Tempted by Fate (7 page)

Not even in his dreams. But she’d let him think whatever he wanted, to search the other rooms. She smiled coyly. “Maybe. How long is your break?”

“Not long enough.” He devoured her body with his eyes.

Gross. She was taking a long, hot shower to disinfect when she got back to the motel. “Think you can get me a drink?” She could see it was on the tip of his tongue to protest, so she said, “I’m looser when I’m a little more relaxed.”

“Okay.” He rushed to his feet. “Be back right away.”

He tried to kiss her as he left, but she turned her head, pretending to watch the trio in the room next door. The door clicked shut, and she counted to ten before opening it and looking out.

No sign of him or the club owner.

Short of opening all the doors and looking in, she didn’t know how she could discover if they were in one of the rooms. She couldn’t do that without getting kicked out, and getting kicked out wasn’t an option.

The bartender came back, drinks in hand.

“Shit,” she muttered, retreating into the shadows of the hallway. She stilled her energy to the point where she’d go unnoticed. He walked right by her, into the room, only to emerge a moment later, a confused look on his face. He looked around for her for only a moment before he got distracted by the other patrons.

Willow waited until he left; then she began a round of the place. She found the corner that promised the best view of the club and posted there. A friendly waitress walked by, and she flagged her.

“What can I get you?” the woman asked, balancing a tray away from her body. They were probably schooled to do that so as not to obstruct the view.

“Gin and tonic.”

The waitress nodded and walked away. She returned quickly.

Willow exchanged a twenty for the drink. “I was looking for a friend, but I don’t see him.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Rocco.”

The woman pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen him tonight, but he’s usually with the boss.”

“I just saw Quentin, but Rocco wasn’t with him.” She frowned as if piqued. “Is there someplace I can look for him?”

“Quentin’s office, only no one’s allowed up there except the high rollers. But you can watch for him.” She pointed to a set of stairs to the left. At the top, another hulk guarded the passage.

Willow stretched her senses to see if she could feel
the Bad Man, but all the steel in the building blocked her ability.

“Anything else?” the waitress asked, shifting on her feet.

“No thanks.”

She nodded and walked away.

Willow sat there and watched. Her impatience was tempered only with the knowledge that she was close—closer than she’d ever been.

An hour later, the owner emerged, sauntering down the stairs like a king overseeing his kingdom, one of his army of bouncers at his back. No sign of the Bad Man.

“Damn.” Willow looked at the closing door upstairs. Was he still up there, sequestered in a private room?

The owner headed out the door that connected the Easy to Bohemia.
Follow the owner or try to breach the citadel?
She looked up at the office and the guard manning the door.

Follow the owner.
She had no idea if her quarry was up there. For all she knew, Quentin was heading to meet him again.

She waited for a count of ten after he’d disappeared behind the curtain to go after him. She peeked through the door, wincing when she saw him talking to her bartender suitor. She consoled herself with the fact that the bartender didn’t know anything about her.

Their conversation was brief. She waited until the bartender returned to work, then reentered Bohemia to follow Quentin.

Another one of his minions stopped to talk to him, pointing to the front. Quentin nodded and headed for the entrance.

To meet the Bad Man? Holding her breath, Willow tracked the owner.

But it wasn’t the Bad Man whom Quentin met. Instead, it was a tall, well-built Latino who had sharp eyes that missed nothing.

T
he cop.

Willow watched him pause inside the entrance to the club and look around. Even though he was speaking with Quentin, she felt a brief spike of fear he’d come looking for her.

Irrational—completely irrational. He couldn’t know she was here. Morgan would have called her paranoid. Morgan would have said that
Willow
was the one who wanted him to find her.

Okay, maybe that was the case, at least a little bit. Who could blame her? He was not only handsome but totally intriguing. Of course she was going to feel affected by him—particularly after that scene in the club. Of course she’d imagined him kissing his way up her neck, to the especially sensitive spot below her ear. Of course she’d wondered how his hands would hold her—softly with care, or greedy and insistent.

She didn’t think she’d mind either.

She frowned. Now wasn’t the time to fantasize
about a man she could never have, no matter how he intrigued her.

As he scanned the crowd, everything in her stilled. She withdrew her energy, ducking into the shadows for good measure. She just had to stay invisible long enough for him to go away so she could sneak out the side door.

She watched him take in the club. Did he know about the world behind the door at her back? She found herself oddly curious as to what he’d think about it.

He had a notepad and pen out, and he was obviously asking Quentin questions about Rocco, if she had to guess. Except the cop’s gaze kept flickering to the dark corner where she hid.

She held her breath, feeling like she was cowering in the
tarata
all over again. She hated that feeling. She was strong and capable—no longer a victim.

Needing to be active, she checked her shields and inched closer to hear what they were saying.

She caught up to them in time to hear the owner say, “You know, one of my bartenders saw a woman by that description. Long white-blond hair and a smokin’ body.”

The cop studied Quentin sharply. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he looked annoyed. “Did your employee talk with this woman at all?” the cop asked.

