Tangled Souls (31 page)

As she took another sip of her coffee, she eyed her guest: jeans, T-shirt, and denim jacket. Knowing he was genetically hardwired for suits, O’Fallon was pulling out all the stops.

He returned her disgruntled look. “Aren’t you going to be polite and ask if I want some coffee?”

“No. If you wanted some, you should have brought your own.”

“Are you usually this bitchy in the morning?” he grumbled.

“No. Only when I get four hours of sleep.”

“Midnight orgy with the nymphs and satyrs?” he chided.

She frowned. “No, that trip to Las Vegas.” When he opened his mouth to ask the inevitable question, she waved a finger in the direction of the bag. “Someone mentioned a peace offering?”

He pushed the bag toward her and when she dug inside, she found heaven: a cinnamon roll. She inhaled its scent and let out a soulful sigh.

O’Fallon watched her, a knowing grin on his face. The guy was trying.

“Okay, you win. Tell me why you’re here at this hideous hour.”

“I need to talk to Gregory Alliford.”

“Why?”

“I prefer not to say at this point.”

She stared at him. “Oh, right. You want me to help you but you’re not going to tell me why. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit one-sided?”

O’Fallon flared right back. “You not telling me why you made a quickie trip to Vegas is different?”

“I went to Vegas because of the article in the paper.”

“They don’t have cell phone service in Vegas? I was worried, you know.”

He was worried?
Gavenia licked the frosting off her fingers. “I’m sorry about that. It was . . . not an easy trip.”

His ire faded instantly. “Something you want to talk about?”

She shook her head. “Not until I get it straightened out in my own mind.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, heading toward the coffeepot on his own.

“Yes . . . and no.”

“Ah, one of those.” He selected a
magic rules
mug and poured himself some coffee. Once he returned to the table, he shifted back to the original topic.

“Alliford won’t talk to me because he knows I used to work for Mommie Dreadful. I need you to run interference so I can ask him a few questions.”

“About Bradley?”

“Yes, and that’s as much as I’m willing to reveal.”

Gavenia gave another low sigh and took a tentative sip of her coffee. It had cooled enough to be drinkable. “Let me get a shower, and then I’ll try to get you in to see Gregory—providing he’s sober, of course.”

“Thanks.” He hesitated and then grinned boyishly. “Was it the cinnamon roll or the blue jeans? I’d like to know for future reference.”

“Both. But the jeans pushed you over the top.”

“Got it.”

* * *

When she came downstairs after her shower, O’Fallon wasn’t in the kitchen. She found him in the temple, was sitting on the floor on one of the oversized cushions, eyes closed. His expression made her pause in the doorway; he appeared less careworn, as if years had melted off during the time it took her to shower. She knew the room held positive, healing energy, but he was soaking it up like a starving man would a rich broth. Bastet sat near him, purring contentedly. If the cat liked the Irish guy, he had to be okay.

O’Fallon opened his eyes and gave her a warm smile, like that day on the beach. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m in here,” he said in a softer voice than usual. Like a person would use in church.

He respects my faith. That’s neat.
She shook her head. “It’s a good room for recharging.”

He pondered and then nodded. “You’re right; it feels like I’ve plugged into a wall socket and I’m blinking away.”

“Well, hate to tell you but your blink appears broken,” she jested.

“I’ll have to work on that.”

She took her place next to him, lowering herself gingerly to the ground.

“Have you ever had therapy for your leg?” he asked.

Caught off guard by the question, she stammered, “No . . . I . . . don’t know if it will help.”

“It can’t hurt.”

“I’m not sure,” she said, uncomfortable.

“Then perhaps the problem isn’t the old injury,” he said.

She opened her mouth to retort and then thought better of it. He’d hit the issue head-on. “Bart says I’m doing penance for Winston’s death.”

“Bart?” O’Fallon asked, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

Oops.
The lack of sleep was affecting her tongue. A quick glance around revealed her Guardian sitting near the altar in a lotus pose.

It’s time he knows
, he said.

“Okay,” she said. Turning her attention back to the PI, she explained, “Bartholomew Quickens is my ethereal Guardian.”

“You mean, like a guardian angel?” O’Fallon asked, his face betraying his confusion.

“Sort of, except he doesn’t have wings; at least, he’s never acted like he does. His job is to keep me out of trouble. He gives me advice when he’s in the mood to be helpful.”

Bart stuck out his tongue. She chuckled at the sight and pointed for O’Fallon’s benefit. “He’s over there,” she said, “but you’ll have to take my word for that.”

O’Fallon stared and shook his head. “You’re right, I’ll have to take your word. Do I have one of these . . . guardians?”

She nodded and pointed just over his right shoulder. “I only see it as twinkle of light. Some of them I can’t see at all.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” he asked, leaning forward, staring in the general direction where Bart sat. “It’d creep me out.”

