Fairyville Page 2

  Heaven loves you, she longed to say. What does it matter if your best friend cheats at bingo?

  When her hour was up, Mrs. Darling counted out her payment in cash like she always did. Her old, arthritic hands made each bill seem as heavy as a volume of War and Peace. Every time Zoe watched her do it, she had to bite her tongue against telling her to keep her money. Zoe performed a service, and she performed it well. This was her sole source of income. Even more important, if she didn't charge Ada Darling, Zoe suspected the woman would come in ten times a day.

  Mrs. Darling sighed with satisfaction once the painstaking ritual was complete. "Thank you, dear," she said, handing over the fee. "You've put this aching old heart to rest."

  Zoe smiled in spite of her impatience. "That's why I'm here."

  Mrs. Darling nodded, her usual reluctance to leave showing itself. She really didn't like facing her life without "dear old Leo" to hold her hand.

  "You'll be fine," Zoe said, reaching out to squeeze her plump but fragile arm. "Leo watches over you all the time, not just when you talk to him here."

  "But you're the one who makes me feel him," said Mrs. Darling. Her faded blue eyes teared up, though she waved off the tissue Zoe offered her. "You're a good girl, Zoe. I hope you find a man like Leo yourself someday."

  "So do I," Zoe admitted, and then had to clear her throat.

  Without warning, Mrs. Darling cackled out a laugh. "Ask those fairies of yours to fix you up. Then you'll be set!"

  "You hear that?" Zoe said to the apparently empty air above her head.

  No piping voices answered, even after Mrs. Darling left. A prickle at the back of Zoe's neck told her why. Magnus was standing in the door behind her, the one that led to her office.

  From their first meeting, Magnus had struck her as more man than most. He was tall, for one thing, at least six five—though you didn't notice how big the various parts of him were until you stood up close. With half a room between them, he simply looked in proportion. At five foot six Zoe was no pygmy, but she wasn't fooled. Toe-to-toe, Magnus could make an Amazon feel delicate. His looks were as dramatic as his size. He had dark, beautiful hair—not long but a little shaggy—smooth, high-colored skin, full kissable lips, and eyes as green and clear as a mountain stream. If he hadn't exuded masculinity, he'd have been pretty. Instead, he came off as unbelievably sexy. Zoe had known him two years, and she still had to swallow at the sight of him.

  No matter how cool she wanted to act, he was hard to look away from.

  Now his face held something uncertain, something she hadn't expected to see on this of all days. She wondered how much he'd heard of her conversation with Mrs. Darling. She could only hope not a lot. Zoe might be psychic, but she wasn't a mind reader. The images she caught from people now and then weren't conscious thoughts. They came, she was almost certain, from the part of them that shared the same nonphysical territory as the deceased: the high, wise angel of their better selves.

  As far as she could tell, Magnus's high, wise angel didn't have a peep to say to her.

  "Your hair looks nice," he said, waving one hand in her direction. "Shiny."

  Zoe couldn't help touching it self-consciously. Left to itself, her hair had a tendency to devolve into a long black snarl. "I had help this morning."

  He nodded without his usual trademark smile. Like most of the locals, Magnus knew about her fairies. He also knew, because she hadn't figured out how to keep it from him, that they avoided him like the plague. She had only to think hard about Magnus, and they'd disappear into whatever dimension fairies hung out in when they weren't in hers. Zoe had no idea why they did this—unless they simply didn't like his effect on her moods.

  In all her life, only one other man had provoked a similar reaction from her "little friends"… but that was a ghost Zoe preferred not to resurrect.

  "I don't suppose they're still around," he said with an uncustomary tinge of wistiulness. His Western-style shirt hugged his chest just right, and his big, tanned hands were thrust into his front jean pockets. The faded patches in the denim, where his cock and balls habitually rubbed, pointed out how very well hung he was. Sadly, none of these things were encouraging Zoe's eyes to stay where she wanted them.

  "I think the fairies are outside playing," she said. She shifted from foot to foot, caught off balance by his strange mood. "I didn't expect to see you here this late."

