called your bump hideous. In my own defense, I was joking. You know that, right?
This. Is. Not. About. My. Nose. I emphasize each and every word with a finger poke to his chest.
Zack and I are toe-to-toe. Suddenly Im acutely aware of everything about him, his size, his strength, his power, and his almost complete lack of clothing. I try to pull away, but he reaches out for my hand and holds fast.
Whats happened?
I take my job seriously, Zack.
So do I. You know that. You know me.
Look, I thought I knew what kind of guy you are. But maybe I dont. Normally Id say your personal life, the decisions you make are your own. Id focus on the case, then the next one, then the one after that. Id just go on living my quiet little life. But were partners and that means if a shit storm comes raining down on you, Im likely to get crap all over me. Im clean. I want to stay that way.
He releases my hand. And you think Im not? You think Im dirty?
Look around. Unless your mothers maiden name is Rockefeller, yes.
He looks surprised, hurt, confused. He could be all of those things. He could be none of them. One way to find out.
I lean in, lock Zacks eyes in mine, let go. This is how it begins, allowing a tiny crack in the armor that contains my powers. You broke the law by hacking into Barakovs server. This house is worth a fortune. Your SF-86 is nowhere to be found. You agreed to no contact. Yet here you are.
As the power builds, the air around us warms, stirring an almost imperceptible perfumed breeze.
Zacks nostrils flare. His acute sense of smell detects the subtle yet complex blend of white florals layered atop citrus. A strand of hair escapes the coil at the nape of my neck and drifts in front of my eyes.
Here I am, Zack says.
He reaches up and tucks the loose lock behind my ear, his fingers tracing the curve of my throat. His inhibitions are lowered. He feels it, the attraction, building. He steps closer, then dips his head and breathes me in.
The act is intimate, primitive. It makes me shiver.
And here you are. He snakes one arm around my waist.
Like water pushing through the spillway of a dam, I feel the rush of pent-up magic fighting to escape. Focus, Emma. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow. It isnt normally a challenge, reading someone like this. But it has been on occasion. Someone with as strong a will as mine, certain supernaturals, have a few times in the past tested my control. I know what I need to do. I need to hold steady, to ride the crest of the wave of influence, not drown in it. To stay in charge of the seduction, not get caught in it. Hell tell the truth. He has no choice.
I push myself back and away, trying to put some physical distance between us. Are you on the take? Here under false pretences? Are you?
Zack, however, moves with me, placing a finger under my chin. Look at me.
I lift my eyes and seek out his. There isnt a hint of deception. The surprise, hurt, and confusion I noticed before are all still there.
He speaks slowly. I didnt steal evidence. I remembered seeing the camera in the lobby. Curiosity got the better of me. I didnt actually hack into the server, but I could have. Instead I made a call to Silvia Barton. I asked her to email it. Told her you wanted to review it, that you thought it was important to Amys case. She checked with Dr. Barakov. Five minutes later, I had the file. I didnt commit a crime. I wouldnt do anything to jeopardize the case. You can trust me.
I want to trust you. Why did you really come here? What is it you really want?
As the words tumble from my lips, his eyes flash from brown to light blue, reminding me Zack is more than a human. Hes also something else, and that something else is getting closer to the surface than I am comfortable with.
My heartbeat quickens.
What do I want? His arm tightens around my waist. He lifts me into the air and we move swiftly and silently across the kitchen. In the blink of an eye he has me pinned to the wall with his body. Hes hard and ready, his breath coming faster, his control dissolving. But something prevents him from giving in, letting go.
Zack
Words catch in my throat as his hands skim up the length of my body and he begins to remove the pins from my hair. The air around us is thick with desire. His lips are only an inch away from mine. He smells like sun and sand, salt and sweat. I want him to kiss me. Badly. And that petrifies me.
Evidently the same thing you want. If Im misreading the signals here, you better tell me fast, he says, bringing me back.
Ive made a terrible mistake. Whatever is going on with Zack, whatever secrets hes hiding, I cant risk probing any further. I pull up the wall between us and slam the door shut on my powers.
The change is so sudden Zack is caught in the undertow. He distances himself quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it. I pick up the pins from the floor, then move to the sink and go about making sure every strand of hair is neatly back in place.
The silence between us drags on until it is deafening.
I dont know what to say. He has a pin in his hand, one that I missed.
I can tell by the tone of his voice that hes shaken. He crossed a line hes not comfortable with and doesnt understand why. Hes searching for some sort of explanation.
I take a deep, steadying breath to collect myself and try to give him one. Forget about it. Emotions were high. I barged into your house, spouting off accusations. I accept the offered pin. I did poke you in the chest.
Zack frowns. I wouldnt normally consider that an invitation to . . .
This is my fault. Not his. I was the one who opened Pandoras box. Zack and his beast had merely gotten caught in the wake. What Zack felt wasnt real, didnt mean anything. It was just physical. He responded to the Sirens pull, not because of any real emotion he felt for me.
Seriously, Zack, I insist, forget about it. I already have.
I dont lie to myself often. Deep down, I know this one is a whopper. What it felt like to have Zacks body pressed against mine again isnt something Im going to easily forget. It brought back memories Ive been trying to shake for months.
