The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck.
“That’s one term for it,” he said.
“It’s an adrenaline and testosterone thing, right?”
“I’m not a teenager, Celinda. I can handle my hormones.”
“I’ve heard about the postburn syndrome,” she continued in the same polite, too-neutral tone. “A big testosterone rush.”
“Seems like just about everybody has heard about the syndrome.”
“Yes, well, I hate to break this to you, but women talk.”
Right, and he could pretty much guess what women said about hunters who were in the grip of an afterburn. The rumors were true, and they contributed heavily to some of the long-standing negative social attitudes toward the Guild.
There was no getting around the fact that there was nothing like pulling a little ghost light to slam a man into a state of full-blown sexual arousal. The bigger the ghost, the stronger the physical response. Which explained why mothers warned their daughters to stay clear of hunters and why the bars and taverns in the Old Quarter that catered to Guild men were popular with adventurous women, coeds looking for excitement, and bachelorette parties.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump on top of you,” he said.
“You can’t blame a lady for wondering.”
Startled, he gave her a quick, searching look. In the amber glow of the dash lights he could see that the corner of her mouth was curved upward, maybe twitching just a bit.
“A word of advice.” The light changed. He snapped the sensitive twin mag shift into gear. “This is not a good time to tease me.”
“Got it.”
“You’re not scared?” he asked.
“Of you? No. You’re in full control.”
He contemplated that briefly. “How do you know I’m in control?”
She raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I just know it.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
He wanted to ask her what made her so damned certain that he wasn’t going to pounce, but he decided it would probably be a good idea to stop talking about anything even remotely related to sex.
“I melted amber dealing with that dopp,” he said quietly. “Do you know what that means?”
“That after the rush, you’re going to have to sleep for a few hours?”
“Right. I need to get you home and then get back to my place before I crash.”
“I understand.”
He turned a corner and drove along another cramped street. Only three more blocks. He could do this.
It seemed like an eternity before he eased the Phantom into an empty parking space at the curb in front of Celinda’s apartment. He de-rezzed the engine, unfastened the seat belt, and opened his door.
“Never mind,” Celinda said quickly. “You don’t have to walk me upstairs. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll see you to your door.”
“The clock is ticking on your afterburn. You’ll need the time to drive back to your place.”
He set his back teeth together. “I said I’ll see you to your door.”
She sighed. “Okay, be that way.”
“What way?”
“Stubborn, hardheaded, and difficult.”
“Hey, give me some credit. I’m good at all those things.”
“I guess it’s true what they say. Everyone has a talent.”
She was out of the car by the time he got around to her side of the vehicle. He took her arm.
He realized his mistake immediately. He never should have touched her. The physical contact had an effect similar to sending power through tuned amber, except in this instance it wasn’t just his psi energy alone that was suddenly very, very focused. It felt like every cell in his body was riveted by the woman beside him, clamoring to get closer, to get inside her.
He was drunk on her unique scent, a mix of herbal shampoo and the essence of pure Celinda. He didn’t want to merely touch her; he wanted to stroke every part of her from her toes to her ears. He wanted to drag her down onto the pavement and claim her in the most elemental way.
The force of his response caught him off guard. He was not in a standard postburn. He knew that condition, knew how to handle it. This was different. He didn’t just want to get laid; he wanted Celinda. No other woman would do tonight. If he couldn’t have her, he didn’t want anyone else.
You’re in deep trouble. Just get her upstairs and get the hell out of here before you do something that will really screw things up.
Betty Furnell’s door popped open when they entered the downstairs hall. Betty looked out, beaming.
“Oh, hello there, you two,” she sang out cheerfully. “Did you have a nice evening?”
“Lovely,” Celinda said.
“Gracious, what happened to your dress, dear?”
“There was a slight accident,” Celinda said.
“It’s ruined.”
“Yes,” Celinda agreed, “I’m afraid it is. Good night, Mrs. Furnell.”
“Good night. Sleep tight.” Betty closed the door with obvious reluctance.
“Be prepared to be cornered again when you go back downstairs,” Celinda warned softly.
“I’ll be ready,” he promised.
He walked her upstairs to her apartment door and waited while she dug out her key.
“I hope Araminta is home,” she said.
“If not, I’m sure she’ll return by dawn. When Max takes off, he’s always back for breakfast.”
He took the key from her, rezzed the lock, and opened the door.
Celinda stepped into the hall. And stopped, stiffening.
“I’ve been burglarized.”
He looked past her into the small space. The two drawers in the hall table had been removed, the contents dumped on the floor. From where he was standing, he could see a portion of the living room. The sofa and chairs were overturned. Damp night air wafted in from the open balcony door. The point of entry for the intruders, Davis thought.
“My stuff,” Celinda wailed. She started to rush into the apartment.
Davis grabbed her arm. “Hold it. You’re not going in until I make certain there’s no one else inside.”
“But—”
“This is what I do, remember? I keep telling you, I’m in the security business.” He moved into the hall. “Wait here.”
“I hesitate to interfere with a professional doing his job, but what, exactly, are you going to do if the guy has a gun?”
“I’ll show him mine.” Davis leaned down and drew the small pistol out of his ankle holster.
Celinda looked at the weapon with an enigmatic expression. “That looks like a mini mag-rez.”
“It is. Latest and greatest technology.”
“It’s illegal for private citizens to own mag-rezes,” she said very primly.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
He moved into the apartment and made a quick, thorough survey and then went back to the front door.
“All clear,” he said. “Looks like they came and went through the balcony door.”
“Oh, dear, the dress.”
He went blank. “What dress?”
“My bridesmaid dress,” she said, slipping past him. “If the burglars stole it or destroyed it, I’m doomed. Rachel will never forgive me if I don’t show up with that dress.”
“Fancy pink thing covered in plastic? I saw it when I checked the closet. Looked fine to me.”
“I’ve got to be sure.”
She rushed down the hall to the bedroom.
Something didn’t add up, he decided. She didn’t even like the pink dress. Why all the fuss?
Intrigued, he watched the mirror above the hall table. From this angle he could see her hurrying into the bedroom. She didn’t go to the closet. Instead, she went down on her knees and peered under the bed.
Davis went on into the living room and started righting the furniture.
Celinda returned a short time later, noticeably calmer.
“Dress okay?” he asked politely.
“Yes, it’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got to call the police.” She picked up the phone.
“Forget it.”
“What do you mean?” She stopped, whipping around to face him. “I know the cops probably won’t be able to do much. I’ve heard that when it comes to home burglaries, there’s not a lot they can do. But I should at least file a report.”