Playing With Fire (4 page)

B
Y MORNING
I
WANTED
to kill myself.

How many hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, I didn’t know. One minute I saw sunshine streaming in through my windows, the next moonlight. One minute I shivered from cold, the next I sweated profusely. Awake I hurt. Asleep I hurt. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Everywhere. I was dying. I knew I was. I, who had never fallen in love, never owned a cat—or anything but an obnoxious betta—and never really
lived
.

This was it. The end. And it wasn’t pretty.

You know how dying people claim to see a light at the end of the tunnel, or that their life flashes before their eyes? Lucky bastards! Why couldn’t I be one of them? Instead I heard Ron’s pervy voice tell me over and over that I was fired as I fell through a seemingly never-ending tunnel, the fires of hell licking at me on one side, snowballs slamming into me on the other.

In this strange la-la land, I’d watched my nightstand catch fire, orange-gold flames flickering toward the ceiling. Then I’d watched a rain cloud form above it and douse the flames completely. The hallucination had been so real I’d heard the crackle of burning wood, the patter of the water and the ensuing sizzle of dying embers. I’d even smelled the ashes.

Afterward, I’d spotted a dark angel/demon standing at the edge of my bed, watching me, waiting for me to die. His gaze had seemed to burn into me. Intense. Scorching. I had felt a strange sort of comfort in his presence, though, knowing I wasn’t alone.

Now that I was awake, I wanted him with me again.

“Angel,” I croaked, my wild eyes feverishly searching for him in the darkness. I needed a glass of water, el pronto. I think something had died inside my mouth and rigor mortis had already set in. When I earned no response, I tried again. “Demon.”

Still nothing.

Had he left? Oh, he had. Bastard. He’d abandoned me.

I closed my eyes and a picture of him formed in my mind. He was severely hot—but he wasn’t handsome, if that made any sense. He looked savage and feral, like something you should fear, yet couldn’t because you wanted so badly to tame it. Hair as black as midnight framed his face, and his eyes were so blue they sparkled. I would have said they sparkled like sapphires, but there was a predatory glint in those eyes of his, dangerous and wild, nixing any thought of precious gems.

He was tall. Six-four was my guess. He’d been wearing black from head to toe, blending into the room’s shadows. The scent of blueberry muffins, ashes and untamed jungle had wafted from him. I rolled to my side, burrowing deeper under the covers as another black web formed in my mind. He had to…

I must have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, my eyelids were fluttering open and taking in the sunlight. A long while passed before I was able to orient myself. The room appeared hazy at first, everything slowly slipping into place as if someone had wiped my line of vision with glass cleaner. I saw my peeling ceiling…my yellowing walls…my brown shag carpet…my men’s loafers…my—Men’s loafers?

My eyes blinked open and closed, then traveled up a pair of black pants, a firm butt, a belted waist and a well filled out black shirt. Ah, the Angel of Death, I realized, relaxing a little. He hadn’t left me, after all. Once again he was standing at the side of my bed. He had his back to me as he spoke to someone on a walkie-talkie.

“Subject is roughly five-six, slim, straight brown hair, hazel eyes—mostly green. Full lips.” He paused. “Uh, really full lips. Small scar on left shoulder. No tattoos…unfortunately.”

Who the hell was “subject”? I wondered groggily. Me? It sounded like me. Maybe creatures of the otherworld preferred to keep things all-business.

“Subject has stopped writhing, and her skin is no longer tinted green. The bruises under her eyes have faded. Subject seems to be on the mend.”

His voice was low and sexy. I might be weak, but I wasn’t dead—or was I? I shivered. My gaze swept over him once more. He was as deliciously tall as I remembered, and so wonderfully muscled I would have liked to wrap my hands (legs—whatever!) around his biceps. Obviously, he worked out. A lot. His shoulders were wide, his back broad and his ass total, quarter-bouncing perfection. I bet even Sherridan’s twins couldn’t compare.

