Medium Rare: (Intermix) Read online

  Rose felt her heartbeat skip. A date with Evan? Well, it wasn’t the worst idea she’d heard lately. “How do we book some seats?”

  “Call the Nightmare. Autumn said they made reservations over the phone, and then they paid when they got there. If Augie won’t let us in as ourselves, we can try booking under other names, assuming nobody at the séance knows you.”

  Her heart thumped again. “Why would people at a séance know anything about me?”

  He gave her a curious look. “Because there might be people there from the Nightmare.”

  “Oh. Right.” Steady, Rosie. She blew out a breath, then shot a warning glance in Helen’s direction as she eyed Evan’s shoelaces. “Maybe I should wear a disguise.”

  A long silence stretched between them suddenly. She was uncomfortably aware that he was studying her.

  “Maybe so,” he drawled. “You did a great job of disguising yourself the first time I met you. Complete with glasses.”

  The hard shine of his eyes made her want to duck. But dealing with Skag had at least taught her to defend herself from sarcasm.

  “I thought you’d want to hire somebody who looked like a librarian. No big deal—just professional clothes. I do dress like that sometimes. And I wear the glasses now and then.” Although not since Halloween.

  “Yeah, I can see where it might be an advantage to be inconspicuous.” His eyes warmed for a moment. “You’re pretty memorable.”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands again, feeling the flush spread to her ears. She really hoped that was a compliment.

  He pushed his cup away, sighing. “Okay. It’s a deal. I’ll call them later, give them a couple of fake names, and then we’ll see what happens.”

  “I know somebody else who might be able to tell us about Alana DuBois.”

  “Who?”

  “William Bradford. He might at least be able to tell us if he remembers her. If he remembers Sylvia Morris, that is.”

  He grimaced. “Somehow I don’t think Bradford’s likely to talk about Alana or Sylvia. She was going to give me the goods on him, remember?”

  “But wouldn’t you like to hear Bradford’s version?”

  “I’d love to hear Bradford’s version, but I’m not going to get it. I’ve tried to get appointments to interview him before. He’s not particularly eager to talk to me. His staff sent me copies of interviews he’s done with other writers—ones who were more inclined to accept his view of reality.”

  She shrugged. “He probably knows your reputation. But he doesn’t know me. Maybe he’d be willing to talk to me about his childhood.”

  Evan shook his head. “To tell you the truth, I’m not all that interested in interviewing Bradford anymore. He’s been interviewed lots of times—he’s a pro. You want his biography, I’ll give you a copy, with a nice glossy cover. I don’t figure either of us could get anything new from him. What I’d really like is one of those private sessions he does, the consultations. That’s where he makes his real money.”

  “How much does a consultation cost?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Depends on the person, and the amount of time they spend with him. As I understand it, the starting fee is a thousand.”

  “Dollars?” Rose stared at him. It appeared that she’d been seriously underpricing Locators’ services.

  He grimaced. “Yes, dollars. What else would he be paid in? Goats?”

  “If he won’t do an interview with you, chances are he also won’t set up a private consultation with you, either.”

  “No kidding.”

  “But again, he wouldn’t know me.”

  Evan shook his head. “No way. If I don’t go to the séance by myself, you sure as hell aren’t doing a consultation by yourself. Besides, I need to be there to see how it goes down.”

  “I could record it.”

  He shook his head again. “It wouldn’t be the same. I need to see Bradford in action to know how he’s handling the questions.”

  “Assumed names again?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Okay.” She frowned. “How do I go about setting something up? Call for an appointment?”

  He shrugged. “The only way I’ve seen it done is at Bradford’s shows. His assistants hang around afterward and talk to people who want Bradford to give them a consult.”

  “So we need to go to Bradford’s show again?”

  “Again?”

  The word fell into the silence of the room like a stone. Her shoulders clenched tight. Oops.

  “You’ve seen Bradford’s show?” Evan raised an eyebrow.

  She shook her head quickly. “I haven’t, but you have. You told me so.” Actually, she wasn’t sure he had, but it sounded reasonable.

  He didn’t look entirely convinced. “I did?”

  “The first day. When you told me about investigating Bradford. Anyway, should I check his schedule? It’s usually posted on his Web site. I think he’s still in town.” She really hoped she didn’t sound as guilty to him as she did to herself.

  He nodded slowly. “Sure. Check it out. We can go tonight if he’s doing one.”

  Fortunately, Bradford was doing one. “I can reserve the tickets online. What name should I use?”

  “How about Rose Riordan? And guest.”

  She paused, her fingers poised over the keyboard. An unpleasant shiver passed down her spine.

  “What? Do people know you by that name?”

  “No. I guess that’ll be okay.” She typed quickly before she could change her mind. Silly to be superstitious about a name. Bradford wouldn’t have heard of it. “Reservations for two—should I use my credit card?”

  He gave her a dry smile. “Don’t worry, Rosie, I’ll reimburse you.”

  “Always good to know.” If that was the only thing she had to worry about she’d be in excellent shape.

