A Bird Without Wings Read online

  The loose band of the mini slipped very low, the thrust of her hipbones the only thing keeping her decent. Making her completely irresistible was the total lack of self-consciousness, as if wholly unaware of the effect she was having on her new companion—and on Lucius, and at least a half dozen other men in the immediate vicinity.

  Testosterone and pheromones were rampant in the air. A little surge of male jostling in the crowd had the ranks closing as easy-pickings-Callie unwittingly became the centre of much masculine attention.

  “I love that they’ve restored the tin,” she was saying in that dreamy voice. “See how it gleams, even in the shadows? Tin ceilings were very popular once. Late-Victorian era. Much cheaper than plasterwork.”

  “You don’t say,” her closest admirer observed, plucking at a curl spiralling down her arm, knuckles brushing her skin. “I know a place where there’s a great ceiling. You could compare.”

  “Really?” Callie asked, very interested. “That sounds nice.”

  He means his bedroom, you naïve idiot!

  Lucius swallowed his temper. “Callie, time to go.”

  She looked at him, eyebrows curiously quizzical.

  Her companion considered Lucius reflectively, cautiously. “Is he the boss of you?” he taunted in her ear, but Lucius heard.

  “Oddly enough,” she chuckled, straightening from the bar, “he is.”

  Lucius met the man’s eyes, holding the challenging gaze, silently issuing a warning.

  After a short internal debate and with a resigned smile, the man backed down. “You’d better leash her,” he said wryly. “Can’t let all that out of your sight for too long.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement. Come on, Callie.” He took her hand and tugged.

  She fell against his chest, her head tipping back. Her lips quirked, amused, her grey eyes glowing with indulgent humour. “Okay. Down, Alpha.”

  How he managed not to strangle her in that moment would probably haunt him the rest of his life. But what he did do proved more efficient anyway, and far more enjoyable.

  He kissed her.

  It was sheer staking of claim, as unwise as landing himself in a fistfight over her. But he forgot that quickly as he cupped the back of her head in one hand and dropped a searing kiss on her lavish, parted lips.

  She tasted cocktail-sweet, smelled powdery-soft, and felt like heaven. An arm wound around his neck and her breasts smushed against his chest as she responded so tenderly; almost shy, almost innocent . . . but wicked and bold, too, meeting his tongue without hesitation when he took it too far for public consumption.

  Damn, the girl’s a firecracker.

  He pulled back quickly, meeting her darkened, lust-filled eyes. “We’re leaving.”

  She nodded mutely, and blushed as she glanced around at the audience, which had backed off. But apparently she had impeccable manners, for she glanced at the Adonis. “Bye,” she murmured to him breathlessly. “Sorry about the ceiling. Some other time?”

  The man laughed, shaking his head, raising his hands in a defensive gesture as Lucius sent him a no way in hell look. “Sure, doll.”

  “How’d he know my last name?” she mused as Lucius drew her through the crowd.

  “Holy crap,” he muttered, torn between yelling at her and laughing. Scraps over women were something for younger, more immature men. Didn’t stop him from wanting to plough his fist into the guy’s face, however.

  This was a complete catch-and-release situation. He had her, and he couldn’t keep her.

  They came out to the crowded, noisy street. Cruisers pushed through traffic, and police on horseback and bicycles patrolled the area, watching for breakdowns in control over the surging multitude. Tempers plied with drugs and alcohol could run short in the heat and excitement of the club district, and he plotted the easiest route to his car, warily eying a disintegrating situation just a few paces away. Keeping a firm grip on Callie, he cut a path through the melee, his sheer size demanding respect, his demeanour receiving it.

  “People really are scared of you, aren’t they?” she laughed as they jaywalked through bumper-to-bumper traffic across Richmond Street. “Where are we going?”

  “Home.” The alley was the fastest route to the lot where he had parked, and he took her down it, confident that it was safe enough, for it was well lit and reasonably well travelled.

  “Home,” she echoed languorously, trotting to keep up. “Why are we walking so fast?”

