Medium Rare: (Intermix) Page 20

  “So if I asked you to find out what happened to my father’s cuff links, could you tell me?” He let the cool liquid flow down his throat, trying not to notice the way she wasn’t meeting his eyes.

  “You’d have to tell me a lot more than that.” She leaned back in her chair. “Where was he when he had them last? Who was with him? Did anybody see them after that? What did they look like? Were they valuable?” She picked up her glass of wine, sipping it as she looked away from him again. “Stuff like that.”

  “He wore them last at the Golden Slipper Casino in Las Vegas on the night of October 31, twenty years ago. About fifteen hundred people were with him, but they were in the audience. I have no idea whether anybody saw his cuff links later. It was the night he died.” He tipped back his bottle again, watching her set her glass back on the table.

  “What did they look like?” she murmured.

  “Flat onyx in a gold frame. Worth around three hundred dollars. Sentimental value, mainly.”

  She stared at him, her emerald eyes suddenly concerned. “What happened, Evan?”

  He took a deep breath and blew it out. He hadn’t told anyone the story for a long time—it wasn’t something he talked about as a general rule. But he thought he could tell her, for reasons he didn’t want to examine much.

  “My dad was a magician, a very good one—the Great Dell. He had a chance for a big payday at a casino in Vegas, enough to take care of some long-standing bills. So he decided to do it up right and end the show with the bullet catch.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “A trick. A very dangerous trick—other magicians have been injured doing it. A few have died.”

  “How does it work?”

  “The magician’s assistant takes a bullet and has someone in the audience mark it with paint so that it’s recognizable. Then the assistant loads it into a gun and stands on one side of a piece of plate glass while the magician stands on the other.”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t really load it, does he?”

  “Of course not.” He gave her a tight smile. “The magician palms the bullet when the assistant shows it to him and puts it in his pocket or his mouth or somewhere he can get at it quickly. The assistant loads the gun with a blank.”

  “So then . . .”

  “So then the assistant fires the gun at the plate glass, which breaks, demonstrating that the gun and bullet are real. The magician is standing on the other side, and if he’s a real showman, he falls to the floor as if he’d just been hit. The assistant runs over and helps him to his feet. The magician holds up the bullet. Voila!”

  She frowned again. “If it’s a blank, how does it break the glass?”

  “Different ways. In the Great Dell’s case, the glass was rigged with a charge to make it shatter. Another assistant offstage would hit a switch at the right moment.” His jaw tightened.

  “And that night?”

  “That night everything went the way it was supposed to, only the charge was a little more than the Great Dell anticipated. Anyway, he got cut by a flying shard. Sliced through an artery in his throat. He was dead within seconds.” He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  Rose stared at him, her face blank. “My God, Evan. Were you there?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “After my mom died, I followed him around in the summer, but I stayed with some friends during the school year when he was on the road.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “When my Grandma and Grandpa Anton showed up at the friend’s house to take me to Galesburg—they’d gotten the call the night before and flew straight to Kansas City to get me.”

  “Oh, Evan.” She reached for his hand.

  “No.” He shook his head again. “Don’t. I’m not some poster child for a miserable childhood. I loved my dad, and I missed him. I still do. But my grandma and grandpa were good people. Grandma had a thing about mediums, but other than that she was a stand-up old lady.”

  Rose waited while the waitress set their plates on the table in front of them, then leaned forward again. “Tell me about him.”

  “The Great Dell?” He felt the familiar twist in his gut before he tamped it down. “He was a good guy. Good father. He had a tough deal, raising a kid on his own, but he did his best.”

  “Did he want you to follow in his footsteps?”

  “Be a magician?” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “He couldn’t decide. On the one hand he was old-school enough to want me to believe in magic, but on the other, he really liked showing off. He’d try to tell me a trick was magic, but I could usually figure it out. And then he’d break down and show me how it worked so I could try it on my own.”

  “Do you still do it?”

  “Magic tricks?” His smile curdled. “I stopped doing them after the Great Dell died. It wasn’t fun anymore after that.”

  She took a breath. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He smiled at her again, this time for real. “It was a long time ago. It still hurts some, but not so much you have to wear kid gloves.”

  “I suddenly feel like a real whiner for complaining about my family. At least I still have them, even if we do snarl at each other now and then.”

  He grimaced. “My aim in life—to be a cautionary tale.”

  “You don’t take sympathy well, do you, Evan?”

  He shook his head again. “Not especially. I had a shitload of it with my dad. You know, ‘Oh, the poor little tyke.’ Except I was taller than most of the people calling me Tiny Tim. I don’t want you feeling sorry for me, Rose.”

  “Even if it gets me into bed?” She arched a honey-colored eyebrow at him, and his heart jackhammered.

  “Especially then,” he said through gritted teeth. “When you go to bed with me, the last thing I want is pity.”

  Her lips edged up in a slow smile. “Oh, trust me, Evan, it won’t be pity. On the other hand, you may eventually beg for mercy.”

  He wondered suddenly if he could finish his burger in under five minutes.