  ***

  The theatre hadn’t improved any from the last time Evan had seen it. In fact, he’d have been willing to bet the theatre hadn’t been cleaned from the last time he’d seen it. Sighing, he settled into the unforgiving wooden seat. Beside him, Rose wiggled her bottom slightly, trying to get comfortable.

  Thinking about Rose Ramos’s bottom was no way to get comfortable himself, of course.

  She glanced down at the small index card the usher had given her to fill out. “What name are you going to use?”

  He gave her a dry look. “I was thinking about Harry Houdini, or maybe Harry P. Ness, as an homage to Alana’s last séance.”

  She shook her head. “If you want me to get an appointment for the two of us, you’d better at least make an attempt to play it straight.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  She glowered.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll use my mom’s maiden name, Evan Anton.”

  The rest of the questions were strictly cold reading standbys—what particular concerns did they have and who were they hoping to reach on the Other Side. At the bottom of the card was a discrete final word: Are you seeking a private consultation?

  He watched Rose print Yes in the space provided. His glance strayed to the question about names on the Other Side. She’d written Alana DuBois.

  Evan cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

  She shrugged. “I figure the worst that can happen is that they’ll ignore me.”

  One of Bradford’s assistants came by with a basket for the cards. He was tall, blond and muscular, sort of a Hitler Youth type. Rose gave him a sunny smile, which he returned a bit uncertainly.

  “Will Mr. Bradford arrive soon? I’m so anxious to see him.”

  Adolf shrugged. “Only a few more minutes now.”

  “Good. Does Mr. Bradford actually read our cards? Doesn’t that take him a long time?”

  He gave Rose a bland look. “Mr. Bradford doesn’t
see your cards at all. We ask you to write these things down in order to focus your thoughts on your loved ones. That way, Mr. Bradford can reach them.” He sounded as if he’d delivered that speech before.

  “I hope he can help me.” She gave him another brilliant smile.

  “I’m sure he’ll try.” Adolf was already climbing the steps to the other seats. Clearly the man had no functioning hormones.

  Evan, whose hormones were just fine, thank you, blew out a quick breath. “What was that all about?”

  She gave him the same sunny smile. “Just trying to be memorable, Evan.”

  As far as he was concerned, she was already way too memorable for comfort. But maybe it was a good idea to get the attention of the assistants. Who knew who made the final decisions about appointments here?

  The crowd shifted slightly in anticipation as the lights went down a few degrees in the theatre. The audience was still visible, but stage lights would highlight Bradford. Showtime!

  After a moment, Bradford walked briskly to the leather chair in the middle of the stage. He smiled, transforming himself from a faintly brutish man to a more innocuous one.

  “Good evening. Thank you, my friends, for being here. Tonight we may hear from friends on the Other Side. Or we may hear nothing. They’ll choose whether they want to speak to us. We can only open ourselves to the possibilities and let them come in. I’m sure they have much to say. They always have much to say.”

  He lowered himself into the leather chair, then sat for a long moment staring up at the back wall. “P,” he said finally. “I’m getting a P. Somewhere on this side of the room.”

  After a moment, Evan slipped a notebook and pen out of his pocket, sliding them carefully into his lap. Might as well take some notes. Might as well also keep a tally of hits and misses. He didn’t think Harry Dominguez was right about Bradford having a higher percentage of hits, but he could keep track.

  Rose leaned forward beside him, following Bradford intently. He couldn’t tell if she was really interested or trying to put on a good face for any of Bradford’s assistants who might be watching. Either way, he figured he’d let her do her thing.

  After a half hour, he was zoning. The people around him still looked absorbed, even though Bradford had settled into a groove of letters and names and vague messages from the Other World. Apparently, everybody over there was doing fine, but they had some concerns about the old homeplace. Evan had to fight to keep his eyelids open. Even Rose was drooping.

  “A,” Bradford called suddenly. “There’s an A.”

  Rose straightened, watching Bradford’s face.

  He moved his gaze across the audience, forehead slightly furrowed. “A,” he repeated. “Somebody with an A. Over here.” He pointed toward their section.

  Evan sat still, waiting for him to call for raised hands from everybody with an A as he had before. Instead, Bradford pushed himself to his feet. “Over here,” he said again, walking to the edge of the stage.

  Beside him, Rose sat rigid, her gaze fixed on Bradford.

  Bradford squinted into the audience, shading his eyes for a moment, then he stopped, staring directly at Rose. “It’s you. You’re the one.”

  She licked her lips, then nodded once. “Yes.”

  “Al. Alex. Alan.”

  Rose gripped the arms of her chair tight, watching him in silence.

  “Alana,” he said softly. “It’s Alana.”

  Her fingers were trembling. Evan reached over and took her hand in his. He wasn’t sure she noticed. After a moment, she nodded. “Alana.”

  Bradford was smiling faintly, shrewdly, Evan thought. As if he knew exactly what he was doing. “Alana has a message,” he said gently.

  Rose gripped his fingers hard. “What is it?”

  “Stop,” he said. “She says to stop.”