  “Because I’m in a hurry,” to get her out of his sight. “Where do you live?”

  There was a hesitation; a shuffling of muddled emotions on her features. “Leslieville,” she replied, her brows knitting as if confused.

  Good. It was close. It shouldn’t take too long to get out of the core, since it was still early—just past eleven. Adelaide to Eastern . . . or take the Gardiner?

  Considering logistics of getting her home was far preferable to thinking about what he’d rather do with her. He could not go there. Couldn’t hold her in sexual disdain just to back-pedal over a new hair style and contemporary clothing. Wounded pride over being so blind didn’t quite cover the tangle of emotions in his head.

  He unlocked his car remotely as they approached.

  “I’m quite capable of doing this,” she objected as he hustled her into the passenger seat. “Hic.”

  Grimacing, he leaned across her in the tight confines of the Porsche to fasten her seatbelt.

  Big mistake.

  Her gentle, shallow breaths swept his ear and scurried down his neck, warming already over-warm flesh. His forearm grazed her breast, sensitising his skin to the hard button of her erect nipple, one of the pair he had been studiously avoiding looking at. Fumbling to help, her hand tangled with his, stroking with unintentional fire. A sidelong glance at her encountered her sweetly parted lips, and he remembered easily the flavour and texture of them. Oh, crap.

  The seatbelt clicked home. He rocked back on his heels in a crouch, leaning a hand on the doorframe for much-needed support, the other palming his face.

  She fussed with the strap, positioning it just-so between her breasts, squirming in the seat, tugging at her top, smoothing a hand over her naked thigh.

  “Callie.” His voice was husky with lust, and he cleared his throat. “Callie,” he repeated with his normal control and authority, which sounded shockingly cold all of a sudden. But cold was good right now. “Sit still. I’ll have you home soon and you can sleep it off.”

  Tremendously beautiful grey eyes regarded him sombrely. “Oh, that’s good news,” she murmured fuzzily, but somehow sarcastically.

  Shaking his head, he decided not to pursue that as he straightened. “Watch your fingers,” he instructed evenly and heard, just as the door swung closed:

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He stalked around to the driver’s side, muttering under his breath. Placing a palm on the roof, he calmed himself with an effort, thinking pure thoughts that had nothing to do with Callie, sex, or the blatant offerings of adorable young things who had no clue what they were doing to a man.

  She’s not that young, the evil side of his brain interrupted the altar-boy side. All that innocence was a guise, a decoy, a red herring like her frumpiness. In fact, she’s probably a complete slut. There’s no way she couldn’t know her own assets.

  So, why shouldn’t you take what’s offered?

  Because she was inexperienced. He didn’t know how he knew that was true, but he did. Virginity, while not probable, was possible; regardless, having sex a few times did not equate to experience. Callie Dahl was about as separated from the big, bad world as any he had ever met. Bad karma would get him if he did anything to change that.

  Nope. Drive her home, see her inside—no, no, just to the door, he quickly re-jigged the plan—say goodnight and good karma would be his.

  “If only you believed in karma,” he muttered, and wrenched the door open.

  Her scent poured out onto the hot night air, that powd
ery and alluring fragrance, as innocent as she. He gave a quietly laughing groan, tilting his head back to glare at the massive loom of buildings surrounding the lot. He was in so much trouble.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m not drunk,” she enunciated as the Porsche manoeuvred through an alleyway to access Adelaide Street. “Hic. Damn. I’m not.”

  “Let me know if you feel sick,” he retorted, merging into traffic. “Remember your address?”

  She recited it clearly, with enough irritation for him to gather that she was less than pleased with him.

  Good. Be mad. Stay away from me.

  “All right,” he said briskly. “Since you didn’t get my voicemail, let’s recap. I’m picking you up tomorrow, but I’ll call first to make sure you’re awake and functioning. My parents are expecting us for brunch. I’m throwing you to the wolves, so be prepared.”

  “W—hic—wolves?”

