Dreamveil (26 page)

“Mr. King—”

He threw the chart at the doctor and roared, “Get out.”

The oncologist retreated from the suite, leaving King to fume in solitude. He knew he could not allow the situation to continue longer than a day or two; the painkillers were no longer having any effect and soon his nervous system would begin to fail. Once he fell into the final, inevitable coma he would be as good as dead. At best he had forty-eight hours left to find her.

“Mr. King?” his assistant said. “Ms. Carroll is calling on the private line for you.”

King could no longer leave his bed, so he summoned his nurse to wheel the secured phone over to him. After she departed, he answered the call.

“You were supposed to report in hours ago,” he told his operative.

“Ms. Carroll will no longer be reporting to you, Mr. King,” a man with a deep, rather unnerving voice said.

He frowned. “Genaro? Is that you?”

“Listen carefully.”

The man spoke at length about GenHance, their transerum, and the hunt for Kyndred. While King was tempted to interrupt several times, the authority in the man’s voice seemed to command his attention. Sometime later he realized that the annoying hum in his ear was a dial tone, and that whoever had called him had hung up.

King frowned. He couldn’t remember the entire conversation, but two things came back to him: Nella Hoff was dead, killed in a tragic car accident on her way to work, and there was no longer any need to replace her with another operative. Naturally he wouldn’t waste his resources by planting another informant inside GenHance, not when his daughter was coming home.

If she came home.

King dialed another number. “Mr. Meriden,” he said as soon as the other man answered. “Have you found my daughter?”

“I have some new leads,” the bounty hunter replied. “I’m going out this morning to follow up. The rest you’ll get in my report tonight.”

“I’m afraid your term of employment is coming to an end more rapidly than I had anticipated. You will deliver Alana to me in forty-eight hours, or your contract will be terminated.”

Meriden uttered an ugly laugh. “Then kill me now, King, because I haven’t found her.”

“Perhaps you need some additional motivation.” He picked up the latest surveillance report and scanned through it quickly. “Did you enjoy your evening with Ms. Dietrich? I could make you the last man she ever invites into her bed.”

His voice turned to stone. “You leave her out of this.”

“Then find Alana, Mr. Meriden,” he snapped. “You have two days left, and then Ms. Dietrich dies.”

“I love this man.” She grinned as she tore open the bag and helped herself to one of the minidoughnuts that were among her favorite secret pleasures. “And I think he
is
psychic.”

Feeling a little sore from last night’s frolicking—and this morning’s, she reminded herself—Rowan retreated to the shower, where she stood for a good thirty minutes under a hot spray. It was ridiculous, how good feeling sore felt. She had whisker burns all over her breasts, finger bruises blooming on each hip, and something that felt like a bite mark on her right shoulder. Her limbs weren’t stiff, but loose, with that faint, satisfying ache left over from sex.

If she could call what they’d done to each other mere sex, she thought as she dried off, and saw in the mirror some other marks he’d left on her. She’d bet good money he had a nice set of matching scratches running along either side of his spine, and a couple of nip marks inside his thighs and along the curve of his jaw. It was silly, but for the first time in her life she couldn’t remember exactly how many orgasms she’d had. From the stupid smile that seemed to be permanently plastered on her mug, she was sure it was somewhere in the double digits.

Of course, part of it was because she hadn’t shifted last night.

Rowan had known it was wrong to pry into his brain, but after their last bout of lovemaking she simply had to know. She’d gotten up to get the hand mirror she carried in her bag and then had come back to Sean, kneeling down and holding his wrist while she looked into the hand mirror and shifted.

Only she hadn’t shifted.

For the first time in her life, the dreamveil hadn’t fallen over her. Her body had simply refused to shift. She stayed in her own form, not a single muscle popping or bone stretching. And there was only one reason that would happen.

She was Sean Meriden’s ideal woman, and he was in love with her. Her, Rowan Dietrich. Not someone else she’d become with the dreamveil.

Tonight, after her shift, she’d have to do something special for her guy to show her appreciation. Maybe throw together a midnight feast for the two of them after closing. Sean might think he was happiest with pizza and beer, but he’d never tasted what she could do with lamb and white beans.

The thought of cooking for Sean made her own belly rumble, but the only fruit she had on hand were some plums, which she devoured in a couple of bites. Seeing that she didn’t have time for much else, she made a quick sandwich and carried it downstairs.

Lonzo was already in the kitchen, standing and inspecting her station. He eyed her sandwich with a frown.

“You’re the sous-chef in the best French restaurant in the city, and you’re eating PB and J?” He sniffed.

“Best PB and BB in the city.” Rowan held out one half, which he took and cautiously examined before taking a bite.

“Not bad.” He chewed. “What’s this BB?”

“Banana-pecan butter,” she said, finishing her last bite. “I make it myself. The ground pecans give it more texture.”

“I’ll have to try it on my wife,” he said. “She’s a nut for the PB.” He handed her an apron before tying on his own. “Kind of sudden, him moving you up like this. I know Danz; he thinks you’re ready ’cause I taught you good. Me?” He waffled his hand.

