Tempted by Fate (9 page)

She’d never been kissed like that before. It’d felt like a tornado had suddenly swooped down, uprooting her, and shaking her branches to the point of snapping. The thought of it was encompassing and overwhelming.

His hands were warm and rough and forceful. How did a pencil pusher get hands like that? They took unapologetically.

And she’d wanted to give.

She tripped, almost falling to the ground. “Damn it,” she said, peeking over her shoulder as she caught her balance.

He was still behind her, keeping up with her fast pace
with ease. Frowning, she added a burst of speed. She rounded a corner and then made a sharp turn down an alley. She looked behind her and saw that he was gone.

She slowed to a walk and took a deep breath in, holding it before releasing it through her mouth. She needed to calm down and think. She took the street to her left, hoping to loop around, unseen, to make it back to the motel.

Down the block, a man stood on the corner. She scanned him quickly as she headed in his direction. Contrary to popular belief, most people minded their own business. In Willow’s experience, only drug addicts were unpredictable and prone to sudden violence, and by the way this man was dressed, he didn’t seem like a street-corner addict. Dismissing him as a threat, she bowed her head and walked past him.

There was a change in the air—a sudden increase in intensity. Willow turned around, just in time to block the first punch thrown. Without thought, she followed up with a strike to his throat and a high knee to his sternum.

He grunted, losing his breath as she connected with his neck, but he blocked her knee—and the left hook she followed up with.

They stood, facing each other.

If only she’d brought her wooden dirks with her. That taught her to be unprepared. At least he was as surprised as she was. She grinned without humor, stepping out of his punching range. “Not as easy as I look, am I?”

As he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade, he scanned her up and down in that smarmy way some men had. “That remains to be seen, love.”

Willow kept her face impassive, but she cringed on the
inside. Metal chopped wood. It was her kryptonite. Her powers wouldn’t prevent her from being cut, and she still had scars from previous run-ins involving sharp metals to prove it.

“What?” Hunched into a fighter’s stance, the man tossed his knife from hand to hand. “Not so tough in the face of a little blade?”

She angled her body to give him less of a target and concentrated on the matter at hand—finding out who he was.

Based on his accent, he was obviously British. Was he a bouncer from the club? His black clothing would suggest so, but a bouncer would have no reason to come after her. Plus, he felt more exclusive than a regular bouncer, more like a private bodyguard. The question was, who was he guarding?

“You can’t be so hard up you need to take a woman at knifepoint,” Willow taunted.

“Careful, love,” he said, swiping at her. “I was told to bring you in alive, but I doubt anyone would care if you were roughed up a little.”

She edged backward. “Who’s paying you? I could offer you more.”

He chuckled, a sinister sound. “I’m sure you could, love.”

“At least tell me what this is about.”

“You must have crossed the wrong people.” He lunged, knife straight out.

She arced a crescent kick, catching his wrist.

Crying out, he shook his hand, but he still held on to the knife in his fist. Murder darkened his gaze.

“So much for taking me in alive, huh?” she taunted.

“You only have to be breathing.” He glared, transferring the weapon into his unharmed hand as he advanced. “Barely.”

“You know, I have a small problem with that.” She noticed the tree behind him. Its leaves were wispy, but the branches were low enough to be of use. All she needed was for him to back up, which was a challenge, when he was so intent on advancing toward her.

He brandished the knife, flipping it back and forth in his grip. “You’re assuming I care, love.”

“You’re assuming I’m going to cooperate.”

He sneered. “Your cooperation isn’t required.”

“Oh, good. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” She spun around and delivered a right roundhouse.

She caught him off guard, but not off guard enough. He clumsily jumped back, so her foot only grazed him. He slashed with the knife but missed.

She rounded to his right, and he followed.
Just a little closer to the tree.
“You know,” she said conversationally, “switchblades are illegal in California.”

“You’re not going to be telling anyone, now, are you?” He lunged at her again, but she saw it coming by the way he swelled into action, and she was ready. Planting a compulsion in his brain, she urged him to drop the knife.

His hand opened and it pinged to the ground.

As he looked down in confusion, she did a double block, cupping his arm and spinning both of them around so his back was to the tree. Before he could react, she punched him in the nose. With a gurgled moan, he staggered backward. Blood began to spurt almost instantly. “You’ll pay for that,” he said in a low growl, not even bothering to wipe away the blood.

She shook her head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“You’re the one who’s going to get it.” He shifted his weight, ready to pounce.

She focused
mù ch’i
and felt the tree’s energy. It was distant, its energy faint. She pushed toward it, but it resisted.

Gritting her teeth, conscious that he was a second away from attacking, she shoved
mù ch’i
toward the tree. It shuddered physically, the leaves rustling so violently, her attacker looked back.

Willow concentrated her energy on a branch, willing it to whip forward. It hit the man’s arm, and his knife went flying. “That was your first mistake.”

His head whipped around and he growled at her. “Bitch.”

“And that was your last one.” With another surge of
mù ch’i,
she had the tree limb smack the man on the side of the head. His eyes rolled up and he dropped like a rock.

“Bastard,” she muttered. She retracted her energy from the tree, but something stuck and it snapped back at her. Gasping, she staggered backward.

Straight into Ramirez’s arms.