“Are you God’s minion or the devil’s?” I asked, my voice weak and raw. I’d put my money on the devil. (If I had any money, that is.) God had probably banned me from heaven months ago, when I filled my ex the Prince of Darkness’s apartment with rotten fish while he vacationed with the girl he’d dumped me for. (One rotten fish for another, you could say. Not that anything could compete with Martin.)

The angel/demon spun around, and those crystalline blue eyes pierced me. Hot, so unbelievably hot. I sucked in a breath, my hormones sizzling to life despite my condition. Seduction and danger poured from him. He had golden skin, a chiseled face with the shadow of a beard, and shaggy, windblown hair. The black locks fell over his forehead, almost shielding the arch of his brows. His nose was slightly crooked—from being broken one too many times?

“Hello, Belle. Glad to see you’re awake.”

The sound of my name on his soft, kiss-me lips was intoxicating. I fought the urge to reach out and trace my fingertips over that dark stubble dusting his jaw. I fought the urge to grab him by the neck and kiss the breath out of him. I fought the urge…oh, hell. Come to Momma. I tried to reach out, but my arms were too weak and remained at my sides.

Maybe that was a good thing. He was the first man to enter my apartment in, well, too many months to think about (without crying), so I probably would have done a poor job of pouncing/licking/
consuming
him.

“Don’t be afraid. If you’ll answer some questions for me, I’ll leave you alone,” he said. “Sound good?”

Okay, so he wanted to get away from me as soon as possible. I had to look like total crap. Before he escorted me through the gates of eternity, maybe he’d let me shower, brush my teeth, apply ten pounds of makeup, slip on a red teddy and mist myself with pheromone perfume. Not that I wanted to impress him or anything. Really. A girl just needed to make a good impression her first day in the afterlife.

“You falling asleep on me again?” he asked.

“No questions,” I said. I’d answered enough of those when Pretty Boy had interrogated me. As I struggled to sit up, the ache in my head roared to full life. I groaned and flopped against the pillow. “I hate to break it to you, but you totally suck at your job. Don’t just stand there looking sexy, take my soul already.”

“Subject awake but not lucid,” he said to the walkie-talkie. For a second, only a second, I thought I heard the beat of his heart. Steady at first, then gaining in speed. Or maybe that was
my
heart.

“If I’m asked to give an evaluation on the other side,” I said, “you’re going to score real low.”

“You must be thirsty.”

The moment he spoke, I realized just how dry my mouth was. “Yes,” I rasped.

“Subject is thirsty,” he said, then hooked the walkie-talkie, or whatever the hell it was, to his waist. He disappeared. That was the only way to describe it. He moved so silently, so quickly out of my room, he was like a puff of smoke. There one moment, gone the next.

He returned as quickly as he’d left and offered me a glass of water. I tried to sit up, but the feat proved impossible. Reaching out, he anchored his free hand under my neck and gently lifted my head to the glass. I drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing my throat, my stomach, moving through my overheated blood.

Calluses covered his hand. My skin began to tingle. Umm, nice. So nice. My increasingly heavy eyelids fluttered open and closed as he eased me back onto the pillow and set the water aside. “Your evaluation scores just increased,” I said hoarsely. Sleep. I’d sleep a little longer.

“We really do need to talk.” He gave my shoulder a soft shake.

My brain wasn’t functioning at optimal levels, but common sense finally slipped past the thick labyrinth of stupidity blanketing my mind. I jolted into total wakefulness. Could a hallucination help me drink a glass of water? Would an apparition have calluses? Would a messenger of death be able to physically touch me? No, no and no.

The stranger standing in front of me was very real.

Panic washed through me. “Get out,” I demanded, my alarm making my voice scratchy. “Right now.” I wore nothing more than the flimsy bra-and-panty set I’d worn under the Utopia uniform I’d stripped out of, and though my comforter shielded me from view, it could be ripped away at any moment. In my weakened condition, I wouldn’t be able to fend him off if he decided to attack me.

“Relax.” His voice was so soft and soothing, I barely heard him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Liar! Why else would he be here? My panic doubled, and I groped the bedsheets for a weapon. Of course I found nothing more menacing than a few feathers from my pillow. Like those would stop a freaking dust mite.

