The Lady in Pink - Deadly Ever After 2 (13 page)

I
hailed a taxi twenty minutes after my encounter with Jonas, his words still whispering in my ear. When, after my tenth try, a cabbie pulled to the curb, I got in and gave him directions uptown. “There’s an extra twenty in it if you lose those two.” I motioned to the cab behind us, where Right and Left were climbing aboard. The cabbie nodded, slamming his foot on the gas pedal before I was even settled into my seat. As we started off I checked my pockets for the necessities: breath mints, cigarettes, gloves, cell phone, my wallet, and most important, my lock picks, for I was on a mission.

Twenty minutes later the cab stopped in front of a darkened brownstone. Izzy’s brownstone, to be precise. While she was off on some date with some douche bag, hopefully not our VP, I planned on breaking into her brownstone and searching for clues. It was in her best interest, I told myself for the tenth time since the idea had popped into my head.

Yeah, I wasn’t buying it either.

But I still found myself standing at her front door, lock picks in hand.

Before I broke in, I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it, watching the street for any signs of Izzy, bad guys intent on doing harm, or my fairyguards. Oddly enough, not a car passed by. It was as if the city was giving me permission to break in. I sucked in a lungful of smoke, enjoying the burning in the back of my throat nearly as much as the release of tension in my muscles. Which was why I just couldn’t quit; smokes were too damn good.

With one last drag, I tapped my cigarette out on my gloved hand and stuffed the butt in my pocket. No use leaving evidence at the scene of my intended crime. With one more glance at the empty street, I broke through the lock as well as the boundaries of our relationship with ease. My hand stilled on the doorknob. This was bad. Real bad. But the chances of what might happen if I didn’t do this forced me to push open the door.

There just was too much at stake—Izzy’s life, for example.

The door slowly opened, and the scent of fairy dust and vanilla filled my senses. It was Izzy’s scent. At once I felt a sense of dread as well as guilt. I shouldn’t be here. But I was. So I took two quick steps into the brownstone.

Izzy had definitely come a long way in the last year. When I first met her she was living in a one-room apartment above a fairy-dust shooting gallery. A place so gritty and dangerous the bedbugs infesting the rest of the city refused to visit. But now she lived in an uptown three-floor brownstone built sometime a century ago, around the same time her great-grandmother had freed the fairies from the Shadows.

I had to admit the brownstone was very nice, as were her furnishings and other assorted knickknacks. The first floor was decorated in a pale peach color. It housed the kitchen, a dining room big enough to fit my entire apartment in, and a living area that looked untouched. In fact, most of the first floor appeared unlived-in. Not surprising since Izzy wasn’t much of a cook. The last time she cooked me dinner I’d ended up in the emergency room. And it wasn’t for food poisoning. Izzy had accidently stabbed me in the hand while chopping a red pepper.

At the time I was standing in an entirely different room from her.

A stack of files sat on the coffee table in the living room. I quickly flipped through them for the slightest clue as to the identity of her secret case. I paused on one file in particular. A familiar-looking file. A file I’d believed had burned up in the fire at my office.

Electrical current rushed through me when the full ramification hit me. What the hell was Izzy doing with my file? The electricity amped up to white-hot. Luckily for me, I was wearing gloves, or else the file would’ve burst into flames. For real this time.

Before I set the whole place ablaze, the dead bolt on the front door began to turn. Izzy was home. I froze, the file—my fucking file—in my hand. My head swiveled around the room, then to the door, searching for an escape. Izzy finding me here would be bad. Very bad.

I glared down at the file.

Before the dead bolt turned all the way, I ducked into the coat closet off the hallway next to the living room. Voices sounded in the hallway, and then Izzy let out a laugh. A real laugh. One I hadn’t heard in a while, relaxed and filled with genuine humor. Izzy’s date started to speak. I instantly recognized his voice, and my worst fears were confirmed. Izzy was dating our VP. Boyer & Davis was more than a figment of Grumpy’s scotch-soaked mind.

My fist clenched.

Clark was saying, his voice as smooth as silk, “I’d love a glass of wine. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Izzy answered. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Not too comfortable, I thought, as beads of sweat dotted my forehead.

I could hear Clark move around, probably slipping off his expensive jacket and unbuttoning his shirt in anticipation. The soft rustling set my teeth on edge. Just how much was he anticipating? I pictured Izzy in his arms and the electricity already buzzing through me increased by tenfold. I bit my lip as my body burned with anger and—what I would never admit to anyone else—a wee bit of jealousy.

The rustling stopped when Izzy returned.

“I hope you like it,” she said in a husky whisper.

Clark gave a soft chuckle. “Oh, yes.”

Izzy joined in with a sultry laugh. And my insides burned as I gripped the file in my hand tighter, so much so that I nearly missed Izzy’s next words. “Do you smell that?” she asked.

I winced. Damn her fairy senses.

