Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8) Page 7

  Why not you? This fits right in with your undercover mortal job. Elmer said, an obvious snicker in his squeaky ferret voice. Fashion accessories, I mean.

  Hale scowled. Despite his sister’s, his father’s, and his ferret’s teasing, Hale’s assignment suited him just fine. Of course, being a romance novel cover model wasn’t a typical disguise. It wasn’t like he was a cop or a mild-mannered reporter. Still, it had some perks—good hours, good pay, gorgeous women. Plenty of time to search out and battle evil.

  But that hadn’t meant Elmer teased him any less frequently.

  “Why me?” Hale repeated.

  “Hieronymous has minions everywhere, and this mission requires the utmost discretion. Hieronymous won’t think it’s odd that you are visiting your sister. Especially if the apparent purpose of your trip is to remind her of proper council protocol and procedure.”

  Hale squinted. “Huh?”

  Zephron’s image shuddered, shifting and shimmering until he was gone, replaced by video footage of a news program—“Witnesses say the hooded female actually flew thirty stories from the roof of the Tripoli Tower . . . .” The reporter’s voice faded out, and Hale cringed as Zephron’s image reappeared.

  “You’re her mentor, after all,” Zephron said. “It’s only natural that you travel to Los Angeles to discuss such indiscretions.”

  “Maybe she had a good reason,” Hale said, trying to suppress a smile. He should be annoyed, he knew. After all, she could’ve gotten hurt. But she’d actually flown. Which meant things were definitely shaping up in the fate-of-the-world department. Plus, he was going to California. Maybe he’d have a day or so to do some thong watching after all.

  “Hale,” Donis said, a note of warning in his voice.

  Hale shrugged. “Or maybe we should just dump old Uncle H. into the pit and get on with our lives.” It seemed like a reasonable enough solution. Hieronymous bad. Punishment good.

  “There is the small matter of proof,” Zephron said.

  “So you’re not even sure Hieronymous is planning this Outcast-a-thon?”

  “There are changes afoot, my friends,” Zephron said, which didn’t exactly answer Hale’s question. “Donis, you will travel with me to Olympus. We must prepare for the possibility that Mordichai will deliver the stone to Hieronymous before the eclipse.”

  “Thanks so much for the vote of confidence,” Hale muttered. “We hope for the best, but will prepare for the worst.” Zephron’s smile was grandfatherly and genuine. “The fact that I am sending you to recover the stone is all the proof you should require of my faith in your abilities.”

  Hale sighed. He never could handle compliments. “Fine. Forget Greece. California, here I come.”

  Woo-hoo! screeched Elmer. Maybe we can work in a trip to Hollywood Boulevard or even Disneyland. Maybe watch a taping of The Tonight Show! He started humming “Hooray For Hollywood,” and Hale rolled his eyes. Los Angeles wasn’t high up on his list. The smog made him sneeze, and when he sneezed, he tended to turn invisible. Which was never easy to explain—even in a town like L.A. that had seen it all before.

  He pulled his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “So I’ll just tell the Zoester what’s going on. We can scour the town and get this wrapped up in no time.” And maybe he could still work in some beach time.

  “No,” said Zephron.

  “Excuse me?” Hale said.

  Donis leaned forward and stared at the head of the council. “Don’t you think my daughter would have a better chance at succeeding if she knew what she was doing?”

  “She is a halfling,” Zephron said. “And from what I understand, her skill level leaves much to be desired.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I cannot bend the rules out of friendship. As a halfling, she must finalize her application, and she must demonstrate that she is worthy. Fairly. It appears that her test will be to protect the stone. I can think of no better demonstration of her worth.”

  “But if she doesn’t know she’s supposed to protect it . . .”

  “If she is truly worthy, she will sense the nature of her mission. She will protect the stone not because she has been told to, but because she has to.”

  “What a crock of—”

  Donis closed his hand—hard—over Hale’s arm.

  “Ouch!” Glaring at his dad, Hale flopped back in his chair, then immediately bounced forward when Elmer squeaked.