The man crouched beside me, putting us at eye level. I studied his eyes so I could give a description to the cops, not because they momentarily hypnotized me. His irises were a work of art. Dark blue branched from his pupils and blended with the lighter blue.

“I need to ask you some questions, Belle.”

“And I need you to leave,” I said, weak but determined. “Now.”

Ignoring my demand, he asked anyway. “Do you know how you got sick?”

“I don’t have any money, and my husband will be home at any minute.”

“You don’t have a husband. Baby, stop and think for a minute. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so by now. I’m with the CDC, and I just need to know about your illness.”

I shook my head to clear it, trying to understand. “Centers for Disease Control?” Okay, that made a little sense. And he
had
had plenty of time to hurt/molest me, but he hadn’t. Still. How had he gotten inside my apartment? How had he found out I was sick? How did he know I wasn’t married? “Do you have any ID?”

He flashed a badge, and the action reminded me of Pretty Boy. “Believe me now?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I whispered. “What’s wrong with me? Am I going to die?”

“There’s a chance.”

There was a chance? Seriously? My stomach bottomed out, and my jaw fell open. Why couldn’t he have lied to me and let me have a few minutes of blissful ignorance? “You’re really with the Chronically Diabolic Cockwad association, aren’t you?” I muttered.

His lips twitched. “Yes, maybe I am, at that.” He held up the walkie-talkie again. “Subject is alert and talking, lucid at last. Do you know how you got sick?”

Silence.

“Belle, do you know how you got sick?”

“What, you’re talking to Subject now?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged, the action only a slight lifting of my shoulders. “The normal way, I guess. A naughty little virus entered my body and started playing Russian roulette with my immune system.”

His brows cocked. “Subject is exhibiting a strong sense of humor.”

“Subject is getting pissed.” I used the last of my strength to knock the walkie-talkie out of his hand. My arm collapsed at my side as the stupid black box landed on the floor with a thump. “What kind of virus do I have? How long do I have before I…you know, kick it?”

“Kick it?” His lush, kissable lips dipped into a frown as he bent to pick up the box. “Do you know anyone else who has this type of sickness?” he asked, ignoring my questions. “Someone you’ve been in contact with in the last few days?”

Someone I’ve been in contact with…Ohmygod! I sucked in a breath. Sherridan. And my dad. Had my dad contracted this horrible, probably-going-to-kill-me disease? I’d visited him just two—or was it three?—days ago. He’d seemed fine, but with his weak heart he wouldn’t be able to fight off an infection this strong. I bit back a sob, my throat burning.

“I need to call my dad,” I cried, “and find out if he’s okay.” I dragged myself to a sitting position, wincing as a tide of pain rolled through me. I stretched out my arm, the phone so near, yet so impossibly far. Couldn’t…quite…reach…Desperation flooded me, so intense I shook with it. “If he’s hurt—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Get over here, you stupid thing.

The phone flew at me on a mighty gust of wind.

As the force of the wind hit me, I was thrown backward. My body clanged against the headboard and the phone soared past me, past the bed, and thumped onto the carpet. Even the CDC man was knocked on his ass. Shocked, I looked at the phone, looked at the charred nightstand, looked at the phone, looked at the man. Wait. Charred nightstand? It had really burned? And where had that wind come from? Where the hell had that wind come from?

Confusion, shock and disbelief rocked me, feeding off each other, almost rendering me speechless. Almost. “Did you see that? Did you feel that wind?”

“Subject just asserted prototype four,” he said into the walkie-talkie. A scowl darkened his features as he pushed to his feet. “I really wish you hadn’t done that, Belle.” He sounded resolute. A little angry. Completely menacing.

“Done what? I didn’t do anything. Am I going crazy?” I covered my mouth with a shaky hand. “That’s it, isn’t it? The illness is making me insane.” I paused. “Do you know if my dad’s okay? Have you heard if David Jamison is sick?”

“Damn it.” The man tangled a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Why the hell did you have to do that?” he said. “Why couldn’t you just have been sick, like I hoped?”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What just happened?”

“Let me break it down for you, baby. You drank the formula, and now I have to neutralize you.”

