The Angel: Tales of the Djinn, #3 Page 4

  She snuck another peek at him as she settled behind the wheel. Holy cow, he was good looking. His tied-back hair was a kingly gold, his skin a mix of tan and cream that seemed yummy enough to lick. Any nation could have stamped his profile onto their favorite coin. He was tall—like six foot plus—with barn door shoulders and soccer player legs. His physique made his secondhand flannel shirt look like haute couture. Even the beat-up work boots fit his feet flatteringly.

  To be honest, he was so attractive she felt uncomfortable next to him.

  He certainly was fit. He’d lifted her heavy trunks as if they were throw pillows. What he didn’t look like was a poor person.

  Shaking off her curiosity for now, she started the car, stretched her foot toward the pedals, and hit air.

  “Whoops,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Guess I forgot to move the seat.”

  “The handle is underneath, on that side,” he said politely.

  She worked it then rubbed her earlobe, struck by an odd familiarity to his face. His eyes were a clear bright green, like limes in bright sunshine. Interestingly, he stared back at her warily.

  “Do I know you?” she blurted. “I swear I’ve seen you before. Maybe you were an exchange student at my high school?”

  He blinked very rapidly, his beautifully thick lashes as golden as his hair. “I . . . was not,” he said after a delay. “Though I’m certain that would have been an honor.”

  Oh, yeah, he had atrocious manners. Eccentric was more like—with a capital E.

  What’s your story? she wondered. How did a man like you end up on Francine’s rescue list? Rather than ask—because Francine always said too many questions made people uncomfortable—she shook her head and got in gear.

  “I hope you don’t mind a detour,” she said as she pulled away from the station. “I have a pilgrimage I like to make whenever I’m back in town. It won’t take long. It’s only a little out of the way.”

  “You . . . are in charge of the wheel,” he said.

  She smiled. It was nice when a man let her be. Sometimes college boys acted like cavemen. Though she sensed Alexander glancing at her, he was quiet until they reached the stoplight at the Arby’s.

  There he turned to face her more directly.

  “I am curious,” he said. “I notice you call your parents by their first names.”

  “That’s because I’m adopted. My mother died when I was sixteen. Fortunately, the Hamiltons took me in. I was old enough that it didn’t feel right calling them Mom and Dad.”

  He hummed sympathetically. Since she’d answered his question, she thought she could ask him one. “Are your parents alive?”

  “My mother is. Too much so sometimes.” He laughed, but a moment later his face went pale. Somehow, he’d horrified himself with the joke.

  “What?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Forgive me. I should be more respectful to the woman who gave me life.”

  She saw the turn she wanted—a car-sized break in the brambles on the left. “Here we are,” she said, deciding to let the sensitive topic drop.

  The dirt lane was bumpier than the last time she’d driven it.

  “Sorry,” she said as her companion braced on the door and dash. “The place we’re going is kind of a ruin.”

  The road climbed a hill maybe a mile farther. When she reached the end of what could be navigated, she stopped the car and got out. She supposed Alexander was interested. He opened his door and came to stand beside her.

  She noticed he kept an arm’s length between them.

  “That is the ruin,” he guessed. He nodded toward the distant house, surrounded but not hidden by a tangle of autumn colored woods. Their vantage point was above the residence, though it also sat on a rise in the overgrown landscape.

  “That’s the Kepler place,” she agreed. “Ravenwings Plantation. Gorgeous old brick Georgian, built around 1750 by an early tobacco magnate. It’s got these stone door surrounds you would not believe; terraced gardens, staircases to die for . . . once upon a time, anyway. The estate has been disintegrating for decades now, longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “Tobias cannot salvage it?”

  “The family won’t sell the rights. The surviving heirs think some billionaire with a fondness for money pits will swoop in and make them rich again. Heck, the local historical society isn’t crazy enough to touch it. It’s too decrepit.” Georgie sighed wistfully. “If I won the lottery, I’d restore it. Unfortunately, that’s not likely. Maybe someday they’ll let Black Cat save what it can.”