  Chapter 20

  Evan might have had a nice apartment. Rose couldn’t really say since he started kissing her as soon as they were inside the door and they never got around to turning on the lights.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and let him carry her into the bedroom. It was a pretty impressive performance—he didn’t break the kiss until his knees hit the bed and he collapsed on top of her.

  “Beg for mercy?” he murmured. “Me or you?”

  “I’m working on it.” She pulled his shirt free from his pants, then ran her hands down his back, feeling the smooth ridges of muscle. Evan might be lean, but he definitely wasn’t puny.

  He closed his eyes, raising his head, his lips curving into a tense grin. “Keep going—you’re heading in an interesting direction.”

  “You have no idea.” She grasped the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the floor. He loomed over her, his body silvery in the moonlight except where his chest was bisected by a line of dark hair.

  God, he was gorgeous. Nose and all.

  She ran her fingertips down the line of hair toward the waistband of his pants. His breathing accelerated noticeably.

  “I want you naked,” she growled and then took a deep breath. She wasn’t usually the growl type.

  “Right.” He reached for his belt. “Yet I notice you’re still fully clothed.”

  “Live with it, Evan.” She sat up, kicking off her shoes and hiking her skirt up to her hips, then pushed him down again, rising over his body, feeling the warmth of his skin against her knees.

  She slid backward and leaned down again until her face was level with his stomach. “Remember, Evan, I want begging.”

  His gaze locked with hers for a moment. “Make me,” he whispered.


  She slid her hands down his erect shaft, running her fingertips along the smooth sac, balancing him in her palms. His jaw clenched. Then she leaned down to take him in her mouth.

  He tasted of salt and musk. She sucked him in deep, running her tongue along the underside of his shaft.

  “Christ,” he hissed.

  She wrapped her fingers around the base, moving her mouth up and down, her gaze fixed on his face.

  “Rose . . . Rosie,” he gasped after a few minutes.

  “Begging, Evan?” she murmured.

  His breath came out with a rush. “Begging, pleading, whatever. Rosie, God, please!”

  She pushed herself up again, her lips circling the head of his cock, her tongue moving over the tip. “Please what?”

  He reached down swiftly, grasping her shoulders and pulling her full length beside him. “Too many clothes,” he muttered, as he yanked up her skirt. “Way too many clothes.”

  He tossed her panties away, then pushed himself between her legs, reaching into a drawer in the bedside table for a condom. And then the head of his cock pressed against her entrance.

  She opened her legs wider, taking it in. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  He went hard and deep, just the way she wanted. She lost her breath somewhere around the first thirty seconds and never quite got it back again, but it didn’t matter.

  She stared up at him, marveling at his smooth, lithe body, like a dancer’s with the profile of a Renaissance prince. God, it was like having sex with Lorenzo de’ Medici. She had an overwhelming urge to giggle but managed to stifle it since she needed what little breath she had left just to survive.

  A hot bubble of pleasure began to expand in her core, moving upward in a path of flame through her body. She tried to call his name, but all she could do was moan.

  Above her, his face contorted, eyes closed. “Rose,” he gasped, “Rosie. Come with me!”

  The bubble expanded further, and she was consumed, heat flooding her body. “Evan,” she managed to cry. “Oh, Evan, yes!”

  She arched against him, bowing her back off the bed. He plunged again and again, lost and erratic. Rose slammed herself against him, feeling the wave taking her over, pulling her up.

  “Oh my God,” she cried out.

  After a moment, he slumped down to gather her in his arms, cradling her against him so that they were side by side. She rested her forehead against his collarbone, trying one more time to catch her breath.

  “Mercy,” he whispered.

  “Mercy,” she agreed.

  Evan’s apartment actually had some amenities that Rose’s house lacked. Food, for example. She made scrambled eggs and bacon the next morning and tried not to think about what Helen might have had for dinner the night before. She hoped she still had some furniture left in the living room.

  Evan ate his breakfast with gusto. He seemed to be in a great mood, which was fine with her. She always liked to be appreciated.

  She surveyed the kitchen in the morning light. He might have food, but that was about the only advantage his place had over hers. The sunlight was nice, but the view sucked—traffic on Broadway. And the kitchen was so narrow Rose felt like she was in danger of bumping her behind every time she leaned over at the refrigerator.

  His decorating was minimal. The scarred aluminum-and-plastic kitchen table and chairs looked like they’d come with the apartment. She narrowed her eyes and peered beyond the room divider, taking in the living room furniture, the curtains, the carpet. Everything seemed to be in beige. Either he had no sense of color or he was a guy.

  “How long have you lived here, Evan?”

  His brow furrowed. “Not sure. Three months? Something like that. It came furnished.”

  Guy. “So what’s up for today?” She gathered the plates and piled them in the sink.

  He got up from the table, sliding in behind her. “I’ll go downtown to talk to Harry and see what’s happening. I’m more likely to get information about Brenda in person than over the phone. It probably won’t be much yet.”

