Divine Misdemeanors

Chapter Fourteen

Maeve Reed’s beach house sat above the ocean, half on the cliff and half resting on wood and concrete supports designed to stand up to earthquakes, mudslides, and anything else the Southern California climate could throw at the house. It sat in a gated community complete with a uniformed guard and a gatehouse. It was what kept the press from following us. Because they’d found us. It was almost a type of magic how they always found us again, like a dog on a scent. There weren’t as many on the narrow curving road, but enough to stop and look disappointed as we went through the gates.

Ernie was at the gate. He was an older African American who had once been a soldier, but had been injured badly enough that his army career had gone away. He would never tell me what the injury had been, and I knew enough human culture not to ask outright.

He frowned at the cars parked out of reach of the gate. “I’ll call the police so we’ll have the trespassing on record.”

“They stay away from the gate when you’re on duty, Ernie,” I said.

He smiled at me. “Thank you, Princess. I do my best.” He tipped an imaginary hat at Doyle and Frost, and said, “Gentlemen.”

They nodded back and away we went. If the beach house hadn’t been behind a gate, we’d have been at the mercy of the media, and after watching the windows crack at Matilda’s deli, I didn’t think that would be a good idea tonight. It would have been nice to think that the accident would make the paparazzi back off, but it would probably make me bigger news, more of a target. It was ironic, but almost certainly true.

The car’s phone sounded. Doyle started, and I spoke into the air toward the microphone. “Hello.”

“Merry, how close to the house are you guys?” Rhys asked.

“Almost there,” I said.

He gave a chuckle that sounded ti

“Galen?” I made it a question.

“Yep, he hasn’t even taken anything off the stove, but he’s fretting about that so he won’t fret about you. Barinthus told me you called and shared some excitement. Are you okay?”

“Fine, but tired,” I said.

Doyle spoke loudly, “We are almost to the turnoff.”

“The bluetooth only works for the driver,” I said, not for the first time.

Doyle said, “Why doesn’t it work for everyone in the front seat?”

“Merry, what did you say?” Rhys asked.

“Doyle said something.” More quietly to Doyle, I said, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” Rhys asked.

“Sorry, still not used to the bluetooth. We’re almost there, Rhys.”

A huge black raven perched on an ancient fence post by the road. It cawed and flexed its wings. “Tell Cathbodua we’re fine, too.”

“You see one of her pets?” he asked.

“Yes.” The raven winged skyward and began to circle the car.

“She’ll know more about you than I do then,” he said, and sounded a little discouraged.

“Are you all right? You sound tired,” I said.

“Fine, like you,” he said, and laughed again, then added, “but I just got here myself. The simple case Jeremy sent me on turned out to be not so simple.”

“We can talk about it over di

“I’d like your opinion, but I think there’s a different agenda for di

“What do you mean?”

Frost leaned up as far as the seat belt would let him, and asked, “Has something else happened? Rhys sounds worried.”

“Did something else happen while we were gone?” I asked. I was looking for the turnoff to the house. The light was begi

“Nothing new, Merry. I swear.”

I braked sharply for the turnoff, which made Doyle grab the car tightly enough that I heard the door frame protest. He was strong enough to tear the door off its hinges. I just hoped he didn’t dent it because of his phobia.

I spoke as I eased the SUV over the rise at the top of the road and down the steep lip of the private driveway. “I’m on the driveway. See you in a few.”

“We’ll be waiting.” He hung up and I concentrated on the steep drive. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t like it. It was hard to tell behind the dark glasses, but I think Doyle had closed his eyes as I wound the SUV around the turns.

The outside lights were already on, and the shortest guard I had was pacing outside the front of the house, white trench coat flapping in the ocean breeze. Rhys was the only one of the guards who had gotten his own private detective license. He’d always loved old film noir movies, and when he wasn’t doing undercover work he liked his trench coat and fedoras. They were just usually white or cream to match his waist-length curls. His hair was flying in the wind along with his coat. I realized that his hair was tangling in the wind like mine had earlier.

“Rhys’s hair tangles in the wind,” I said.

“Yes,” Frost said.

“Is that why he only has it to his waist?”

“I believe so,” he said.

“Why does his hair tangle and yours doesn’t?”

“Doyle’s doesn’t either. He just likes the braid.”

“Same question. Why?”

I pulled the car to a stop beside Rhys’s car. He started striding toward us. He was smiling, but I knew his body language well enough to see the anxiety. He was wearing a white eye patch to match his coat today. He wore them when he was meeting with clients, or out in the world at large. Most people, and some fey, found the scars where his right eye had once been disturbing. At home when it was just us, he didn’t bother with the patch.

“We don’t know why some of our hair does not tangle,” Frost said. “It’s just the way it’s always been.”

With that unsatisfying answer, Rhys was at my door. I unlocked it so he could help me out of the car, but the anxiety had turned his one blue eye with its three circles of blue—cornflower blue, sky blue, and winter white—to spi

Rhys opened the door, and I offered my hand automatically. He took it and raised it to his lips to put a kiss on my fingers that made my skin tingle. Anxiety for me then, not the case, was making his magic swirl closer to the surface. I wondered how much worse the pictures on TV had looked from the outside looking in; it hadn’t seemed that bad at the time, had it?

He wrapped his arms around me and drew me in against his body. He squeezed and I had a moment of feeling just how very strong he was, and that there was a slight tremor to his body. I tried to push back enough to see his face, and for a moment he held me more tightly so that I had no choice but to stay against him. I let myself feel his body underneath his clothes. Bare skin would have been like his kiss; it would have tingled against my skin, but even through his clothes I could feel the pulse and beat of his power like some finely tuned engine purring against my body from cheek to thigh. I let myself sink into that sensation. Let myself sink into the strength of his arms, the muscled firmness of his body, and for just a moment I allowed myself to let go of all that had happened and all that I had seen today. I let it be chased away by the strength of the man holding me.

I thought of him nude and holding me, and letting the promise of that deep vibrating power sink into my body. The thought made me press my groin more tightly against him, and I felt his body begin to respond.

He was the one who raised his head enough to allow me to gaze up into his face. He was smiling, and he kept his arms tight across my back. “If you’re thinking about sex, then you can’t be that traumatized.” He gri