Marked by Passion (26 page)

She eased herself onto a chair. "You should have brought the painting.
J'aimerais le voir."

"Um, yeah. It's still wet. I didn't want to move it," I lied. I took my time setting the kettle on the burner and grinding the coffee beans. I fiddled with cups and saucers, even pulling out a tray. But I couldn't put it off any longer, so I glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the painting was propped on the easel.

"Fais attention, Gabrielle.
You will burn yourself."

"Oh." Turning around, I retracted my hand from the stove. "Thanks."

Madame frowned. "You seem distracted,
mon chou.
Is there anything you need to talk about?"

Ha! "No, not at all."

The kettle hissed. I waited for the water to reach a vigorous boil and then poured it into the press pot. Bringing the pot with me, I sat down at the table.

And then I popped back up and strode over to the painting. I'd just iook and get it over with. I was obsessing over nothing. It was going to be better than last night's hastily scratched-together work.

It wasn't. It was still really good, but the other paintings had a violent, ferocious passion, while this one was—well, more placid.

My shoulders slumped. "Damn."

"ça va, Gahrielle?"

"Oui, Madame,"
I said, hoping she wouldn't hear differently. Massaging my temples, I pasted a reassuring smile on my face and turned around to join her at the table.

"Not that I do not enjoy your company,
mon chou,"
she said as she pushed the sugar toward me, "but this is not like you. You have been acting most bizarre. However, I cannot tell you how happy I am you started
la prochaine peinture,"

She wouldn't be too happy if she found out the painting was off topic. I couldn't afford to get distracted—I knew this, just like I knew she wouldn't hesitate to remind me of it.

Distracted. Right. I didn't think I could get any more scattered if I tried.

As if I didn't have enough to deal with,
tu ch’i
began to stir from its long slumber. A calm churning at first, it quickly mutated until I felt like I was just this side of staying in control.

I pushed my coffee aside and, using the table as support, got to my feet. "Gotta go."

Madame frowned. "But you haven't finished your
cafe. Et des biscuits,
do you not want?"

"No cookies. I just have to go." I pecked her cheeks absently and picked up my jacket. As I stumbled out of the house, I got out my phone and called Rhys.

No answer. I stood on the sidewalk, wondering what to do. What could I do? Arms wrapped tight around myself, physically trying to hold it in, I trudged toward the bus stop.

Halfway there my cell phone rang.
Please let it be Rhys.
I looked at the incoming caller ID.

Jesse. Panic gripped my gut, followed by a feeling of being let down. Where was Rhys? I needed him.

Tu ch’i
surged in sympathy to my emotions. Caught off guard by the comfort it offered, I allowed it in.

Only it took advantage of the freedom, becoming a raging torrent in a split second. Amplifying my emotions, it mingled with them until they filled me to the tips of my fingers. The ground rumbled, first deep in the earth and then more superficially under my feet. I heard the rattling that accompanies earthquakes—it rolled through me. I swelled with power.

Strong. Exhilarating and vindicating. Right now I could do anything. I felt invincible.

But then the earth pulled me, like it was trying to suck me in. Startled, I tried to pull back.

I couldn't.

Trapped. I struggled against it, suddenly not able to breathe—as if I was being buried in dirt. I lost balance as the earth shifted under my feet and landed on my hands and knees.

Closing my eyes, I tried to reel it in. It started to retract, but just as I felt I was getting it under control it lashed back.

I cried out at the pain that lanced through me. My heart was going to burst. I shook as badly as the earth. I was going to explode—I knew it. They were going to find pieces of me splattered all over Pacific Heights. And I'd never get to see my work hanging in a gallery. All because I got tempted by the dark side.

"Not. Going. To. Happen," I said through gritted teeth. I put my palms flat on the ground and shoved with everything I had.

It resisted, burning me like I'd been caught in the path of a volcanic eruption. I screamed even as I pushed harder.

Slowly, the flow diminished until it went back to that ever-present pulsing beneath the surface of my skin. Drained and sweaty, I lay panting on the ground, thankful that I was in Pacific Heights, which didn't have much foot traffic during weekdays. If anyone had seen me, they probably would have sent me to the emergency room. Or the psychiatric ward.