  Evan watched her jaw stiffen. “Stop what?”

  Bradford shrugged, palms upward. “I don’t know. Maybe she thinks you do. Or that you can figure it out. Stop. That’s all she’s saying.” He smiled again, eyes narrowing slightly, then turned away toward the other side of the stage. “R. Is there someone with an R?”

  Rose blew out a breath, leaning back in her chair again. “I should have said Sylvia Morris instead of Alana DuBois,” she muttered.

  Evan took her hand between both of his own. Her skin was freezing. “I’m betting the message would have been the same.”

  She leaned closer. “Should we still try to get a consultation?”

  “Hell yeah.” He watched Bradford work the crowd at the far side. “Now more than ever.”

  ***

  Getting the consultation actually wasn’t difficult at all. Rose was almost disappointed. She’d expected resistance from Bradford’s minions, but they took her name and phone number and told her she’d be called later with the date and time.

  Evan put his arm around her shoulders as they walked back to the car. She resisted the impulse to cuddle against his side. “You know he got the information from the card,” he said quietly. “His assistants are probably feeding him stuff from backstage. You must have made an impression on the guy who picked the cards up.”

  “How are they feeding him stuff? I didn’t see him wearing a receiver.”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a receiver if you could see it.” He gave her a dry smile. “Some of them are small enough to fit inside the ear. That’s what he’s probably using.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No. But I know how it works.”

  Rose flexed her shoulder muscles. They still felt tight. “So did he know who Alana was? Was he telling us to back off?”

  He shrugged. “I’d say he is. We’ll be more certain after the consultation.”

  “Assuming there is one. It could turn out to be: Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  “I don’t think so. If Bradford actually knows something about Alana DuBois, he might want to find out what we know.”

  “That message meant something else, too.”

  Evan turned the SUV out onto the street, heading toward King William. “What?”

  “If we’re getting messages from the Other Side, it means Alana DuBois is dead.” Rose wrapped her arms around herself, fighting off a sudden chill.

  “If that’s true, it leads to an interesting question. Well, several interesting questions, but one in particular.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Assuming William Bradford isn’t really in contact with the spirit world, which is what I’m assuming myself, how exactly would he know Alana DuBois is now a spirit?”

  She wrapped her arms a little more tightly. “He just got the name off my card. He could assume she’s a spirit based on that.”

  Evan turned the car into the driveway of her house. “That would be a good explanation.”

  And a much more comfortable one. Rose glanced up at the sky. Still clear. Maybe tonight would be quiet for a change.

  The porch light she’d left on glowed dimly, casting shadows across the wooden floor. No raven bodies. No hellhounds. Evan’s hand was warm against her elbow as he walked up the steps beside her.

  Suddenly, her thoughts refocused from possible threats along the river to the very palpable threat standing beside her. Oh, God, should I ask him in? She turned toward him, trying to be nonchalant and failing absolutely.

  He was grinning.

  Rose considered how satisfying it would be to punch him. Instead, she gave him a cool smile of her own. “Well, thanks for an . . . interesting evening. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow when we go to the séance.”

  “I suppose you will.” His grin didn’t waver, but his amber eyes sharpened. Clearly he had something in mind.

  Clearly, he wasn’t going to get it. “Good night, then,” she said brightly, turning toward the door.

  His arm
slid around her waist, spinning her around and pulling her tight against him so that she could feel muscle and heat and what seemed to be a very firm erection pressing against her stomach. She saw the amber light glow in his eyes again, and then he lowered his mouth to hers and she lost track.

  Fireworks exploded somewhere around them, or maybe it was inside, behind her eyelids. She opened her mouth to him, feeling his tongue slip inside to rasp along her own, tasting, sliding. Her arms tightened around his neck and she drew still closer. Heat built inside her, her veins suddenly on fire with longing. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, push him down beneath her, roll around with him on the floor of the porch.

  Click!

  Rose lurched back at the sound, ready to fight off whatever it was. Evan had her keys. She hadn’t realized he’d taken them from her hand. Her front door was unlocked.

  After a moment, he handed them to her slowly, amber eyes still alight. Somehow she managed to take the keys without dropping them. “Thanks again.”

  He blew out a quick breath. “Any time.”

  “Good night, then.”

  He reached forward, cupping her cheek with his palm, then kissed her lightly on the lips, like a soft promise. “Good night, Rosie. Sleep well.”

  As she stepped through her front door, she decided that sleep probably wasn’t going to come too quickly that night for either of them.

  Chapter 15

  Rose was considering a glass of Grandma Caroline’s special port when she heard Skag bellow.

  “Rose, what happened with Bradford? I need your report.”

  She gritted her teeth. Someday she’d have to disabuse him of the idea that she was his slave. She paused to pour herself a half glass of port, then strolled into the living room.

  Skag floated in his chair, smoking furiously. “I assume your leisurely progress is meant to send a message.”

  “Did it work?” She settled onto the couch, balancing her glass.

  He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Not appreciably. What about Bradford?”

  “It was like the first time, for the most part. Except that this time, I got a message.”