Tempted by Fate (15 page)

It was on the tip of Willow’s tongue to refuse, but the aroma of cumin and a hint of herby sweetness, mixed with clove, wrapped around her and teased her senses. Without thought she dipped the spoon in and took a tentative taste.

The soup was warm and rich and basic, reminding her of the childhood she had spent with her mother. She lifted another spoon and stopped halfway to her mouth, taking in the earthy tang of running through the trees. For an instant, she felt the warmth of the New Zealand sun shining down on her. Unbidden, tears sprang into her eyes. She froze, mortified by her own reaction. She hadn’t cried since the day the Bad Man had found them. She certainly didn’t want to cry now, especially not in front of this strong woman. And definitely not on Ramirez’s turf.

Elena handed her a napkin. “Good food touches the soul. You haven’t had that in a long while.”

Willow blanched at the statement. How did she know? The crazy part: she didn’t doubt that Elena knew precisely how long it’d been. She narrowed her eyes, letting
mù ch’i
flow out into the space between them, like the soft branches of a
tarata.
Her energy surrounded the woman, and Elena began to shine brightly, the aura around her radiating warmth. Yet in a blink of an eye, the glow disappeared.

Willow stared at the woman, who gazed back at her
calmly. Willow couldn’t have been more surprised when Elena asked, “Do you believe in fate?”

Not sure how to answer, Willow busied herself with another spoonful of soup. After she swallowed, she said, “Most people wouldn’t invite strangers into their house, much less feed them.”

Amusement sparked in Elena’s eyes. “We’re not most people, are we?”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“Names are elusive, taken and given at will. It’s what is rooted beneath that matters.” Her direct gaze dared Willow to argue that, but she couldn’t. Willow knew better than anyone how flimsy names were.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Elena said. “Do you believe in fate?”

Wiping her mouth, Willow shrugged. “Fate is what we make it.”

The old woman chuckled. “Why did I know you would say that?”

She had no idea, and she was sure she didn’t want to know. She devoured the last bit of soup and pushed the bowl away from her. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

“I wonder when you’re going to ask about my grandson.”

Willow choked on her spit. “Who?”

Elena got up and brought her a glass of water. “Ricardo. We both know he’s the reason you’re here.”

She mentally flailed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Aren’t you?”

Starting to stand, Willow tried to deflect what felt like an inquisition. “I appreciate the food, but I should get going. I’ve already infringed on your time enough.”

“He’s looking for you.”

She plopped back onto the seat. Had he told his grandmother something? She didn’t picture him as the type to divulge work details. “I’m—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean,” Elena said sharply. “You insult my intelligence, not to mention everything your mother taught you.”

Willow’s breath caught in her chest, and she almost choked. As it was, it took a minute before she could speak. “You knew my mom?”

“Personally, no.”

Willow shook her head. “Then how do you know what she taught me?”

“I know. Some people are connected in unexplainable ways.” Elena leaned forward, her expression fierce. “You have powerful gifts and the ability to help people. Your mother saw to it. Don’t build something unworthy on that foundation.”

Willow didn’t know whether to ask more about her mother or trash the kitchen in her anger.

“Anger isn’t your natural way. It doesn’t belong to you. The anger, as well as the hate and revenge, have grown like weeds around your heart.” Elena’s face softened with something that was dreadfully close to pity. “They’ve overtaken the ground you need for your own growth. It’s time to cull them. You need to allow love to bloom in their place.”

Her identities had been compromised, but none of her files, not even the ones on
Willow Tarata,
included information on her mother. How did Elena know? “What could you possibly know of what I need?”

The woman smiled softly. “I’ve seen it. You’re not the only white witch in the world.”

Shaking her head, Willow pushed back from the table. “I don’t know what Ramirez told you, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His grandmother tipped her head. “Don’t I?”

“No, you don’t.” Willow headed for the door.

“You didn’t finish asking me about my grandson,” Elena called after her.

Frozen in the kitchen doorway, Willow looked back at Ramirez’s grandmother.

A placid smile wreathed the sly woman’s face. “Perhaps next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Willow declared as she stormed out. But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. She needed to figure out what game Ramirez was playing. She needed to make sure he wouldn’t interfere in her pursuit of the Bad Man.

“Have faith in your goodness,” Elena called out as Willow walked out the door.

“
Faith,
” she mumbled in derision as she stomped down the porch steps. In her experience, faith was a concept for fools who needed justification for the bad things that happened. But sometimes there was no justification beyond the will of an evil man.

H
is grandmother had taught him long ago to heed his intuition. So when Ramirez got a niggling feeling that he needed to go home at midday, he didn’t question it. He arrived in time to see Willow Tarata jog down his walkway.

What the hell was she doing here? How did she find out where he lived?

Pulling over sharply, he watched her look both ways down the street, her eyebrows drawn, mouth set. Something had upset her. Before he could puzzle that out, she turned and ran toward downtown. He sat mesmerized by the elegant curve of her backside and the long, swishing length of her hair.

