Lure of the Wicked (6 page)
S
he’d spent most of the night pacing.
When dawn crept into the rain-slick windows of the too large suite, Naomi finally collapsed into a fitful, uneasy sleep. She woke to more gray rain and a thin, wintry light splashing weakly against the glass. The desk unit attached to her nightstand chirped brightly.
Blearily she picked up the hand receiver. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Miss Ishikawa,” said a pleasant female voice on the line. “This is your morning program courtesy call.”
Her what? Naomi elbowed herself up, shoving back her hair from one eye. “Say that again?”
“Your services start at eight,” explained the patient—
fuck
—bright voice. “If you prefer to eat first, breakfast is served at the dining floor. Shall I reschedule your services for later?”
Jesus Christ. “No,” she muttered, and hung up the receiver on whatever chipper rainbows the voice expected to stream at her next.
Plan. She needed a plan. Wait, no, shower, coffee, and then plan.
It took effort to drag herself into the shower. Sleeping well, Naomi had learned a long time ago, was something that happened to other people.
The first five minutes of skin-searing spray stripped the stupor from her brain. The last five was all she needed to scrub her hair and body with the first bar of soap that came to hand. Her mind slowly eased into gear, and by the time she dragged the fluffy, sinfully soft towels over her wet skin, she could think without feeling as if she climbed through a fog.
“All right,” she said. Her own voice jarred in the peaceful morning quiet. “Rogue missionary hiding in spa. Check.” She didn’t bother with makeup. “A witch hiding in spa. Double-check.” Naomi brushed out her hair, dragging the thick bristles through it until it shone with health.
“Why?” she asked the steamed mirror. “What do either have to gain?”
Carson was a missionary. Missionaries hunted witches. Was it possible Carson was tracking the mysterious witch who’d attacked her?
No. That didn’t explain Operation Black Tie. Whatever Carson was after—witch or no witch—the Holy Order wanted him dead.
So then why had the witch with the bushy mustache attacked her? To make her afraid? Warn her? Assault could have been a good tactic with anyone else, but she wasn’t anyone else.
Naomi didn’t do scared.
You’re tougher than I thought.
His words. To test her, then. Had he expected her to roll over and die? She rubbed her forehead, grimacing at the dull ache at the back of her head. Two adversaries, then. Until she could figure out who was what and where, she’d have to watch her back. Hard.
“So, why the old woman?”
Good question. Naked, absently fingering the tattoo low on her abdomen, Naomi gathered the only thing she could find that wasn’t silk, cashmere, or worth more than she was.
She wasn’t sure how appropriate a mesh sports tank and the skintight running pants she’d found were, but the damn place was a spa. She didn’t think she’d need anything fancier.
She checked the clock on the mantel and sighed. By seven-fifty, she was in the elevator and staring at the digital readout on the schedule surreptitiously left on the front table.
The rest of the team was sure to have a good laugh over this one. They probably shit themselves as they signed her up for these so-called services.
What was Naomi West doing today?
Things that would make her
pretty
.
Things that would make her scream inside the masked confines of her refined façade.
Naomi didn’t do scared, but she did anger. She did it well. “You shitfu—”
The elevator doors slid open, and Naomi clamped her mouth into a determined smile as a short, incredibly curvaceous woman turned to greet her.
Her tamed curls shone in the light, almost the exact shade of Phin’s, and her demonstrative eyes were as dark as chocolate. Naomi immediately recognized where he’d gotten his dimples as mirror twins appeared at the sides of her wide mouth.
So that much of his lethal charm was genetic.
Fantastic
.
A pale purple tailored skirt suit belted the beautifully hourglass cinch of her waist, outlining the kind of curves Naomi had always admired. Her hair was pinned in a way that made her curls look like an effortless crown.
She was lovely. In a round, polished dumpling sort of way. Even the lines spreading from the corners of her eyes added to the inherent . . .
Hell
, Naomi didn’t know. Appeal. Comfort.
She was real, somehow, more real than the plastic setup Naomi had expected from the polished Phin’s genetic line.
She actually looked like a mother.
Phin’s mother.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling every inch of her long, gangly five feet and towering ten inches.