N
EUTRALIZE ME
? I blinked, the words registering like a flashing red light.
Neutralize me!

The sexy man stalked toward me as he withdrew a syringe from his shirt pocket. His expression was detached as he uncapped the needle. My eyes widened in horror. I held out my hands, palms facing him in an effort to ward him off. A rush of adrenaline whipped through me.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Don’t come any closer.” What had I done to make this man want to hurt me?

To my shock, he stopped dead in his tracks. He frowned. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed his hands against the air, as if he were a mime trapped in an imaginary box. His features crinkled in confusion, and he pushed again, only to be blocked again. He scowled, anger chasing away his confusion.

Short locks of his hair billowed around his temples—more wind? In my room?—and he slammed a fist into the air.
Bang. Bang.
The sound reverberated in my ears. My mouth fell open. He had hit a solid object—a solid object I couldn’t see. An invisible wall? No, not invisible, I realized in the next instant, my shock increasing. The air had somehow solidified, become dappled; opalescent waves rolled through it, rippling, sparkling with dust.

That wasn’t possible. That simply wasn’t possible. As I watched, the man threw his shoulder against…whatever it was, rattling its very foundation. What. The. Hell? I’d never seen anything like it, never heard of anything like it. Was I hallucinating, after all? No, no. That couldn’t be right. This
felt
real. That meant the air was stopping him, really stopping him.

“Drop the shield, Belle.” His tone was flat, as flat as his eyes.

Shield? “Drop” it? That meant he thought
I
was controlling it. Was I? Impossible. No freaking way. Except, there
was
a strange sensation in my hands. An unnatural warmth. A bone-deep tingling. I’d never experienced either one before today. “If I do,” I said, trying to sound confident, “you’ll
neutralize
me.”

“We’ll talk,” he said.

“Hell, no. You’re not with the CDC, are you, you liar?”
Escape,
I thought then. This was my chance to escape.

If I changed my body position, would I accidentally disrupt the…shield? I didn’t know, but I kept my hands lifted and out as I scanned the bedroom. Though I hadn’t noticed before, there was a black, ashy film over the carpet and the walls. They must have burned with my nightstand. “What did you do to my room?” I demanded.

“
I
didn’t do anything.”

The room doesn’t matter.
I looked around again, this time doing what I should have been doing the first time: finding a means of escape. The double windows led to a fire escape, but there was a broken ladder and a fifty-foot drop. No thanks. The air vents weren’t big enough to fit a poodle through, much less a woman. No again.

My only other option was the door. The door he’d shut, I realized. The door his big, menacing body now blocked. I’d have to get around him, as well as the shield.

Somehow I scrambled out of bed without the use of my hands and with a body weakened from sickness. The action was almost too difficult for me, but I managed, slowly scooting to the edge of the mattress. The man watched through slitted eyes as I stood. Wobbled. Righted myself.

“I’m not letting you leave,” he said.

“You might not have a choice.” I tried to scream for one of my neighbors, but the action caused my stomach to cramp, and I doubled over. Fighting past the pain, I quickly straightened and inched a step to the right. Instinct demanded I run, but I didn’t have the strength. Already my legs shook and my unsteady knees threatened to collapse.

“Plan to walk outside in that?” His frighteningly electric-blue gaze swept over me, lingering on my breasts, between my legs, but his expression remained detached.

He did it on purpose, I knew, to rouse a sense of self-consciousness in me and keep me planted here. But I could have been naked, and I wouldn’t have cared. People could look at me all they wanted, as long as I was safe.

He wasn’t done, though. He looked me over again, abandoning the detachment in favor of heat. White-hot, exquisite heat. He licked his lips. “Nice outfit,” he said, “but I liked you naked better.”

As a shiver coasted along my spine, I paused and flicked a glance down at myself. Cool air kissed mile after mile of bare skin. Okay, I wasn’t in the bra and panties I remembered. I now wore a skintight white tank that stopped at my belly button and heart-covered bikini panties.
I liked you better naked.
I almost—almost—leapt across the room and slapped him. He had undressed and redressed me while I was asleep and vulnerable. The bastard.

