Lay Me Down (9 page)

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

She gave him a contented grin. “Not so bad yerself.”

His eyes darkened. “I’m very sorry I didn’t think. It was unforgivable of me.”

“Nothing has happened yet.”

He left the room and she heard the distant rumble of his low voice making the call—the perks of having the King Suite and therefore The Wake Hotel at their disposal.

Actually, she was growing a little more concerned about her heart, for which there was no morning-after pill.

Something about Steve, the glimmer in his eyes when he spoke to her, the feeling of wonder that had come off him while in her city dream, the total possession he’d taken of her body—she doubted that recovery would be easy.

He came back into the room, and she sat up, this time pulling the sheet up to her chin, the kernel of worry burning hotter, and a little higher, near her heart.

“The hotel doctor is going to prescribe something for you.” He was putting his boxers back on. “He’ll be up shortly.”

“’Kay. Thanks.” She scooted to the side of the bed. “I’m going take another shower and get dressed while I can.” She didn’t want to look at him. The kernel had lifted even higher and was now a lump in her throat.

She liked Steve. She
really
liked him. Boring, uptight Steve. He’d just basically schooled her in bed, and strangely, in other ways she didn’t know how to put into words.

Jordan couldn’t arrive soon enough, because Maisie had no idea where to go from here.

“I’ll order up a second breakfast,” he said, a crease of concern forming between his eyes.

She gave him a quick smile of thanks, but suddenly he was at her side, lifting her straight up, so that if she didn’t prop her upper body upright by his shoulders, she’d be bent over, like a fireman rescue.

“Glass,” he said by way of explanation. “I’ll get it cleaned up, too.”

He deposited her back on the bathroom threshold, where they’d started, and in seemingly slow motion took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him again, reenacting their first kiss. This time his mouth knew hers, so the kiss was even more intimate, strangely deeper, than the one that had started them off.

When he pulled away, she rolled her lips inward to savor the taste of him.

“Maisie Lane,” he said. “This is trouble.”

So he knew it, too. Thank God.

“Big time,” she agreed, retreating and closing the door. Once alone, she put her face in her hands.

Repercussions. Aftermaths. By now she should be a pro.

Yeah, apparently not so much.

***

At last, breakfast—how she fit all that food inside her was astonishing. The doctor had come and gone—Steve still couldn’t believe his absence of mind.

He understood how it had happened, though—a personal revelation. Maisie had blocked outside dream noise so that he could relax. For once, relax. She’d made a pocket of quiet, and he’d let himself act on feeling rather than deliberately thinking through what he was doing and why.

It could only have been long habit that had kept him from revealing himself to her. Or else she’d be running away, this time from him, not Graeme.

Instead, she was relaxed on the sofa, where she’d taken her coffee. “So I was thinking about how I’m going to go back to Graeme.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. I have some ideas.”

She’d have to do some fast talking to be believable. Graeme might need her, but he would be very cautious. He’d think the same thing Steve had: That she had no follow-through. Whim ruled her. That she was not to be trusted. That she would need to be controlled, perhaps held captive and forced to work.

“I’ll just tell him that I drowned you in sleep,” Maisie said. “Then I’ll supposedly run away and call to meet up. Ask him to take me back.”

“I didn’t know you could drown people.”

He knew Jordan, her sister, could do so spectacularly.
Drowning
was Reveler-speak for forcing sleep upon someone. Basically, it consisted of dunking a person hard in the dreamwaters. For a Chimera, yes, it was harmless. For those unaccustomed to the dense and consciousness-altering medium that the dreamwaters were, it would take a while to float to the surface again. Jordan had drowned Vince Blackman so hard, he was lost in the Scrape.

“Well, I can. How do you think I’ve lasted so long?”

He knew how: She was disarming, smart, and incredibly talented.

“You’ll need to do something more drastic,” he said, taking a sip from his own mug. “Anyone who knows of me won’t believe that a simple drowning could hold me long—if you could drown me at all that is.” Actually, of all people, Maisie might be capable of it. Eventually.

“Ah, yes. Your infamous reputation.”

She had no respect, and the lack felt good. She didn’t lie or deceive. Didn’t mind manners or watch her tongue. She was exactly who she appeared to be. Maisie might seem twisty, but she was actually true.

Which made his deception that much darker in comparison.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. “You’re going to have to drug me.”

Her eyes narrowed. She knew he was playing to stereotype. Her pink hair, her youth, her wildness. “In this scenario, where would I have gotten drugs?”

“You would’ve had them on you.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was the most plausible.

“I won’t be out too long, a couple of hours at most, and in the meantime, Rook will be watching over you.” Actually, it would be Rook who was drugged.

She lifted a silver candlestick from a shelf, a wicked smile on her face. “Since I don’t do drugs, never have, it’d be more in character if I whacked you over the head. Knocked you out that way.”

He had the urge to kiss her again, to drink in that smile and feel it bright within him, but the morning’s lapse in judgment made him think twice now. Plus, Rook and Jordan would be here any minute.

“Drugs will wear off,” he said. “I don’t want brain damage.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “We do it here?”

He shook his head. “No. In public. If Graeme comes here,
he
might whack me over the head.” Rook, that is. “Or drug me with stronger stuff.”

“So you and I are out somewhere—” she began.

“A restaurant. Lunch.”

“And I drug you.”

“Yes. I’ll pass out, and in the commotion, you get away. Contact Graeme and let him confirm independently that I’m out of the picture for the moment.”