  She felt Alexander look at her. “The idea of tearing it apart saddens you.”

  “The romantic in me would love to rebuild it the way it was. Barring that, rescuing some of it would be better than nothing.” She shrugged in embarrassment. “I’m afraid I’m a tad obsessed with the place. Tobias helped me sneak over the wall when I was a teenager. We explored the place with flashlights the entire night. It was our first bonding experience. Ever since, I’ve been fixated.”

  When she glanced at her companion, he was gazing at Ravenwings doubtfully. Amused, she snorted to herself. She guessed not everyone found houses with multiple gaping holes charming.

  “Okay,” she said, brushing a burr off her secondhand navy coat. “I guess I’ve bored you long enough.”

  “I am not bored,” he denied.

  His brightly green eyes met hers. That face of his was amazing, though it didn’t give much away. Georgie blushed but couldn’t remove her gaze. Her breath came faster, her body warmer than she was used to it becoming because of men. Alexander’s lips tightened. In spite of herself, she imagined kissing him until they relaxed again. Maybe he knew where her mind had gone. The color on his cheekbones heightened. Still, he didn’t break their eye-lock. Was he thinking about kissing her? Men thought about other things before kissing, didn’t they? Sex things. Alexander was definitely a man. Full-grown. Red-blooded.

  Wow, she thought. I so would give up chastity for him.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, abruptly tearing his eyes from hers.

  He didn’t say what she was supposed to forgive him for. Staring, she guessed, though she was just as guilty of that. He’d turned slightly away from her. His hands were clasped behind him, the fingers of one hand holding the other’s wrist. His spine was straight and his shoulders back. It was an old-fashioned pose—proud—like she’d only seen in movies. She noticed a pulse beating rapidly in his neck.

  She shouldn’t have done it, but her gaze descended to the front of his well-worn jeans. A hump had risen behind his zipper, big enough—and thick enough—that even she couldn’t mistake his arousal.

  Phew, she thought, seriously wanting to fan her face. She hadn’t expected this when Tobias warned her about the change in her pickup plan.

  “Might I request a favor?” Alexander asked, very deliberately not looking her way again.

  As long as it involves getting naked, her rebellious hormones thought.

  “Of course,” she said and cleared her tightened throat.

  “I would like to obtain a New York Times newspaper. Tobias mentioned the tractor supply sold them. Would you mind dropping me off there?”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said. He sounded like he intended this to be the last she saw of him. She rubbed her mouth, which was tingling, and then went on. “I don’t know if you realize this, but Tobias and Francine mean to put you up. At least for a couple nights. You don’t need to disappear right away. Unless you have somewhere else to stay?”

  “I . . . do not,” Alexander said slowly.

  “It won’t be fancy,” she warned, suspecting he’d find a humble offering easier to accept. “There’s a bunk room off the workshop at Black Cat. Lumpy cot. Hotplate. Very tiny toilet and shower. If you like, Francine will put you in touch with her church. They can hook you up with any services you might need. They have a job board too, if that helps.”

  His eyes were wide.

  “It’s not a big deal,
” she assured him. “People do this kind of thing in Black Bear.”

  “The people of Black Bear are gracious.” He inclined his head—almost like he wanted to bow to her.

  She decided she liked his formality . . . maybe more than she ought to.

  IKSANDER’S BODY WAS shaming him. His skin was tingling, his cock a hard ache between his legs. The pound of it was extraordinary—as if he were a teenager, still only dreaming of having sex. He wanted to throw the human to the ground and take her, to discover if her pretty blush had heated her elsewhere. To experience this intense an attraction for a woman he didn’t know disrespected her and his wife’s memory. Georgie wasn’t Najat, nor had she been especially forward, allowing for her race. Despite knowing better, when he licked his lips he was imagining kissing her.

  To his dismay, his erection persisted after they returned to the car. The sensation was so distracting he nearly didn’t notice when they arrived back at the Black Cat.