For someone as levelheaded as he prided himself on being, he’d seen some crazy things in his life.

Like what just happened here.

He held Sophie—or whatever the hell her name was—in his arms; then he looked at the thug on the ground. He’d seen him attack her and, inexplicably, Ramirez’s heart had almost stopped. But she’d dispatched him efficiently, using a tree as backup after he conveniently dropped his knife.

She looked at Ramirez with her eyes wide. Some of her hair had come loose and clung to her bare shoulders. Her face was pale, and she breathed heavily.

Ramirez frowned. “Are you okay?”

She blinked at him as if she didn’t comprehend.

He shook her lightly, fighting the need to cradle her. “Are you okay? Did he cut you?”

Another blink, and she shook her head. He thought she was just clearing her mind, but then she said, “Let go. I’m fine.”

He released her, only because he needed to see if she’d killed the man. If he was dead, she’d be able to get off on self-defense, but he’d still have to take her in. His teeth clenched at the thought of locking her up, but what choice did he have?

Ramirez leaned down and checked the man. He was still breathing. Ramirez exhaled, oddly relieved. “You’re in luck. He’s just knocked out.”

He stood to face her, only she was no longer there.

R
amirez stood on the street, futilely searching for a woman who had disappeared into thin air. Twice.

He tugged his sleeves down and muttered. This was why cops turned to alcohol.

He needed a soundboard to process what he’d witnessed. Not his grandmother—Lita would only go on about fate and facing destiny. He couldn’t go to his partner, because Taylor would make him visit the department shrink.

Carrie Prescott. He could talk to Carrie.

He pulled out his cell phone and called her.

She answered on the first ring. “Do my eyes deceive me? It looks like my old friend Rick Ramirez is calling me, but that can’t be.”

Hearing her light, sweet tone, he felt his mood lift. He could tell she wasn’t alone, the faint buzz of other people talking crackled over the line. “Why not?”

“Because my old friend Rick Ramirez has been MIA for weeks, and to call me after midnight is uncharacteristic. Unless he suspects me of offing someone.”

Smart-ass. “I need to talk to you.”

“I figured. Max is out tonight, so I’m at the Pour House hanging out with Gabe. Come meet me here.”

“Be there in ten.” He shut his phone, walked back to his car, and headed to the Pour House, a bar in the Mission, located a few blocks from his house. Not that he was in the habit of hanging out in bars, since he didn’t drink often. He’d seen too many of his colleagues destroy themselves with alcohol.

The first time he’d stepped foot into the Pour House was during an investigation regarding a body found in an alleyway a few blocks away. He’d met Gabrielle Sansouci that day and had known instantly that she was hiding something.

In the end, her brother, Paul Chin, had been implicated in that murder, as well as the murder of her ex-boyfriend. Ramirez didn’t know how Gabrielle was involved, but he had no doubt she was. Something was off about the crime scene, and she’d acted strangely. Her actions were similar to
Sophie’s.

It stuck in his craw that he hadn’t even been able to bring in Gabrielle’s brother. According to sources, Paul Chin had fled to South America. Damn rich people. They thought money could buy their way out of anything. But one day he’d bring Chin in and make sure he was tucked away in prison, where he belonged, money or not.

His gut told him Gabrielle was the key to bringing her brother in. Chin had to contact her eventually, and Ramirez would be there, ready, when Paul did. Ramirez had gotten in the habit of checking in at the bar. At first, it’d been solely to wait for Chin, but over time he’d developed a friendship with one of the other bartenders, Carrie
Woods. Ironically, Carrie was Gabrielle’s best friend and had been involved in a strange death six months ago, as well. That death had been ruled natural.

Ramirez grunted as he pulled into a parking spot. As if a woman’s blood solidifying in her body could be called natural. If he’d been in charge of the investigation, he wouldn’t have been so quick to rule out foul play, but it’d been out of his jurisdiction. Despite that, he trusted Carrie. He had the feeling he could tell her about the strange things he’d seen and she wouldn’t check his forehead for fever. Something told him she wasn’t a stranger to inexplicable occurrences.

He walked into the bar’s mellow scene. A couple sat at a table, a trio of young men played pool on the worn table in the back, and there was an older man alone at one end of the bar. At the other end sat a familiar reddish-blond curly head, leaning on her elbows. She’d just married an incredibly rich and powerful man, but she wore her usual jeans and sneakers, although he could tell they were finer than what she used to wear.

He walked to her and sat on the stool next to her, stealing a glance at the beverage in front of her. It was made to look like a gin and tonic, but it was probably soda water and lime. Even before she was pregnant Carrie hardly ever drank. “Sure you can handle that?”

“Hey, stranger.” Turning her bright smile on him, she hopped up and hugged him.

He unbuttoned his coat. “Your husband driving you to drink already? You’ve been married, what? Two days?”

“Two weeks. And, no, Max is perfect.”

Ramirez felt a pang of envy. Not that he’d ever expected to be in a relationship. With his hours, the danger, the
stress… definitely not conducive to long-term relationships. “I think Max is the lucky one.”

“Well, duh.” She laughed and knocked his arm. “Where have you been? I know my husband is territorial and jealous, but he won’t hassle you too badly for visiting me.”