  “What should I do while you’re there?” Rose murmured, faintly embarrassed at how breathy her voice sounded.

  He chuckled. “Whatever you want to do, Rosie. Doesn’t Locators need your time?”

  She felt like sighing. The things she wanted to do all involved Evan’s intimate participation, but the things she needed to do required Skag. “Yeah. Plus I need to get back home and feed the livestock.”

  His lips brushed against her ear in a brief whispering kiss. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to talk to Harry. I’ll drop you off, then I’ll call you when I’m done so we can reconnoiter.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” She turned in his arms so that she could run her tongue across the triangle of skin showing at the top of his shirt.

  His breath came out in a hiss. His hands slid down to her hips. From somewhere far away, she heard the toast pop.

  “Your toast’s ready,” she whispered.

  “Who cares?” he muttered, pulling her hard against him.

  They left an hour or so later, Evan’s cold toast wrapped in a napkin. Twenty minutes after that, Rose wandered into her living room carrying a cup of coffee and trying to wipe the idiot grin off her face.

  “Why do Riordan women always have such regrettable taste in men?” Skag floated a few feet above the fireplace, tapping his cigarette holder against his teeth.

  “What do you mean ‘regrettable’? Daddy’s not so bad, and Evan’s . . . well . . . Evan.” She felt a quick jolt of desire—was she going to feel that every time his name came up?

  Skag shook his head. “Riordan women have a bad habit of choosing men with intractable personalities. Never a good idea for women who have a strong strain of pigheadedness themselves.”

  She glared at him. “I am not pigheaded. I gave up my librarian job even though it was my only means of support when we started Locators. Name me one other person who’d do that on the say-so of a several-hundred-years-old ghost who’s only a very distant relative.”

  “Siobhan and Caroline, along with several previous generations. Another thing that runs in our family.”

  Rose flopped onto the couch, folding her arms mutinously across her chest.

  Skag blew a cloud of smoke. “I didn’t say you weren’t imaginative. Or intelligent. Or resourceful. Just that a man like Delwin may not be the most restful consort you could choose.”

  “Who says I want rest?” She picked up her cup and took a swallow. “And he’s not my consort.”

  He threw up his hands. “All right. Fine. I found your source, the missing husband, Clete Patrick.”

  “His name’s Clint Patrick if it’s the right man.”

  “Oh, he’s the right one. He had a lot to say about his wife’s bad judgment in not letting him buy the baseball when he first suggested it.”

  “Wonderful. Ghostly gloating.” Rose slumped back onto the couch. “Did he agree to tell you where he put the thing or was he too busy being smug?”

  “He told me. How do you want to play it? Inspiration from the heavens or your incredible researching capabilities?” He arched one impeccable brow.

  “It depends on where it is. If it’s hidden in the house, I’ll have to go over there and pretend to do a search. Otherwise, I’ll try the research route.”

  “Start thinking of research.” Skag tapped his ash into the fireplace. “He put it in a safety deposit box.”

  She groaned. “Great. I’ll have to see if Autumn will let me look at their financial records, so I can pretend to find something there. Did Clint tell you where he hid the key?”

  “He said it was behind their wedding picture. He tucked it in the frame. I couldn’t decide if he was being brilliantly ironic or incredibly dense.”

  “Let’s hope dense
. I don’t really want to hurt Autumn’s feelings.”

  “Why not simply tell her the truth?” Skag hovered a few feet in front of her. “Tell her the information came from the spirit world.”

  Rose narrowed her eyes. “We’ve been through this, Skag. I’m not setting myself up as some woo-woo medium. I’m not going to try to explain our methods to Autumn Patrick, and I’m not taking the chance the police might be interested in what we do.”

  “What we do isn’t illegal. Clients only pay when they’re satisfied.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It would put me on the police radar. I don’t want them checking into my life, even if there’s nothing to find.”

  Her shoulders felt stiff. She particularly didn’t want Evan Delwin doing any checking. Evan, who thought all mediums were frauds.

  “Your grandmother and great-grandmother didn’t seem overly concerned. And that was in the time when spiritualism was actually illegal.”

  “One of the many reasons my mother moved out of this place. That’s another thing. I’d just as soon not have Mom find out I’ve taken over the family business.”

  “What makes you think she doesn’t know already?” He gave her a dry smile.

  The stiffness began to move up the back of her neck. “If she knew I was working with you, she’d have mentioned it by now, believe me. It’s probably her worst nightmare.”

  “Deirdre always had a great capacity for denial. But once you moved into this house and quit your job, she undoubtedly was able to add two and two.”

  “About Clint Patrick—”

  “What happened at that séance?” he interrupted. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

  She sat frozen, staring at her cup.

  “Rose?” Skag sounded concerned.

  “I thought you knew.” She cleared her suddenly husky throat. “I thought you were here when we came in that night.” She raised her gaze to him as he hovered closer.

  He shook his head. “I was out until quite late and I haven’t spoken to any of my usual informants. They seem to be keeping to themselves lately. It took time to find Mr. Patrick. He and I frequent different establishments.”