Micah ab-13 Read online

  "You have worked some rough shit. I'll grant that, Marshal Blake." He sighed again. "But you've got a reputation for killing first and asking questions later. As for rumors, you're right—they don't paint a very flattering picture of you."

  "You might bear in mind, Fox, that any man you've heard dirty stories about me from didn't get to fuck me."

  "You're sure of that."

  "Absolutely."

  "So you're saying that it's sour grapes, because he didn't get the prize."

  "So we are talking about someone specific. Who?"

  He was quiet for a second or two. "You worked a serial killer case in New Mexico about two years ago. Do you remember it?"

  "Anyone who worked that case will remember it, Agent Fox. Special Agent Fox. Some things you don't forget."

  "Did you date anyone while you were out there?"

  The question puzzled me. "You mean in New Mexico?"

  "Yes."

  "No, why?"

  "There was a cop named Ramirez."

  "I remember Detective Ramirez. He asked me out, I said no, and he didn't trash me."

  "How can you be sure of that?"

  "Because he was a good guy, and good guys don't trash you just because you turned them down."

  Micah was idling in front of one of the parking garages on Pear Tree Lane. We'd turned off of 70, and I hadn't really noticed. "Are we parking?" he asked. What Micah was asking was, Are we going to Philadelphia?

  "Did any of the agents on scene ask you out?" His voice was serious and not hostile now.

  "Not that I remember."

  "Did you have a problem with anyone while you were there?"

  "Lots of people."

  "You admit it."

  "Fox, I am female, I clean up well, have a badge and a gun, raise the dead for a living, and slay vampires. A lot of people have issues with some of the above. Hell, a lieutenant in New Mexico quoted the Bible at me."

  "What quote?"

  " 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'"

  "He did not." He sounded shocked, something you don't hear much from the FBI.

  "Yeah, he did."

  "What did you do?"

  "I planted a big kiss right on his mouth."

  He made a startled sound that could have been a laugh. "You really did?"

  "It bothered him a hell of a lot more than hitting him would have, and it didn't get me dragged out in cuffs. But I'm betting the other cops who saw me do it gave him hell."

  Fox was laughing now.

  There were cars behind us, honking. "Anita, are we going?" Micah asked.

  "My assistant wants to know if we're going to Philly today. Are we?"

  Fox's voice still held that edge of laughter. "Yeah, come on down."

  I said to Micah, "We're going to Philly."

  Fox said, "Marshal Blake, I am going to do what I never do, and if you tell anyone I did, I'll deny it."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Micah pressed the big red button on the little stand-up ticket machine. He waited for our parking ticket to pop out. I'd told him to do valet. When you drag your ass in at zero-dark-thirty, valet was worth it.

  "I apologize," Fox said. "I listened to someone who was there in New Mexico. His version of your run-in with the lieutenant was different from yours."

  "What did he say?"

  We were in the dimness of the parking garage now.

  "He said you hit on a married man and got pissy when he said no."

  "If you'd ever met Lieutenant Marks, you'd know that wasn't true."

  "Not cute enough?"

  I hesitated. "I guess physically he wasn't that bad, but looks aren't everything. Personality, good manners, sanity—all nice things to have."

  Micah had pulled around the little glass building.

  The attendant was coming toward us. We were moments away from needing to get out of the car. "If we're going to make the flight, I gotta go."

  "Why'd you turn down Detective Ramirez?" he asked.

  I wasn't sure it was any of his business, but I answered. "I was dating someone back home. I didn't think it was fair to any of us to complicate things."

  "Someone said you were all over him at the last crime scene."

  I knew what he was referring to. "We hugged each other, Agent Fox, because after seeing what was in that house I think we both needed to touch something warm and alive. I let one man hold my hand and all the other men think I'm fucking him. God, there are times when I really hate being the only woman around this kind of shit."

  I was out of the car. Micah was getting our bags from the back.

  "Now that's not fair, Marshal. If I'd hugged Ramirez or let him hold my hand, there'd be rumors, too."