“He said she asked him questions about me. Why? Do you think some chick took out Rocco?” Tugging his sleeves down, Quentin smirked. Then he nodded at one of his bouncers who signaled him from across the room. “I’m being paged. If you’ll excuse me, Inspector. Feel free to check out the club.”

“I trust you’ll be available for further questioning,” the cop said.

“Of course. Anything to catch whoever did this to Rocco.” The owner’s smile reeked of insincerity.

Willow was certain the cop had to have noted that, but he simply nodded politely. Surveying the club one more time, he headed to the bar, presumably to talk to the bartender.

This was her opportunity to get the hell out of there. She started toward the exit.

Only he turned around, as if he sensed her. His hawklike gaze zeroed in on where she stood.

Leave.
She couldn’t control minds, but she had a strong talent for planting thoughts to influence people’s decisions. She’d discovered the aptitude over ten years ago, the same night Morgan had become her responsibility.

Now wasn’t the time to think about that night. Instead, she focused on the cop, imagining the thought as a seed in his mind, urging it to take root and to grow. Watching him frown, she waited for him to turn around and walk out.

He took a step closer.

“It didn’t work?” She blinked, taken aback, and then turned up the intensity. But the more she tried to dig the thought into the ground of his mind, the harder the dirt became, until it was impossible to penetrate.

“What the hell?” Was it the metal around her? The distance shouldn’t have mattered.

As she started to creep closer, keeping the hallway wall to her back, she felt something behind her. She turned right as the door to the sex club opened and one of the waitresses bumped into her.

Distracted, she did something she hadn’t done since she was nine years old—she let her shield slip.

Willow knew the moment the cop saw her. She felt it
all the way into her soul. She turned around and met his eyes. Dark and focused.

She shivered.

She couldn’t be caught. The Bad Man had been here once—he’d be back again. This club was the last piece of the puzzle. Twenty years of searching led here. She was so close to her goal, and nothing—
nothing
—would stop her from achieving it.

So she did the only thing she could do: she ran.

Cutting through the crowd on the dance floor would get her closer to the side exit, but it’d also give her a chance to resettle
mù ch’i
around her, to block the two men from seeing her escape. “Dance floor it is.”

The moment she stepped onto the floor, a guy grabbed her by the hips and gyrated behind her. Normally, having some random person wiggle his crotch against her ass would have pissed her off, but dancing with him gave her the opportunity to refocus herself.

Drawing her energy around her, she pulled it in. She stepped away from the guy, who exclaimed in confusion behind her. Carefully she pushed her way through the crowd to the other side.

The exit was five feet away, and no one stood between it and her.

She headed right to it, reaching for the handle. But just as her hand touched it, another hand closed over hers.

“Inspector Rick Ramirez, SFPD Homicide Unit.”

A faint lemony scent teased her nostrils.
Tarata.
For a moment, she felt transported back to New Zealand and running free through the bushes.

Willow shook herself. She had to concentrate here. She focused her attention to the cop.

“I have some questions to ask you,” Ramirez said.

Virile types responded to sex, so she unleashed a smile guaranteed to distract him from work. She ran a finger down the front of his dress shirt, stopping midway to toy with one of the buttons. “You look like you’re the type of man who already has all the answers.”

He looked down at her hand, and his eyes narrowed. “There was a double homicide last night in Buena Vista Park. A woman fitting your description was seen leaving the scene.”

Damn it—who’d seen her? There had been no one about. He couldn’t have seen her as she’d walked away. She’d taken care to mask herself. She hid her concern with a flirtatious tilt of her head and asked, “What’s my description?”

His gaze was like a caress up and down her body—long and thorough. “Five-ten, thin, long blond hair.”

“Tall, thin, and blond?” She chuckled, low and sexy, even though she was freaking out on the inside. “That could be anyone.”

“Your hair color is distinctive. White blond.”

Her hand started to go up to her ponytail, but she caught herself and curled it into a fist at her side. She was supposed to be disrupting his composure, not the other way around. Eyes narrowed, she turned up the heat. “Oh, I was at a scene a couple nights ago, honey, but the man with me was very much alive when I left him the next morning. Although he
did
say he died and went to heaven.”

The cop’s jaw tightened visibly. “You’re claiming you weren’t near Buena Vista Park yesterday?”

She felt a measure of satisfaction. Suppressing a
smirk, she pressed her body to his. “I’m not much of a nature girl, but I’d make an exception for you.”

He glared at her. “I’ll need your partner’s information so I can verify your alibi.”

“I’d rather have your information.” She pulled Ramirez closer. The cold button of his suit coat brushed her bared belly, and goose bumps rose on her skin.

The smell of
tarata
wrapped around her again, making her feel off balance, like she was in a different, happier world.

A delusion. She’d never be happy as long as the Bad Man was running loose. The sooner she got away from the cop, the sooner she could return to figure out how the club owner knew her nemesis.

She shook off the feeling and channeled her determination into a sultry smile. “Actually, I’d rather have you.”

Willow leaned in and kissed him.