  Magnus owned a number of properties in Fairyville, where he also acted in a managerial capacity. From the day he'd invited Zoe to set up shop here, she was always his first stop, though half an hour was generally as long as he stayed.

  He didn't respond right away, and she was soon sorry she'd forced her gaze to his face. He was looking at her steadily, as if whatever he was thinking was serious. She would have given her right arm to have him look at her like that in bed. Unable to stop the reaction, Zoe felt a bead of sweat trickle down the small of her back. If he'd figured out she had a yen for him, she was going to die.

  "You received some more requests to speak," he said at last. "I was trying to see if I could organize them into a tour."

  "A tour?" she repeated, praying the words wouldn't strangle on their way out. He had figured it out. He was trying to get rid of her.

  "You could go in the fall. Get your name better known. You deserve that, you know. You're a princess, Zoe, not a girl wrapped in a donkey skin."

  Zoe blinked at this odd reference. Realizing her eyes were threatening to overflow, she dropped her gaze to her feet. The sight of his shoes momentarily blanked her mind. He wasn't wearing his usual cowboy boots, but a pair of high-topped yellow sneakers with Wile E. Coyote painted on the sides. With an effort, she pulled her concentration back.

  "I'm not sure I want to travel. My friends are here. I… I feel more comfortable at home."

  Her voice was low and husky, and all the curses in the world wouldn't erase the emotion that gave away. Magnus crossed the room before she could step back. He didn't touch her, but the heat from his body was distracting. Magnus's appeal was based on more than his looks. His energy always seemed twice as high as other men's.

  "Zoe…" he began.

  Zoe knew she had to stop whatever he was going to say. "I hope you're not unhappy with what I'm earning," she interrupted hurriedly. "I could advertise for more clients. Maybe put a site on the Internet."

  "Zoe." He gripped her shoulders in his hands, the tingling warmth of his hold like hot molasses running down her skin. She struggled not to shudder with enjoyment. "I'm not unhappy with what you make. I want this for you. Because you deserve it. You can't imagine I'm looking forward to you being gone."

  She did cry then, horrible, sniffly sobs that had her gasping into the tissue Mrs. Darling had refused. Completely mortified, she tried to struggle out of Magnus's hold, but he wasn't having that. He pulled her close instead, tucking her head under his and enfolding her in his arms.

  He'd never held her like this before. She had to use all her self-control to stiffen instead of melt.

  "Shh," he said, then swore softly into her hair. "Zoe, Zoe, Zoe. You had to go and make this harder than it was."

  "Oh, God," she cried. "You're turning me out!"

  He clucked his tongue in exasperation, then tipped her head back and held her face. "I like you, Zoe. I'm not turning you out. I enjoy having you around."

  She mopped the last of her crying jag from her nose. She was light-headed from her outburst and probably not thinking straight, but she knew she'd never find the nerve to ask this again.

  "If you like me," she said as deliberately as he'd been addressing her, "why haven't you made a move on me?"

  His green eyes darkened a second before his face followed suit, a flush washing up his chiseled cheeks. She'd thought his smile could knock a woman flat, but the intensity of this expression stole her power to think. His gaze burned down at her from his greater height. He looked like he was angry, but she was pretty sure that wasn't it.

  She was certain
when his lips covered hers.

  His kiss might have been soft, but it sure wasn't wasting time. She felt his tongue push into her mouth and heard her own knee-jerk moan of excitement. The rest of the world disappeared as that hot, wet flesh speared deep. His heat, his scent, his pounding heart became her universe. Suddenly, his arms were wrapped hard around her, one hand forking through her curls to cradle her head. He angled it to suit his pleasure, while his second hand crushed her left butt cheek. She was wearing a gauzy, printed skirt, and he gripped that buttock like he owned it. His long, hot fingers stretched farther forward than she let most men get on a second date.

  She had no urge to stop Magnus, and it wasn't just because it had been longer than she could remember since she'd had any date at all. At the first intimate contact of his fingers, her body jolted with an erotic shock so powerful it surprised her—even with the time she'd spent hankering after him. No wonder women dropped like ripe cherries around this man. His hands conveyed an energy that fairly buzzed. A flood of moisture ran into the folds he'd brushed, then overflowed them in a heated rush.