Light glinted off something metallic to my right. My cell phone.

My body racked in pain, it seemed like it took forever before I reached it. I scrolled my call log and hit send when I found Rhys's number.

"Pick up," I urged.

He didn't.

I
slammed a vodka bottle back into the well as another wave of energy undulated from the ground through me. I swallowed it, body tense, waiting for it to surge again. It didn't—this time.

I wanted to blame someone. There were so many people to choose from—Wu, Madame, Rhys, Paul. Hell—the monk Wei Lin. What kind of bastard ruins an innocent woman's life hundreds of years before she's even born?

"Excuse me. Is that my sea breeze?"

Lifting my head, I frowned at the overly blond woman pointing at the glass in my hand. "Yeah."

She tipped her chin with attitude. "Think I can have it?"

I held on to it for a few seconds longer before I slowly pushed it across the counter.

Flipping her hair, she gave me a dirty look, dropped a couple bills in front of me, snatched her drink, and turned to join her friends. But not before she mumbled, "Bitch."

Tu ch’i
flared, hitting me harder than before, as if it was punishing me for losing the scroll. I wrestled with it. By the time I was certain it wasn't going to break free, I was gripping the counter, breathing like I'd run to Ocean Beach and back.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. More of this and I was going to come apart.

After I shoved the money in the till. I pulled out my cell phone from under the counter and glared at it. Rhys had a way of making
tu ch’i
calm down. I could call him again. Ask him for help ...

But I'd already called, and he hadn't answered. Or called me back.

I threw the phone back on the shelf.

"You know that kind of treatment isn't conducive to keeping your electronics working for long," Carrie said as she slipped behind the counter.

"The sucky thing about cell phones is you can't slam them down." I kicked the shelf for good measure. "They don't give you as much satisfaction."

She laughed as she tied her apron around her waist. "Good thing I don't have a life and could come in to help you out. As edgy as you are tonight, you'll probably scare away the clientele."

"I'm not sure I see a problem," I grumbled.

"Not a problem, but a real shame. Especially when they're hotties like him." She jerked her chin at the entrance. "Darn, you get all the luck. He's headed straight for you. He didn't even glance at the half-naked girls to his right."

I looked to where she motioned. Inspector Rick Ramirez. What was he doing here? "He does want me."

Carrie's eyes lit up. "Really?"

I nodded. "For murder."

Moving away from her before she could ask me anything else, I met Ramirez halfway down the bar. Just as I was about to hit him with a clever remark,
tu ch’i
hit me—hard.

"Damn it." I hissed. It rolled over me like a ton of rocks. I turned around and breathed through it, but that helped less and less. I felt my fingers begin to vibrate, like the energy was going to escape from their tips. I kept my hands clenched until I felt less like the Incredible Hulk and more like me again.

"Ms. Sansouci? Everything all right?"

I turned to find the inspector's too-intelligent eyes studying me, concerned. I made an effort to smile. "Just peachy. Get you something to drink?"

He didn't look like he believed me, but he played along. "Shot of Patron, neat."

I raised my eyebrows. "Hardcore."

"I'm off duty."

No wonder he was without his coat and tie, his only concession to being casual. Oh—and the first button on his dress shirt was undone.

His gaze narrowed as he studied me. "You look pale."

"The fog makes it hard to tan." I pulled the bottle down from the shelf. I sloshed a large pour into a glass and slid it across the counter. Maybe if he got tipsy, he wouldn't ask me questions I didn't want to answer. "Do you always hang out in bars alone on your nights off?"

He lifted the glass and inhaled the scent. "Only if I think it'll lead to clues about a recent murder."

The ground rumbled below me. I held my breath.
Please
—
not now.
As if it heard me and wanted to show me who was boss,
tu ch’i
swelled and threatened to spill over for a second before it receded.

"Ms. Sansouci?"

Because I didn't want to deal with questions I couldn't answer, I redirected the conversation back to the matter at hand. "I don't know what else you think you'll find here. Unless you have a suspect here you're keeping an eye on."