“He’s probably already waiting to do the exchange, right?”

“He may even be following you again. Might see my collapse.” Graeme would most definitely be waiting.

“I talk my way in,” she said.

“You can do it.”

“And then see what I can find out from there. What should I do about Raymond Blackman?” The hostage.

“He’s not your problem,” Steve told her. “Your only goal is information, and you have twenty-four hours to get it.”

“Pfft. It’s going to take longer than that.”

No, it wouldn’t. “That’s all the time I’m giving you. Graeme’s going to decide very quickly if he can trust you or not.”

A line of worry formed between her brows.

Graeme would be fast and brutal in his assessment, and if he found her duplicitous, he’d kill her. “We’ll get you out,” Steve said, as much to himself as to her.

The line smoothed, but her gaze had become solemn. “I know you will.”

She trusted him, which made the urge to kiss her almost overpowering.

But the suite’s phone rang.

“Goddamn it,” he swore viciously.

“After,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.

She kept doing that, though how she knew what he was thinking in the waking world mystified him. This was a time when he really needed to keep some things from her. He hated what was to come. His only consolation was that he would be with her. She had no such consolation and intended to walk into darkness alone. But then, of the two of them, she was the braver by far.

“Yes, Maisie,” he promised. “After.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

The damn phone kept ringing.

“I mean it.” He wasn’t reaching for the call until Maisie understood. “After. You and I are going to have a long talk.”

She made a face. “My after didn’t involve talking.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose to get his temper under control. She had him off balance again. He was scared for her and angry. “Your after first, then mine.” Though he had no idea what he could risk saying to her.

“Much better.”

He picked up the phone. “Yeah, send them on up.”

***

“You don’t have to do this,” Jordan said as she riffled though the clothes in the closet. “You’re not Chimera. You don’t even want to be.”

Beside her, Maisie shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open.”

The shift in favor of Chimera was a delayed effect of the responsibility she felt for the old man. She still didn’t like the idea of dream police, but the situation was pretty black and white. On one side was her lawless meddling, on the other was Steve’s Chimera, who might occasionally be assholes, but they were assholes who saved people.

Jordan turned to her. “That’s wonderful!”

Her sister and Rook had arrived a half hour ago. Everyone knew the plan.

“I didn’t say I was joining.”

“Well, ‘open’ is major progress. But that doesn’t mean you have to go back to this Graeme person. You’re not trained. You have no experience.”

“It’s my fault. I’ve got to go back and get answers.”

“You didn’t know.” Jordan scraped piece by piece of hanging clothing along the closet’s metal bar. She was upset.

But Maisie had known. She’d known something was off about the deliveries, but she hadn’t cared enough to figure out what. “I’m doing it, Jordan. We’ve got a plan.”

“You’re so stubborn. Always have been.” The anger had reached Jordan’s voice now, but she was taking it out on the clothes.

“My stubbornness is a strength, not a weakness.”

When Jordan turned, tears shone in her eyes. “I know. I know it is. I just don’t like this. It’s just—I can’t lose you. Rook is good in bed and everything, but you’re my sister.”

Maisie smiled. Jordan had completely fallen for Rook, and everyone knew it.

“I’ll be back. And I’ll be better. I’m just going to go kick some ass. You had your turn.”

Jordan huffed her emotion, then wiped at the tears with the back of her wrist. “Fine. But if you get hurt, I’ll kill Steve with my bare hands.”

Big sis had had to argue, Maisie guessed. But she’d known how the conversation would end.

“Deal. I don’t come back, you kill him. Kill him dead.”

Jordan made a face, unappeased, but held out a short, sexy little ensemble, tags wagging. “Wear this. It’s perfect.”

Maisie was about to hug her when she caught sight of what Jordan had selected. The outfit had a tiny skirt in black, subtly shimmery fabric, and a fitted little black jacket to go with it. The tag said it cost a thousand bucks. No, wait—
ha!
—the jacket alone cost a thousand. The skirt cost –
lemme see
—eight hundred twenty-five.

“Not my style, Jory. Graeme will know it the second he sees me.” She’d planned on wearing her own jeans—the personal shopper hadn’t quite got her fit right—and a black tee.

“But this is the new you,” Jordan said, shaking the hangers in her face. Wet tear smear still glistened on her cheek. “Your new life: powerful, rich, and in charge. He wants you back, he’s going to have to pay.”

“Powerful, rich women don’t have hair like mine.” The roots were getting really bad. It looked like she’d put her finger in a socket and the yellow-to-faded-magenta was the electrocuted effect.

“Your hair will show him a vulnerability he can exploit—like you’re on your way up, but not quite there. You’re aware of your power, but he can still make you do what he wants.”

Maisie curled her upper lip.

Jordan threw the clothes at her face. “Just try it on. I’ll find heels.”

***

When Maisie and Jordan emerged, Steve had a one-second impression of Maisie—not unlike a bullet to the head—before gesturing her into the kitchen.

“I want a minute, just you and me.”

Jordan’s eyebrows went up, as though she sensed something possessive in his tone, but Steve didn’t care. And he was feeling possessive.

“Sure,” Maisie said to him, heading toward the kitchen.

“Were you holding out on me?” Jordan called after her. “You were holding out on me!”

They both ignored her, though Maisie was smiling again, so maybe Steve owed Jordan thanks.

When he had Maisie alone in the darkest corner, bodies together, heat between them, he whispered in her ear. “We’ll go down to lunch. At some point, slip this into my drink.”