“Like what?”
“Like, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. You’re on probation until Terryn is satisfied you aren’t a double agent,” she said.
“Like you,” he said.
She sighed. “For the right side. I’m not going to apologize for what I do, Jono. It’s fair game in this town. I’ve accomplished a lot of good, positive things over the years.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I forget how the good guys kidnap people and threaten to make them disappear.”
She tore the edge of the label. “Is this how it’s going to be? Because I don’t need it.”
He chuckled again and stood. “Yeah, this is how it’s going to be. I’m not the only one on probation. You’ll have to figure out when I’m joking and when I’m not. Come on. Let’s find the bedroom ward so I can get some sleep. We have to work tomorrow.”
She followed him through the door at the back of the dining room. A short hall had a clean, well-lit bathroom to the left next to the kitchen. To the right, a space too large to be a closet and too small to be a room served as a study area. Laura found another ward-stone pencil sharpener-and held it up for Sinclair so he knew where it was. The bedroom at the back of the apartment had a clean, masculine feel-midcentury modern nightstands and bed, mini malist bureaus, and crisp white sheets.
“So this is my bedroom,” he said.
“It’s nice. Are the nightstands original?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. They’re secondhand, though. Found them in a shop.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots while Laura made a circuit of the room. She found the listening ward. The base of the lamp on the alarm-clock side of the bed had been charged. She pointed it out to Sinclair.
“Why so shy, Crawford? We’ve been wanting this for days,” he said.
Startled, she pointed again at the lamp. He wasn’t close enough for the medallion to block the sound of his voice. Sinclair chuckled loud enough for the ward to pick it up. “Mmmm. Lift your shirt a little higher.”
She crossed her arms firmly across her chest. What the hell do you think you’re doing? she sent at him.
He grinned and slipped off his jeans. She met his challenge and refused to look away as he stretched in his T-shirt and navy boxer briefs. At least he didn’t push it with an arousal, she thought. “Very nice,” he said, his voice soft with seduction, “now slide the jeans down slow.”
Knock it off!
“I love thongs,” he said.
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. He caught it with one hand and moaned. “I knew I’d love the way your skin smells. Talk, Janice, I like to hear you talk. Tell me how good this feels.”
“You like to play games, don’t you?” she said, as annoyingly sweet as she could while maintaining the threat in her eyes.
He groaned again. “Oh, yes. Let’s play more.”
Stretching out on his side and closer to the lamp, he propped up his head on his hand and grinned up at her. Behind him, the essence ward faded as the field from his medallion touched it.
Laura put her hands on her hips. “You are dead meat, Sinclair.”
He patted the sheets next to him. “Time for bed.”
She sat down hard with her back to him, then lay fully clothed on her side. “You can sleep on the couch,” she said.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “If someone’s listening in when I bring a woman home, you can be damned sure she’s sleeping in my bed with me.”
She half rolled toward him. “Sleeping is all she’ll be doing.”
“Got it,” he said, still grinning. He slipped under the sheets and turned out the light. “There’s a blanket at the end of the bed if you want it.”
She found the blanket, arranged it over her jeans, and lay back down. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Do you need another pillow?”
“I’m fine.”
Sinclair shifted on his side, not crossing the space between them. She closed her eyes and listened to him breathe.
“Would you like a glass of water?” he asked her back.
“I’m okay, Sinclair. Good night.”
“How about a story then?”
“Good night, Sinclair,” she said loudly. He snickered behind her.
She smiled in the darkness, watching leaf shadows cast by a streetlight dance in dark gray against pale walls. The last time she’d slept in the same bed with someone was… a long time ago, she realized. Although technically, she was working. And wearing her clothes. And on top of the sheets while Sinclair was under them. But she was sleeping in the same bed with someone. Technically.
Sinclair breathed lightly behind her. She knew he was awake, probably staring at the back of her head like she was staring at the wall. He had started out the night as a cop following up a hunch on his own and ended up sharing his bed with a druid who had threatened to kill him. She tried to imagine being in his situation, and if their positions were reversed, would she have a sense of humor. She admired that he could. She liked it.
She adjusted the pillow. That was as far as she was going to take that line of thought. It was fun-fantasy always was-but Sinclair was the wrong person at the wrong time. And maybe a little too cocky. He definitely was too cocky. She pictured him swilling beer every night at his dining-room table, completely oblivious to food stains on his T-shirt. Yeah, she thought. That was what he was probably really like. Behind the handsome face, the attractive body. An arrogant cop who would take any opportunity to trip her. She didn’t need the hassle. She had gotten along fine without it for years. His breathing became rhythmic, a slow deep inhale, a soft exhale. It soothed her into drowsiness, then sleep.
She dreamed of a city empty of people, the sky a stark white above, something acrid in the air. She ran, darting around corner after corner, looking for something while something looked for her. A sound gained on her, like the panting of a large animal, its breath broken by the lunging of a heavy body. Light flashed across her vision, bright white and blinding. Whatever followed was coming closer. Panic took over as she ran between parked cars and dodged down broken sidewalks.
Her hair became damp with sweat. The stark white sky turned orange and red, thick black smoke smearing against the horizon. Something was wrong, and she didn’t understand if she were trying to fix it or escape it. The thing behind came closer and closer. She tripped. Of course. She always tripped in moments like this in her dreams, an abrupt twist of an ankle caused by some minor heave in the sidewalk, a slow-motion fall as she curled into a ball to land with the least damage. She rolled onto her back and it was night. Something huge and dark loomed over her while flames roared behind it. It descended.
Laura gasped, and her eyes flew open. Sinclair had his hand on her arm, rocking her gently. She let him continue to hold her while her racing heart slowed. She took deep breaths to calm down.
He must have sensed she was awake because he stopped rocking. “You okay?”
“Nightmare. Sorry I woke you.”
His arm slid down, his hand lingering on her biceps. He gave it a soft squeeze and let go. “Yeah, I get them, too.”
He rolled away. She stared at the leaf shadows, Sinclair’s scent tickling at her nose. “Thanks, Jono.”
“You’re welcome,” he said in the dark.
She dropped into sleep again.
CHAPTER 19
LAURA HAD BEEN around Washington long enough to remember when she could walk in the front door of the FBI building without an appointment. Security had tightened over the last decade, and the building was closed to the public. The Bureau no longer offered tours, and nonstaff visitors were invitation-only. Her driver looped around the block, waiting for a space to open in the drop-off zone.