"You aren't a suspect, if that's what you're asking." He toyed with the glass, his sharp gaze on me. "Should you be?"

I shrugged. I could play casual, too. "I don't seem to have a motive."

"There's that, isn't there." Picking up his glass, he stood up.

"Going away so soon?" I asked hopefully.

He eyed me suspiciously. "You're not so lucky. Just mingling."

Hoping to hear something related to the murder, or to catch something that would incriminate me? He may not have said it, but I could hear his intent loud and clear.

As I watched him walk away, another person walked into the bar. I didn't have to look to know who it was—my body went taut and tingly the second he stepped in the door.

Glaring, I waited with my hands on my hips as he approached the counter. "Thanks for returning my call," I said with not a small amount of sarcasm.

"I had to fly to Los Angeles on business this morning. I called the first chance I got this evening, but you were obviously at work. Check your phone." He studied me, a faint frown turning his lips down. Then he took my hand, flipped it over, and kissed the inside of my wrist. "That bad, is it, love?"

The sympathy in his voice nearly undid me. I jerked ray hand back and whirled around to grab the scotch off the shelf. I sloshed a hefty amount into Johnny's special crystal tumbler and slammed it in front of Rhys before I moved down the counter to help another patron.

Carrie stopped next to me, shaking a martini as she checked out Rhys. "Ask your British man if he has a brother. If his brother is even half as sexy, I'll be in heaven."

"He's not my British man," I mumbled as I pulled a beer.

"Right. I guess that's why you can't keep your hands off him whenever he comes in here."

"His
hands are always on
me."

She grinned. "Exactly."

My cheeks flushed. "Don't you have customers to serve?"

She laughed and skipped away to finish off the drink. I glanced at Rhys one more time before getting back to work.

But I was hyper-aware of him watching me. Even with the rush we had and all the customers crowding around the bar, I was conscious of his gaze trained on me. It annoyed me.

Actually, it turned me on, which annoyed me even more.

The only good thing was that
tu ch’i
submitted to his presence. Normally, that would have pissed me off, but I was just happy for the reprieve. It still seethed under the surface, but at least I didn't feel like it was going to burst free.

Once I'd helped everyone and had no other excuse, I steeled my spine and went to stand in front of Rhys. He eyed me over the rim of his scotch, casually, as if this were some sort of social call.

We both knew it wasn't.

I propped my hands on my hips. "If you're going to teach me to deal with
tu ch’i,
we need to establish boundaries."

"That's the problem, love." He lifted my hand and nipped the pad of my palm. "Our boundaries seem to be blurred."

"Excuse me, Ms. Sansouci. Could I get a refill?"

Ramirez. At a glance, he looked blank and polite. But I could see how carefully he calculated the scene.

"Coming right up." Withdrawing my hand from Rhys's, I poured another shot of tequila and slid it across the counter. He picked it up, eyeing me and Rhys the whole time, slowly drank it, dropped a bill in payment, and left with a chilly nod to me.

"A friend of yours?" Rhys asked.

"No."

He swirled his drink. "He wants something from you."

"Don't you all?" I retorted as I set the shot glass in the dirty bin.

"I'm asking for what will result in a mutually beneficial arrangement. He only wants to take from you."

I arched my eyebrows. "Would you care?"

"Do you want me to care?"

"All I want from you is to teach me how to control
tu ch’i."

He gaze intensified, almost as if he were trying to see inside my head. Finally he said, "Are you sure?"

The only thing I was sure of was that this was going to come back and bite me in the ass, but I nodded. "Yes."

Rhys held his hand out. His fierce expression dared me to take him on.

Why did I feel like I was making a pact with the devil? Despite myself, I shook it. I expected thunder and lightning on contact—maybe the building shaking—but only my mark tingled, a sparkle of pinpricks.

C
harming," Rhys said as he stepped over the threshold and into my hovel.

Frowning, I closed the door. I hadn't wanted to invite him here—I felt like I was letting a fox in the chicken coop. But I didn't have the scroll anymore, so at least I didn't have to worry about that.