Cursed (6 page)

Barakov motions to the door behind his desk. “You can leave this way. I hope you find Amy. She is a beautiful young woman, so vibrant.”

After the door closes behind us, Zack lets out a breath. It echoes in the stairway like an explosion. “I don’t like that guy.”

“Really? It didn’t show. He seemed quite fond of you.”

Zack shakes his head. “I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something not right about him. I don’t care how famous a plastic surgeon he is, it’s too much of a coincidence that two missing women are among his patients.”

“Amy was his patient,” I correct. “He said he never met Isabella.”

“Yeah. That’s what he
said
. I’m going back three to six months, look through some unsolved cases. I’ll start with women over eighteen and see if his name comes up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He also said Amy
is
a beautiful young woman, not
was
.”

He concedes the point with a shrug. “Just means he’s clever enough to weigh his words around cops.”

I follow Zack down to the car, glancing once to look up at Barakov’s office window. It’s decided. If the investigation stalls, I’ll come back and pay the doctor a return visit.

Without my partner.

We’re pulling out of the parking lot when Zack points to a traffic camera at a stoplight across from Barakov’s office.

“See that?” he asks.

“The traffic cam?”

“When we get back to the office, I’m going to get the tape from the day Isabella went missing so we can review it. The image might not be clear enough to definitively identify Isabella, but it’ll be clear enough to see if a car of her model, make, and color was in the area at the time of the appointment. The one she
didn’t
keep.”

His sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. I ignore it. I’m too busy reading a text that just came in from Johnson. Apparently the district attorney is already bugging him for an update on the case. He wants me to swing by his office before the end of the day. I hate these command performances. “The DA wants to see me. How about you check the tapes? I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished downtown.”

The last two hours have been a complete waste of time. Not only did District Attorney Derek Walker keep me waiting outside his office for an hour before seeing me, once I was in his office, Walker took no fewer than three phone calls. After the last, he had the gall to hit on me, suggesting we continue our debriefing over a drink. Next time he needs a debrief, I’m sending Zack.

Once back on Highway 8, I call to check in. Hopefully he’s had a more productive afternoon than I did.

Zack answers with a cheery hello.

“Sounds like you had a better afternoon than I did,” I grumble. “What have you got?”

“A couple of baked potatoes, a thick-cut London broil, a twelve-pack of Negro Modelo, and—wait for it—confirmation that a red 2003 PT Cruiser went through the intersection of Tenth and J fifteen minutes before Isabella’s scheduled appointment.” He pauses. “The one the troll said she never kept. Score one for Armstrong!”

His enthusiasm makes me smile.

“How sure are you that it’s Isabella’s?”

“The photo of the driver’s a little fuzzy, but I could make out the license plate clear as day.” He rattles off an address. “Come over. Join me for an early dinner.”

Dinner at his place, just the two of us? The last time we had dinner together, we ended up in bed. Alarm bells go off. Best I hold the line. “I appreciate the offer, but when I told you to find a girlfriend earlier, I didn’t mean me. I don’t date my partners, Zack.”

“My mother will be relieved. She thinks it’s unseemly for a woman to carry a big gun. She wants me to marry Betty Crocker.”

“There is no Betty Crocker. Besides, maybe I have a date.”

A chuckle rolls out. “With that hideous bump on your nose? On a Wednesday night? Unlikely.”

“Screw you.”

I bite my lip. If I could have taken back that last response, I would have. Thankfully, Zack is still prattling on.

“Besides, this isn’t a date. I have something you’ll want to see.”

His voice is low and lilting. It does things to me it shouldn’t, conjuring images of a night I’d be better off forgetting. Zack seems to have done so. He’s been nothing but professional.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What have you got?” I reach for the iced tea in my cup holder and take a sip.

“The security tapes from the lobby of Barakov’s building.”

The cup slips out of my hand, spilling all over the passenger seat. I completely miss the turnoff to the 163.

“Shit!”

“Not the reaction I was expecting.”

“I just spilled my tea. You expect me to believe Barakov just called you up and
volunteered
the security tapes?”

There’s a pause. “Not exactly. I remembered seeing cameras inside the lobby. The videos were just sitting there . . . on a secure server.”

“You know how to hack into a server?”

“I can be handy that way.”

My head is spinning. He sounds jubilant, talking as if he’s oblivious of the implications of his actions. He has to know we’ll never be able to use something illegally obtained against Barakov. I watched Zack skirt the edge when we worked together, but he never crossed the line. This most definitely crosses the line. This is major. My jaw tightens.

“You coming or aren’t you?” he asks.

Damn it. “Yes.”