He glanced at the house. A curtain in his grandmother’s apartment fluttered. He saw Lita’s face in the window, watching Willow run away. Then she turned and looked directly at him, her eyebrow raised as if to say,
What are you waiting for?

“Hell,” he muttered, getting out of the car. Grabbing his suit coat, he shrugged into it as he took off after her.

Willow’s pace was easy, but she ate up distance with her long legs. As she reached Duboce Street, her shoulders tensed. Noticing her wariness, he ducked into a doorway right as she stopped and turned around. He waited for what seemed like minutes before peering around the corner.

She was on the move again.

Careful to maintain enough distance so she wouldn’t sense him, he continued following her all the way to Yerba Buena Gardens. He didn’t know whether to be thankful or to curse. Yerba Buena teemed with all sorts of people, from children and their mothers visiting the play park, to tourists, to businessmen attending conferences at the Moscone Center. With all the people, it’d be easier to stay undercover. With all the people, it would also be easier to lose her.

Except Willow surprised him by settling herself under the shade of a tree.

He sat on a bench a good distance behind her and to the left. She closed her eyes. In that space, something fell away from her face—a tightness, a suspiciousness. He wouldn’t say she looked peaceful, but it was the closest he’d ever seen to stillness on her. Then she radiated with energy, a glow that lit her from below her skin and shined outward. She looked absolutely beautiful.

Her true self, he realized. He had the irrepressible urge to touch her. To run his fingers across her face, to bask in that light. He caught himself standing up, about to go to her.

Damn it, focus,
he thought, forcing himself to sit down again.

She set her hands on the ground, a caressing motion
that made him ridiculously jealous. The tree next to her shook, a gentle shudder, before two long twigs dropped. She reached up, opened her hand, and caught them at the right moment before they had the chance to hit her on the head.

What the hell? He looked at her sharply, trying to understand what it was he was seeing. Her eyes were still closed, but she brought the twigs to her chest and held them against her. Then she bowed her head, as if giving thanks, and opened her eyes. Still holding the branches, she gracefully rose to her feet and sauntered away.

If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the tree handed her those twigs because she asked for them. But he knew better.

Right?

There was before, though, when that other tree had conveniently swayed right into her attacker. But he’d imagined that, too.

His grandmother would say there was much in this world that defied conventional definition; sometimes the right answer didn’t suit, because our worldviews were too narrow. Certainly, some of the things he’d seen her do defied explanation.

Lita had called Willow a
white witch.
What did that mean?

Knowing his grandmother, it could mean anything. She could be a healer, for all he knew. But why would a healer need twigs?

He shook his head and followed her all the way to a motel on Broadway, next to a particularly sleazy strip club. He watched her walk inside and up to the second floor. He slipped through the door before it closed, in
time to see her clear the top of the stairs, her hair giving a saucy flick as she turned left.

Waiting until he heard a door close on the floor above, he jogged up the steps and took stock of the motel. If he had to describe it in one word, he’d call it
seedy.
Ramirez frowned. He could see her staying in some swank, modern motel, where the furniture was metal and leather, like Max’s apartment. He could even see her staying in a warm cabin, surrounded by trees.

He couldn’t see her staying in this dump.

A door opened five feet away and Ramirez braced himself. He’d expected to see Willow lean in the open doorway, with that sassy tilt of her head and caustic attitude. Instead, a prematurely aged woman with matted hair peeked her head out. Her bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Are you here to arrest Darryl? Because he cut out of town yesterday.”

He wasn’t surprised that she pegged him for a cop. Most people with questionable pasts could, and she looked like she’d covered some mileage. “No.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re here for
her.
”

He didn’t have to ask who she meant. “Why do you think that?”

“You’re talking to me, but your attention is on her door.” She jerked her chin across the hall.

Bingo. He wanted to ask questions about Willow but didn’t think the woman would be receptive. Instead, he noted her room number as he nodded his thanks.

“You better not be here to hurt her.” She lifted her cane and waved it at him. “She’s more delicate than she lets on. You’d have to make it through me first.”

How did a badass like Willow inspire loyalty and caring from this type of woman? “I just want to talk to her.”

Her eyes tracked him, clearly not believing a word he said. She started to say something else, but then she just shook her head and ducked back inside.

Time for answers. He walked over to Willow’s door and knocked.

Someone was at the door.

Willow dropped the whittling knife and picked up one of the dirks she’d just carved. Unfortunately, her room didn’t have an escape route, since the window was barred on the outside, but chances were that it was just the woman from two doors down. Willow had managed to sneak in without talking to her. The woman had probably realized it and wanted to say hi. Still, she gripped the dirk so it was hidden against her forearm and opened the door.

Her heart stopped, then started again, beating hard against her chest cavity.

Ramirez.

She searched his gaze, wanting to ask why the hell he was there. But she knew it’d drive him crazy if she played it casual, so she leaned in the doorway, crossing her ankles. “Didn’t get enough, Starsky?”

He remained cool and analytical, like the detective he was. Damn him. “I could ask the same of you,” he said.