Playing with Fire

My eyes slitted. “What happened to that guy? The one in the lab coat?”

Pretty Boy crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me with a dark, almost hypnotic stare. “That’s none of your concern. Now, “ he said, speaking to the entire room, “I have questions, and you’re going to answer me.”

Those eyes … they were intense, commanding, a little scary. “I just called the cops, “ I gulped out. “If you hurt us, you’ll be thrown in prison and become Big Daddy’s bitch.”

His gaze flicked to one of Lab Coat’s pursuers, now our guard. He was a beast of a man, with a thick, black beard (were those peas between the hairs?) and more muscles than Arnold in his prime. “Take care of it.”

Take care of what? Beast radioed … the cops? He spoke too quietly for me to hear what he was saying. Meanwhile, the other guard ushered everyone into chairs. Everyone except me, that is. Maybe I looked menacing and they didn’t want to mess with me. Hey, it was a possibility.

But I didn’t understand why they were content to remain in here instead of chasing Lab Coat. Or had they caught him and ushered him away while I was on the phone? Why question us, then, if they already had him?

“That man is a dangerous criminal, “ Pretty Boy told me. He must have realized that I wouldn’t cooperate otherwise. “It’s in your best interest to help us.”

Dangerous criminal—the magic words of my capitulation. “All right, fine, “ I said grudgingly, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had a badge, after all. “But if anyone pulls a weapon on me, I’m going PMS on their ass.”

“So noted,” he said with a dry edge, completely unimpressed.

Thankfully, the table I’d occupied earlier remained upright. My latte sat on the surface, unharmed. I plopped down and lifted the cup to my lips, sipping. Warm and sweet—sweeter than it had been earlier, as if the chocolate had thickened. Mmm. I continued sipping, taking comfort from it.

Pretty Boy questioned us one at a time, writing names and answers in a notebook. How very detective he was. He asked everyone the same three questions: 1) What is your name and address? 2) Did you see the man in the lab coat? 3) Did he say anything to you or give you anything?

Pretty Boy spoke with me the longest and had more than the standard three questions for me. What had made me want to help Lab Coat—“the doctor,” Pretty Boy called him, careful not to use his real name. Did we secretly plan to meet later? Had I ever met with the doctor before this?

I didn’t bother lying. Actually, I wasn’t sure I could lie to this man. Every time he turned those intense brown eyes on me, I felt compelled to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Not in a girls’ sleepover kind of way, but an I’ll-die-if-I-don’t kind of way. Very weird.

And you know what? I didn’t get any answers to my questions. What was his name? Why were they chasing Lab Coat? What made the man so dangerous? Was Pretty Boy going to eat the chocolate éclair he’d pilfered from the fridge? I was starved.

Finally, Pretty Boy and his men left, followed quickly by the customers. I’d expected him to threaten us if we told the press or cops—or anyone, really—what had happened, but he didn’t. I’d expected the police to arrive (as promised), but they never did. I guess they really had been taken care of, which probably meant Pretty Boy was the CIA agent he’d claimed to be and Lab Coat actually was a criminal. I hoped I didn’t get in trouble for having tried to aid him.

Left alone at last, I helped Ron, Jenni and the rest of Utopia’s employees clean up the mess. Strangely enough, we worked in silence, not discussing the events. Maybe we were too scared. Maybe we were too confused. Maybe both. As I cleaned, I looked for Lab Coat but found no trace of him.

What a shit-infested day this had turned out to be. The only silver lining was when Ron decided to close the café for the rest of the day, giving me the opportunity I needed to escape to my interview—albeit late.

Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d be hit by a car and could sue for millions.

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE TIME I REACHED the Ambassador Suites—without being hit by a car, damn it—I’d successfully forced the day’s events to the back of my mind, to be considered and dissected later. Why not worry about it now, you ask? Because my head was about to explode into tiny Belle fragments, that’s why. A sharp ache pounded in my temples and beads of sweat dotted my skin. My stomach pricked and burned as if I’d swallowed a thousand acid-coated needles.

Hunger pains, maybe? No, surely not. I’d skipped lunch, true, but I’d skipped meals before and never reacted this way.

I stumbled into the hotel’s bathroom, the black-and-white-tiled floor spinning and making me dizzy. My eyes were normally hazel, a green-brown mix, but right now, in the mirror, they appeared a glassy emerald. Too bright. Dilated.