“Miss Ishikawa, good morning.” Welcome simmered in her pleasant contralto. Warmth practically beamed from her round, matronly features as she held her hands out. “I’m Gemma Clarke. Naomi, thank you, we owe you such gratitude.”
Unable to get away from this one without causing more trouble than Phin was worth, Naomi let the woman take her hands. Gemma’s palm was warm, dry, her grip stronger than expected as it enfolded her fingers.
Working hands. Despite herself, a sliver of respect uncurled from Naomi’s lingering annoyance. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “I just happened to be nearby.”
Chasing a witch.
Kissing the woman’s son in the dark corners of the strange garden.
But where had Gemma Clarke been?
Naomi’s smile masked the sudden surge of adrenaline skating across her nerves. This was the part she hated the most.
Mysteries weren’t her thing, either.
It made no sense for Gemma to sabotage her own spa. She’d lose money. She’d lose face and clients.
Would she have more to gain by killing the old woman? Naomi resolved to find out.
“Nonsense,” Gemma was saying brightly, unaware of Naomi’s closeted scrutiny. “Without you, who knows what might have happened?” She gestured to the readout in Naomi’s other hand. “Is that your schedule, dear?”
Another slice of irritation. She gritted her teeth, managed to say with at least a shred of urbane interest, “It is.”
Gemma’s eyes lit up as her dark curls bent over the screen. Lavender wafted under Naomi’s nose, and her mouth twisted.
Most prisons smelled like sweat and bleach. Lavender probably qualified as a step up.
“Oh, lovely. You’ve been set up with Joel for a massage at one. Let me tell you, the man has hands that should be dipped in solid gold.” Casually Gemma linked her arm through Naomi’s and guided her toward the second elevator. “You want the fifth floor for the rest, of course.”
Feeling like a bit of flotsam caught in a hurricane, Naomi allowed herself to be bustled across the courtyard and into the elevator while Gemma babbled cheerfully. She covered a lot of ground in a few short minutes, from the amazing properties of the minerals inset into each special room in the above floors, to the staff she’d combed the world to find.
Her head spinning, she was caught entirely off guard when the shorter woman reached up and seized her chin in strong, short fingers. “My dear, what on earth happened to your face?”
“A glass bottle.” The words slid out of her mouth before the rest of her caught up. Naomi edged her grin upward, forcing herself to sound as relaxed as she didn’t feel. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”
Brown eyes sharpened. Appraised. “Can I ask you a personal question?” In that slow, steady, steely tone, Naomi recognized Phin.
He certainly was his mother’s son.
Naomi’s smile twisted at one corner. “Can I stop you?”
“Did someone in your family hurt you?”
A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. Naomi hastily swallowed it back. “No. Really, it was an accident.”
Mostly in that she hadn’t been quick enough to get out of the way. The bar had been smoky, the music loud, and it had taken one jackass, two of his buddies, and a beer bottle to put her down.
They’d all ended up in jail. She’d ended up in Timeless.
Same thing.
Gemma patted her hand. “All right. We’ll put something on it so it doesn’t scar. Come along.”
As if on cue, the doors slid open, and anything Naomi wanted to say, intended to say, died on her tongue.
Jacuzzis. Smaller, more personal tubs. Beautifully embroidered silk screens that provided privacy without losing the social atmosphere, and rooms set at intervals around the whole of the main foyer all combined to create a vast floor that seemed both welcoming and exotic at once. Plants spilled out of every available nook, softening the inherent austerity of porcelain and more slate tile.
Metal and sturdy wood had been placed in precise, clean lines of seating, screens, furnishings, and troughs filled with some kind of steaming, green water. All of it looked like implements of elegant torture.
Lavender tickled her nose again, but mixed with steamy currents of fragrances she couldn’t place. A sharper aroma pierced through everything else, something that smelled like tea but burned like whiskey in her lungs.
Naomi drew up short, knowing her brows were knitting together and unable to wrench them apart. “Wow” was the safest thing she could manage through the sudden, violent swearing in her head.
Gemma’s smile was a beam of pride and satisfaction. “I’m so glad you like it. I love this floor.” She approached a massive white desk, rows and rows of shelves laid out behind it. Each held a series of folded pastel lavender and pale green towels, thick and fluffy.
