The Psy-Changeling Series, Books 6-10 (91 page)

Not unless her emotions weren’t simply buried, but excised from existence.

The door opened at that moment, revealing the woman at the center of his thoughts. She’d changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt that covered those curves he was starting to obsess over. He could see the edge of a white T-shirt beneath the sweatshirt, while plain black sneakers peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.

“Is this appropriate?” she asked. “I assumed we might have time to go to the garage as well.”

He ran his gaze not over her clothing, but over the soft curls of her shoulder-length hair. A rich, charcoal black, those curls tempted a man to fist his hands in the softness, tug her close, and sink his teeth—deliciously carefully—into that full lower lip. “Yes.” It came out husky.

She hesitated, as if she’d caught the edge in his tone, but her words when they came were pragmatic. “I’ll e-mail the Councilor from the car, ensure the chief mechanic knows we’ll be coming.” Locking her door after picking up that little computronic gadget that seemed to be surgically attached to her hand, she fell into step beside him, her head not even reaching his shoulder.

“You’re short.” He could tuck her under his arm, and against his body, without any problem whatsoever.

Sophia almost halted. “That kind of observation is rude in all cultures.”

He shrugged, but he’d noted the jerky movement before she smoothed out her stride, considered the implications—Psy made it a point to react as little as possible, regardless of the provocation. And Max was very, very good at provocation when he was in the mood. “I didn’t say you didn’t look good short.”

“I am what is termed a ‘throwback’ to my great-great-grandmother,” Sophia said, her tone pure feminine frost. “She had the identical body type. I will never be slender.”

“From where I’m standing”—Max couldn’t help himself, the devil in him taking over—“slender is overrated.”

Ignoring him with a focus that made his lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile, Sophia pressed her finger to the touch pad for the elevator. “Will your pet be alright in the apartment?”

Surprised she’d bothered to ask after Morpheus, he nodded. “I left a window open for him.”

“There is only a very narrow ledge, and it’s several floors off the ground.” A glance back down the corridor, as if she was considering returning for Morpheus. “He is also in an unfamiliar city.”

That look, the words, the hint of a personality behind the ice, had every one of his instincts humming—Sophia Russo was no robotic Psy. She was something, some
one
far more intriguing. “Morpheus is an alley cat,” he said, remembering the way he’d seen her extend her fingers toward the cat, the inquisitive look on her face when she’d thought he wasn’t watching. “He already considers that ledge his own personal egress and the city his very own playground, trust me.”

“He is your pet and your responsibility.”

Letting her step into the elevator as it arrived, he bit back a grin at that prim reminder and reached for the keypad. “I was told we’d have a vehicle—do you know if it’s already here?”

“Yes. I picked it up and parked it in the basement garage.” She waited until he’d pressed his finger to the appropriate number before surprising the hell out of him. “You can drive.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she said, “I’ve had enough contact with human males to realize you seem to have a congenital inability to function while a female is at the wheel, and I’d rather your full attention be on the case.”

He rocked back on his heels, way past intrigued and well into seriously screwed—because there was only one way this could end. That hint of personality and the inexorable tug of a deeper
something
between them notwithstanding, Sophia wasn’t only a J, wasn’t only a Psy, she was Councilor Duncan’s personal eyes and ears. A smart man would keep his distance, make sure she never forgot that while they might be working together, they sure as hell weren’t on the same team.

There was just one problem with that—he, a man known for leaving his lovers with smiles on their faces, and without a backward look, wanted to know every tiny detail about this woman who spoke to parts of him that had been in cold storage so long, his body physically hurt as they woke. It was, to be honest, uncomfortable as hell. More, the shocking intensity of his response went against the pragmatic nature of his mind—he was used to thinking, to planning.

But he was also a man who knew how to adapt. And he hadn’t backed down from anything or anyone since the day he’d grown old enough, and strong enough, to defend himself . . . to protect himself.

“You know,” he said as the elevator doors opened, determined to uncover the truth of the enigma that was Sophia Russo, “changelings would consider your letting me drive a surrender.”

