Boyfriend from Hell (Saturn's Daughters) (39 page)

By that time, I was too shell-shocked to do more than pat the flowers in wonder with one hand and guzzle the beer in the mug in the other. Snakes, chimpanzees—what was the difference, after all?

Even nerdy, four-eyed Boris raised a beer in salute without taking his eyes off Diane’s breasts as they danced. Or she rocked and he squirmed.

Wearing a bandage around her shoulder, Sarah sulked in a booth with Officer Leibowitz—I remembered I owed him some Saturnian justice time for blackmailing Tim. They eyed the revelry with resentment. I wasn’t going there. I knew Sarah had wanted to kill someone for longer legs, and she’d missed her chance. She’d have to get over it.

I was amazed Leibowitz was here until I located Andre and forgot the beat cop. I was relieved to see my boss was back to his normal self, looking slick and talking to a distinguished silver-haired gentleman in an exquisitely tailored suit. I recognized the impossibly thick, silver hair, but it was Andre who held my attention.

He wasn’t wearing anything so civilized as a tailored suit or tie, but my Special Ops guy stood out like a shining planet in a sunset sky. The damned man was wearing all white, with the exception of his red silk shirt. The combination was striking against his dark coloring, drawing me like nails to lodestone,
even though I wanted no part of the man he was with.

The movie with Jim Garner and the smarmy mayor came back to mind as I crossed the room at Andre’s gesture of welcome. I would have hoped Andre would fling his drink in the man’s face, except he wasn’t holding one. I had to remember this wasn’t a spaghetti western or even a comedy, no matter how my escapist fantasies took it.

“My partner, Senator, and, with your help, a budding new lawyer!” Andre hugged my shoulders.

Or held me up to keep me from falling or coming out fighting, whichever struck me first as I shook hands with Max’s father and pondered the
partner
comment.

“Not a senator any longer, my boy,” the older man said affably, studying me with more interest than I deserved. “Just Michael MacNeill these days. I leave the governing to my nephew. Heard you know him?”

“We’ve met,” I said guardedly. I wanted to know what Andre had meant when he called me his partner and a budding lawyer, but I was learning there was a tricky dividing line between keeping my mouth shut and letting the world know what I was thinking.

“Dane sings your praises for helping out in that difficult . . . contretemps . . . yesterday. You and your friends have done a fine job of holding back the media, and the family appreciates it.”

There was that
family
reference again. Apparently MacNeill spoke for the Vanderventers. Jane ought to be hearing this. I swiftly scanned the partying crowd, but Jane wasn’t anywhere in sight. She wasn’t part of the
Zone, and she was better off out of it, even though I regretted hiding the truth from her.

“The world has enough ugliness,” I said pleasantly, with enough ambiguity that Andre pinched me.

For Special Ops, he smelled good, woodsy and sophisticated at the same time. He felt good, too, pressed against my side. The mindless hum of hormones helped me past the protests shouting in my head. Andre was a fine way of stirring the adrenaline now that Max wasn’t Max anymore.

I regretted that, too. I was prepared to shoot down anything Michael MacNeill said, figuring he did it at Max’s—Dane’s—behest. I was pretty damned certain that Max had no intention of letting his father know his soul was alive and occupying his cousin’s body.

I was pretty amazed that I now believed souls existed. Quite an education I was receiving lately.

“Dane said you have a good head on your shoulders,” the ex-senator said appreciatively. “That’s why he wants me to assure you that you’ll have no problem with the ethics committee when you apply for your license. We need more smart, mature lawyers like you around here, looking after our hardworking citizens.”

I tried not to snort beer out of my nose. “Thank you, sir,” I said dryly. “Glad you don’t mind if I represent the people of the Zone.”

“Just remember, they need to vote!” he said jovially, pounding me on the back. “Well, must be going. Just wanted to reassure you that all will be well. My commendation will go a long way.”

Thinking about the poor test I’d just taken, I wondered,
Even if I flunked?

I watched him stroll toward the front, shaking hands as if he were still a politician.

And then I noticed Paddy sitting in a corner, violently shaking his head as if he had a nervous disorder. The cousins-in-law didn’t look at each other as Michael strode out. I was pretty certain I hadn’t seen the end of Acme Chemical or their goons. I hadn’t cured the Zone of its weirdnesses. I’d killed three people and sent Dane to the dark side. My heavenly balance sheet was showing a serious deficit, and I didn’t know how to correct it.

“MacNeill delivered the check to help the kids run over by the limo,” Andre whispered in my ear, preventing me from doing anything rash.

And what could I do, anyway? Reject MacNeill’s commendation when it meant I had a chance of someday passing the bar and being in a position to help people? If I could believe I was rewarded for sending people to hell, could I believe this was a reward for
not
sending the goons to hell?

Ugh. Enough philosophizing. It was party time.

“We should let Tim tell the kids about the wind-fall,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the front door until I was certain MacNeill had gone. Why did I have the feeling I’d just shaken hands with the devil? Did my new superpower condemn me to keeping company with hell’s minions?

“You’re learning, Clancy,” Andre said with approval. “It’s really not all about you. Or me. It’s all about us.”

And his nod indicated the reveling crowd of Zone trolls.

I thought I understood. Getting angry wasn’t good. Staying cool and helping others had given me a posse and a home. Getting laid might clear my head.

I slanted Andre a seductive smile, shook off his arm, and joined the dancers on the stage, wrapping my new leg around a pole, letting my swingy hair fly, and exuberantly twirling with one arm in the air just as if I’d done this every day of my life.

We are the champions,
indeed.

Maybe I’d teach Andre a lesson or two before I took him home.

T
his book would never have happened if not for the Cauldron understanding my warped fantasies of unmasked avengers and sending boyfriends to hell. Bless you for being willing to play outside the lines.

My immense gratitude goes next to my agent, Robin Rue, who unquestioningly accepted my diversion from Normal and intrepidly sent my madness to all the right people.

And for the final product, I give credit to my editor, Adam Wilson, for taking on someone else’s project and making it even better than I had imagined. That takes vision as well as intelligence. Thank you!

Last, but never least, my hugs and kisses go to my husband, who never once flinches when I tell him what I’m doing—or when people ask him where I get my ideas. That’s forbearance well beyond the line of duty! I love you.

JAMIE QUAID
is the pseudonym for a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. This is the first novel in her Saturn’s Daughter series, featuring Justine Clancy—arbiter of justice, girl detective, and all-around kick-ass heroine. Jamie lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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