“You’re being a lot more open than you were a couple of days ago.”

“A lot of stuff has hit the fan. I’ve seen things that . . . well . . . Let’s just say I’ve seen a ghost of my own, so either I’m crazy or I’m psychic. I’ve decided to go with the latter.”

“Sounds familiar.” Suddenly ill at ease, she struggled to her feet. He rose to help her up. “Thanks.” She felt his hand on her cheek, and with the merest hint of pressure, he turned her face toward him. The kiss caught her by surprise. It wasn’t demanding, just a gentle buss on the lips.

“You have the most gorgeous eyes,” he said, gazing at them as if they were fine gems.

“Yours aren’t bad, either,” she said. She could smell his aftershave now, a citrus blend.

The second kiss was longer, more insistent. The Irish guy knew how kiss. She found herself putting her hands around his waist, careful not to touch his sore ribs. He returned the gesture and pulled her in to his warm body. It was impossible not to notice his growing arousal.

“I wish we had more time,” he said, nuzzling her cheek.

The next kiss was more insistent, and Gavenia began to wonder if he’d forgotten about Alliford. The sound of an opening door jarred them apart, followed by Ari’s voice calling Gavenia’s name from the front entryway.

“In the temple,” she replied. O’Fallon’s eyes reflected hers—regret. He gave her a wink as he moved a discreet distance away, pulling his T-shirt back into place.

“Oh, hi; I see you’re still in one piece,” Ari said, flashing O’Fallon a brilliant smile. “That’s a good sign.”

Something about Ari’s smile irritated Gavenia. “We were just leaving,” she said.

“Really? Okay . . . I’m going to lunch with a friend, so I’ll see you this afternoon at the shelter.”

“Oh, Goddess, I forgot,” Gavenia said, tapping her forehead with her finger as if that would help her remember. “What time?”

“Four will do. I’m off to Portland tonight, so you get the dishes.”

Clearly she’d missed something. “Portland?”

An exasperated frown replaced Ari’s smile. “Remember, I told you about that when we were on the flight to Vegas?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m not really with it right now.”

“Par for the course,” Ari murmured, and then turned her attention back to the PI. The smile returned. “Glad to meet you, Mr. O’Fallon.”

“You as well, Dr. Hansford.”

The use of her title made the smile broader. She headed down the hallway, Bastet trailing behind.

“Ready?” Gavenia asked, keen to leave. She didn’t think she could take too much more of Ari’s fawning.

Oh . . . jealous?
Bart piped up.

“Be quiet!” she snapped.

“Pardon?” O’Fallon asked, startled.

“Sorry. Bart’s doing Bart-like things,” she said, glaring in her Guardian’s direction.

“Perhaps it’s best I drive,” O’Fallon offered diplomatically.

Gavenia didn’t bother to argue.

* * *

As they drove toward Bel Air, O’Fallon talked about Seamus and how the bird missed her. He announced he was going to Ireland once his cases were complete, and then asked if Gavenia liked Chinese, as he knew a place on the other side of town that did excellent dim sum.

A virtual chatterbox
, Bart observed from the backseat.

He’s working up to something
, Gavenia replied.

Her prediction was correct. O’Fallon cleared his throat and then leaped into the fray.

“After this case is over and I get back from Ireland . . . I’d like to spend time with you, at the beach, if that’s okay.”

Aww, isn’t that sweet?
Bart whispered.

O’Fallon shot her a worried expression and then returned his attention to the traffic.

Bart chimed in,
He’s taking this pretty seriously. I suggest you do the same.

It’s not like he’s asked me to marry him or anything. It’s just a damned date
, Gavenia grumbled through the mental link.

It’s more than that to him.

Gavenia puzzled on that comment. Her silence was interpreted differently by the private eye.

“If you’re not comfortable with the idea, just tell me,” O’Fallon said, blessedly unaware of the unspoken conversation flowing around him. “I know I don’t have a . . . great track record . . . not with two divorces behind me.”

Honesty. How refreshing
, Bart observed.

Gavenia gave her Guardian a sidelong glance and then addressed the Irish guy.

“Okay, on one condition.”

“Which is?” O’Fallon asked in a cautious tone.

“You wear those blue jeans.”

A grin blossomed. “Like them, do you?”

She gave a nod and a low sigh and let a slow stream of air out her lips. “On you, oh yeah.”

“Okay, it’s a deal. I know a great Irish pub. We can get lunch, listen to some good music and drink some fine Irish beer, and then head out to the beach. Sound like an option?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “You’re on, O’Fallon. I might even learn a few words in the mother tongue just for the occasion.”

He fell silent, as if he’d accomplished his goal. In the backseat Gavenia could hear Bart humming to himself. To her horror, it sounded like Mendelssohn’s “Bridal Chorus”. The wedding march.