Aphrodite's Flame (12 page)

“It wasn’t necessary,” Jason said. “We trust you. Now.”

Mordi nodded. They still had a ways to go, but at least they were starting out on a solid foundation. “This one I did for me.”

And his gamble had panned out. Davy’s machine had confirmed what Mordi already knew.

There was still one truth left, though. One that he hadn’t challenged with the machine—the simple statement that Mordichai Black no longer cared about his father’s approval, much less his love.

That, he thought, was a truth best left unexamined.

Later that day, Mordi stood outside Isole’s Greenwich Village brownstone and pondered his current dilemma—how to wangle an invite inside. He knew he shouldn’t be here; a Protector’s home address was considered confidential information. The Protector could choose to list it on the Internet Information Directory, or could simply list a holo-pager number without an actual street address. Isole, apparently, was the shy type, because she’d included only her number. Fortunately, Mordi had learned a bit from his father about hacking computer files. Apparently, his genes were good for something.

Of course, since her address wasn’t public, Isole probably wasn’t going to be happy to see Mordi appear on her doorstep. In an effort to forestall her wrath, he bought a bouquet of carnations from a street vendor. Then, just in case she’d prefer something edible, he popped into an Indian food restaurant and bought enough to feed a party of seven.

Having gone through those procrastination measures, he had no choice but to take the plunge, buzz her apartment, and see if he could talk his way inside. He didn’t have long to ponder the question; she shot him down almost instantly.

“
Go away
.” Her voice sounded tinny and thin through the building’s intercom.

He stepped back so that he was in full view of the security camera, then held up first the flowers and then the food. Then he moved back to the intercom and punched the button. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Flowers.”

“I’m allergic.”

“No, you’re not.”

She sniffed. “I’m developing an allergy.”

“Isole...”

“Call me Izzy,” she said, and he perked up, assuming that giving him her preferred name was a good sign.

He assumed wrong.

“We need to talk,” he said after she told him again to go away. “We’re working together on two different projects. I think it would be a good idea if we got to know each other.”

“I don’t see the point,” she said. “Besides, I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m writing a letter to the president of the Society of It’s None of Your Damn Business,” she snapped.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll see you at the office.”

“Good. Good night.”

He stood on stoop for a moment, wondering what to do with all that food, and half-expecting her to poke her head out of an upstairs window and tell him she’d changed her mind and to come on up. Why not? That always seemed to happen in the movies.

Apparently he was not in a movie, however. Her head did not appear; and she didn’t run out of the front door telling him to wait, she was only kidding.

Time for a new approach.

He passed the food and flowers off to a woman pushing her life’s possessions in a shopping cart. Then he ducked into an alley, found a dark corner, and emerged as an orange tabby cat. He did a figure eight between the homeless lady’s legs, and she fed him a bit of chicken. Yum.

It took some wrangling, but he finally managed to hop from street level to the fire escape. Izzy’s apartment was on the second floor, so it was simply a matter of springing to the next platform, then sitting there, meowing through the window until she noticed and let him in.

Hopefully she wasn’t serious about the allergies ... and hopefully she wasn’t allergic to cats.

Lacy white curtains covered her windows, but they did little to bar the view, and he watched her move through her living room in a fluffy bathrobe, a towel wrapped on her head and a steaming mug in one hand. She looked relaxed and comfortable, not at all like the woman he’d encountered at the office. This was the woman behind the cold mask. This was the woman he wanted to know better. So far, he’d only caught glimpses. Now, he wanted to see the whole woman.

The urge to simply sit there and watch her was almost overwhelming. Fortunately, chivalry took hold; he was here to talk with her, not to ogle her outside her apartment.

With that in mind, he meowed softly. Nothing. He tried again, this time a little more loudly. Did she move? Yes. But not toward him. She was heading even further away, toward the kitchen.

Time for desperate measures. He backed up, then lifted himself onto his haunches, pressing his front paws against the window. Then he scratched, mentally cringing at the sound of claws against glass. Unpleasant, yes. But definitely effective, because now she turned around and stared right at him, her eyes going wide and her mouth opening into a little O.

She eased to the window, obviously afraid she was going to spook him, then tapped gently on the glass. He meowed and rubbed up against the window, trying to make it clear that he wasn’t going to run and she should just hurry up and get this business over with.

Moving slowly, she eased the sash up. As soon as the gap was big enough, he leapt inside her apartment. He probably should have done this from the beginning. After all, he was supposed to be investigating her. If she was up to no good, she wouldn’t do it in front of Mordi. With a cat, however, she might be herself.

She was still cooing at him, but now she plucked him off the table where he’d landed and pressed him against her chest. She made a startled little sound, but recovered quickly and started stroking his belly. Sweet Hera, this was better than ambrosia ... and it would take a stronger man than him to change back now. Not in the midst of this total ecstasy.

Her fingers smoothed his fur, creeping up to give him a good scratch behind the ears. He couldn’t help it; he started to purr.

“Oh, you like that, do you? Well, come here, then.” She carried him to the couch, then sat down, pulling him down on her lap, where she proceeded to stroke and pet and scratch until Mordi was absolutely certain that he’d died and gone to heaven.

He was a cat, and his reactions were therefore wholly catlike. But there was enough real Mordi in there that he could feel the slow burn in his soul. He wanted this woman; wanted her to touch him, to stroke him. But he wanted her as a man. He’d been drawn to her from the first moment he’d seen her. And he made himself a promise. No matter what, somehow, he was going to have her.

Her constant attention made him warm and languid, and now she eased him off her lap onto the couch cushion. He blinked, reaching one paw out in protest, but she laughed and stood up. “More later. Right now, I need to get dressed, and you probably need some food.”