  Boy, it had been too long since anyone had touched her. If the mewls she kept spilling into his mouth hadn't clued him in already, Magnus had to know what he'd done to her.

  Right that moment, it didn't seem to bother him. Feeling the evidence of her arousal, he made a low, rough noise and kissed her harder, his hunger a savage, wonderful thing. His body moved in a slow undulation, his erection grinding against her belly.

  God, it was big. Big and hot and—

  Magnus tore his mouth away from hers.

  "This is… not the plan," he gasped.

  Dizzy, Zoe stroked the pulse throbbing in his neck. She had to touch him, had to feel his skin against her palms. His tendons were tight, his skin dark with the blood rushing under it. She felt starved for him, for this. Going on tiptoe, she tipped her head up for another kiss.

  "No," he said, very firm but still breathless. "You're not thinking like yourself."

  Zoe's head cleared reluctantly. If thinking like herself meant stopping, she didn't think she wanted to. Magnus had kissed her. Magnus had eaten at her mouth like he'd been lusting after her every bit as much as she'd been lusting after him. His big, broad chest went up and down with his labored breathing. Then he let his hands slide to her elbows and stepped back.

  Zoe dropped onto her heels like a balloon with the air let out.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "This isn't how I want it to be with you."

  Hurt and anger had her eyes sliding to his groin. She might not be the queen of the sex parade—her oddball calling saw to that—but she remembered the difference between a man who wanted her and one who didn't. Magnus's erection shoved starkly against his jeans, its outline almost too thick and long to be real.

  "This isn't how you want it?" she repeated in disbelief. "I'd say one large part of you would disagree."

  "I'm easily aroused," he said with an odd, defensive dignity.

  Zoe folded her arms across her breasts, uncomfortably aware of how sensitized they were. "Well, that explains why you only fuck once a month."

  Her sarcasm called a shade of purple into his face. The contrast made his eyes blaze like emeralds, in spite of which his voice was calm.

  "Don't be crude, Zoe. It doesn't suit you."

  Her temper, which she almost always had under control, abruptly snapped. "How about this? Is this too crude to suit me?"

  She slapped her hand around the bulge of his big erection, squeezing hard enough to feel the give of his balls through the worn denim. It was possible she'd meant to hurt him, but she forgot to be angry in her enchantment. She might as well have taken hold of a python; his cock felt that substantial, that alive. Magnus moaned, agony and pleasure mixing in the sound. His hand jammed over hers, completely covering it.

  It took a second to register that he wasn't pulling her away.

  "Don't do this," he said through gritted teeth, his hips beginning to circle into the cup their locked hands had formed.

  Zoe's jaw dropped as she watched him writhe. Maybe he was easy to arouse. He did seem to be having trouble controlling himself. Teresa had said he'd gone all night, and now he was pushing at her so hard her fingers were going numb. His palm was actually sweating. When he spoke again, he sounded desperate.

  "You know you won't appreciate being the next notch on my bedpost. You know you're too good for that."

  She looked at him, her soul gone cold. "You're saying I wouldn't be any different than the others?"

  "I'm saying you couldn't be."

  Failing to see the distinction, she wrenched her hand out from under his. She would have stepped away, would have salved her pride somehow, but he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. The tenderness of the gesture arrested her.

  It was pathetic, really, how badly she wanted to believe he cared.

  "Be my friend," he said. "Be the friend I've always hoped you'd be."

  His tone was gentle, his expression genuinely fond. She didn't say she couldn't be his friend, that she cared too much in a different way. That would have been a lie. Magnus meant so much to her, she suspected she could be his friend even if her heart cracked in two.

  She did, however, have too much self-respect to admit it.

  She blew out her breath instead. "You're even weirder than I am."

  That inspired one of his dazzling smiles. "High praise, coming from a real Fairyviller."