  Possibly Georgie felt awkward too. She showed him the astonishingly tiny bunkroom, asked him if he needed anything, and then left him to himself.

  “My God,” he burst out once he was alone. This claustrophobic closet would have shocked the poorest of his city’s djinn. Above the narrow bed, the single window was dim with grime. The bathroom was clean at least, for which he sent a prayer of thanks to the Almighty.

  The prayer put his situation in perspective. He had a roof over his head, a bed to sleep in, and warm clothes upon his back. He was alive and breathing. Compared to the people he’d left behind, he had much to be grateful for.

  He also had local currency in his pocket. He trusted the paper dollars would pay for a newspaper.

  He spent longer in the tractor supply than he intended. The Everything In The Human Realm Supply might have been a better name. Along with a dizzying array of farm equipment, the establishment sold clothing and toys and feed for animals. Once he’d overcome his initial shock, he saw that in contrast to the Black Cat, this space was organized. He goggled at furniture and batteries and more different sorts of wrenches than he’d imagined could exist. The store was an Aladdin’s cave of human paraphernalia. Plain the items might be, but if people had no magic, he expected they’d be handy. He could have spent a week wandering the aisles, absorbing everything. The announcement that the store was closing forced him to concentrate. He watched how other shoppers acted before quietly making his purchase.

  He tucked his change away as if the bills and coins weren’t exotic.

  Though he wanted to read the news immediately, he controlled himself.

  He trotted back across the street instead. The sun had set while he explored the store. Scattered pools of harsh electric light illuminated the coarse sidewalks. His breath formed clouds as he breathed, the temperature even colder than earlier.

  “Hey,” called a voice that made him shiver rather differently.

  He turned to find Georgie coming up the pavement. Though her feet hesitated when he turned, she smiled as if she were happy to see him.

  “Georgie,” he said, unable to restrain his instinctive urge to bow. “You’re not at home with your parents.”

  “I just came from there. I made sure Francine had what she needed before she went to bed. I live here, above the store.” She pointed to the top windows. “There’s an apartment in the rafters.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “You got your paper.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, the thing clamped tightly beneath his arm. His tension wasn’t for the paper’s safety. His blood was beginning to run hot again. Chances were, it was time he withdrew. “Well, perhaps I should—”

  “Would you like to join me for dinner?” she blurted. “It’ll just be frozen pizza and vegetables. I haven’t had time to stock the fridge.”

  She was asking him to eat with her alone, without a chaperone. He didn’t think he’d ever received such an invitation from a non-intimate female. Not for the first time, she struck him speechless.

  “You can say no,” she added hastily. “I understand not everyone’s a social person. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  This was a lie. He could read the tentative hopefulness in her eyes. He found he couldn’t refuse her. It would have been like turning down Najat.

  “I would be honored to dine with you,” he said.

  GEORGIE DIDN’T KID herself she was a do-gooder like Francine. Her hormones had more to do with her impulsive invitation than any fear that Alexander was in danger of starving.

  Him accepting knocked her off balance.

  Her nerves jangled as she led him up old plank steps to her rafter-topped living space. A profusion of salvaged lamps compensated for the limited windows. She hit a switch that turned a dozen on. Her eclectic apartment stretched the length of the building, with few walls to break it up. As always on returning, seeing the bits and bobs she’d collected gave her a sense of homecoming.

  For a while, until her teenage self warmed up to Tobias and Francine, this apartment had been a much-needed hideaway.

  “This is . . . nice,” Alexander said, looking around in surprise.

  “Thanks,” she said, pleased he thought so. “Tobias and Francine let me fix up the space after I moved in with them. I furnished it from downstairs. One of the perks of working every summer in a junk shop.”

  “You work there,” he said, seeming startled by this as well.

  “Sure I do. It’s fun. I like seeing who buys what.”

  “And talking to people.”

  “Yes, I like that too.”

