“You just missed Sergei.” She barely paused before going on, “I’m thinking that’s intentional?”
Andre settled himself into one of her battered kitchen chairs, not reacting at all to her comment, as far as she could tell. Instead, he put his best avuncular expression on and said “It’s time for you to earn that retainer we pay you.”
He might have preferred subtle and sneaky and all those other serpent words, but he’d learned that polite chitchat wasn’t her thing when they had met during her last job. Which also happened to be when everything in her life started to go to hell. Coincidence? She thought probably not.
“We have an assignment that suits your skills,” he went on, “and—”
Or maybe he hadn’t quite learned. Once a serpent…“And nothing.” Wren really didn’t feel up to playing games. It was too damn hot, and she was too frustrated. Professionally and sexually, thank you very much.
“You know the deal. Sergei handles the arrangements, I do the job. Talk to him about the details. You’re no different than any other client.”
“We’re rather different,” Andre corrected her. “And at the moment, you have no other clients, if I’m not mistaken.”
Smarmy bastard. But he was right, no matter how he’d gotten the information; they couldn’t afford to piss the Silence off. Not yet, anyway. Sergei could loan her cash, sure, but it wasn’t like his art gallery did more than pay for the lifestyle he had to maintain in order to keep the gallery making money. And be damned if she was going to dip into her retirement fund. That was for then. She had to worry about the now, now.
Damn it, she hated not having options. A good lonejack always had options. Always had an escape route. Never had to take a job that smelled of brimstone, either literally or figuratively, if they didn’t want to.
Damn it, Sergei, where are you?
“All right. Talk. But whatever you say is going directly to Sergei and he’ll get back in touch with you with our terms. You got both of us in this deal, remember?”
That was a directed dig. They had really only wanted her; whatever relationship they’d had with him ten years ago, now Sergei was merely the means to an end, the former troublesome employee who led them to the new employee. Yeah, well. Not even the Silence got exactly what they wanted all the time.
Whatever else the Didier-Valere relationship might or might not be morphing into, they were partners, first, last and always.
“We have a situation that needs…a particular touch.”
God, she so hated dealing with negotiations. Sergei, damn it, why’d you have to go and run off just ’cause I told you to? “Something’s gone missing, you need it retrieved. I get that. What’s the deal?”
Andre looked nonplused for about a millisecond, then buried it down under the veneer of smooth he always wore. “A manuscript. Circa tenth century. Italian. Handwritten, one sheet of vellum, quite valuable. It has disappeared, and we require it returned. A simple enough job.”
Wren snorted. Old manuscripts. Riiiight. Give me a fricking break. Anything that old, handwritten, and gone missing equated Big Trouble. Especially if they had to hire a Talent to retrieve it. What, they thought she was stupid? Probably.
She turned her back on Andre, filling the teakettle and putting it on the stovetop, then reaching into the cabinet for a pair of mugs, the nice matched set her mother had bought her at Crate & Barrel last summer, in despair at the mismatched assortment of mugs that Wren normally used.
“And?” she asked, turning back to him, arms crossed in front of her.
“And?” Andre parroted, one eyebrow raised politely.
“Stop yanking my chain, it’s getting old. And what’s the story? Who stole it, why, what’s the time frame…. Come on, pal. I may be Talented but I’m not godlike. I need information to work on. Who, where, why, and how fast, to start.” She smiled at him, making sure to show all her small, even, very white, teeth.
Sergei Didier prided himself on his business acumen. His negotiation skills. An ability to read the client. And the physical conditioning that allowed his six-foot-plus frame to jog up five flights in a dimly lit stairwell in truly disgusting heat without passing out.
He had intended to go home. To his nice, cool, air-conditioned-without-fear-of-magically-shorting-out-because-Wren-got-careless apartment. Where he fully intended to make himself a brutal martini and take a cold shower. Probably, although not necessarily, in that order.
That was before the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in a way that had nothing to do with the sweat running under his collar and everything to do with intuition and a finely honed sense of danger nearby, two skills he’d tried his best for ten years to ignore, to bury under the facade of a desk-bound businessman of mostly legal endeavors.
It wasn’t anything magical—he wasn’t a Talent—just animal instinct. But he trusted it as much as he did his partner’s ability to channel current, the magic that was her genetic inheritance. And it led him unerringly back to Wren’s door.
Which was closed, but unlocked.
Don’t assume. She was upset, probably—definitely—and maybe she just forgot to lock the door after you left.
That thought was discarded as soon as it formed. He clearly remembered hearing the bolt slide home as he stood on the other side, trying to get a grip on himself. The overriding desire to wrap her around him, skin and sweat and the sweet-salty mint chocolate of her mouth, was driving him moderately insane. And he didn’t trust that in himself, not at all, and especially not with Wren.
Not if exploring those tantalizing lures she kept casting and then pulling back risked damaging the relationship they already had. The partnership—the friendship—that was all that kept him afloat, some days. He knew his weaknesses, too well. He hadn’t wanted her to become another one. But you can’t always get what you want, as Jagger once said.
If everything was okay, she’d yell at him for fussing. And he’d take it, gratefully. Only let everything be okay….
He pushed open the door gently, wishing feverishly that he had his gun with him. It had once been as much a part of his wardrobe as his shoes or tie, back when he worked full-time for the Silence. Wren hated it; she had just enough psychometry to be able to tell there was blood on it, and just having it around disturbed her. So for the past ten years he had carried it only when he knew—or strongly suspected—there would be trouble. But recent events were making him think that there was always going to be trouble.
Trouble that historically came in the pocket of the man whose voice was currently coming from Wren’s kitchen.
Sergei ran a hand through his hair, shoving the thick strands back off his face. He settled his breathing, then walked the four steps into the apartment, down the hallway, and into the long alcove his partner insisted was an eat-in kitchen.
Wren turned away from the counter and looked at him, then looked down at the mug of tea in her hand as though surprised to see it there. Her eyes narrowed, finely curved eyebrows communicating dismay, amusement, and a little bit of disgust before she shook her head, and those lips he spent far too much time thinking about curved in a smile. She handed him his tea, and turned back to the counter to pick up the other mug still steeping.
“Andre was just telling me all about our new assignment.”
Was Andre, indeed? Sergei didn’t like the tone in her voice. It was light, cheerful, almost perky, and boded not well for anyone who pushed her even one inch farther.
The temptation to let Andre hang himself was great, but odds were he’d regret it. Not right away, but eventually.
“A situation?” he asked, turning to face his former boss. Andre was seated on