And he stares at her, and says:
You killed me.
Sergei’s bed took up most of the sleeping loft of his apartment. It was huge, comfortable, and damned difficult to get out of in the morning, like a feather-bed hug. He was a solid lump of heat, and the urge to snuggle in next to him, rest her head on his chest and go back to sleep, was so overwhelming Wren almost gave in.
Almost. Not quite. Not after that particular nightmare.
Easing out of bed with more care than was needed—he could sleep through an earthquake, when he was in his own bed—Wren located the nearest shirt from the pile of hastily dropped clothing on the floor and slipped it on over her head, then went down the spiral staircase that led from the sleeping loft to the rest of the apartment. Large, open and modern, it was the total opposite of her own place. Hi-tech, carefully furnished, and very, very expensive.
She liked it, but always felt like she was going to break something by accident. Like, oh, the coffeemaker. He’d upgraded from the piece of shit percolator he’d bought when he realized she wasn’t much more than a lump of mobile meat without real caffeine, and every time she looked at the gleaming testament to fine Italian caffeine know-how, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to press a button or genuflect.
She settled for measuring out the coffee, adding water, then pressing the right buttons and walking away to let it do its magic. Let the blessings of the kahve rain upon her, and all would be well. Or at least washed clear for the day, so she could do what she needed to do.
Sergei’s laptop was set up on a sleek Danish Modern desk in a far corner of the loft, surrounded on all sides by ledgers and paperwork. Sergei might make a sizable chunk of money moonlighting as her business manager, but the Sergei Didier Gallery—Fine Art and Collectibles—was what the taxes were taken out of.
She walked cautiously over to the desk. What was once a simple wireless setup had been complicated in recent months by a tangle of surge protectors and duct tape. The surge protectors weren’t actually hooked into the wall outlet—they weren’t meant to protect the computer from wild energy coming in through power lines, but from her. She had a much more intricate system set up on her own computer, as well as the phones, her stereo system, and the toaster. She didn’t even dare have a television—one moment of irritation with network programming, and there went the entire set, shorted out under peevy current.
Sitting down and logging in, she checked her e-mail. Nothing. Not even her usual mailing lists were stirring, much less any response to the feelers she had sent out yesterday on the client.
There was, however, an e-mailed sighting of that damned stuffed horse she’d been chasing for too many years. Another pin in the map that had too many pins already. Someday she was going to catch that bansidhe in equine-and-sawdust form, and stuff it back into the glass museum case it came from, be damned if she didn’t.
Next step was her bank account. Yes, there it was: a lovely, lovely overnight deposit. Bless Miss Rosen and her bank of good repute, neither of whom had wasted any time despite Wren’s short-tempered, high-handed manner. That went a long way toward improving her mood, dissipating the last remnants of her nightmare.
What that meant, however, was that Wren was now officially on the clock.
“All right. First things first.”
She called up her preferred search engine, and typed in “Melanie Worth-Rosen.” The hits that came back seemed to indicate that the grieving widow was a woman of some social distinction and obligation. Vice president of the Gotham Historical Center, Secretary for the Uptown Foundation of Arts, quite hoity-toity, but also Secretary of the Manhattan Mission for Animals…and chair for the local Literacy Campaign. “All that we’re missing for you to be All American is a stint as the May Queen. So, was this paragon of virtues on the socialite’s parade float, or did she get down in the trenches, protesting the imperialist waste?”
A few more searches gave her the answer.
“Protesting. Good for you!” An arrest back in college, for trespassing with intent to distribute pamphlets. An actual arrest, even if there was no conviction on-file, so somebody made a bargain. Wren was impressed. Back then, companies hadn’t been so lawsuit-shy; they’d actually sent lawyers after penny-ante offenders like that, giving them their day in court—and in the newspapers. Protestors got media-savvy, and the corporations got weaselier, exchanging prosecution for no video footage on the evening news…but to stand there, back then, and give The Man the finger—that took guts.
So. Wren pushed back a little from the desk in order to think. A widow, younger than her husband and older than her stepdaughter, within socially acceptable parameters but a bit of a conscience as well. Attractive woman: not a blonde, which showed a refreshing change. Auburn, maybe; it was difficult to tell in the photographs. Decent bone structure, and wonder of wonders, a smile that didn’t look like it was about to crack her face. Wren suspected that this was a woman who knew how to laugh.
In several of the photos, Anna Rosen and Melanie were together. In one, they had their arms around each other, with body language that seemed neither forced nor uncomfortable.
All right, that was significant. Anna had not given off warm and fuzzy vibes towards stepmomma when she hired Wren, but there they were, chummy-buddies and smiling, not just for the cameras. So why was Melanie holding on to the one thing that darling stepdaughter wanted? Where had it gone wrong? With Daddy’s death? Or after, when the will was read out?
Knowing the answer might not make any difference. Not knowing the answer might make all the difference in the world. That was the thing about Retrievals. You never knew what was important until you realized you didn’t know or have it. Better to be safely obsessive, and end up with useless trivia. Might come in handy some-when else, you never knew.
Hitting the print key for several different screens, Wren got up to go check on the coffee’s progress.
“Bless you,” she said to the machine, grabbing one of the black, surprisingly delicate-looking china cups from the cabinet and pouring herself a long dose. It needed sugar, but for now, this was manna from the gods just as it was.
The computer was still printing—the photos were taking forever—so she headed for the sofas, curling her feet under her and making sure to set her cup down on a coaster rather than directly on the surface of the coffee table. Sergei protected the high-gloss surface of the furniture with the ferocity of a momma bear protecting cubs. She didn’t understand it—growing up, a coffee table was what you put your feet up on—but she was willing to humor him, within reason.
A flash of recent memory—she grabbed the headboard, arching back, thankful the bed was wood, and sturdy, as they rocked back and forth. His teeth were bared in a fierce, taunting, smug grin that made her want to wipe it off through sheer exhaustion.
“You like that?” he asked. Totally unnecessarily, in her opinion. She wasn’t sure what she had been vocalizing just now, but she was pretty damn sure it hadn’t been “stop.”
“Not bad,” she managed to say, then rocked forward again, rewarded by his hiss of purely physical satisfaction. Current stirred within her, woken by the intense emotions running her brain. Normally she could only “see” them when she was in a fugue state, but the sense of them was always there, in this particular instance dark blue and purple strands eeling around her inner core, sparking and sizzling in her arousal.
“Lyubimaya. Yessssss.” Sergei was practically crooning his approval as she moved on him, and the current reacted to that, streaking up and out, exiting her pores like highly charged mist. Where her skin met his, flesh sizzled, and his croon became a loud, exuberant yell of climax as he thrust upward and came, almost violently, within her.
The memory ended abruptly, Wren shaking herself out of the reverie she had fallen into. Coffee. Drink coffee, Valere. Then back to work. Only she knew from experience that she wouldn’t get much work done, not with a still-naked, warm, sleepy