  Zephron ignored him, focusing on Donis. “Until young Zoe submits her affidavit, she must not be told of the legend of the stone. Her decision to abandon the mortal world must not be tainted.”

  Hale frowned. “Even if that means risking Mordi getting the stone and turning it over to Uncle H. ?”

  “Even so,” said Zephron. “Her safety—our future—depends on it.”

  “Zoe’ll do fine,” Hale said, hoping he sounded optimistic. The truth was, Mordi was almost as powerful as a full council member, and Hale didn’t want Zoe fighting the little weasel. After all, Zoe could barely control a propulsion cloak, and she still hadn’t managed to rein in those damn senses of hers. Hell, the girl hadn’t even mastered telekinesis.

  And now some ancient legend had gone and dumped the fate of the world into Zoe’s lap. How absurd was that?

  If Hale ever met the head dude in charge of legends and portents, he intended to give the fellow one very stern talking-to.

  Taylor banged his fist against Francis Capra’s steering wheel and wondered when he’d lost his grip on reality. Just what the hell was he thinking? He ran a hand through his hair. Of course, the answer was obvious—he wasn’t thinking at all. Or, rather, he’d quit thinking with his head and started thinking with certain other parts of his anatomy. Parts that really shouldn’t be running his life, thank you very much.

  Which explained why he was now parked in front of Zoe Smith’s Studio City apartment complex at nine o’clock at night, trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for a drink.

  Not that he had a chance in hell. She might be a ten on his perfect-woman scale—pretty, smart, sweet yet strong—but she still thought he was the devil incarnate.

  And maybe for a few seconds there, he had been. Except now he’d fixed all that. He’d dumped Parker, and he wasn’t sniffing out dirt on Emily anymore. So maybe if he just let Zoe know . . .

  For the second time, he banged his fist against the steering wheel. Taylor, you are pathetic.

  He put his hand on the key, ready to crank the engine and get out of there, but couldn’t quite do it. Dammit, he wanted to see her. Wanted her to know he wasn’t the creep she’d pegged him for. Wanted it so much it was making him crazy.

  And then—as if his thoughts had conjured her—there she was, heading down the stairs right in front of him. His hand froze on the key, and for a moment he just looked at her.

  Her trademark braid was still there, keeping tight control of a mass of coppery hair that would likely stir up a shower of sparks when released. Her plain-Jane jumper was gone, replaced with truly ugly orange gym shorts topped by a sweatshirt that looked to be at least five sizes too big. But despite the horrible clothes, Taylor was even more convinced that she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. He’d done quite a bit of daydreaming over the last few days, and she more than fulfilled every one of his Technicolor fantasies.

  No doubt about it: the woman was sexy. Sexy yet innocent. The kind of woman who’d one day have a little house with a picket fence on the outside and a dresser full of red lace underwear on the inside.

  Interesting, said his heart. Dangerous, warned his head.

  Yes, indeed. Zoe Smith was exactly the kind of woman who could get under his skin. Who’d already managed to do just that.

  She fidgeted with the keys in her hand, then glanced to her left. Taylor followed her gaze, realizing that she must be looking at the line of mailboxes.

  Tires squealed down the block, and Taylor turned to see a polished black Ferrari convertible make the turn, then careen down
the street, sliding at the last minute into the loading zone in front of Zoe’s apartment. Zoe took the last few stairs at a run, looking happier than a kid at Christmas.

  Fighting pangs of green jealousy, Taylor squinted, trying to get a better look at the driver, who was now half standing and hugging Zoe over the closed car door. He was tall and dark, with perfect pecs and a perfect tan. Hell, the guy looked like he should be on Baywatch or something. He was the quintessential Los Angeles guy—with a hot car, no less. And he was hugging Zoe. Well, shoot.

  Still . . .

  It could be nothing. He could be a friend from work. Her personal trainer. A traveling encyclopedia salesman.

  As he watched, the guy sneezed—and then he was gone.

  Taylor blinked. The car was there, but no guy. He blinked again, then squinted, trying to get a better look. Was the guy on the floorboards? Probably, because Zoe was still chatting away, looking perfectly happy to be carrying on a conversation with air.