She stepped out into the garage, so prim and proper that he wanted to mess her up three ways to Sunday, the long-forgotten boy in him sitting up in mischievous anticipation. What would she do, he wondered? Did Sophia Russo even understand the meaning of the word “play”?

“I’m sure you realize,” Sophia said in response to his comment, “that nothing is that easy with Psy, Detective.”

“Max.” He wanted to hear her say his name, acknowledge him as a man.

A slight nod. “This is our car.” She stopped in front of a black sedan with tinted windows.

He whistled through his teeth. “This is a very well-designed tank.” Sleek, meant to mix into ordinary traffic, but—to his experienced eyes—surely bulletproof and with a body built to survive impacts from vehicles twice its size.

“Councilor Duncan thought it prudent since I’ll be working with you.” A curl of raven black hair swung against her cheek as she began to slide off her right glove. “It’s become common knowledge that once a J takes an ‘impression’ of a memory, that memory becomes inaccessible to another J.”

Realization coalesced into a tight line of tension across his shoulders. “How many times has someone tried to kill you?”

“I’m not certain.” She used her thumbprint—her hand unmarked, unscarred—to unlock the car and access the computronic control panel. “I can program you in now if you’ll come over and press your thumb to the scanner.”

He did so, waiting patiently while she ensured he had full rights to operate the vehicle. “Guess,” he said afterward, as she got out and walked around to the passenger side door.

“What?”

“Give me an estimate of how many times you may have been the target of an assassination attempt.”

She opened her door. “I’ve only been shot at three times.”

Only.
A lot of cops didn’t get shot at that many times their whole career. Sliding into the driver’s seat—after shifting it back more than a foot—he brought up the manual controls, viscerally aware of the delicate vulnerability of her skin bare inches away. “Why is that?” he asked, speaking past a sudden possessive edge that honed his protectiveness to a steely gleam.

And that, too, was a surprise. Though he was a protector at heart, a facet of his personality he’d learned to handle, he’d never been possessive . . . or maybe, a long silent part of him whispered, he’d simply learned not to be. If you didn’t claim people, they couldn’t reject you, couldn’t leave you, couldn’t break your fucking heart. Except even that reality didn’t stop his primal response to Sophia—it came from some place deeper, beyond the civilized skin of his humanity.

Sophia turned to buckle her safety belt. “I assume,” she said in response to his question, “people wanted to stop me from giving evidence—if I die, the impression dies with me.”

His fingers almost brushed her hair as he braced his arm on the passenger side seatback in preparation for reversing the car.

The way she shifted to avoid any contact was subtle . . . and a chilling reminder that for all her lush femininity, Sophia Russo would never melt for any man. It should’ve thrown cold water on his simmering hunger, nipped that dawning possessiveness in the bud, but all it did was make him want to tug at her curls, just to see what she’d do.

There was a reason he’d spent most of junior high in detention.

Fighting the urge, he dropped his arm once he had the car out and angled toward the exit. Slow, he thought, he had to do this slow. She was so skittish, he’d have to stroke her into trusting him. If he pushed too hard, too soon, he’d lose any hope of getting through her shields—and that was unacceptable.

Because Max had made his decision. Whatever it was that burned between him and this J with her haunted eyes and secrets, he wasn’t about walk away. “No,” he said, making his voice deliberately relaxed, nonthreatening, “I meant why can’t another J re-scan a memory?”

“We’re not certain.” Sophia’s voice was steady, but with a husky undertone that brushed a kiss across his skin. “However, the strongest theory is that whatever mental ‘door’ we enter to take the memory has the flow-on effect of permanently closing that door the instant we leave.”

“So with Bonner . . . ?”

“Scans were attempted at his trial but never completed. His mind is still ‘open’ in that sense.”

Pulling out into the traffic, he put the car into hover-drive, but retained manual control. “There’s no enforced automatic navigation here, right?”

