Tempted by Fate (11 page)

“No,” he said, emphatically and without hesitation.

He felt bad when Carrie wilted before his eyes. “You won’t come?”

“Of course I’ll come if you want me there. But I’m not bringing Sophie.” Damn, it galled him to call her that. She didn’t seem like a
Sophie
by any stretch of the imagination.

Carrie pouted. “But I wanted to check her out.”

“
No.
” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And if you get any ideas about meddling, I’ll tell your husband.”

“Oh, that’s low, but admittedly brilliant.” Carrie stopped walking and looked around. Then she shuddered violently.

Alerted, Ramirez searched the street and saw nothing out of the ordinary, but Carrie had good instincts, and something had obviously set her off. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She scanned the area.

He followed her gaze, but he didn’t see anything—or anyone—there. “Are you okay?”

She shook her entire body, like she was trying to get something loose. Then she turned to him with a tentative smile. “I’m fine. Just a goose walking over my grave.”

It was more than some imaginary sensation. He surveyed the street, more carefully this time.

“It was nothing.” She tugged his arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He gave the surroundings a last cursory look and then quickly led her to his car, just in case.

W
illow watched Ramirez put his arm around the pretty blonde. Their body language spoke volumes. They were close—comfortable with each other.

Women didn’t let men they didn’t trust touch them that way.

She gritted her teeth. She wanted to kill him. Or her. Or both of them.

No, just him.

No—that was too strong. She hadn’t known him long enough to warrant that kind of emotion.

Rather, she wanted him to sting the way she did right now. How could he have kissed her that way when he had a woman? Yes, they’d only shared a couple kisses, but as much as she wanted to deny it, those kisses had done something to her.

He obviously didn’t feel that way. Not with the way he smiled now at that blonde. The way he tugged on her hair. Willow had gone to school for a short time once, and there’d been a boy who pulled her hair like that.
Mama had told her it was how boys showed they liked a girl.

She glared at the cop. Bastard. That woman looked sweet and innocent. He deserved to be shot for toying with her. No—not shot. That was too quick and easy. If she had her way, she’d hoist him into a tree and hang him from the limbs. Then she’d shoot slivers of wood at him, one tiny piece at a time, until he writhed from the pain.
Mù ch’i
stirred, a faint urge to act on her desire.

When she’d first inherited her powers, the compulsions had been stronger. But her mother had prepared her for that, describing the feelings in great detail. As a kid, Willow hadn’t appreciated the mental training, certainly not as much as learning to fight, but she’d been thankful for it later. Using her mother’s advice, combined with self-discipline and practice, she’d taught herself to control the impulses rather than let them control her.

Those years meant shit right now. To say she was tempted to let herself slip was an understatement.

The blonde shivered and looked around.

Frowning, Willow stilled. The woman wouldn’t be able to see her—she wasn’t worried about that. But there was a light taint to her energy, as if she’d been in contact with an element. Upwind, Willow sniffed the air and found more than one element, but the traces were ever so subtle, except for the tang of sea salt, which clung heavier to her. Was it a Guardian?

No. She’d never met another Guardian aside from her mother, who used to say being a Guardian was a solitary responsibility, but that she’d know if she met one. Carrie figured there would be a spike in the energy she felt around the person. Most people had a simple energy field,
open or closed depending on their personality and experiences. When she looked at herself, she had another layer overlapping that. The woman felt more connected and brighter, but she didn’t have the extra signature.

Then who was she?

Average height, reddish-blond hair, average build. Casual but expensive clothes. Messenger bag slung across her chest. Wedding ring on her finger.

Willow glared at Ramirez. Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out her cell phone. Without looking, she selected the only number in her contact list.

Morgan answered on the first ring just like she always did, regardless of the time of day. But she’d had trouble sleeping for as long as Willow knew her. “Talk to me.”

“I need you to do a background check on someone.”

“Shoot.” The tapping of Morgan’s fingers on her keyboard was faint and rapid. “I feel compelled to tell you I don’t mean that literally, because we all know how literal-minded you are. Just that I’m ready for you to go ahead.”

Willow waited a couple beats before she asked, “Are you done?”

“Yes. Ready.”

Looking at the couple as they got into a car, Willow said, “I need any info you can get on Rick Ramirez.”

“I’m good at what I do, Willow, but
Rick Ramirez
isn’t exactly an uncommon name. Do you have anything else I can use to narrow down my search?”

Willow rattled off the license plate number.

“Got it. Call you back in a few.”

Willow snapped the phone closed and watched the couple drive away. She wanted to follow them, badly; instead, she headed toward the bar they’d come out of.

The Pour House.

She knew many cops tended to be alcoholics; she’d used that to her advantage in the past. But the idea that Ramirez fit the stereotype didn’t sit right with her. Ramirez hadn’t seemed like a drinker. He was too sharp, both in his demeanor and his dress. And her impressions of people were never off.

Although, she never let anyone get to her the way he had, either.

Feigning casualness she was far from feeling, she strolled into the bar even though it was obviously closing. Out of habit, she reached out with
mù ch’i
and marked the exits and pinpointed all the people inside. Someone was in a back room.

Willow turned subtly and pretended to look around; yet her focus was on the door behind her. It must have been the bartender, except something made her feel twitchy. She ran a hand down her pants. If only she had her wooden dirks on her.