  Okay, this is very—

  The guy was back.

  Taylor pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He really needed to get more sleep.

  Zoe jumped back from the curb as the Baywatch guy pulled away with a wave, then took off down the street, his car humming like a dream. She just stood there looking after him, then turned so that she was looking in Taylor’s direction.

  He cursed.

  Without thinking, he ducked down. Not exactly the world’s most comfortable position, but at least he was hidden behind Francis Capra’s door frame. And being hidden was key. Because the last thing he needed was for her to see him and blow all his good intentions to smithereens.

  Zoe wiped her face with the little gym towel draped around her neck, but couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.

  Hale was in town. What a wonderful surprise!

  When he’d zipped up in the Ferrari, she’d assumed he was just dropping by on his way to the Mediterranean. But instead of Greece, he’d told her he was camped out in a suite at the Beverly Wilshire, and would see her tomorrow after he’d had his share of room service and a few other accoutrements of high living.

  She lifted her braid and ran the towel along the back of her neck, stifling a grin. Her brother liked to live well. For that matter, he liked the whole Protector lifestyle. She didn’t need to wonder what he’d think of her silly pseudocrush on a mortal—he’d be mortified.

  He’d also be mortified that tomorrow she’d promised to tell her deep, dark secrets to a mortal who wasn’t her mother. It was a conversation Zoe wasn’t exactly looking forward to. Fortunately, Deena’d had plans with Hoop, and that had bought Zoe some time before the these-are-my-issues conversation. In the end, though, Zoe had promised she’d give Deena the skinny. So now she had one evening before she had to reveal all. No wonder her stomach was twitching so much.

  And Deena was the least of her problems. The big problem was Mordi. She should have reported him to the council right away. She knew that, but she hadn’t done it. Ratting on Mordi would mean confessing to interfering, to using her propulsion cloak, to revealing herself to a mortal, and to getting her picture in the newspapers.

  All those confessions would mean big, ugly black marks on her application. Her application was already on shaky ground; she wasn’t too keen on messing up her chances even more.

  Still, she really should tell. For one thing, the council probably already knew. And even if her stunt had gone unnoticed . . . well, the council needed to know if Protectors—even halflings—were running around mugging innocent women.

  It was all so very odd. And she hadn’t a clue what her cousin was up to. Mordi’d never been mean. A little moody, maybe, but never cruel. Also, council members swore an oath to protect mortals, not attack them.

  Of course, Mordi wasn’t a member yet. But, like Zoe, he was getting close. Closer, even, since he’d surely already submitted his Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. After all, unlike Tessa, his mother had known for years. But this mugger stunt would be a definite black mark against him. Not to mention it was just plain rude.

  She frowned, frustrated by the thoughts running through her head. Maybe she should go put in another thousand or so sit-ups. Or chin-ups. She hated chin-ups, but if that didn’t get her mind off Deena and her punishment and Mordi—not to mention those ever-present thoughts about Buster Taylor—nothing would.

  Armed with the promise of an evening free of Buster-Mordi-punishment-Deena-revelation thoughts, she headed for her mailboxes, humming the theme from Rocky. She’d left her glasses in her apartment, and now she checked out her mail, trying to decide if it was even worth bothering to get—a few bills, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a “you could be a winner” letter from Publishers Clearing House. Boring.

  She took a peek at the mail inside Mrs. Callahan’s box, wondering if hers was any better. It was probably some sort of felony offense to examine someone else’s mail that way, but Mrs. Callahan was forever forgetting to pick up the stuff, and Zoe hated to see the sweet woman do without something important.

  Junk, junk, junk, Victoria’s Secret catalog, junk, AARP magazine, junk, junk, check. Aha.

  She circled the staircase and peered through the woman’s door, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No worries there; the woman was up, watching Wheel of Fortune. Zoe rapped on the door.

  “Well, hello, dear,” Mrs. Callahan said, after she’d checked through the peephole.

  “Hi, Mrs. Callahan.”

