She could smell him. His scent was sharp, almost acidic, and though she couldn’t immediately put a name or a face to the scent, recognition hummed through her.
And then it hit her.
Duncan King. The redheaded, green-eyed man who’d accompanied General Lloyd to their meeting at Han’s restaurant a few months ago.
At the time, she’d thought him nothing more than a psychic drain, a leech who tried to suck all that he could from her mind via a seemingly harmless handshake.
But he was obviously a whole lot more. He could be invisible, for a start.
His scent was coming from the right—the same area where the bored usher stood, but more toward the corridor that led to the men’s room.
There was no one actually standing there, of course. And even her psychic senses weren’t coming to the party, which was odd.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
When she and King had shaken hands in the restaurant, she’d not only felt the leeching sensation, but a power that was similar to, and yet different from, the kind of energy that she felt in storms—one that was a little more earthy in feel, and yet not the
same as the energy she’d drawn from the earth during her dream. So who was to say that he hadn’t been trying to use that energy to make himself invisible to all her senses? Maybe she wasn’t even supposed to remember King’s presence, let alone see him.
So why was he skulking around this foyer? Who was he here for?
Wetherton? Her? Or someone else altogether? Whatever his purpose, her best option seemed to be a cautious retreat. Better safe than sorry when confronted by someone more than human—someone who didn’t need a weapon but was one. Her dreams, and her experiences with Hopeworth of late, had taught her that much, at least.
She pushed away from the wall and approached Wetherton. “Minister, I think your date has stood you up.”
He scowled and glanced at his watch. “It’s a business meeting, not a date. And I have no doubt he’ll be here. The matter is important.”
“He’s over half an hour—” Her phone rang, stopping her mid-sentence. She grimaced and drew it from her pocket, stepping away from Wetherton but making sure she kept within viable protecting distance just in case the scent that was King moved or attacked.
“Agent Ryan speaking.”
“Sam? Gabriel.”
Like she wouldn’t recognize his voice? The man obviously had no idea just how attracted she was to him, despite their little encounter in the car. “Would this be the Gabriel who was supposed to meet me at five to pick up his car?”
He paused. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Say that with a little more sincerity and I might actually believe you.” She decided it was better not to be a bitch—as much as she might want to—and said, “What came up?”
“Les Mohern.”
As he said the name, the memory kicked into place. “Mohern? Wasn’t he one of the names in Jack’s book?”
Wetherton swung around at the mention of Mohern’s name, his scowl deepening. “What do you know of Mohern?”
His voice was sharp, almost angry, and yet something in the set of his shoulders and the way he stood spoke of fear. She held up a hand to silence him, which didn’t go down well, if the clenching and unclenching of his fists was anything to go by.
Not that she thought he intended to hit her. Wetherton didn’t have that much courage.
“Frank Mohern was on Jack’s list,” Gabriel said. “Les is his brother. He apparently had a meeting with Wetherton tonight.”
“A meeting he’s late for.”
“That’s because he almost got himself killed. I saved his butt, and he’s been singing his little heart out in an effort to get a deal.”
“Any particular song I need to know about?”
There was another pause, then, “Most definitely. The Moherns were involved in the original Wetherton’s snatch and replacement, and Les happened to witness the murder of Kathryn Douglass.”