“Go to hell,” I told him, moving another inch. Surprisingly, the shield moved with me, forcing the man to shift to the side, slightly away from the door. Maybe I
was
controlling it. But how?

I moved another inch. Another. Then…nothing. Though I wanted to keep moving, my body was suddenly petrified, bringing me to a halt. I drew in a shallow, panting breath.
Move. You can do it.

“You leave this apartment,” he said, “and you’re dead.” His tone was no longer cold, but as hot as his expression had become.

“Judging by that needle clutched in your hand, I’m dead if I stay.”

“I’m the least of your worries, Belle.”

“Excuse me if I disagree. Dead is dead.”
Move!
One shaky leg managed to slide forward. Long pause, deep breath. Step. Pause. Another step, another pause. Good.
You’re doing good.
But I knew, deep down, that I’d never make it out of the room at this rate.

Very deliberately, making sure I watched him, he capped the needle and placed it in his shirt pocket. All innocence, he held out his hands, palms out. “Listen to me, Belle. I’m all you’ve got right now.”

“Save it. I don’t know why you’d want to hurt an innocent, sick woman, but—”

“You haven’t been sick. You’ve been changing.”

I managed yet another inch, but my arms shook more with every second that passed; my knees knocked with such force my entire body vibrated.
Stay strong.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed.

“Yeah, right. I watch TV, you know. Every homicidal killer says that, especially when they’re holding a syringe.”

“I happen to mean it.”

Yeah. Sure. He didn’t deny being a killer, I noticed. “I bet the CIA and FBI are looking for you. You’re probably known as the Phantom Needle and you’ve done this to hundreds of women.”

“Think about what you’re saying. Please. You would have heard about something like that on the news. I’m a government agent.”

I shook my head and fought a wave of dizziness. “You targeted me because I was sick and too weak to fight you.”

“Then why didn’t I hurt you while you were sleeping?”

Good question, and one that gave me pause. “Why do you want to inject me? What were you going to inject me with? And don’t say medicine. I won’t believe you.”

A muscle ticked beside his left eye. Instead of answering, he asked me a question of his own. “How do you think you’re able to erect that air shield? I know you’ve never done anything like that before.”

I managed one more step before my body once again froze in place. This time, however, I couldn’t force myself back into motion. My muscles were like stone, heavy and hard. I ground my teeth together in an attempt to draw on a reservoir of strength I simply didn’t have.

I wasn’t going to escape, I realized with despair, and there was nothing I could do about it. A sense of helplessness bombarded me. Infuriated me. Scared me.

“You drank the formula,” he said. “Whether you know it or not, you drank it. You have powers now. Powers a lot of people want to exploit.”

“
What
formula? I didn’t drink anything. I swear.”

“Denying it doesn’t change the facts.”

“I didn’t!” As I shouted, my knees gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, yet somehow managed to keep my arms up. But the shield began to shimmer, no longer quite so solid. My heart tripped against my ribs, speeding up, then skipping a beat altogether. “I didn’t,” I cried weakly.

“You work at Utopia Café, do you not? A café that sits across from an unmarked building. A brownstone.”

I paled, I know I did. My mouth went dry. I didn’t nod, but then, I didn’t have to. He knew about me. Had he followed me? Watched me?

Never taking his gaze from mine, he backed away from the shield, from me, and eased into the green velvet recliner in the corner of the room, unharmed by the fire that had evidently decimated my nightstand. I usually read books in that chair (when I had a rare, spare moment), sprawled out in my nightgown, bundled in thick covers.

I’d never again view that chair as a relaxant, though. He made it appear decadent. A place for carnality. His big body lounged against the curves, his legs stretched out in front of him.
You can sit on my lap,
his expression seemed to say.
I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you. I’ll pleasure you.

Liar!

I might have believed him, if not for the needle sticking out of his pocket. Not to mention the unnerving intensity in his eyes. They were predator eyes. Eyes that watched and waited for the perfect time to strike.

“Release the shield, Belle. It’s draining you. Release it and talk to me.” Pause. “Please.”