  “Mary, dear. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  Zoe smiled. “Hi, Mary.”

  “You’re all dressed up. Do you have a date?”

  “Uh, these are my workout clothes.”

  Mary patted her hand. “A man who’ll love you when you look like hell will love you always.”

  Somehow that didn’t make Zoe feel better. Especially since there was no man. No boyfriend, no dates, no social life whatsoever. Except for throwing herself off a thirty-story building, the high point of her day was this: chatting about her less than trendy wardrobe with her eighty-something neighbor.

  Mary opened the door wider. “Would you like some spice cake and tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Spice cake sounded, well, too spicy. And Zoe didn’t need to have one of her food moments in front of the woman. “I just wanted to let you know that I got a glimpse of the mail earlier while the postman was filling the boxes. I think your check’s in there.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind Coke-bottle glasses. “I don’t suppose you saw my”—she lowered her voice—“catalog.”

  “Your catalog?”

  “You know,” she said, her voice still in a whisper, “Victoria’s Secret.”

  Zoe stifled a giggle. “Yeah, I think I saw it there.”

  The woman let out a sigh. “Marvin would have loved that store. Back in my day, all we had was Sears Roebuck.” She leaned closer. “That’s just not the same.”

  Zoe nodded, sure that if she spoke, she’d laugh.

  “You’re sure about the cake?”

  “I’m sure,” Zoe said. “Would you like me to bring you your mail?”

  “No, thank you, dear. I’ll get it tomorrow when the postman comes.” She patted Zoe’s hand. “He’s quite a hunk, you know.”

  “Right.” She’d never considered Mr. Davidson a hunk, but then she wasn’t over eighty.

  She said good-bye, then headed back toward the staircase, sure she was grinning like an idiot. If she was that spunky when she hit eighty-five, she’d consider it a victory.

  She headed back up the stairs, mentally ticking off all the things she needed to do before going to bed. She was debating whether or not the dishes could wait until morning—she was on spring break after all—when she felt it.

  Someone was watching her.

  She whipped around, her head cocked, trying to focus her hearing. She heard the gentle, sandpaperish sound of the cat in 4B bathing, Vanna White and Pat Sajak chitchatting on Mary’s televisi
on, someone cooking in the apartment behind the mailboxes. She sniffed . . . fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and red wine. The guy in 2A must have a hot date.

  None of the sounds or smells seemed threatening, yet something wasn’t right.

  She listened again, this time picking up sounds from the street behind her. Teenagers laughing and smoking in front of the liquor store down the street, crickets chirping in the dark, the wind whispering through the bushes. And something else. Someone breathing.

  Who? Her gaze roamed the street. All was quiet, no people around at all. Even the teenagers were out of her line of sight. And this sound was close by. She didn’t know why, but she had a funny feeling. She shivered, her eyes drawn to a perfectly restored Mustang convertible parked right across the street from her building. She frowned, sure it didn’t belong to one of the residents.

  Curious, she took a step toward it, and the breathing seemed louder. Odd. The top was down. It wasn’t as if there was anyone in the car. She cocked her head. Or was there?

  Feeling a little silly for being paranoid, she concentrated on the door panel. Metal was always the most difficult to see through, but not impossible, and after she’d taken a few deep breaths, the door shimmered, then became transparent.

  Zoe gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth as a dozen butterflies suddenly decided to perform the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies in her stomach.

  Buster Taylor.

  She was thrilled.

  She was pissed.

  He was spying on her.

  What did he think? That Emily was going to bring some young lover over to Zoe’s apartment? That Zoe was running a love nest for wayward teachers?

  Sinking down to sit on the front step, she balanced her chin on her hand, trying to stay calm. This was the man she’d been fantasizing about, remember? The man she’d hoped would call her, ask her out for coffee, proposition her for a wild night of living out X-rated fantasies.

  The mortal man she’d hoped she’d never see again so she wouldn’t have to make hard decisions.

  Well, she should be grateful. He’d just made her decision for her. She certainly wasn’t going to entertain fantasies of some lying, spying mortal. No matter how intriguing he might have seemed.