  She should have been grateful he was still comfortable enough to tease. Unfortunately, she was too busy fighting memories. The sad truth was that Magnus wasn't the first man she'd loved who'd pulled a number like this on her.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  When Lizanne Pruitt entered the investigative offices of Goodbody & McCallum, first thing Wednesday morning, she didn't look like the oddest client they'd ever had. With her five-year-old son in tow, she looked like any harried suburban mom they might have run across in a Scottsdale mall.

  From his seat behind their broad walnut desk—the one that told clients they were solid—Bryan McCallum watched his aptly named partner, Alexander Goodbody, usher Mrs. Pruitt in. He and Alex had run this eight-man firm for the last four years, and they'd been college roommates before that. Being so familiar with each others' strengths made responsibilities easy to divvy up, though it wasn't as simple as brains and brawn. Bryan wasn't stupid, nor Alex weak, but Alex was the more polished of the two. He did the gentlemanly niceties, pulling out Mrs. Pruitt's chair and helping her to sit.

  Bryan did his bit by sizing her up.

  Mrs. Pruitt had been pretty once upon a time, in a pink-cheeked, former cheerleader way. She wasn't unattractive now, just ordinary and tired and plump. Her outfit, a coordinated powder-blue dress and cardigan—one hair short of country-club chic—was nice enough to suggest she could afford their fees. Her eyes, blue like her dress, held a hunted look. Bryan would have bet this was a cheating spouse case if it weren't for the kid's presence. It still could be, he supposed. Some parents liked to get a head start in the battle for their children's sympathies.

  "Coffee or tea?" Alex offered in his surprisingly raspy voice. The way he looked, it should have been as smooth as sherry. Instead, it came out as rough as a rock star's.

  Mrs. Pruitt responded to the aural stimulation with a touch of flusterment. She blushed when Alex leaned down close enough to hear her faint request for tea. Bryan knew she'd probably gotten a whiff of the cologne beneath Alex's business shirt.

  When you added Pour L'Homme to Alex's natural smell, you got a guaranteed wet panty.

  The effect wasn't deliberate. Bryan's partner was no flirt; his manners were too reserved for that. But Alex was unnaturally good looking—a tall, lean, sun-streaked blond with eyes the color of a Caribbean cove. The sleek gray suits he favored took nothing from his sex appeal. In Bryan's experience, the women who met Alex tended to fall into two camps: those who wanted to mother him and those who wanted him in the sack. It didn
't take a genius to figure out which Mrs. Pruitt was, or that she was uncomfortable with her response.

  Join the club, Bryan thought, at which point her son looked up and laughed.

  "Oscar," scolded his mother, though the five-year-old couldn't have meant any harm, or even known what he was laughing at. "Go sit in the corner and be quiet."

  The boy obeyed her without objection, clambering into the extra chair where he sat grinning and swinging his short legs. His shoes were bright yellow high-tops with some sort of cartoon figure printed on the canvas. He was a cute kid, as lively as his mother was worn down. Something in his expression, maybe the joie de vivre in his eyes, made Bryan grin back at him.

  "I'm sorry," his mother said. "I had to take him out of preschool."

  "Not a problem," Alex assured her as he handed her the tea. Rather than take the chair beside Bryan, he perched his narrow runner's butt on the desk's front corner. Bryan had entertained fantasies about that butt that he couldn't repeat in public even to himself. "I can see that… Oscar is a nice young man."

  Oscar seemed to think being called a nice young man was hilarious, though he didn't make a sound as he somersaulted over in the chair, ending up with his head and hands on the ground and his feet wiggling manically in the air.

  "Oscar!" his mother said, her voice gone sharp. "Stop that this instant!"

  "Why don't we leave Oscar to entertain himself?" Bryan suggested. "Since he seems to be good at it. And then you can tell us what this is about."

  Mrs. Pruitt turned back reluctantly, clearly torn between controlling her son's high spirits and her own concerns. After a moment, her own concerns won out. "Raymond Lederer said your firm was the best in Phoenix."

  Raymond Lederer was a defense lawyer for whom they did skip-trace work, tracking down potential witnesses and the like. "Raymond didn't lie," Bryan assured her. "You can count on our competence. And our discretion."