My hands shook as I splashed cold water on my face. But the liquid didn’t trickle down; my skin seemed to open up and absorb every drop. It happened so quickly I would have missed it if I blinked. My pores screamed in protest, burning, burning.

A moan slipped from my lips. What the hell was wrong with me? Had I picked up a vicious, fast-acting virus after leaving Utopia?

God, I hurt everywhere, the pain growing stronger with every passing second. My joints were swelling, and I was having trouble drawing in a decent breath. Straightening as best I could, I stared again at my reflection. Bruises had formed under my eyes and bright red spots of color painted my cheeks. My lips were pulled tight.

I looked liked a drug addict. In desperate need of a fix.

I could just imagine how a potential employer would respond to that: throw me out on my ass and post my picture all over the building with a notice that I was to be arrested if I set one foot inside the place ever again. Great. Freaking great.

A sudden cramp doubled me over, and I cried out. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Gradually, the pain subsided. I straightened again, my ears ringing loudly as blood pounded through them.

“Holy hell.” Just get the interview over with so you can go home and rest.

Somehow, and God only knew how, I pulled myself together enough to walk into the interviewer’s office with my head held high and my shoulders squared. An older man with thick silver hair and a stiff brown suit sat behind the room’s only desk. He grinned when he spotted me, his eye crinkling at the corners. Kindness radiated from him.

“You must be Belle.”

“Yes.” I forced my lips into an answering smile. I wouldn’t be able to keep up the facade for long. I realized that when the interviewer—what the hell was his name?— shook hands with me. The feel of his palm against my too- sensitized flesh nearly dropped me to the ground, huddling in a fetal ball and crying for the mommy I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. The contact, though brief, cut through me like a barrage of slashing knives.

“You’re a little late, “ he said, glancing at his wristwatch, “but I think there’s just enough time to get to know each other.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I had an unavoidable delay, but I promise you now, I’ll never be late again.” Hurriedly I unfolded my résumé from my pocket and handed it to him, careful not to touch him.

Ding, ding. Let the interview begin.

OKAY, SO I TOTALLY BLEW the interview.

My ears had rung too loudly, and I hadn’t been able to hear him. My joints had ached too fiercely, and I hadn’t been able to sit still. My mind had neared explosion, and I hadn’t been able to think of intelligent answers.

Disheartened and racked by intense, debilitating pain, I entered my apartment, tossed my keys onto the old brown shag carpet, locked the door and lumbered to my bedroom, stripping as I walked/crawled/begged God for sweet death. As I fell into the soft coolness of the bed, the entire horrific nightmare replayed in my mind.

Interviewer: My, but you’ve worked at a lot of jobs.

Me: Only recently. Before that, I was a maid—with the same hotel—for almost five years, as well as a waitress—for the same restaurant. But at each of my latest jobs, I assure you I’ve learned valuable lessons.

Interviewer: What, uh, did you learn at the Kimberly Dolls factory?

Me: I learned that it is not funny to put the Kevin head on the Kimberly body.

Interviewer: Hmm. And at the pet groomer?

Me: I learned that dogs and cats are to be respected and not shaved to resemble lions. In my defense, the lion look is very popular with certain breeds.

Interviewer: I see. I’m curious about something. Were you fired from each of these jobs or did you quit?

Me: I prefer the term “let go.” Fired just sounds so … mean.

Interviewer: Were you let go, then?

Me: Yes, but I can explain.

Interviewer: I’m listening.

Me: At Harrison and Co. Books, I completely misunderstood the return policy. A simple mistake, really, one anyone could have made. You see, I thought it would be totally fine to take the books home in my bag, read them and return them. You would have thought the same thing, wouldn’t you? That’s what return means.

Interviewer: Well, uh, hmm. What about Jumpin’ Jive Cars? Why were you let go from there?

Me: Well, that’s an interesting story. See, there was an unfortunate accident with one of the cars I borrowed. Totally not my fault. The lady in front of me didn’t signal, and you know how important it is to signal when changing lanes.

Interviewer: Yes, that is important.

Me: Just give me a chance, Mr. uh, uh—

Interviewer: Mr. MacDonald.

Me: I’ll be the best damn, uh, uh—

Interviewer: Maid.