  It stopped me for a second, and then I laughed. "Well, damn, I guess you're right."

  Micah had traded the key for a little ticket stub. He popped the handles on the carry-on bags so they'd roll. I took one of them but let him take my briefcase, since I was still on the phone. The little bus was waiting for us and a few more passengers.

  "I look forward to meeting you, Marshal Blake. Time I stopped listening to secondhand stories."

  "Thanks, I guess."

  "See you on the ground." And he was gone.

  I folded the phone shut and was already going up the bus steps before the attendant tried to take my bag. It was the skirt outfit and the heels. I always had more offers to help with luggage when I was dressed like a girl.

  Micah came up behind me, mostly ignored, though he was dressed up, too. We'd chosen his most conservative suit, but there's only so much you can do with a black Italian-cut designer suit. It looked like what it was: expensive.

  No one would mistake him for a Fed of any kind. We'd pulled his thick, curly hair back in a tight French braid, which almost gave the illusion of short hair. He'd put on a white shirt with the suit and a conservative tie.

  We settled into the back row of seats. He'd kept his sunglasses on even in the darkened parking garage, because behind those dark glasses was a pair of leopard eyes. A very bad man had forced him into animal form long enough, and often enough, that he couldn't return completely to human form. His eyes were yellow-green, chartreuse, and not human. They were beautiful in the tan of his skin, but they tended to freak people out, hence the glasses.

  I wondered how the FBI would take the eyes. Did I care? No. Things had worked out with Special Agent Fox, or seemed to be working out. But someone who had been in New Mexico was trashing me. Who? Why? Did I care? Yeah, actually, I did.

  Chapter 3

  I hate to fly. I'm phobic of it, and we'll leave it at that. I didn't bleed Micah, but I left little half-moon nail impressions in his hand, though I didn't realize it until after we'd landed and were getting our bags from overhead. Then I asked him, "Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?"

  "I didn't mind."

  I frowned at him, wishing I could see his eyes, though truthfully they probably wouldn't have told me anything.

  Micah had never been a cop, but he had been at the mercy of a crazy person for a few years. He'd learned to keep his thoughts off his face, so that his old leader didn't beat those thoughts off for him. It meant that he had one of the most peaceful, empty faces I'd ever met. A patient, waiting sort of face like saints and angels should have but never seem to.

  Micah didn't like pain, not the way Nathaniel did. So he should have said something about the nails digging into his skin. It bugged me that he hadn't.

  We got trapped in the aisle of the plane, because everyone else had stood up and grabbed their bags, too. We had time for me to lean in against his back and ask, "Why didn't you say something?"

  He leaned back, smiling down at me. "Truthfully?"

  I nodded.

  "It was sort of nice to be the brave one for a change."

  I frowned at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He turned enough so he could lay a kiss, gently, on my lips. "It means that you are the bravest person I've ever
met, and sometimes, just sometimes, that's hard on the men in your life."

  I didn't kiss him back. For the first time ever with him, I did not respond to his touch. I was too busy frowning and trying to decide if I should be insulted.

  "What, I'm too brave to be a girl? What kind of macho bullshit—" He kissed me. Not a little kiss, but as if he'd melt into me through my mouth. His hands slid up over the leather of my jacket. He pressed himself against me, so that every inch of him was pressed against every inch of me. He kissed me long enough and held me close enough that I felt when his body began to be happy to be there.

  He drew back, leaving me breathless and gasping. I swallowed hard and managed a breathy, "No fair."

  "I don't want to fight, Anita."

  "No fair," I said again.

  He laughed, that wonderful, irritating masculine sound that said just how delighted he was with the effect he could have on me. His lips were bright with the red of my lipstick. Which probably meant I looked like I was wearing clown makeup now.

  I tried to scowl at him but couldn't quite manage it. It was hard to scowl when I was fighting off a stupid grin. You cannot be angry and grin at the same time. Dammit.