“Are you coming now?” Again, there’s an almost imperceptible lowering of his voice. I tell myself I’m reading something into it, that I should chalk it up to Southern-boy charm.

“I’m ten, maybe fifteen minutes away,” I tell him before signing off and pulling onto 8 West.

The traffic is horrendous, as I get closer to the beach. I have more time than I thought to consider what to say to Zack when I see him. I understand temptation. I also understand that giving in to temptation always comes at a cost. What he did was stupid, plain and simple. We could have gotten that security footage the right way, the legal way.

Just when I think I have what I’m going to say to him all figured out, the address he gave me comes into view.

Every thought in my head flies out the window.

I have to remind myself to breathe.

I pull into the drive behind Zack’s SUV, the one identical to mine. I’d assumed when Zack gave me the address that he lived in an apartment building. Or that perhaps he was renting a condo. Either of which would be pricey enough at the beach. But this is neither. It’s a house. Two stories of oceanfront property.

I grab my phone and search for the address. A recent MLS listing pops up. Escrow just closed. I pull up the details. The house sold for over five million. Dollars. Five million.

Now, there are really only a few ways for an agent just over thirty to get his hands on that kind of money: marriage, inheritance, winning the lottery, or he’s done something very, very wrong. Zack’s cavalier attitude about getting the security tapes from Barakov’s building plays over and over in my head. Maybe Zack is comfortable cutting corners, comfortable living large and taking risks. I haven’t worked with him long enough to know.

But I do know I’m not.

Doing something that could jeopardize a case? That could end up shining an unwanted light on me? Definitely not something I’m comfortable with. Zack may be a liability I can ill afford.

What kind of man is Zack Armstrong really? There is one sure way to find out. This has become a matter of self-preservation.

I climb out of the SUV and pocket my cell on the way to Zack’s door. I don’t bother to knock. I barely even bother to take in my surroundings. The living room, dining area, and kitchen flow into one another. Zack’s behind the counter, knife in hand. He’s wearing a pair of red board shorts, nothing else. No shoes, no shirt. There’s a towel draped around his neck and his hair is damp, as if he just came in from a swim. I remove the gun from my clip and slam it down on the cutting board alongside the sliced cucumber.

Zack jumps. The knife in his hand slips. “Crap. I almost sliced my finger off.” He sets down the knife, yanks the towel from around his neck, and wraps it around his finger. “What’s the matter with you?”

“For the past twenty minutes I’ve been thinking about what you said. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I’m getting. I figure we should not be armed for this conversation.”

Zack checks his wound. Not surprisingly, the small cut has already mended itself. The bleeding has stopped. The towel is tossed aside. “I’m not armed. Talk to me.” He raises both of his hands, taking a step back.

“What are you up to, Zack?”

He gestures toward the counter. “I’m making salad. Is this about your nose? You’re upset because I called your bump hideous. In my own defense, I was joking. You know that, right?”

“This. Is. Not. About. My. Nose.” I emphasize each and every word with a finger poke to his chest.

Zack and I are toe-to-toe. Suddenly I’m acutely aware of everything about him, his size, his strength, his power, and his almost complete lack of clothing. I try to pull away, but he reaches out for my hand and holds fast.

“What’s happened?”

“I take my job seriously, Zack.”

“So do I. You know that. You know me.”

“Look, I thought I knew what kind of guy you are. But maybe I don’t. Normally I’d say your personal life, the decisions you make are your own. I’d focus on the case, then the next one, then the one after that. I’d just go on living my quiet little life. But we’re partners and that means if a shit storm comes raining down on you, I’m likely to get crap all over me. I’m clean. I want to stay that way.”

He releases my hand. “And you think I’m not? You think I’m dirty?”

“Look around. Unless your mother’s maiden name is Rockefeller, yes.”

He looks surprised, hurt, confused. He could be all of those things. He could be none of them. One way to find out.

I lean in, lock Zack’s eyes in mine, let go. This is how it begins, allowing a tiny crack in the armor that contains my powers. “You broke the law by hacking into Barakov’s server. This house is worth a fortune. Your SF-86 is nowhere to be found. You agreed to no contact. Yet here you are.”

As the power builds, the air around us warms, stirring an almost imperceptible perfumed breeze.

Zack’s nostrils flare. His acute sense of smell detects the subtle yet complex blend of white florals layered atop citrus. A strand of hair escapes the coil at the nape of my neck and drifts in front of my eyes.

“Here I am,” Zack says.

He reaches up and tucks the loose lock behind my ear, his fingers tracing the curve of my throat. His inhibitions are lowered. He feels it, the attraction, building. He steps closer, then dips his head and breathes me in.

The act is intimate, primitive. It makes me shiver.

“And here you are.” He snakes one arm around my waist.

