Playing with Fire. Gena Showalter

      “Relax.” His voice was so soft and soothing, I barely heard him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

      Liar! Why else would he be here? My panic doubled, and I groped the bedsheets for a weapon. Of course I found nothing more menacing than a few feathers from my pillow. Like those would stop a freaking dust mite.

      The man crouched beside me, putting us at eye level. I studied his eyes so I could give a description to the cops, not because they momentarily hypnotized me. His irises were a work of art. Dark blue branched from his pupils and blended with the lighter blue.

      “I need to ask you some questions, Belle.”

      “And I need you to leave, “ I said, weak but determined. “Now.”

      Ignoring my demand, he asked anyway. “Do you know how you got sick?”

      “I don’t have any money, and my husband will be home at any minute.”

      “You don’t have a husband. Baby, stop and think for a minute. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so by now. I’m with the CDC, and I just need to know about your illness.”

      I shook my head to clear it, trying to understand. “Centers for Disease Control?” Okay, that made a little sense. And he had had plenty of time to hurt/molest me, but he hadn’t. Still. How had he gotten inside my apartment? How had he found out I was sick? How did he know I wasn’t married? “Do you have any ID?”

      He flashed a badge, and the action reminded me of Pretty Boy. “Believe me now?” he asked.

      “Maybe, “ I whispered. “What’s wrong with me? Am I going to die?”

      “There’s a chance.”

      There was a chance? Seriously? My stomach bottomed out, and my jaw fell open. Why couldn’t he have lied to me and let me have a few minutes of blissful ignorance? “You’re really with the Chronically Diabolic Cockwad association, aren’t you?” I muttered.

      His lips twitched. “Yes, maybe I am, at that.” He held up the walkie-talkie again. “Subject is alert and talking, lucid at last. Do you know how you got sick?”

      Silence.

      “Belle, do you know how you got sick?”

      “What, you’re talking to Subject now?”

      “Yes.”

      I shrugged, the action only a slight lifting of my shoulders. “The normal way, I guess. A naughty little virus entered my body and started playing Russian roulette with my immune system.”

      His brows cocked. “Subject is exhibiting a strong sense of humor.”

      “Subject is getting pissed.” I used the last of my strength to knock the walkie-talkie out of his hand. My arm collapsed at my side as the stupid black box landed on the floor with a thump. “What kind of virus do I have? How long do I have before I … you know, kick it?”

      “Kick it?” His lush, kissable lips dipped into a frown as he bent to pick up the box. “Do you know anyone else who has this type of sickness?” he asked, ignoring my questions. “Someone you’ve been in contact with in the last few days?”

      Someone I’ve been in contact with. Ohmygod! I sucked in a breath. Sherridan. And my dad. Had my dad contracted this horrible, probably-going-to-kill-me disease? I’d visited him just two—or was it three?—days ago. He’d seemed fine, but with his weak heart he wouldn’t be able to fight off an infection this strong. I bit back a sob, my throat burning.

      “I need to call my dad, “ I cried, “and find out if he’s okay.” I dragged myself to a sitting position, wincing as a tide of pain rolled through me. I stretched out my arm, the phone so near, yet so impossibly far. Couldn’t … quite … reach … Desperation flooded me, so intense I shook with it. “If he’s hurt—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Get over here, you stupid thing.

      The phone flew at me on a mighty gust of wind.

      As the force of the wind hit me, I was thrown backward. My body clanged against the headboard and the phone soared past me, past the bed, and thumped onto the carpet. Even the CDC man was knocked on his ass. Shocked, I looked at the phone, looked at the charred nightstand, looked at the phone, looked at the man. Wait. Charred nightstand? It had really burned? And where had that wind come from? Where the hell had that wind come from?

      Confusion, shock and disbelief rocked me, feeding off each other, almost rendering me speechless. Almost. “Did you see that? Did you feel that wind?”

      “Subject just asserted prototype four, “ he said into the walkie-talkie. A scowl darkened his features as he pushed to his feet. “I really wish you hadn’t done that, Belle.” He sounded resolute. A little angry. Completely menacing.

      “Done what? I didn’t do anything. Am I going crazy?” I covered my mouth with a shaky hand. “That’s it, isn’t it? The illness is making me insane.” I paused. “Do you know if my dad’s okay? Have you heard if David Jamison is sick?”

      “Damn it.” The man tangled a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Why the hell did you have to do that?” he said. “Why couldn’t you just have been sick, like I hoped?”

      “I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What just happened?”

      “Let me break it down for you, baby. You drank the formula, and now I have to neutralize you.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      NEUTRALIZE ME? I blinked, the words registering like a flashing red light. Neutralize me!

      The sexy man stalked toward me as he withdrew a syringe from his shirt pocket. His expression was detached as he uncapped the needle. My eyes widened in horror. I held out my hands, palms facing him in an effort to ward him off. A rush of adrenaline whipped through me.

      “Stop!” I shouted. “Don’t come any closer.” What had I done to make this man want to hurt me?

      To my shock, he stopped dead in his tracks. He frowned. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed his hands against the air, as if he were a mime trapped in an imaginary box. His features crinkled in confusion, and he pushed again, only to be blocked again. He scowled, anger chasing away his confusion.

      Short locks of his hair billowed around his temples—more wind? In my room?—and he slammed a fist into the air. Bang. Bang. The sound reverberated in my ears. My mouth fell open. He had hit a solid object—a solid object I couldn’t see. An invisible wall? No, not invisible, I realized in the next instant, my shock increasing. The air had somehow solidified, become dappled; opalescent waves rolled through it, rippling, sparkling with dust.

      That wasn’t possible. That simply wasn’t possible. As I watched, the man threw his shoulder against … whatever it was, rattling its very foundation. What. The. Hell? I’d never seen anything like it, never heard of anything like it. Was I hallucinating, after all? No, no. That couldn’t be right. This felt real. That meant the air was stopping him, really stopping him.

      “Drop the shield, Belle.” His tone was flat, as flat as his eyes.

      Shield? “Drop” it? That meant he thought I was controlling it. Was I? Impossible. No freaking way. Except, there was a strange sensation in my hands. An unnatural warmth. A bone-deep tingling. I’d never experienced either one before today. “If I do, “ I said, trying to sound confident, “you’ll neutralize me.”

      “We’ll talk, “ he said.

      “Hell, no. You’re not with the CDC, are you, you liar?” Escape, I thought then. This was my chance to escape.

      If I changed my body position, would I accidentally disrupt the … shield? I didn’t know, but I kept my hands lifted and out as I scanned the bedroom. Though I hadn’t noticed before, there was a black, ashy film