She headed toward the bedroom and he considered following—he was sorely tempted by the idea of watching her change—but in the end chivalry won out again and he stayed put, instead looking around her small but neat apartment, and breathing deep of the scent of her that clung to the couch cushions.

This had been a bad idea.

He’d gotten in, yes. But he hadn’t counted on his own reaction from her strokes and caresses. The urge to change back to human form overwhelmed him, the urge to hold her in his arms and feel those touches on flesh instead of fur.

But that was lust talking. If he changed now, it would be the sting of her palm against his face that he felt, not soft caresses or gentle endearments. Better to remain a cat... and to simply keep the memory of her touch tucked away safely in his mind.

The bedroom door opened, and Izzy stepped out, clad simply in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair, still wet, was combed back from her face. She wore not even the slightest bit of makeup, and Mordi thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Tuna,” she said as she moved
past him toward the kitchen. “You look
like a tuna kind of cat to me.”

He heard her rummaging around in the kitchen; then she emerged again with a china plate topped with canned tuna. He’d planned on something a bit more substantial for dinner, but he was hungry and...

She put the plate on the coffee table, but instead of letting him go to it, she picked him up and put him back in her lap. “How about a belly scratch before you eat?”

Not being stupid, he wasn’t about to say no to
that
, so he let her flip him over, then sank into another stupor as her fingers worked their magic. “Oh, you’re a sweet little devil, aren’t you?” she said, and there was something in her voice he couldn’t quite place. He was still thinking about it when she flipped him over, then sank her fingers into the thick folds of skin at the back of his neck. “Come here, little kitty-witty,” she said as she plucked him up. He blinked, astounded to find his tiny limbs now flailing in the air. By the time he blinked again, she’d carried him to her bedroom door and shoved him into a cat carrier.

What in Hades?

He hissed and swiped, but she snapped the door shut and flicked the lock. Well, wasn’t this special?

He should have changed while she’d been carting him across the room, but honestly, he’d been too flabbergasted to react. There was a life lesson in there; something about belly scratches and women and trust. But he was far too worked up now to sort it out.

He gave a few more mewls and spits and swipes of one clawed paw, but Izzy wasn’t the least bit impressed. He considered changing back now—the carrier would surely crack against the force of his sudden growth spurt—but he might as well stick it out and see what was up.

She carried him back into the living room, sat him on the coffee table, and peered at him. “I’m sorry, sweet kitty. But if I’m going to keep you, I’m going to have to get you neutered.”

Mordi squalled, automatically curling up into a ball and shoving himself into the far corner of the carrier. It was a ridiculous reaction, really, when he could just as easily change back into human form and put a fast stop to this neutering business. But in the face of that particular threat, Mordi had to admit he wasn’t thinking too clearly. What male would be?

She bent down to peer at him through the little wire door, and that’s when he noticed the devious grin and the hint of sparkle in those ice blue eyes.

What the...?

And then he realized. Damn it all to Hades... he’d been caught.

He stretched out, moving away from his corner and holding his head up with as much feline dignity as possible. He kept his eyes on hers, and when he reached the front of the carrier, he pawed at the door, one quick swipe. She opened it, and he stepped out, then shifted back to human form, ending up perched on the edge of her coffee table while she stood in the middle of her living room, arms crossed over her chest, her expression entirely unreadable.

“What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?” she said.

Anger, he decided. That unreadable expression was definitely anger.

“Pretending you’re a cat and wrangling your way into my apartment?” she continued. “I mean, where in Hades do you get off doing that?” She was pacing, shooting him venom-laced glances with every pass.

He considered spinning an elaborate tale, couldn’t think of a thing, and ended up telling her the truth. Well, some of it anyway. “We’re both on this committee because we’re Halflings,” he began, keeping his voice
calm and level, as if
talking a jumper down from a building. “I just thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other better.”

“You
thought
?”

“Well, yes.” He cleared his throat, then gave her a tiny shrug.

“And that gave you license to change into a cat and finagle your way into my apartment?” The anger was still there, but she’d quit pacing. Mordi decided to take that as a good sign.

“I tried food and flowers first. Give me
some
credit.”

That time, he thought he saw a smile, and even though it passed over her mouth so quickly he couldn’t be certain, the mere possibility that she was warming up to him thrilled him.

With a mental groan, he stifled a grimace.
What
was up with him? This was about the job, not an attractive woman. And that was true no matter how appealing she might be.

She cocked her head, examining him. “And that’s really it? You’re just here because you want to get to know me?”

He swallowed. The woman was an empath, so how much did she know? If he said no, would she realize that he was lying? Would she realize he didn’t completely trust her? Even more, would she realize that she intrigued and excited him?

She raised an eyebrow in silent question. Apparently, he was taking too long.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I...” He aimed his most charming smile in her direction, figuring he didn’t have anything to lose. “Well, the truth is I think you look damn good in a bathrobe.”

That actually earned him a laugh, and he thought he saw a spark of sensual heat light her eyes. “I wasn’t wearing a bathrobe when we met with Armistand,” she said.

“No, you definitely weren’t.” He let his gaze drift over her, some bit of male satisfaction fueling his blood when she shifted slightly under his examination. He added, “You look damn good in jeans, too.”

She looked down, focusing on something near her feet. “Thanks,” she said.

“Truce?”

She didn’t answer right away, just exhaled, long and loud. It was a sigh of resignation, and he knew then that he’d won.

“Halflings,” she said, her tone musing. She moved to the sofa and sat down, tucking one foot up under her as she grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest.

“Halflings,” he repeated. He moved off the table to take a seat in the chair next to her. He would have preferred moving to the couch beside her, but he didn’t want the miniscule portion of her internal wall he’d knocked down to go back up. “Who would have thought our tainted blood would end up giving us such a political in?”

“Tainted?”