Fireborn (4 page)

“Thanks,” I said, even as my steps slowed and my nostrils flared. The heat radiating off him was incredible, and it was all I could do to resist the desire to siphon it away. He
had
to be a fire Fae. No other nonhuman had
that
sort of heat signature.

From what I knew of the Fae, there were four groups, with each group controlling one of nature's fundamental building blocks—earth, wind, fire, and water. This man, as a fire Fae, couldn't actually create fire, but he could shape and control it. All Fae tended to be loners, preferring the solitude of empty countryside to the concrete jungles of this world, and each of them also had a need to be near their element regularly or they would fade away, becoming little more than a sigh on the wind.

While Fae were loners at heart, they were also sensualists, existing to experience sensations both within and without their elements. Fire Fae, in particular, reputedly delighted in introducing innocents to the more seductive pleasures of this world, which was maybe why
this
Fae was here in Melbourne. In a city as big as this, there was a greater chance of finding innocence.

Deep in his bright eyes, recognition flared,
along with curiosity. He might not know exactly what I was, but he sure as hell recognized another being of fire.

“Do you come here often?” His voice was gravelly, sexy as hell, and sounded as if it was coming from somewhere near the vicinity of his rather large boots.

If there was one thing about the Fae that most literature over the years had gotten very wrong, it was their stature. They were neither small nor winged, and the only ones that were ethereal in
any
way were the air Fae.

I smiled. “A couple of times a week, at least.”

“Then with any sort of luck, we'll meet again, when I'm not in so much of a hurry.” With that, he gave me a nod and walked away.

The urge to chase after him rose, but I resisted the temptation and ran up the stairs to Mark's apartment on the third floor. The hallway was shadowed and cold, the small, ugly windows down the far end doing little to let much heat or light in. Mark's apartment was the second on the left. I leaned on the doorbell and listened to it chime inside. I waited a few minutes, then, when there was no response, flipped up the cover protecting the security system. After I keyed in the code, it scanned my eyes, and the red light switched to green. As security measures went, they were pretty over-the-top, but the institute had insisted on them after the homes of several other professors had been burgled.

The door slid open with a soft
whoosh
. I took three steps inside and stopped, my eyes widening in surprise. The place was a mess. In fact, mess was putting it mildly. The room looked as if it had been turned upside down and given several violent shakes. Furniture was dragged away from walls or upturned, books were scattered all over the carpet, and his precious research papers had been flung everywhere.

What the hell had happened?

“Professor?” I stepped over loose paperwork and around fallen furniture and made my way to the bedroom. The door was closed. I hesitated, then pulled a tissue out of my handbag and used it to turn the door handle to cut any risk of adding my own prints to whatever prints might be there.

“Professor?” I repeated. “You in here?”

Still no answer. I opened the door and warily peeked around the corner. The mess in this room was a mirror of the first; the sheets and blankets were torn from the bed, the mattress flung against one wall, the dresser drawers half-out and their contents strewn across the floor. Someone really had done a number on this place, but where the hell was Mark?

My gaze went to the small en-suite bathroom and I swallowed heavily. But just because it was closed didn't mean he was dead inside—and even if he
was
, it wasn't like I hadn't seen a corpse before.

I forced my feet forward, stepping carefully across the mess, and repeated the tissue process
with the en-suite door. The destruction was repeated even here, but Mark wasn't inside.

Relief slithered through me. I swung around, my gaze sweeping the room. Whoever was responsible for this had obviously been looking for something, but what? It wasn't like Mark had a whole lot. He lived and breathed his work, and his apartment held little more than basic facilities and his mountains of leather-bound books. He had money—and plenty of it—but you wouldn't think it looking at either this place or the man himself.

I moved back out into the living area and across to the kitchen. Same result—utter mess and no Mark.

Where the hell was he?

“Emberly?” His voice rose out of the silence behind me. I swung to see him enter the apartment and stop, his brown eyes going wide. “What the hell has been going on?”

His gaze came to mine, his expression almost accusing. I grimaced. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Professor. Ms. Chase sent me over here to find you, as you have a meeting with investors in”—I paused and glanced at my watch—“just over twenty minutes.”

“I know. The damn batteries in my watch stopped and I didn't realize the time. I just came back to get my presentation notes.” Meaning he'd been breakfasting at the local café again. He raked a hand through his wiry gray hair and added,
“Guess there's no use looking now. I'll have to wing it.”

He looked so out of sorts I felt sorry for him. “Do you want me to stay and attempt to clean up? And call the police?”

“That would be extraordinary if you could.” He gave the mess a somewhat despairing look. “I wouldn't know where to start.”

I smiled. I was used to mess, having shared my many lives with Rory. But for someone as meticulous as Mark, this had to be a harrowing sight. “It's no problem. Just make sure you clear it with Ms. Chase.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Emberly. This is very much appreciated.”

I shrugged. He gave the mess around me another sweeping, somewhat despairing look, then muttered something under his breath and walked out.

I closed the door, then called the cops and basically did nothing until they arrived. Abby rang to confirm that she'd clocked me in and all I had to do was come back to clock out whatever time I finished. The cops took some pics and my statement, then dusted a couple of items and basically left me to it. They weren't expecting any evidence to lead them to the culprit and neither was I.

By the time five p.m. rolled around, the place was more or less respectable, and the only item I could see missing was his desktop computer. Interestingly, they hadn't found his laptop—it was still safe in its hidden compartment in the desk. I
had no idea whether all his paperwork was present, but I left it stacked in piles for him to go through at his leisure. After washing my hands, I picked up my jacket and returned to work.

I found Mark back in the lab. He looked up somewhat distractedly as I entered the secure, sterile environment and blinked a little before recognition surged.