  The line was moving. Micah started pushing his carry-on ahead of him. I liked to pull mine behind me, but he liked to push. He had the briefcase, too. He'd pointed out that as the assistant he should be carrying more. I might have argued, but he'd kissed me, and I couldn't think fast enough to argue.

  Micah had had about the same effect on me from the first moment I'd met him. It had been lust at almost first sight or maybe first touch. I was still a little embarrassed about that. It wasn't like me to fall for someone so quickly, or so hard. I'd really expected it to burn out or for us to have some huge fight and end it, but six months and counting. Six months and no breakup. It was a record for me. I'd dated Jean-Claude for a couple of years, but it had been off again, on again. Most of my relationships were. Micah was the only one who had ever come into my life and managed to stay.

  Part of how he managed it was that every time he touched me I just fell to pieces. Or that's what it felt like. It felt weak, and very girlie, and I didn't like it.

  The flight attendant hoped I'd had a pleasant flight. She was smiling just a little too hard. How much lipstick was I wearing and on how much of my face?

  The only saving grace was we could hit a bathroom and get cleaned up before we met the FBI. They could pass through security with their badges, but these days even the Feds didn't like to abuse their privileges around airport security.

  I was wearing my gun in its shoulder holster but I'd been certified to carry on an airplane. Federal marshal or no, you had to go through special training these days to carry on a plane. Sigh.

  I got some looks and a few giggles as I hit the main part of the airport. I sooo needed a mirror.

  Micah turned, fighting not to grin. "I made a mess of your lipstick. Sorry."

  "You're not sorry," I said.

  "No," he said, "I'm not."

  "How bad is it?"

  He let go of the carry-on handle and used his thumb to wipe across my chin. His thumb came away crimson.

  "Jesus, Micah."

  "If you'd been wearing base, I wouldn't have done it." He lifted his thumb to his mouth and licked it, pushing way more of the thumb into his mouth than he needed to. I watched the movement sort of fascinated. "I love the taste of your lipstick."

  I shook my head and looked away from him. "Stop teasing me."

  "Why?"

  "Because I can't work if you keep making me moon over you."

  He laughed, that warm masculine sound again.

  I took hold of my carry-on and strode past him. "It's not like you to tease me this much."

  He caught up with me. "No, it's usually Nathaniel, or Jean-Claude, or Asher. I behave myself unless you're mad at me."

  I thought about that and it made me slow. That and the three-inch heels. "Are you jealous of them?"

  "Not jealous in the way you mean. But, Anita, this is the first time that you and I have ever been on our own. Just you, just me, no one else."

  That stopped me, literally, so that the man behind us cursed and had to go around abruptly. I turned and looked at Micah. "We've been alone before. We've gone out just the two of us."

  "But never for more than a few hours. We've never been overnight, just us."

  I thought about it because it seemed like in six months we should have managed at least one night with only the two of us. I thought, and thought, until my puzzler was sore, but he was right. We had never been overnight, just us.

  "Well, damn," I said.

  He smiled at me, his lips still bright with my lipstick. "There's a bathroom right over there."

  We pulled the suitcases over against the wall and I left Micah in a small line of men who were also watching bags and purses. Some of them had children in tow.

  There was a line in the bathroom, of course, but once I made it clear I wasn't jumping the line but repairing makeup, no one got mad. In fact, a few of them speculated, good-naturedly, on what I'd been doing to get my lipstick smeared that badly.

  I did look like I was wearing clown makeup. I got my little bag of makeup, which Micah had made sure I took in with me, out of the briefcase. I'd have probably forgotten it. I had very gentle eye makeup remover that worked on anything, including lipstick. I got the mess cleaned off, then reapplied lip liner and lipstick.

  The lipstick was very, very red. It made my skin seem almost translucent in its paleness. My hair gleamed black in the lights, matching the deep, solid brown of my eyes. I'd added a little eye shadow and mascara at home, and called the makeup done. I rarely wore base.

