The heavy tread of footsteps approached their room, hearts beating fast. Jake and others. He kissed her. Her mouth was so soft and sweet against his own that he just wanted to keep on tasting her forever. But he couldn't—not right now, anyway. She sighed when he pulled away, a sound he felt like echoing.
"We have guests,” he said, stepping out of the tub.
"Nikki! Michael!” Jake's voice, edged with panic.
"Here,” he said, helping Nikki out of the spa.
Jake came in, grinning when he saw them. “You both okay?" Nikki nodded and ran her fingers through her sodden hair. The sprinklers had stopped their rain, but every inch of her was soaked, and the chill was creeping past her skin and settling deep inside. But she suspected it wasn't so much an effect of the cold, but rather the fear of what this madman would try next.
“Better than the living room, I suspect."
"Actually, the damage is constrained to the door and a bit of the wall. What was it? A bomb of some sort?"
"Of some sort.” Michael's reply was grim. “Meant to destroy nothing more than the person holding the flowers in which it was delivered."
A security officer dressed in the hotel's uniform stuck his head around the corner. “Police and Fire Services are here, Mr. Morgan."
"Tell them we'll be out in a minute.” Jake glanced at Michael. “It might be better if you remain hidden."
"I agree."
Power surged, and Nikki knew without asking Michael was adjusting the guard's memory so that he remembered seeing only her. She bit back her instinctive annoyance, knowing he wouldn't listen, and wouldn't care.
"I'll keep to shadows in the bedroom,” he said once the surge of power had faded. He hesitated, then added, “Hadn't you better contact Mary?"
Jake swore and thrust a hand through his thinning blonde hair. “Damn it, yes." His expression was filled with annoyance—at himself, more than anything else, she suspected. He usually kept Mary up-to-date with what was happening. But when a case got as nasty, as this one was, she was never his highest priority, unless the case threatened to backwash and involve her as well.
"I guess this'll be another black mark in the book,” he continued, a touch bitterly.
"Mary will understand,” she said, even though she knew the lie. Mary was past understanding. Or perhaps tired of understanding. She hungered for something Jake couldn't—or wouldn't—give her, and though Nikki didn't really understand what that something was, she could certainly understand Mary's frustration. And she'd only put up with her own frustration for four months. Mary had been battling it for thirty years.
Official-sounding voices drew close. Michael squeezed her fingers lightly, then stepped past Jake and disappeared into the shadows still filling the bedroom.
She glanced up at Jake. “We're not going to make it to Harris’ place by nine-thirty."
"No. I'll give him a call and let him know what's happened. We'll just have to get there when we can." He touched a hand to her back and ushered her out into the living room. As he'd said, there wasn't much damage to the room as a whole, except for the fact that everything was soaked. A gap stood where the door had once been, but other than a chunk of missing plaster on either side of the door and scorch marks, there was nothing else to really indicate someone had tried to blow the hell out of her. The police turned as they entered, notebooks in hands and questions she could almost read evident in their eyes.
She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Talking to the police had never been a favorite pastime, but it was something she seemed to be doing a lot of lately.
Sighing softly, she plopped down on one of the sodden sofas and got herself comfortable for a long few hours.
* * * *
Michael crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. From his position in the bedroom, he could see Nikki and not much else. She was sitting on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, dark chestnut hair drying in waves that fluffed around her expressionless face. She looked absurdly young and almost delicate—neither of which she truly was.
A cop sat in front of her, writing notes and occasionally asking a question. He didn't appear inclined to hurry. Michael bit down on his frustration. Needing to do something, he reached out to Seline instead.
'Bout time, she grumbled. Been waiting for hours . What, the cat's suddenly grabbed your tongue, has it? Actually, knowing her cat, it was more than a possibility. It was a big black-and-white monstrosity that only possessed one eye and half a tail, and was the meanest thing on four legs he'd ever met.
I was being discreet. Didn't want to interrupt you and Nikki at a delicate time. He smiled. You and discreet are not two words I've ever associated before . Her amusement swam down the mental line. That's because most times I don't want to be. It's more fun being a pushy old witch.
And you do it so well.
Thank you. Her voice was prim. Schoolmarmish. Which she had been, at one point in her life. We've discovered there are eight women who attended Boston High currently either living or visiting San Francisco .
I gather the first three victims were from this eight?
Yes.