“Emberly,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I had completely forgotten about you and the apartment.”

“No problem.” I said it wryly, having figured as much. “I tidied everything up as best I could, and I think the only material thing missing is your desktop computer.”

“What about the laptop?”

“Still safe in its hidey-hole.”

He sighed. “That's all right, then.”

I nodded. Not only was most of his important work typed up by me on that laptop, but it was also the computer he used to shift his reports to his cloud service—a procedure only he and I knew about. The desktop was little more than a ruse in the event of a robbery. Or a ransacking, in this case.

“I'm about to go home,” I said. “Do you need anything else before I do?”

He reached for the five notebooks teetering on the edge of the table. “I wrote up my notes for both yesterday and today.” He glanced at me over the top of his glasses. “You do still have the secure laptop at your place, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I need these transcribed overnight.”

Of course he did. I guess it was lucky I had nothing more than a leisurely loving session with Rory planned.

Once I'd stripped off all the protective gear and signed out, I headed home. Rory sent me a text saying he was doing an extra couple of hours and wouldn't be home until nine, so after a shower, I re-dressed in sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, then pulled out my laptop and started on the notebooks.

By the time nine rolled around, I'd transcribed four of the five notebooks. I saved them onto a USB—Mark's need to be extra careful was somewhat catching—then bounced up and shoved it into the planter box filled with plastic flowers for safekeeping. Once I'd started dinner, I poured myself some red wine and wandered out onto the balcony. A helicopter clattered past, searchlights sweeping the buildings opposite. Light briefly glinted off a round object in a window one up and one across from our apartment, and I snorted softly. The old fart in 61B was obviously using his telescope again, hoping to catch me naked. Of course, it didn't help matters that I
did
periodically walk around sans clothes, but I figured the more he was watching me, the less he was watching other unsuspecting women. And it was certainly no skin off my nose if he got his jollies that way—although that
didn't
mean I hadn't had him checked out to make sure he wasn't anything
more than a harmless old man who enjoyed spying.

I finished my wine, went back inside to see how the roast chicken and potatoes were going, and then somewhat reluctantly sat down to transcribe the final notebook. Rory rolled in just as I rose to check our dinner. “Hey,” I said, grabbing a pair of tongs so I could turn the potatoes. “You're late.”

“Not only late,” he said, dumping his bag on the table before coming up behind me. He slid his hands under my T-shirt and snuggled close. His fingers were hot against my belly, his erection like steel against my rear. “But terribly disappointed.”

“Oh yeah?” I nudged him away with an elbow, then put the chicken back into the oven. “Why's that?”

“Because you promised to be naked and waiting.” He pressed close again and kissed the back of my neck. My skin tingled in response, and desire unfurled within me. “This, clearly, is not the case.”

I smiled and drew in the scent of him. He smelled of smoke and flame—aromas that were both delicious and intoxicating to spirits made of fire. “Nakedness happened at six. You're the one who decided he needed to work overtime.”

“It got me back into the boss's good books, and
that
was worth the extra hours of frustration.”

His fingers moved down my belly and played with the elastic in my sweats. Anticipation curled through me, and my breathing quickened. “Meaning you worked all day with that rod out the front
of you? Bet
that
caused some ribbing from the rest of the guys.”

He laughed softly. His hands slipped past the elastic, then around to my hips, his fingertips barely brushing soft curls along the way. Pleasure trembled through me.

“Well, the frustration wasn't
that
bad, although we did put out a big warehouse fire.” His voice became dreamy. “You should have seen it, Em. Fierce, orange-white flames leaping for the sky. It was beautiful, truly beautiful.”

He brushed kisses along the nape of my neck again, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. “I hope you were careful when you drew them in, Rory.”

His hands slid out of my sweats. Disappointment swirled, but only for a moment, because his touch slid under my T-shirt and up toward my breasts. “I was. And, god, it felt
glorious
.”

Fire to a phoenix was like chocolate to most women. Totally unnecessary as a fuel source, but sinfully pleasurable all the same. It was a wonder he was controlling himself this well. Had our positions been reversed, I probably would have had my wicked way with him right here in the kitchen, the consequences be damned.

His hands reached my breasts and cupped the weight of them. His skin was so hot it might as well have been flames holding me. It felt good,
so
good.

I licked my lips, then reached back with one hand, sliding it between us until I found the
zipper in his jeans. As his clever fingers began to gently pinch and pull my nipples, I slid the zipper down. He wasn't wearing underpants—he rarely did when he was this horny—and his cock came free, thick and hard and pulsing with need. I played my fingers along the length of it, and he groaned.

“Not like this,” he murmured, even as his body instinctively pressed harder against mine. “I want the real thing, Em. Flame, not flesh.”

And with that, he pulled away, caught my hand in his, and tugged me after him. We all but ran to the apartment's third bedroom, only there was no bed in this room. There was, in fact, no furniture at all. Just four thick, fireproof walls and a bare concrete floor that had been treated with fire retardant.

I kicked the door shut behind us, but the utter blackness of the room didn't hold sway for long. Anticipation danced from his skin, tiny fireflies that spun brightly through the room.

He stopped, then caught my other hand, his amber eyes glowing with heat as he raised my fingers and kissed them gently. “Flame for me,” he said. “Please.”

I smiled and let the heat rise. Fire erupted between our joined hands, primal and hot. He threw back his head, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in the fierceness of it. His skin began to glow and the heat of it rolled over me, a siren song that was so sweet, so enticing.

“More,” he whispered.

I allowed the flames to grow, let the molten fingers reach for the ceiling. He gasped, shuddering, and the delicious waves of heat and desire became more intense, fueling the urge to fully become flame rather than flesh. But not yet. Not just yet.

“Rory,” I said, needing more than just the caress of heat and desire.