  A brief second of internal debate had him discarding the complicated and rather embarrassing explanation of the Ransome Family’s living arrangements. “Many of the family will be there, all eager to put their two-cents in. I assume you’re ready for this meeting since you asked for it?”

  “Very ready.” She laughed, hiccupped again, and said coolly: “When I book overtime hours for today, do I get to include the whole evening, or just this conversation?”

  This reminder of their boss-employee relationship earned her a barely audible growl. Silence fell; traffic thinned as they left the core, streetlights flickering through the cool quiet of the car. He spared her a glance to find her expression neutral—barring the turned-down corners of her mouth.

  Almost there. A few more minutes, and he would be rid of her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly as the car turned onto Queen Street a few blocks from her home.

  About time, was his first thought. But she had nothing for which to apologise. It was hardly her fault, anything that had happened tonight. It was he who had behaved badly.

  “Don’t be silly,” he rebuked gently. “You had a couple of drinks. Not a big tragedy.”

  He felt rather than saw her gaze move to him. “That wasn’t what . . .” her voice trailed off. “Never mind. Next left,” she said dully.

  He turned up the one-way street, concerned about her change in mood. Of course, if the alcohol were wearing off, it could just be the letdown from the buzz.

  The west side of the street was lined with legally parked cars, but since he was not staying (not staying, not staying), he had zero qualms about a brief legal breach by parking in front of the late-Victorian semi where she lived. Exiting the vehicle, he walked around to help her out—more out of a certainty that she required assistance rather than his ingrained manners . . . which admittedly had taken a hike most of the night.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, pulling her elbow out of his light grip as she dug for her keys in her small purse. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “Come on, Cal,” he smiled tolerantly, taking her keys from her, ignoring with an effort the brief feel of her warm skin. “I’ll make sure you get inside, and then I’ll go.”

  “No! No.” She heaved a breath and chased him up the crumbling walk. “I’m fine,” she hissed, glancing nervously at the front bay window.

  “Afraid of waking roommates?”

  “Landlady. And neighbour.”

  He glanced at the faded nametags on the set of buzzers. “You’re on top?”

  Oh, the images that evoked. He jammed the key into the lock on the heavy front door and turned it, clenching his jaw.

  “Yes, the attic.” She snatched her keys back as he pushed the door open. “Thank you. Goodnight.” She wriggled past him and pushed the door to.

  Several things hit him at once, aside from the smell of cats. The dark entryway, the broken overhead light, the threadbare carpet just visible in the glow of the streetlamp, the rotted boards of the veranda, the peeling paint on the doorjamb and window frame, the general shoddiness of the house and yard compared to the tidy appearance of the attached semi and neighbouring houses.

  His palm hit the closing door with a thud. “I’ll walk you up,” he said gruffly, and entered.

  Dejection settled over her as she turned with a sigh and led the way up narrow stairs to the dark, second-floor landing, past a closed door marked 2 to another, marked 3.

  Casting nervous eyes towards the second-floor apartment, she fumbled the keys. Taking them from her, he opened the flimsy door. The lock was so insubstantial he could have wrenched the door open without unlocking it.

  “Please go,” she whispered furiously.

  He scanned the shadowy attic stairs. “Where’s the light? You shouldn’t go up in the dark.”

  “Switch on the left,” she intoned.

  Flipping the switch, he was surprised when a strand of miniature white lights lit up, wound around the length of the stair handrail, casting subtle glow and sufficient light on the hardwood stairs. The surface needed refinishing, but it was polished thoroughly and immaculately clean; at least it wasn’t covered in tatty, filthy carpet as the other flight was.

  “Please,” she murmured piteously. “I’m fine. Please go.”

  The scrape of a deadbolt sounded and she, shockingly, cursed. Grabbing at his arm, she quietly closed the door behind them, silently turning the lock. He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “My neighbour is . . . nosy.”

  Bodies brushing in the close confines of the narrow stairwell, he looked down at her, hearing her quick breath, smelling her soft scent, seeing the gloss of her eyes.

  Tears? Why was she so upset?