The “please” didn’t sway me. But I was too weak and my arms hurt too much and death was beginning to look like a holiday. Really, he could kill me now and he’d only be putting me out of my misery.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, drew in a deep breath and felt my arms fall to my sides. A part of me kind of expected the air shield to remain in place, to prove I wasn’t the one controlling it. It did remain for a few seconds. Then it wavered again, like waves in an ocean dancing over a beach, only to disappear altogether.

For several minutes, I tried to pull myself up and out of this defeatist position. For several minutes, I failed. I ended up staying on the floor, leaning my forehead against the side of the bed. The coolness of the sheets helped alleviate the feverish burn of my brow.

My shoulders slumped as I gazed at the man. He didn’t pounce. He remained where he was, utterly relaxed. “Want some help?” he asked.

“Don’t come near me.” I panted with exhaustion. God, why couldn’t I sound strong? Menacing?

His dark eyebrows arched, but he didn’t comment. Didn’t point out that he could now do whatever he wanted to me. A long while passed, each minute more painful than the last.

“You wanted to talk to me,” I said, just to fill the deathlike silence that had enveloped us, “so talk. You mentioned a formula. Does this formula have a name? What was in it?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” he replied.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s classified.”

“Let’s see,” I said, not bothering to raise my head. “I almost died from a formula you said I drank. You tried to ‘neutralize’ me because of it. And now you’re telling me I don’t need to know exactly what it is I allegedly consumed?”

“I’m not going to tell you specifics about the formula itself, but you can ask me something else.”

Fine. I would. “When did I supposedly drink this formula?” Let’s just see if he could formulate a believable answer.

His lips pulled downward in a tight frown, and he regarded me silently. I found his stare unnerving and strangely arousing. I knew I shouldn’t be able to experience any type of arousal in my condition, especially toward this man. And this was the second time he’d made me feel this way! Had he shot me full of some kind of aphrodisiac while I slept? I wouldn’t put such a lecherous act past the needle-wielding, clothes-changing bastard.

“Do you recall a man in a lab coat who stormed into the café a week ago?” he asked.

A week had passed? A whole week? The news hit me hard, dizzying, upsetting. So much time had passed, completely unnoticed by me. But despite the time lapse, I recalled that day very well. Lab Coat had swept into Utopia, created havoc, then left me and everyone else to clean up after him.

“Yes.” I gulped. “I remember.”

“That man is a scientist who ran off with a top-secret experiment, and he poured it in something you drank.”

“That’s impossible. That’s stupid. That’s—a mocha latte,” I whispered, dazed. Dear Lord. After the chaos at Utopia had died down and Pretty Boy had begun questioning everyone, I’d chugged my too-sweet latte. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Now…I just didn’t know.

“We weren’t sure he’d given it to you. We hoped he hadn’t, of course. Then you didn’t show up for work, which led us to check on you here, where we discovered you were sick.”

“We?” I asked, the word barely audible. There were more men out there like this one? More men who thought I needed neutralizing?

“My employer and I.”

My blood ran cold. Was Pretty Boy his boss? If the CIA wanted me dead, I sure as hell was going to end up dead. “Do you work for the CIA?” I croaked.

“Hell, no. I actually don’t work for the CDC, either. I work for an agency that you’ve never heard of. Paranormal Studies and Investigations. PSI. We’re like ghosts. To the rest of the world, we don’t exist.”

So why tell
me?
I feared the answer: I’d soon be dead and couldn’t tattle.

Okay. Did Pretty Boy work for this same agency, then? That guy had been Freaky with a capital
F.
I could totally believe him capable of ordering my death. Wait. Did I even believe this man’s story? He’d already proved to be a liar, saying he was with the CDC when he wasn’t.

“You said the formula was changing me. What kind of changes?”

“Do you really need to ask? You called forth the wind. You commanded the air to solidify.”

“I didn’t call it,” I protested. “It just came.”

“Did it?” His lip curled on one side, giving him a sardonic edge.

“Yes.” The word held a layer of uncertainty.

“If everything goes as we think, you’ll soon have power over the four elements. Air, fire, earth and water.”