Me:—maid you’ve ever seen. Maid! That’s excellent. I told you about my five years of experience, didn’t I? I’m great with people and even better with toilets, and that’s the Belle Jamison guarantee. There’s nothing more solid than that, Mr. MacRonald.

Interviewer: It’s Donald.

Me: Why, thank you, Donald. You may call me Belle.

Interviewer: That’s not—never mind. I have to be honest with you, Miss Jamison. We at the Ambassador are looking for someone more, well, grounded.

Me: I’m grounded. Totally. I spent most of my teenage years grounded.

Interviewer: Hmm.

Me: That was a joke. Promise. My dad didn’t have the heart to ground me, even when I deserved it.

Interviewer: We need someone levelheaded.

Me: I can be levelheaded. One time I was shopping with my friend Sherridan, who will kill you if you call her Sherry, and she wanted to buy this very pretty, very expensive blue dress. Blue is totally her best color and it looked killer on her, but she’d already maxed out her cards and didn’t have excess cash. I told her the dress made her ass look fat so she wouldn’t put herself into more debt. A gal doesn’t get any more levelheaded than that.

Interviewer: I’ll make a note of that. Meanwhile, it was nice to meet you. I’ll call you and let you know our decision.

Me: When? I really need this job. Really, really badly.

Interviewer: I’ll be making calls in a few days.

Me: Okay, great. I’ll keep my ringer turned on so you can reach me anytime. Really. Anytime is good. Well, except for tomorrow morning. I’m not feeling so great. And maybe tomorrow night won’t be so good, either. And Saturday. But other than that I’m completely reachable.

Interviewer: That’s … good to know. I’ll have security show you out.

YEAH, LIKE Mr. Donald MacRonald was ever going to call me.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Groaning, I clutched a pillow to my stomach. I’d never been this sick. Not even the time Bobby Lowenstein planted a big wet one on me in the ninth grade and I woke up the next morning with lymph nodes the size of baseballs. Mono had sucked ass.

This sucked bigger ass.

Maybe I’d call Sherridan and make her come over and take care of me. As it was, I didn’t have the strength to go into the kitchen and get myself a glass of water and eight hundred Tylenol.

I whimpered as another wave of pain assaulted me. My blood heated to boiling, burning like lava in my veins before chilling to ice. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought something was alive inside me, clawing its way through my every cell. Slicing me apart and rearranging my organs.

Forget Sherridan. I needed a doctor.

I reached for the phone, but my arm dropped onto the bed, too heavy to hold up. A strange but welcome lethargy suddenly flowed through me, lulling me into darkness, away from the pain. My eyelids closed and a black web wove inside my mind. Morning. I’d feel better in the morning.

CHAPTER THREE

BY MORNING I WANTED to kill myself.

How many hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, I didn’t know. One minute I saw sunshine streaming in through my windows, the next moonlight. One minute I shivered from cold, the next I sweated profusely. Awake I hurt. Asleep I hurt. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Everywhere. I was dying. I knew I was. I, who had never fallen in love, never owned a cat—or anything but an obnoxious betta— and never really lived.

This was it. The end. And it wasn’t pretty.

You know how dying people claim to see a light at the end of the tunnel, or that their life flashes before their eyes? Lucky bastards! Why couldn’t I be one of them? Instead I heard Ron’s pervy voice tell me over and over that I was fired as I fell through a seemingly never-ending tunnel, the fires of hell licking at me on one side, snowballs slamming into me on the other.

In this strange la-la land, I’d watched my nightstand catch fire, orange-gold flames flickering toward the ceiling. Then I’d watched a rain cloud form above it and douse the flames completely. The hallucination had been so real I’d heard the crackle of burning wood, the patter of the water and the ensuing sizzle of dying embers. I’d even smelled the ashes.

Afterward, I’d spotted a dark angel/demon standing at the edge of my bed, watching me, waiting for me to die. His gaze had seemed to burn into me. Intense. Scorching. I had felt a strange sort of comfort in his presence, though, knowing I wasn’t alone.

Now that I was awake, I wanted him with me again.

“Angel, “ I croaked, my wild eyes feverishly searching for him in the darkness. I needed a glass of water, el pronto. I think something had died inside my mouth and rigor mortis had already set in. When I earned no response, I tried again. “Demon.”