His lips purse together and he nods. Im gonna take a shower. Get dressed. You still up for dinner?
Sure. I reach for the knife. Ill finish slicing the cucumber. Im not a great cook, but even I can put together a simple salad.
Help yourself to whatever, he says, before backing out of the kitchen and racing up the stairs.
Emma Monroe, you are an idiot, I whisper to the four walls.
With Zack gone, my heartbeat returns to normal. For the first time I take in the surroundings. Zacks kitchen is palatial compared to mine. The professional-grade appliances, custom cherry cabinetry, and cream-colored marble countertops are just what you would expect in a house like this. I spend a moment taking everything in, trying to connect the home Im standing in to the guy who is my partner. A rectangular dining table, which matches the cherry cabinets, is to my right, surrounded by cream suede chairs. A modern glass chandelier hangs above it. The living room is in front of me, on the other side of the counter, which also serves as a breakfast bar. A pair of brown suede sofas are arranged around a cozy fireplace. Above the mantel is a flat-screen television. To the left stand two gleaming guitars. To the right, a black baby grand. There are decorative pillows and throws, candles, place mats, fresh flowers, and even some artwork. But there is nothing that feels personal.
Maybe its because hes just moved in. Maybe its because the place is more of a designer showcase than a home. What I do know is that if I want to find out more about Zack Armstrong tonight, Im going to have to do it the old-fashioned wayand in this case, that means asking questions. Any other way is too dangerous.
The shower comes on upstairs and I throw myself into the mission of making salad. Trouble is, the assignment doesnt take long enough. My work is soon done; the shower isnt. I look up, not because the ceiling is interesting, but because thats where my eyes are drawn. Lasting love is something I can never have. Blistering, hot sex? That is fair game and experience tells me its just one floor away. Hot. Soapy. Shower sex. Perfectly natural. Not to mention efficient.
I pluck a cherry tomato out of the salad bowl and pop it into my mouth. And so much more fun than interrogation. The fate of the next tomato is rescued by the ringing of my cell. Its Liz. Thank God. I push the images of Zack that have been formingnaked and wetaside.
Distract me.
I dont have to ask twice. Liz is in the midst of a meltdown.
Im in Evans bathroom. I dont have a lot of time.
Evan Porter is a thirtysomething attorney vampire. Ive met him several times. Hes hardworking, earnest, loyal, and completely in love with my best friend. Theyve been dating for three months, which for Liz is probably some kind of record.
Are you okay?
Are you kidding? Im calling you from the friggin bathroom. Im a wreck! she whispers. We have to talk.
We are talking, I remind her.
Tomorrow, after Evan leaves for work. Emma, he wants me to move in.
Whoa.
And?
I told him I needed to think about it.
And?
And then I ran in here to call you! You know Ive been staying here for a few days while my place is getting painted. Tonight were eating dinner and he tells me he doesnt want me to leave. He wants me to put my place on the market and move in here. Hes talking about putting down roots. About making a life together. Thats insane. Right? Hello? Vampire. Sure, I can work some mojo, extend things a bit. But eternity? No can do. He has this vision of happily-ever-after. Im not even sure I can commit to happily-for-now. What the hell am I going to do?
The showers no longer running. Im not sure how long ago Zack turned it off.
Let me get this straight. Youre asking me for relationship advice?
See? Im a total and complete wreck!
This time I hear a smile in her voice.
Zack bounds down the stairs dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair still wet and slicked back from the shower. He walks straight past me into the kitchen and opens up the fridge.
Im free for lunch tomorrow, I tell Liz. Can we talk about it then?
Yes. Come here around noon?
You got it. See you then.
Zack hands me a beer. Friend having troubles?
I dont end the call quickly enough. Liz hears his voice and before I know it, Im being barraged with questions.
Who is that? Youre with someone? Are you out on a date?
Its not a date. Im working. Ill see you tomorrow. I disconnect before she can get in another word.
Zack is leaning against the counter, eyeing me.
I wonder how much of the conversation he heard.
I hold up my phone. My friend Liz. She has a handsome, successful, and honorable guy wanting a commitment.
There must be something seriously wrong with him. Zack tilts the beer hes holding to his lips and takes several long swallows.
Thats what Liz is afraid of. I stroll over to the sliding glass doors that lead onto the deck. Theres a grill on one side, along with a table and a few chairs. On the other, a built-in fire pit and two love seats. The entire area is surrounded by a waist-high wall. Beyond that is sand and ocean. Tell me something, Zack. Where did the money come from?
For the house?
Yeah.
If were sharing secrets now, I have a question for you.
What? I ask.
Your scent. It changed. I noticed earlier . . . Its different from when I first met you. How do you explain that?
How do I explain that? The best defense is a good offense.
Scent? I raise my eyebrows. What are youpart bloodhound?
Color floods Zacks face. Keen olfactory senses, he replies.
If there are secrets shared tonight, they arent going to be about our supernatural origins.
I look away, shrug. Its some new perfume. I made a detour to Nordstrom after I left the DAs to pick up something. The idiot perfume girl sprayed me before I could stop her. I think the fragrance is finally wearing off. I turn back around to face him. I finished the salad. Should we light up the grill?