Zack checks his wound. Not surprisingly, the small cut has already mended itself. The bleeding has stopped. The towel is tossed aside. “I’m not armed. Talk to me.” He raises both of his hands, taking a step back.
“What are you up to, Zack?”
He gestures toward the counter. “I’m making salad. Is this about your nose? You’re upset because I called your bump hideous. In my own defense, I was joking. You know that, right?”
“This. Is. Not. About. My. Nose.” I emphasize each and every word with a finger poke to his chest.
Zack and I are toe-to-toe. Suddenly I’m acutely aware of everything about him, his size, his strength, his power, and his almost complete lack of clothing. I try to pull away, but he reaches out for my hand and holds fast.
“What’s happened?”
“I take my job seriously, Zack.”
“So do I. You know that. You know me.”
“Look, I thought I knew what kind of guy you are. But maybe I don’t. Normally I’d say your personal life, the decisions you make are your own. I’d focus on the case, then the next one, then the one after that. I’d just go on living my quiet little life. But we’re partners and that means if a shit storm comes raining down on you, I’m likely to get crap all over me. I’m clean. I want to stay that way.”
He releases my hand. “And you think I’m not? You think I’m dirty?”
“Look around. Unless your mother’s maiden name is Rockefeller, yes.”
He looks surprised, hurt, confused. He could be all of those things. He could be none of them. One way to find out.
I lean in, lock Zack’s eyes in mine, let go. This is how it begins, allowing a tiny crack in the armor that contains my powers. “You broke the law by hacking into Barakov’s server. This house is worth a fortune. Your SF- 86 is nowhere to be found. You agreed to no contact. Yet here you are.”
As the power builds, the air around us warms, stirring an almost imperceptible perfumed breeze.
Zack’s nostrils flare. His acute sense of smell detects the subtle yet complex blend of white florals layered atop citrus. A strand of hair escapes the coil at the nape of my neck and drifts in front of my eyes.
“Here I am,” Zack says.
He reaches up and tucks the loose lock behind my ear, his fingers tracing the curve of my throat. His inhibitions are lowered. He feels it, the attraction, building. He steps closer, then dips his head and breathes me in.
The act is intimate, primitive. It makes me shiver.
“And here you are.” He snakes one arm around my waist.
Like water pushing through the spillway of a dam, I feel the rush of pent-up magic fighting to escape.
I push myself back and away, trying to put some physical distance between us. “Are you on the take? Here under false pretences? Are you—?”
Zack, however, moves with me, placing a finger under my chin. “Look at me.”
I lift my eyes and seek out his. There isn’t a hint of deception. The surprise, hurt, and confusion I noticed before are all still there.
He speaks slowly. “I didn’t steal evidence. I remembered seeing the camera in the lobby. Curiosity got the better of me. I didn’t actually hack into the server, but I could have. Instead I made a call to Silvia Barton. I asked her to email it. Told her
“I want to trust you. Why did you really come here? What is it you really want?”
As the words tumble from my lips, his eyes flash from brown to light blue, reminding me Zack is more than a human. He’s also something else, and that something else is getting closer to the surface than I am comfortable with.
My heartbeat quickens.
“What do I want?” His arm tightens around my waist. He lifts me into the air and we move swiftly and silently across the kitchen. In the blink of an eye he has me pinned to the wall with his body. He’s hard and ready, his breath coming faster, his control dissolving. But something prevents him from giving in, letting go.
“Zack—”
Words catch in my throat as his hands skim up the length of my body and he begins to remove the pins from my hair. The air around us is thick with desire. His lips are only an inch away from mine. He smells like sun and sand, salt and sweat. I want him to kiss me. Badly. And that petrifies me.
“Evidently the same thing you want. If I’m misreading the signals here, you better tell me fast,” he says, bringing me back.
I’ve made a terrible mistake. Whatever is going on with Zack, whatever secrets he’s hiding, I can’t risk probing any further. I pull up the wall between us and slam the door shut on my powers.
The change is so sudden Zack is caught in the undertow. He distances himself quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it. I pick up the pins from the floor, then move to the sink and go about making sure every strand of hair is neatly back in place.
The silence between us drags on until it is deafening.
“I don’t know what to say.” He has a pin in his hand, one that I missed.
I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s shaken. He crossed a line he’s not comfortable with and doesn’t understand why. He’s searching for some sort of explanation.
I take a deep, steadying breath to collect myself and try to give him one. “Forget about it. Emotions were high. I barged into your house, spouting off accusations.” I accept the offered pin. “I did poke you in the chest.”
Zack frowns. “I wouldn’t normally consider that an invitation to . . .”
This is my fault. Not his. I was the one who opened Pandora’s box. Zack and his beast had merely gotten caught in the wake. What Zack felt wasn’t real, didn’t mean anything. It was just physical. He responded to the Siren’s pull, not because of any real emotion he felt for me.
“Seriously, Zack,” I insist, “forget about it. I already have.”
I don’t lie to myself often. Deep down, I know this one is a whopper. What it felt like to have Zack’s body pressed against mine again isn’t something I’m going to easily forget. It brought back memories I’ve been trying to shake for months.
His lips purse together and he nods. “I’m gonna take a shower. Get dressed. You still up for dinner?”
“Sure.” I reach for the knife. “I’ll finish slicing the cucumber. I’m not a great cook, but even I can put together a simple salad.”
“Help yourself to whatever,” he says, before backing out of the kitchen and racing up the stairs.
“Emma Monroe, you are an idiot,” I whisper to the four walls.
With Zack gone, my heartbeat returns to normal. For the first time I take in the surroundings. Zack’s kitchen is palatial compared to mine. The professional-grade appliances, custom cherry cabinetry, and cream-colored marble countertops are just what you would expect in a house like this. I spend a moment taking everything in, trying to connect the home I’m standing in to the guy who is my partner. A rectangular dining table, which matches the cherry cabinets, is to my right, surrounded by cream suede chairs. A modern glass chandelier hangs above it. The living room is in front of me, on the other side of the counter, which also serves as a breakfast bar. A pair of brown suede sofas are arranged around a cozy fireplace. Above the mantel is a flat-screen television. To the left stand two gleaming guitars. To the right, a black baby grand. There are decorative pillows and throws, candles, place mats, fresh flowers, and even some artwork. But there is nothing that feels personal.
Maybe it’s because he’s just moved in. Maybe it’s because the place is more of a designer showcase than a home. What I do know is that if I want to find out more about Zack Armstrong tonight, I’m going to have to do it the old-fashioned way—and in this case, that means asking questions. Any other way is too dangerous.