  He nodded. He didn’t fidget much, she noted—or smile, come to think of it. He ran his hand—which was big and beautifully shaped—along the Hudson Bay wool blanket that hid the sewed-up tear in her leather couch. He touched a bent-twig chair next—true folk art, that—then a lamp whose base was a porcelain shepherdess. “Your parents should arrange the downstairs like this. This is appealing.”

  Georgie laughed. “They try to. And so does Marianne. Stock moves in and out so quickly sometimes it’s hard to keep the staging up.”

  He hesitated. “People really buy those goods?”

  “They travel here from hundreds of miles away. Mind you, Francine and Tobias aren’t millionaires, but upcycled stuff is hot.” She shot a sly look at him. “I take it where you lived in Turkey everything was new?”

  “Not new,” he said, “but not so beat up.”

  “Patina is money,” she teased.

  His mouth jerked slightly on one side. “So Tobias informed me earlier.”

  Where he lived was warmer. He couldn’t quite hide his small shiver.

  “Sorry,” she said. “The heat isn’t the most reliable up here. I’ve got a too-big UVA hoodie that might fit you.”

  She shucked her peacoat, threw it across a chair, and went to find the garment in her as-yet unpacked steamer trunk. When she returned to the living area, he was sitting on the leather couch removing his worn work boots.

  “These aren’t fit for walking on your carpets,” he explained.

  She blinked. The clothing he’d chosen from Francine’s stock was the same as any of Black Cat’s employees. His socks, however, were bright yellow with red polka dots.

  So he likes colorful stuff. Hopefully without expression, she handed him the fleece-lined hoodie. He held it out as if initially unsure how to put it on. After a moment, he shoved his arms in the sleeves. The way his athletic body moved did truly electric things to her nerves.

  Stop ogling him, she ordered, touching the little cross that hung around her neck. You invited him for dinner, not an orgy.

  She didn’t have those with anyone.

  She spun away and went to the kitchen corner. Her pulse was racing, her cheeks warm again. When she heard him zip up the hoodie, the soft flesh between her legs grew wet.

  Wow, she thought. Get a grip on yourself.

  She opened her freezer twice before remembering what she was doing there. Focusing, she identified a DiGiorno pizza, a squis
hed box of Lean Cuisine, and half a plastic bag of vegetable medley. Probably she was lucky the selection wasn’t worse. She hadn’t been home since September.

  “This is sad,” she sighed. “I think I need to raid the fridge in the employee lounge.”

  “Don’t bring egg salad,” Alexander pleaded. “Or not if you have a choice.”

  She laughed. “It is Wednesday, isn’t it? All right. No egg salad. There’s a bottle of wine in my backpack you could open. Just don’t tell Francine I have it. She doesn’t like being reminded I turned twenty-one.”

  He cracked a slightly bigger smile than he had for her joke about patina.

  “I’ll be right back,” she promised, trying to ignore how her pulse skipped at the slant of his sexy mouth.

  LEFT ON HIS OWN, IKSANDER fought a lingering reaction to the sight of Georgie without her coat. Her dark red top had been stretchy—not tight but shaped enough to call attention to her curves. Probably its neckline didn’t count as low, despite exposing part of her collarbones. He rubbed his nape in consternation at a particular memory.

  When she’d turned to go, her bottom had been very . . . lush in her worn blue jeans.

  Shaking himself, he strove to focus on what mattered. Georgie had mentioned turning twenty-one as if it happened recently. Najat hadn’t looked older than the human, but she’d been twenty-four when she died. Were the doppelgangers born in different years? Did time between the planes run that unevenly?

  He couldn’t answer, but he definitely needed to check the date. God help him if he’d misjudged decades as well as states. He’d set his precious newspaper beside him on the couch. Now he retrieved and unfolded it. Conveniently, the month, day, and year were printed at the top.

  Was November 2 correct? Humans observed a separate calendar from djinn. Different year numbering as well, though Joseph had been confident he’d divined the one they’d land in. Iksander thought the number on the page was right. Damn it, why hadn’t he paid better attention when the magician explained how the spell worked?