  “Hey,” he murmured, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb, tilting her head back as his fingers hooked under her jaw. “It’s all right, doll.”

  Her eyes slivered and, with a huff, she pulled away from him and went up the stairs.

  That skirt was very short.

  He followed her, ignoring the little voice in his head that demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing, because he was absolutely sure of what he was doing—he was watching her delectable anatomy sashay its way up the stairs ahead of him.

  And damn, that was a short skirt. What man wouldn’t follow that?

  The bachelor apartment was hot.

  As she opened the front dormer windows fully and switched on an electric fan, he quickly assessed the space in the semi-light. A good-sized bathroom led off the top of the stairs, and a nightlight in a wall plug illuminated the miniscule kitchenette, in which a hotplate (damn, when had he last seen one of those?) and a toaster oven took up most of the room on the counter next to a small sink. The fridge was only a bar fridge, and supported a piece of butcher block.

  The main room had a small wardrobe, a tiny chest of drawers, a futon bed opened flat on a wood frame, and a small, ancient CRT television (it had an external converter, for pity’s sake!) resting on a milk crate. Everything was very tidy—even the soldiered row of carrier bags along one wall that evidenced that day’s shopping—and apparently very clean; though hot, it smelled fresh and powdery, rather like its occupant.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered, brushing past him to enter the bathroom, the door closing with a decisively audible click.

  Investigating the space, he frowned as he almost cracked his head on the sloped ceiling. Surely she could afford much better than this. It must be dirt cheap. Probably saved a lot of money.

  Well, obviously. What was she saving for? Maybe a few more shopping trips. But he seriously doubted anything that frivolous. The scattered, messy frump of yesterday morning was apparently, in reality, a frugal, practical neat freak with a degree of fashion sense.

  So what had that been, that awkward display in his office?

  There were no personal items he was accustomed to seeing in women’s apartments; no photos or knickknacks, no jewellery on the chest of drawers, not even a stuffed animal (he didn’t know why women had those; nothing lowered the male libido like stuffed animals). The f
rugal, practical neat freak was decidedly lacking in sentiment.

  And then he noticed on a floating shelf near the front windows, a pink porcelain piggybank, with a chipped ear and broken tail, a pale eye glaring balefully at him like an affronted chaperone.

  His shoe connected with something hard, and he looked down at the laptop on the floor next to the futon. Clunky old thing; had to be pushing ten years old. The converter remote rested on it.

  No stereo, though there were a few CDs of wildly varied musical styles—from classical to hip hop; but even the modern selections weren’t current—on the shelf with the piggybank. Maybe a half-dozen books. That was all. It was a bare-bones life. And whatever the reason for it, it demonstrated a disciplined mind to forgo the tempting niceties on which the rest of the world maxed out their credit cards.

  The most extravagant, frivolous item was the strand of twinkle lights in the stairwell.

  She re-entered the room, hovering tensely, the bathroom light casting her shadow dramatically across the floor in a frame of pale amber. “Thanks, Mr. Ransome, for seeing me home.”

  He much preferred being called ‘Luscious’ by her. Even ‘Lucius’ would do. But her return to formality reminded him of his position and just how much he had abused it this night.

  “And, well . . .” her voice trailed. “I don’t have much to offer aside from water. Tea, I guess.”

  No, thanks, I’ll be going now. “Water would be great. I’ll wash up.”

  “Please do,” and stepped into the kitchenette, not bothering with the main light.

  Closing the bathroom door, he glared at his reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror.

  Digging myself in deep here.

  She was a puzzle, and for him, all puzzles demanded solutions.

  Can’t possibly leave until it gets sorted!

  A survey of the bathroom found it not at all like those of the women he knew. No clutter of cosmetics, no candles, or froufrou bits of anything. And in the bright light, it appeared immaculate, as if dust would fear for its life in such a space. Spotless plain white towels that were not new hanged neatly on a chrome rail, and a thin cotton robe was draped on a plastic hook attached to the door—it all spoke of deliberate privation for, with her salary, she was not poor.