Reluctantly Naomi followed.
Behind the desk, an older woman with shoulder-length gray hair gathered a collection of towels from one shelf. “Mrs. Clarke, good morning,” she said crisply. “Miss Ishikawa, I hope you slept well.”
Too overwhelmed by the sheer volume of
beautification
locked in a single room, Naomi could only nod vaguely.
Did they keep a running tab on everybody? Pass out pamphlets of each guest to the staff? She felt suddenly, wildly trapped. An ant caught under a magnifying glass.
She rubbed at the back of her head. Deliberately dragged her fingers over the lump that still ached there until pain knocked back against her skull.
Pain helped.
“Agatha, how are you?” Gemma’s greeting sounded like a mother, like a caring employer, but she moved like a general. Every motion practiced, every gesture crisp, she extracted a lavender robe from the collection of fabric and shook it out.
“Very well,” Agatha replied. “The day guests will be arriving within the hour.”
“Excellent. Dear, put this on.” Before she could refuse, Naomi found herself ushered toward a small room near the desk, the door shut firmly behind her. “And take all undergarments off,” Gemma added through the panel.
Fuck. This was it. Naomi glanced wildly around the small changing room as if another exit might be hiding in a hamper. The schedule had started with a manicure and a pedicure.
Nails. Polish. Buffing.
She’d done it just a few days ago, doing it again was redundant, but harmless enough. She had to meet the guests somehow.
When she stepped outside again, Naomi wordlessly passed her athletic clothes to the waiting Agatha. The woman put them in a locker and handed her a key, ticked something off on her clipboard, and gestured over her shoulder. “If you wait one moment, I’ll escort you—”
Naomi hooked the key to the robe belt. “I’ve got it.”
If she waited around for an escort, she’d wander right into the elevator and forget to come back.
Naomi followed the attendant’s gesture, rounded the edge of the desk, and hoped to hell the knee-length robe stayed belted securely. She was pretty sure the knot would hold, but she didn’t usually make it a habit to go around in public with just a thick bit of terry cloth between her naked body and the rest of the world.
Modesty wasn’t one of her character traits. The problem was the goddamned setting.
Soft music filtered from discreetly hidden speakers, the air smelled fresh, with just a hint of soothing lavender. The heated, dark green slate tile warmed her bare feet as she padded through the wide, almost empty room. Only a few cheerful staff members moved around what Naomi figured were stations, readying supplies and talking softly among themselves.
Naomi scrutinized them all, but none of them looked to be big enough, cagey enough, to be the witch who’d ambushed her. No handlebar mustaches. No scars.
She could only be so lucky.
She skirted the edge of a shallow pool tiled in vivid shades of blue and green, and narrowed her eyes at a porcelain tub filled with steaming water. The source of the sharpest fragrance emanated from whatever it was that turned the hot water green.
She found Gemma waiting by a chair that looked as if its only purpose was to lure unwitting guests to pliant, vulnerable sleep. Naomi’s frown didn’t ease. “What am I smelling?”
“St. John’s wort,” the woman replied easily. “When poured over the skin, it soothes anxiety and burns. Taken in a tea, it’ll ease cramping. Sit, there’s a love.”
Despite the flow of explanations, Naomi rubbed the back of her neck, frown deepening. “Mrs. Clarke—”
“Gemma, dear,” she corrected sweetly. “Have a seat. This won’t take long.”
Naomi ran her palms down the plush material of the robe. Her fingers set the locker key swinging, and she frowned down at her bare shins.
She had great legs. She just preferred to show them off in a skintight miniskirt in the middle of a dance club than here.
“Come on, I don’t bite.”
But here she was.
Plan
, she reminded herself, and sat. She met Gemma’s rich dark eyes as the woman cupped her chin with a strong hand and tipped her head up to the light.
Sympathy flickered there.
Naomi’s fingers curled into the robe. “You know, it’s really fine.”
“It’s already forming scar tissue, is what it is.” Gemma clucked her tongue as she withdrew a small, unmarked jar from somewhere behind Naomi’s head. “You really should have gotten this clipped.”
She really should have done a lot of things.
Duck
ranked among the first. Her mouth tightened. “Look, I don’t need—”