“No. Manhattan is unusual in its rules—likely because of its geography.”

“Hmm.” Feeling the powerful vehicle purr under his hands, he relaxed into the seat and turned his mind to the case . . . and to a truth he wasn’t blind to, no matter the power of what she incited in him. “Are you planning to fuck with me?”

To Sophia, the question was a rapier sharp thrust between her ribs. “Please explain your words, Detective.” He’d been so easy a companion over the past few minutes she’d almost forgotten the lethal man she’d met outside that interrogation room in Wyoming. A mistake.

“You’re meant to act as a filter”—a stroke of the steel that lay below the beautiful surface—“but fact is, I can’t be effective if you’re hiding things I need to know.”

Sophia wondered how many suspects he’d fooled into dropping their guard before striking with that precise blade of a voice. “You’ve just called me stupid.”

“Did I, Miss Sophia?”

Again, he unbalanced her, made her uncertain how to respond. Humans asked her for information, for insight into their cases, sometimes making small talk in the process, but this, what Max was doing . . . she didn’t understand it. “Be blunt, Detective,” she ordered. “I don’t handle subtlety well.”

Max shot her a look she couldn’t read, but he followed her order. “I need to know whether to treat you as a partner or as a stooge for Councilor Duncan.”

She thought of the cold-eyed woman who would one day sign her death warrant, ensuring her last days on this earth would be spent as a fugitive; thought, too, of this piercingly intelligent, complex man who made her wish—for one broken second—that she was normal. But she’d lost her chance at any kind of normality in a fracture of razor-sharp glass and screams twenty years ago. “Councilor Duncan wants you to find the mole in her system,” she said in a voice that came out coated in ice. “I’m to do everything I can to assist you. That is the extent of my brief.”

“So,” Max said at last, “this suicide. Kenneth Vale.”

Sophia brought up the information on her organizer even as she closed the door gently on the past, so as not to awaken the slumbering otherness inside of her. “He was the Councilor’s specialist in stocks and bonds,” she said, finding an anchor in what she understood, words and data and fact.

“What were the consequences of his death?” A practical question, but his voice had shifted again, the timbre warm, disturbingly intimate in the confines of the car.

Her hand slipped a little as her palm turned damp. “She lost a certain amount of money when news of Vale’s suicide got out. You have to understand, such an act is highly unusual among Psy”—among
most
Psy—“and is considered a sign of severe mental illness.”

Max’s next words hit her without warning. “You’re not telling me everything.”

How had he known? She stared at the clean lines of his profile, her eyes lingering at his temple. He was human. All his records proved that without a doubt—and yet the way he read suspects, the way he’d just read her, it reminded her again that she’d have to be very, very careful around him.

If he realized the extent of the fractures inside of her, if he understood the things the otherness had done . . . She took a slow, careful breath. “It has no bearing on the case.”

The look he shot her was brutal in its demand. “I’ll decide what’s relevant.”

“Suicide,” she finally said, “is considered an acceptable choice in some circumstances. However, in those cases, the suicide is usually undertaken in a quiet, unobtrusive way.”

“Suicide’s never quiet or unobtrusive.” His voice was a whip, cutting across her skin. “I’ve seen enough shattered families to know that. But . . . Psy don’t do love, do they?”

“No.” Emptiness in her soul, an echoing nothingness where there should’ve been family, should’ve been connection, even if only of the coldest kind. “Often, in cases of severe mental deterioration, the choice is between suicide and rehabilitation.”

Suicide is the better option, Sophia.
Another J, speaking to her two months before he was discovered dead in a hotel room, having overdosed on a carefully calculated cocktail of drugs.
At least, you’ll die whole. If they take you, they’ll leave an atrocity behind—a creature that should not exist.

Max had been a cop for over a decade. It didn’t take him long to connect the dots. Staring out at the city streets, he tried to wipe out the image of Sophia slipping softly into the last good night, unable to believe that this smart, steely woman would ever give in to death without a fight. “And do you think suicide is preferable to rehabilitation?”