“I didn’t poison anyone last night,” she felt she had to point out. “It wasn’t my idea, Chef. I’d have been happy with helper.”

“Lonzo,” he corrected. “You’re not our
tournant
anymore, Trick.”

Rowan was surprised at the welling of affection she felt toward the older man. “Don’t give up the search for a new sous-chef. I’m not going to be around much longer.” And suddenly her night with Sean didn’t seem quite as wonderful and amazing as it had a few minutes ago.

When she left New York, she’d have to leave him, too. “You know what you can do here?” Lonzo was asking her. “The name you can make for yourself?”

“Yeah, I know. But this”—she gestured around them—“this was never meant for me. Maybe in my next life.”

“Dansant ain’t gonna like it,” he warned.

And there was her other problem. “He knew I’d be moving on someday. Someday’s just got here sooner than later.”

“Listen, you want to come and bunk at my place for a couple weeks, we got a spare room,” Lonzo said awkwardly. “You know. If things get tight or Dansant gives you the business.”

She could have kissed him, and nearly did. “I just heard from a friend of mine,” she confided. “He’s going to help me out. But I appreciate the offer.” She winked. “Chef.”

It was a little harder for her to be so lighthearted when Dansant arrived at the restaurant that night. He was very late; coming in just as they’d plated the first orders, he came directly to her station to check her prep. She was working skate sautéed in clarified butter, arranging it like a fan with ribbon-shaped scrolls of wilted, sesame-seed-studded spinach and her own fruit-vegetable salsa.

“Another interesting variation,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “Vigato at the Apicius in Paris uses green apples and bell peppers in his recipe.”

“Vigato uses ketchup and soaks his spinach in vinaigrette.” She wiped the edge of the plate with her hand towel to remove some drippings from the transfer of the skate from the pan. “I’m not doing his sherry vinegar reduction, either. Cider vinegar works better, and even when it’s reduced it doesn’t stomp the taste of the skate.”

“It doesn’t, Chef,” Lonzo said as he passed them carrying a pan of chopped, quivering golden aspic.

Rowan handed the plates she’d finished to the expediter and turned to him. “Can I have a minute with you in your office?”

Dansant checked the line, nodded, and followed her back. As soon as they were alone, she looked at him squarely.

“I am having my chef’s table tomorrow night,” Dansant said before she could open her mouth. “I would like you to share the cooking and the meal with me and my friends.”

He was not going to make this easy at all. “I don’t think the line can spare me.” Rowan tucked her thumbs in her pockets. “I need to tell you something. I spent last night with Sean. The guy who lives upstairs,” she added, since they hadn’t met.

His face lost all expression. “Did you.”

“It just happened.” She forced a smile, which didn’t last longer than a few seconds. “Anyway, I’m involved with him now. After what happened between us in the kitchen, I thought I should tell you.”

“You could uninvolve yourself,” he suggested.

“No point. I heard from a friend who owes me some money,” she lied. “He’s going to lend me enough to cover what I owe you, and then I’m leaving. I don’t know when, exactly, but I’ll give you as much notice as I can.”

He studied her face. “It does not matter.”

“Dansant.” She felt frustrated. “I’m sorry. After last night, I know you had some, ah, expectations. It’s just you and me . . . we would never work out. This guy, Sean, he’s more my type. Don’t be pissed, okay?”

He smiled then, a warm and beautiful smile. “I am not angry, Rowan. I am happy for you.” He took her hand in his. “You deserve to be loved. If not by me, then by someone who can care for you as I would have.”

“Sean’s a good guy,” she agreed, feeling a little uneasy, “but it’s just for now. You know, no big thing. You, on the other hand, are going meet a great girl someday.” Suddenly she knew what to do, and encircled his wrist with her fingers.

The dreamveil always changed her into the woman most loved by the person she touched. But occasionally she used it on men who hadn’t met that woman yet, and when her body shifted she took on the form of the woman they would love most in the future. It freaked her out a little, and made her question just how random love really was, but at least if Dansant hadn’t fallen in love before now, she could give him a preview of who was waiting for him in the future.

She pulled from him, and that was when things went bizarre. She not only got nothing; her body wouldn’t change.

“I have met her.” He brushed his fingers against her cheek and left.

Rowan’s legs buckled, and she groped until she found the edge of the desk and clung to it. Her ability hadn’t failed her since the night it had first manifested. She’d been able to shift into any woman who had been most loved by the person she touched. The dreamveil had never failed her once. Now, in the space of a single day, it had failed her twice.

How does someone like me know if any guy really cares?
She’d asked Drew that just before they’d said good- bye, that last night in Savannah.

He’d grinned.
That’s easy. When he holds your hand, you won’t change into Angelina Jolie.

She hadn’t changed into Angelina when she’d touched Sean Meriden last night. She hadn’t changed into anyone. She hadn’t because she discovered that she was the great love of Meriden’s life.

Just as she now knew she was Jean-Marc Dansant’s.