  Micah was right, without the base the makeup wasn't ruined, but… but. I was still pissed about it. Still wanted to be angry. Wanted to be angry, not was still angry. Why did I want to hold on to the anger? Why did it make me mad that he had the ability to drown my anger with the touch of his body? Why did that bug me so much?

  Because it was me. I had a real talent for picking my love life apart until I broke it. I had promised myself, not that long ago, that I'd stop picking at things. That if my life worked, I'd just enjoy it. It sounded so simple, but it wasn't. Why is it that the simplest plans are sometimes the hardest to do?

  I took a deep breath and paused at the full-length mirror on the way out. I would have worn black but Bert always thought that that gave the wrong impression. Too funereal, he'd say. My silk shell was the red of the lipstick, but Bert had already complained months ago: no more black and red—too aggressive. So I was in charcoal gray with a thin pattern of black and darker gray through it. The jacket hit me at the waist to meet up with the matching skirt.

  The skirt was pleated, forming a nice swing around my upper thighs when I moved. I'd tested it at home, but now I tested it again, just in case. Nope, not a glimpse of the top of my stockings. I didn't own any panty hose anymore. I'd finally been won over to the truth that a comfortable garter belt, hard to find but worth the search, with a pair of nice hose was actually more comfortable than panty hose. You just had to make sure that no one caught a glimpse of them when you moved, unless you were on a date. Men reacted really oddly if they knew you were wearing stockings and a garter belt.

  If I'd known that Agent Fox had already been prejudiced against me, I might have worn a pantsuit. Too late now. Why was it a crime for a woman to look good?

  Would I get fewer rumors if I dressed down? Maybe. Of course, if I wore jeans and a T-shirt I got complaints that I was too casual and needed to look more professional. Sometimes you just can't win for losing.

  I was delaying. Dammit. I did not want to go back out to Micah. Why? Because he was right, this was the first time we'd ever been alone together for this long.

  Why did that thought tighten my chest and make my pulse speed like something alive in my throat?

  I was scared. Scared of what? Scared of Micah? Sort of. But more scared of myself, I think
. Scared that without Nathaniel, or Jean-Claude, or Asher, or someone to balance things, Micah and I wouldn't work. That without everyone interfering, there wouldn't be a relationship. That there would be too much time, too much truth, and it would all fall apart. I didn't want it to fall apart. I didn't want Micah to go away. And the moment you care that much, a man has you. He owns a little piece of your soul, and he can beat you to death with it.

  Don't believe me? Then you've never been in love and had it go to hell. Lucky you.

  I took a deep calming breath and let it out slow. I used some of the breathing exercises I'd been studying. I was trying to learn to meditate. So far I was good at the breathing part, but I just couldn't still my mind, not without it filling with ugly thoughts, ugly images. Too much violence inside my head. Too much violence in my life. Micah was one of my refuges. His arms, his body, his smile. His quiet acceptance of me, violence and all. Now I was back to being scared. Shit.

  I took another deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. I couldn't hide in there all day; the Feds were waiting. Besides, you can't hide from yourself. Can't hide from your own head going ugly. Unfortunately.

  Micah smiled when he saw me. That smile that was just for me. That smile that seemed to loosen something tight and hard and bitter inside me. When he smiled at me like that, I could breathe better. So stupid, so stupid, to let anyone mean that much to you.

  Something must have shown on my face because the smile dimmed around the edges. He held his hand out to me.

  I went to him but didn't take his hand because I knew the moment I did I wouldn't be able to think as clearly.

  He let his hand fall. "What's wrong?" The smile was gone, and it was my fault. But I'd learned to talk about my paranoias. Otherwise they grew.

  I stepped closer and dropped my voice as much as the murmurous noise of the airport would allow. "I'm scared."

  He moved closer to me, lowering his head. "Of what?"

  "Being alone with you."

  He smiled and started to reach for me. I didn't step away. I let his hands touch my arms. He held me and searched my face as if looking for a clue. I don't think he found one. He drew me into a hug and said, "Honey, if I'd dreamed that you'd be spooked about being alone with me, I wouldn't have said it."