“Smell what?” Clark asked.

“Cigarette smoke,” she said quietly.

I sniffed my jacket, frowning. Shit, it did reek of cigarette smoke. I glanced down, noticing that my pocket, where I’d stuffed the cigarette butt, had started to smolder. I slapped at the pocket until the smoking stopped.

“I don’t smell anything.” Clark was saying. “Did you accidently leave the stove on or an iron?”

“No,” she said. I pictured Izzy’s forehead wrinkling as she sniffed the air, unable to pinpoint the source. “Never mind,” she said, her tone relaxing. “Tell me more about your family. It must’ve been great growing up a Boyer.” Just because the Boyer family owned more than half the real estate in New Never City didn’t make for a wonderful life. Hell, I bet Clark had never burned down an entire orphanage at the age of eight.

Like an addict at a Fairy Dust Anonymous meeting, Clark launched into one story after another about his childhood. I yawned, bored by his rich-boy-next-door tales. The guy sounded way too good to be true. If I took him at his word, he’d led a charmed life filled with loving parents, a doting grandfather and uncle, and a houseful of valued and respected servants. According to him, his only problem was that he’d never met Ms. Right. A line if I’d ever heard one. Poor little rich boy. “And we never did find the cat,” he finished yet another story.

Izzy laughed and my body stiffened.

“Can I ask you a question?’ Clark asked hesitantly.

“They’re real,” she said. “My wings, I mean.”

He let out a chuckle. “I knew that the moment I first saw them. But that wasn’t what I wanted to know.” The sofa squeaked as they moved closer to each other. I gripped the file tighter. “Izzy,” Clark said. “What’s with you and Reynolds? Are you two . . .”

Izzy started to laugh. “Of course not. We’re partners. That’s all.”

Even though I’d said the same thing over and over again, hearing Izzy say it sent a rush of electrical current much like an icy shower along my nerve endings. I took a deep breath, easing the rising tension before I exploded.

“Are you sure?” Clark asked. “I don’t want to get in between the two of you if . . .”

“Blue and I . . .” She paused. “We’ve been through a lot over the last year. And now with James ... I’m worried about him . . .”

“I’m sure Reynolds can take care of himself,” Clark said. I appreciated his faith in my abilities even through my strong desire to choke the life out of him. “How did you, of all people, get involved with a guy like him?”

What was that supposed to mean? I ripped off my gloves, rubbing my fingers together in anticipation of frying our new VP. So I wasn’t some Ivy League asshole. That didn’t make me pond scum. Izzy seemed to take offense to Clark’s words, for she said, “Blue might look like a street thug, but he’s far from it. He’s smart. Smarter than he looks.” She paused, finishing weakly with, “And acts.”

What was that supposed to mean? My fingers clenched, wrinkling the file in my hand. Apparently she wasn’t finished with her assessment of me. “He’s also stubborn beyond belief. Not to mention sexist, crass, and when he sinks his teeth into a case nothing can deter him from solving it. Nothing.” Her words sounded like a threat, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. “Which is how we met. I don’t regret joining forces with Blue.” She stopped and silence filled the air. “At least I didn’t until recently . . .”

What? Izzy regretted our partnership? I nearly let out a bitter laugh. I wasn’t the one lying and sneaking around, not to mention hiding a very important file in my brownstone. I wanted to burst from the closet and scream, Aha! like those TV detectives. But I wasn’t born blue-haired yesterday. It was in my best interest to stay quiet, for now.

“What happened?” Clark asked, oozing complete sincerity.

I suspected he was weighing how much talk was left before he got some action. It had better be a lot more or else ...

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” Izzy said. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Reynolds & Davis Securities is a strong company and a great place to work.”

Clark chuckled. “It definitely has its perks . . .”

The couch squeaked as Clark made his move. The sound of kissing filled my ears, loud and disgusting. I bet Clark slobbered. It sure as hell sounded like it. It also seemed to go on forever. Sucking noises mixed with heavy breathing. My skin began to burn. I took a deep, controlled breath, willing the current down. When that didn’t work I twisted the file into a small tube. Tiny fingerprint scorch marks formed under my touch. The file began to burn. I quickly swatted the burning paper until it stopped smoking.

But it was too late to stop the fallout.

The closet door flew open.

Izzy stood in the doorway, her mouth a thin, angry line.

I glanced up from the charred file. “So how was your date?”

“W
ho the hell do you think you are?” Izzy yelled her rhetorical question loud enough to wake her neighbors. A dog barked half a block away. “Get out of my closet right now!”

I did, slowly staggering to my feet, my eyes never leaving her face. She glanced at the file in my hand and then back at me. I shot her a half smile, holding out the folder like an accusing finger. “Want to tell me how you ended up with this?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

I shoved the file at her. “My file, the one that supposedly burned to ash at my office. It was sitting on your coffee table.”

She glanced over at the stack of files on the table. “I don’t understand.”