Like water pushing through the spillway of a dam, I feel the rush of pent-up magic fighting to escape.
Focus, Emma.
I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow. It isn’t normally a challenge, reading someone like this. But it has been on occasion. Someone with as strong a will as mine, certain supernaturals, have a few times in the past tested my control. I know what I need to do. I need to hold steady, to ride the crest of the wave of influence, not drown in it. To stay in charge of the seduction, not get caught in it. He’ll tell the truth. He has no choice.

I push myself back and away, trying to put some physical distance between us. “Are you on the take? Here under false pretences? Are you—?”

Zack, however, moves with me, placing a finger under my chin. “Look at me.”

I lift my eyes and seek out his. There isn’t a hint of deception. The surprise, hurt, and confusion I noticed before are all still there.

He speaks slowly. “I didn’t steal evidence. I remembered seeing the camera in the lobby. Curiosity got the better of me. I didn’t actually hack into the server, but I could have. Instead I made a call to Silvia Barton. I asked her to email it. Told her
you
wanted to review it, that you thought it was important to Amy’s case. She checked with Dr. Barakov. Five minutes later, I had the file. I didn’t commit a crime. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the case. You can trust me.”

“I want to trust you. Why did you really come here? What is it you really want?”

As the words tumble from my lips, his eyes flash from brown to light blue, reminding me Zack is more than a human. He’s also something else, and that something else is getting closer to the surface than I am comfortable with.

My heartbeat quickens.

“What do I want?” His arm tightens around my waist. He lifts me into the air and we move swiftly and silently across the kitchen. In the blink of an eye he has me pinned to the wall with his body. He’s hard and ready, his breath coming faster, his control dissolving. But something prevents him from giving in, letting go.

“Zack—”

Words catch in my throat as his hands skim up the length of my body and he begins to remove the pins from my hair. The air around us is thick with desire. His lips are only an inch away from mine. He smells like sun and sand, salt and sweat. I want him to kiss me. Badly. And that petrifies me.

“Evidently the same thing you want. If I’m misreading the signals here, you better tell me fast,” he says, bringing me back.

I’ve made a terrible mistake. Whatever is going on with Zack, whatever secrets he’s hiding, I can’t risk probing any further. I pull up the wall between us and slam the door shut on my powers.

The change is so sudden Zack is caught in the undertow. He distances himself quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it. I pick up the pins from the floor, then move to the sink and go about making sure every strand of hair is neatly back in place.

The silence between us drags on until it is deafening.

“I don’t know what to say.” He has a pin in his hand, one that I missed.

I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s shaken. He crossed a line he’s not comfortable with and doesn’t understand why. He’s searching for some sort of explanation.

I take a deep, steadying breath to collect myself and try to give him one. “Forget about it. Emotions were high. I barged into your house, spouting off accusations.” I accept the offered pin. “I did poke you in the chest.”

Zack frowns. “I wouldn’t normally consider that an invitation to . . .”

This is my fault. Not his. I was the one who opened Pandora’s box. Zack and his beast had merely gotten caught in the wake. What Zack felt wasn’t real, didn’t mean anything. It was just physical. He responded to the Siren’s pull, not because of any real emotion he felt for me.

“Seriously, Zack,” I insist, “forget about it. I already have.”

I don’t lie to myself often. Deep down, I know this one is a whopper. What it felt like to have Zack’s body pressed against mine again isn’t something I’m going to easily forget. It brought back memories I’ve been trying to shake for months.

His lips purse together and he nods. “I’m gonna take a shower. Get dressed. You still up for dinner?”

“Sure.” I reach for the knife. “I’ll finish slicing the cucumber. I’m not a great cook, but even I can put together a simple salad.”

“Help yourself to whatever,” he says, before backing out of the kitchen and racing up the stairs.

“Emma Monroe, you are an idiot,” I whisper to the four walls.

With Zack gone, my heartbeat returns to normal. For the first time I take in the surroundings. Zack’s kitchen is palatial compared to mine. The professional-grade appliances, custom cherry cabinetry, and cream-colored marble countertops are just what you would expect in a house like this. I spend a moment taking everything in, trying to connect the home I’m standing in to the guy who is my partner. A rectangular dining table, which matches the cherry cabinets, is to my right, surrounded by cream suede chairs. A modern glass chandelier hangs above it. The living room is in front of me, on the other side of the counter, which also serves as a breakfast bar. A pair of brown suede sofas are arranged around a cozy fireplace. Above the mantel is a flat-screen television. To the left stand two gleaming guitars. To the right, a black baby grand. There are decorative pillows and throws, candles, place mats, fresh flowers, and even some artwork. But there is nothing that feels personal.