Still nothing.

Had he left? Oh, he had. Bastard. He’d abandoned me.

I closed my eyes and a picture of him formed in my mind. He was severely hot—but he wasn’t handsome, if that made any sense. He looked savage and feral, like something you should fear, yet couldn’t because you wanted so badly to tame it. Hair as black as midnight framed his face, and his eyes were so blue they sparkled. I would have said they sparkled like sapphires, but there was a predatory glint in those eyes of his, dangerous and wild, nixing any thought of precious gems.

He was tall. Six-four was my guess. He’d been wearing black from head to toe, blending into the room’s shadows. The scent of blueberry muffins, ashes and untamed jungle had wafted from him. I rolled to my side, burrowing deeper under the covers as another black web formed in my mind. He had to.

I must have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, my eyelids were fluttering open and taking in the sunlight. A long while passed before I was able to orient myself. The room appeared hazy at first, everything slowly slipping into place as if someone had wiped my line of vision with glass cleaner. I saw my peeling ceiling … my yellowing walls … my brown shag carpet … my men’s loafers … my—Men’s loafers?

My eyes blinked open and closed, then traveled up a pair of black pants, a firm butt, a belted waist and a well filled out black shirt. Ah, the Angel of Death, I realized, relaxing a little. He hadn’t left me, after all. Once again he was standing at the side of my bed. He had his back to me as he spoke to someone on a walkie-talkie.

“Subject is roughly five-six, slim, straight brown hair, hazel eyes—mostly green. Full lips.” He paused. “Uh, really full lips. Small scar on left shoulder. No tattoos … unfortunately.”

Who the hell was “subject"? I wondered groggily. Me? It sounded like me. Maybe creatures of the other-world preferred to keep things all-business.

“Subject has stopped writhing, and her skin is no longer tinted green. The bruises under her eyes have faded. Subject seems to be on the mend.”

His voice was low and sexy. I might be weak, but I wasn’t dead—or was I? I shivered. My gaze swept over him once more. He was as deliciously tall as I remembered, and so wonderfully muscled I would have liked to wrap my hands (legs—whatever!) around his biceps. Obviously, he worked out. A lot. His shoulders were wide, his back broad and his ass total, quarter-bouncing perfection. I bet even Sherridan’s twins couldn’t compare.

“Are you God’s minion or the devil’s?” I asked, my voice weak and raw. I’d put my money on the devil. (If I had any money, that is.) God had probably banned me from heaven months ago, when I filled my ex the Prince of Darkness’s apartment with rotten fish while he vacationed with the girl he’d dumped me for. (One rotten fish for another, you could say. Not that anything could compete with Martin.)

The angel/demon spun around, and those crystalline blue eyes pierced me. Hot, so unbelievably hot. I sucked in a breath, my hormones sizzling to life despite my condition. Seduction and danger poured from him. He had golden skin, a chiseled face with the shadow of a beard, and shaggy, windblown hair. The black locks fell over his forehead, almost shielding the arch of his brows. His nose was slightly crooked—from being broken one too many times?

“Hello, Belle. Glad to see you’re awake.”

The sound of my name on his soft, kiss-me lips was intoxicating. I fought the urge to reach out and trace my fingertips over that dark stubble dusting his jaw. I fought the urge to grab him by the neck and kiss the breath out of him. I fought the urge … oh, hell. Come to Momma. I tried to reach out, but my arms were too weak and remained at my sides.

Maybe that was a good thing. He was the first man to enter my apartment in, well, too many months to think about (without crying), so I probably would have done a poor job of pouncing/licking/consuming him.

“Don’t be afraid. If you’ll answer some questions for me, I’ll leave you alone, “ he said. “Sound good?”

Okay, so he wanted to get away from me as soon as possible. I had to look like total crap. Before he escorted me through the gates of eternity, maybe he’d let me shower, brush my teeth, apply ten pounds of makeup, slip on a red teddy and mist myself with pheromone perfume. Not that I wanted to impress him or anything. Really. A girl just needed to make a good impression her first day in the afterlife.

“You falling asleep on me again?” he asked.

“No questions, “ I said. I’d answered enough of those when Pretty Boy had interrogated me. As I struggled to sit up, the ache in my head roared to full life. I groaned and flopped against the pillow. “I hate to break it to you, but you totally suck at your job. Don’t just stand there looking sexy, take my soul already.”