Yeah, right, and I was a going to be on the cover of
Sexiest PI
magazine. “You’re lying, Izzy. What were you doing with my file that supposedly burned up in a very convenient fire?” Since some kind of file had ended up a pile of ash in my desk, I had a sneaking suspicion said fire was set by my colleague in order to cover up her theft. But why? What did she want with it? And why go as far as to set a fire to hide it?

Her face scrunched with righteous anger. “I am not a liar. I didn’t even know it was there.” She paused, her eyes growing wide. “James,” she said, snapping her fingers. “He must’ve accidently put it in with my files before he . . .”

My eyes narrowed. I wanted to believe her. It would make things so much easier, but doubt burned in my brain like an electrical tide. But now wasn’t the time to argue about it, mostly because Clark had squared off in front of me. I grinned in response. If he wanted a fight, I’d damn well give him one. In fact I was aching for just this moment. My fingers curled into tight fists.

“What are you, some kind of pervert?” he growled, raising his own fists. “Hiding in the back of a closet waiting to attack? Or were you getting your rocks off listening to Isabella and me?”

Given that I was, in fact, formerly hiding in said closet, the guy had a point. But I was angry enough about finding my file in Izzy’s brownstone, not to mention suffering through a disturbing amount of slobbering noises, to care. Since I couldn’t very well beat the wings off my partner for her betrayal as well as poor taste in men, I’d do the next best thing—beat the stuffing out of our VP. That had a very nice ring to it.

Much to my dismay, Izzy stepped between the two of us before any bloodshed could commence. “Out. Now,” she ordered me.

I lowered my fists. “But—”

“Now, Blue,” she repeated, pointing toward the door.

Over her shoulder Clark flashed a satisfied smirk at my being tossed out on my ass, a smirk that didn’t last long when she ordered him outside too. “If you’re going to act like children, you both can leave,” she said, slamming the door after us.

Outside, as the cold night air settled between us, Clark glanced at me. “Women.”

I laughed, shaking my head slightly. “Fairies.”

 

For the life of me I couldn’t understand how I ended up sitting in a darkened bar, drinking whiskey with Clark Boyer the fucking Third. But here I was, matching Clark shot for shot. The bar itself was unremarkable, small and cramped, with décor from sometime in the last century. Though it offered the very best in watered-down whiskey and stale peanuts. After chipping my back tooth I pushed the peanuts away, focusing on the dark-haired man on the stool next to me.

“So, you and Izzy, huh?” I asked, slurring my words only slightly.

Clark took a drink from a snifter of watered-down brandy. “She sure is something. When we’re together all I want—”

“Another round,” I ordered, cutting him off.

He snorted. “What about you? The two of you ever ... ?”

I thought of the kiss Izzy and I shared last year and shook my head. It had meant nothing, I told myself for the hundredth time, a reaction to adrenaline and near death. Nothing more. “Nope. Never.”

“That’s exactly what Isabella said.” He paused, watching me through unfocused eyes. “Word for word in fact.”

For the sake of our working relationship as well as Izzy’s future with Clark, I changed the subject. Whatever Izzy and I had wasn’t something I couldn’t explain, and it sure as hell wasn’t something I planned to share with the guy Izzy was dating. “Tell me something,” I said.

Clark glanced up, eyes red rimmed. “Anything.”

I blinked a few times, trying to remember what I wanted to ask. “How did a guy like you, a Boyer of the New Never City Boyers, end up working for a PI?”

“With,” he snapped. “Working with.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Working with a PI.”

He shrugged. “Karma, I guess.”

I snorted. “Right.”

He laughed too. “Do you have any idea what it’s like growing up a Boyer?”

My mind flashed to the orphanage, before the fire, the only place a nameless kid had ever called home, as I tried to summon even the smallest amount of sympathy for him. “Yeah, I bet it was real tough. All that money and servants at your beck and call.”

Pushing up from the barstool, he straightened to his full height, swaying a little. “From my earliest memory I was never good enough. I wasn’t a real Boyer. I wasn’t the prodigal grandson and I never could measure up to my esteemed cousin. No matter how much I tried.” He paused, his eyes steady on mine. Unfortunately it was the only steady part of him. He stumbled once, twice, and then hit the floor, still mumbling about karma and the perils of being a rich white guy.

I grinned, finishing off my whiskey in a single gulp. Intense relief filled me. Clark wouldn’t be marrying Izzy like the twins believed. Nor was Izzy going to dump me as a partner in favor of dear old Clark as Grump had warned. I knew this for sure. Izzy needed a man who could hold his liquor better, for living with her was bound to drive her lover to drink.

I leapt from my barstool, pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves, and helped Clark to his unsteady feet. “It’s time we got you home,” I said, shifting my gait to accommodate his wobbly balance.

Clark wasn’t such a bad guy after all, I thought.

And then he puked all over my boots.