A woman stepped out of the back room, a guarded smile on her lips. She was long and lanky, with a similar build to her own, except with black hair streaked with various blues. Her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped blue eyes told of a mixed ancestry. Perhaps part Asian? Her energy was overlapped with a matching force. The deep, musty scent of earth reached Willow, and she froze.

So did the bartender.

Their gazes locked, and Willow knew, instinctively and without doubt, that the woman was the Guardian of the Book of Earth. The Earth Guardian must have recognized her for who she was, as well, because the bottle of liquor in her hand fell to the ground and shattered.

The strong link between them—the recognition—pulled Willow. Even from across the room, their energies snapped and crackled, willing them closer even as it pushed them apart.

“Oh, my God,” the bartender muttered. Somehow it echoed in the space of the room despite the background music.

A tremor quivered through the ground. The bottles behind Willow began to shake, softly at first and then with more intensity. She glared at the Earth Guardian, not sure whether this was posturing or a threat.

Life had taught her, when in doubt, expect the worst. So, keeping a close eye on Earth, she pictured herself as a tree with roots going deep into the ground, cutting through its porous surface. The bartender gasped, clutching her chest as she staggered back. Taking the opening, Willow rushed through the bar.

“Shit,” Earth muttered before she reached out her hand, still holding her chest. “Wait.”

Like hell Willow was going to wait. She got out of there as fast as she could in her spiked heels. Luck was on her side. As soon as she stepped outside, an unoccupied cab passed. Flagging it down, she hopped in, ignoring the ripple of discomfort from the surrounding metal of the car. “Broadway and Montgomery,” she said, slamming the door.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror. “Really?”

She frowned at him. “Yes, really. Go.”

For a second, she didn’t expect him to listen to her, but then he drove despite his reluctant expression. She was conscious of the occasional glances he shot her in the mirror, but she closed her eyes and tried to figure out
what had just happened, and what it all meant. She was also curious as to how Ramirez figured into it.

It wasn’t a coincidence that Ramirez was at that bar. Did he know that bartender? He had to. But that didn’t mean he knew she was a Guardian. It was a tenet that you didn’t reveal your Guardianship. Then there was the blonde with the taint of scroll to her.

Damn it, why hadn’t Morgan called back yet? She yanked her cell out of the tight pocket. It was several rings before Morgan answered. “Give a girl some time to work magic,” her friend and partner complained.

“I don’t need magic. I just need answers.”

Morgan mumbled as she typed furiously.

Checking a street sign to make sure the cabbie wasn’t ripping her off, Willow said, “I’ll pretend you didn’t call me an impatient brat and just reiterate my desire for answers.”

“Jesus Christ, Willow. You could have told me he was a cop. I almost got flagged when I did my initial search. I had to bail and start all over. If I had known, I would have taken extra precautions.” More tapping. “Make me feel better and tell me you didn’t know he was a cop.”

Willow kept quiet. Morgan always got around to the point eventually. Engaging with her usually meant waiting longer.

“I’m onto you, you know,” Morgan grumbled. “Your silent treatment doesn’t work on me anymore.”

Willow just waited.

Her partner sighed. “Fine. He’s a cop, which I’m sure you already know. He’s in Homicide, which makes me wonder what you’ve been up to, since you’ve apparently made his acquaintance. Inspector level, promoted three
years ago. Hot damn, he’s hot. Kind of like Benjamin Bratt and Enrique Iglesias rolled into one.
Yum.
I’d totally do him. God, he must have—”

“Morgan?” Willow broke into the monologue.

“Hmm?”

“Focus.”

“I
am
focused. I’m just commenting on his obvious good looks. Jesus.” She paused, her pout loud and clear in the silence, but she continued. “His partner, James Taylor, has been in Homicide eleven years. He’s lived with a woman named May Dahler for fifteen years.”

May. The blonde
would
have a name as sweet as she looked. “She must have started living with him when she was fifteen. She barely looks old enough to get into a bar.”

“May Dahler? Based on the birth date on her Social, she’s going to be fifty-five next January. It appears she fudges her age by a couple years on other paperwork.”

“Fifty-five.” Willow frowned. “Do you have a physical on her?”

“Five feet seven, one hundred fifty pounds, brown hair, brown eyes.”

“That’s not the woman he was with.”

“Inspector James Taylor?”

“No, Ramirez.”

“I wasn’t talking about Ramirez,” Morgan said with barely concealed impatience. “I was telling you about his partner.”

Willow clamped her mouth shut and concentrated on calming herself. With her luck tonight, she’d scare the driver and he’d crash. “I wanted to know information about Ramirez.”

“I was getting there.”

She mentally sighed at the sadness in Morgan’s tone. “You know how important this is to me. The sooner I take care of it, the sooner I’ll be back to taking freelance assignments.”

“Promises, promises,” Morgan said, but she didn’t hold out. “Inspector Ricardo Ramirez is one of the youngest people to ever be promoted to inspector. He lives at 2586 Bryant Street with his grandmother, or rather his grandmother lives with him.”

“His grandmother?” She would have mocked him for being a mama’s boy, only she couldn’t. Not after those kisses. She knew he was all man.