“Subject awake but not lucid, “ he said to the walkie-talkie. For a second, only a second, I thought I heard the beat of his heart. Steady at first, then gaining in speed. Or maybe that was my heart.

“If I’m asked to give an evaluation on the other side, “ I said, “you’re going to score real low.”

“You must be thirsty.”

The moment he spoke, I realized just how dry my mouth was. “Yes, “ I rasped.

“Subject is thirsty, “ he said, then hooked the walkie-talkie, or whatever the hell it was, to his waist. He disappeared. That was the only way to describe it. He moved so silently, so quickly out of my room, he was like a puff of smoke. There one moment, gone the next.

He returned as quickly as he’d left and offered me a glass of water. I tried to sit up, but the feat proved impossible. Reaching out, he anchored his free hand under my neck and gently lifted my head to the glass. I drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing my throat, my stomach, moving through my overheated blood.

Calluses covered his hand. My skin began to tingle. Umm, nice. So nice. My increasingly heavy eyelids fluttered open and closed as he eased me back onto the pillow and set the water aside. “Your evaluation scores just increased, “ I said hoarsely. Sleep. I’d sleep a little longer.

“We really do need to talk.” He gave my shoulder a soft shake.

My brain wasn’t functioning at optimal levels, but common sense finally slipped past the thick labyrinth of stupidity blanketing my mind. I jolted into total wakefulness. Could a hallucination help me drink a glass of water? Would an apparition have calluses? Would a messenger of death be able to physically touch me? No, no and no.

The stranger standing in front of me was very real.

Panic washed through me. “Get out, “ I demanded, my alarm making my voice scratchy. “Right now.” I wore nothing more than the flimsy bra-and-panty set I’d worn under the Utopia uniform I’d stripped out of, and though my comforter shielded me from view, it could be ripped away at any moment. In my weakened condition, I wouldn’t be able to fend him off if he decided to attack me.

“Relax.” His voice was so soft and soothing, I barely heard him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Liar! Why else would he be here? My panic doubled, and I groped the bedsheets for a weapon. Of course I found nothing more menacing than a few feathers from my pillow. Like those would stop a freaking dust mite.

The man crouched beside me, putting us at eye level. I studied his eyes so I could give a description to the cops, not because they momentarily hypnotized me. His irises were a work of art. Dark blue branched from his pupils and blended with the lighter blue.

“I need to ask you some questions, Belle.”

“And I need you to leave, “ I said, weak but determined. “Now.”

Ignoring my demand, he asked anyway. “Do you know how you got sick?”

“I don’t have any money, and my husband will be home at any minute.”

“You don’t have a husband. Baby, stop and think for a minute. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so by now. I’m with the CDC, and I just need to know about your illness.”

I shook my head to clear it, trying to understand. “Centers for Disease Control?” Okay, that made a little sense. And he had had plenty of time to hurt/molest me, but he hadn’t. Still. How had he gotten inside my apartment? How had he found out I was sick? How did he know I wasn’t married? “Do you have any ID?”

He flashed a badge, and the action reminded me of Pretty Boy. “Believe me now?” he asked.

“Maybe, “ I whispered. “What’s wrong with me? Am I going to die?”

“There’s a chance.”

There was a chance? Seriously? My stomach bottomed out, and my jaw fell open. Why couldn’t he have lied to me and let me have a few minutes of blissful ignorance? “You’re really with the Chronically Diabolic Cockwad association, aren’t you?” I muttered.

His lips twitched. “Yes, maybe I am, at that.” He held up the walkie-talkie again. “Subject is alert and talking, lucid at last. Do you know how you got sick?”

Silence.

“Belle, do you know how you got sick?”

“What, you’re talking to Subject now?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged, the action only a slight lifting of my shoulders. “The normal way, I guess. A naughty little virus entered my body and started playing Russian roulette with my immune system.”

His brows cocked. “Subject is exhibiting a strong sense of humor.”

“Subject is getting pissed.” I used the last of my strength to knock the walkie-talkie out of his hand. My arm collapsed at my side as the stupid black box landed on the floor with a thump. “What kind of virus do I have? How long do I have before I … you know, kick it?”