He stood with his back to her, staring out the wall of windows that faced the mountains to the west of Denver. “Popcorn? Really?”
Wow. He must be off his game if that’s all he had.
She walked on bare feet across the plush carpet to her desk. She’d gotten up with such haste, she’d forgotten her damn shoes.
He turned, clearly about to speak, then, in slow motion his gaze dropped to her unshod feet and remained there. Was that a twitch at the corner of his mouth?
Double damn. She hated being wrong-footed. Literally. Delilah ignored him as she went to her desk and snatched the black Louis Vuiton stilettos from underneath.
“Can I get you water?” she asked as she came back around, waving at a more comfortable space nearer the floor-to-ceiling windows that included a rustic-looking leather couch she’d spent more than one night sleeping on and matching leather chairs.
“No, thank you.” He hesitated, seeming to have to prepare himself. “I need your help.”
Delilah paused with her ass halfway to the couch. He did not just say that. The Alasdair Blakesley, who despised her involvement in anything magic related, had not just said those words.
She straightened. “You need my help?” she repeated, deadpan.
“Yes.”
“You need my help,” she said again, just to be certain.
“Let’s not make a big deal of it.”
Like she’d pass up this opportunity. “Naiobe,” she raised her voice and called out. “Definitely bring the popcorn. You’re never going to believe this…”
He crossed his arms with a baleful glare. “Hilarious. I’ve never laughed so hard.”
“Really?” She blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “That’s a surprise. I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.”
He clamped his lips shut.
Score one for her. Because there was no way she believed this request was real. This had to be a test, or his version of some gods-awful joke. But she’d play along for a minute. This night was her most despised of the year, so even a round or two with Alasdair was a welcome distraction.
Seating herself without waiting for him, when he didn’t bother to join her, she slipped her shoes onto her feet, smoothed her cream-colored skirt over her thighs, then crossed her ankles and settled her hands primly in her lap, fingers laced in a subtle steepling.
Based on the way his gaze flicked to the movement followed by a tightening of his lips, he got the message. She was in charge here.
“So…you need my help?” She couldn’t help saying it one more time.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” he muttered.
“It wasn’t mine.”
“Gods above, will you please listen?” Alasdair snapped.
Whoa. Delilah stilled, taking a closer look.
On the outside he appeared his usual impeccable self. Conservative black custom suit tailored to perfection to his broad shoulders, trim hips, and powerful legs. Jet black hair cropped short, though slightly longer on top, swept to the side, not a follicle out of place. Cleanly shaven jaw which, already sharply angled, appeared closer to the set of granite today.
A tell. She doubted many ever got to see the man this riled.
When she sat quietly and waited, Alasdair’s eyes narrowed as though he didn’t quite trust her. In a casual move at odds with the tension riding his body, he slipped his hands into his pockets and stared at her with bright blue eyes.
Delilah mentally sorted through a list of her recent clients in her head, along with a quick rehash of her last few encounters with this man. What in heaven’s name had brought him to her in such a state?
Granted, kicking him out of the dance club in Miami where she’d been helping a particularly troubled mermaid, she might’ve gone a teensy bit overboard making her point. No doubt he hadn’t appreciated finding himself teleported to Siberia.
That had been over a week ago.
Thank the powers that Alasdair didn’t know why she’d done that. He’d touched her arm. A casual move, only her body had lit up like fireworks at the New Year. From that one tiny, ridiculous contact. Sending him away had been an act of sheer desperation.
The most frustrating part was, she couldn’t See him. See his future or how it impacted hers. See where this troubling wanting when it came to him was going to end. Her most secret and precious gift, her ability as a Seer, allowed her to help her clients in ways no one else ever could.
But Alasdair Blakely was a blank. A black hole of nothing. That never happened except around vampires and ghosts, because, technically, they were dead. He wasn’t one of those.
Meanwhile, he stood statue-still, continuing to stare at her.
Delilah sighed. “Alasdair. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me why you’ve come—”
“I have a demon problem.” He practically bit off each word.
Every ounce of levity left her body in a whoosh. She tried not to show by even a whisper of a twitch how that statement hit her. No, no, no. Not demons.
“What kind of demon problem?” she asked slowly, proud that her voice didn’t give away the sudden tightening in her chest, as though a yeti’s pet elephant sat on top of her, cutting off her air.
“Multiple reports, twenty in the last week, of rage and unleashed magic resulting in injuries,” he said. “No deaths so far, but it’s only a matter of time.”
Interesting. “How do you know for sure what you’re dealing with?” Please don’t be demons. Anything but those. “It could be any number of—”
“My assistant, Agnes, has been possessed. Definitely demon. I’ve…had a run-in with a demon before.”
Well…fuck.
Alasdair slid into the chair opposite her. Even projecting his usual imperturbable disposition, tension was coming off him in tangible waves. She was surprised the man wasn’t vibrating with it or manifesting magic to bleed it off. Not that she’d blame him.
Demons. It would have to be those, wouldn’t it?
Delilah resisted the urge to uncross and recross her legs under the intentness of his gaze. “I’m sorry, but I don’t deal with demons. Hard rule.”
His thick brows snapped down over his eyes in an impressive scowl. “You don’t deal—” He bit off the words. “What you mean is you don’t help witches.”
She pressed her lips together over defensive words that wanted to tumble out, limiting herself to a narrowing of her eyes. Ever off-balance around him in the most frustrating ways. Anyone else, and she wouldn’t give two figs for ruffling feathers. She’d never experienced any desire to explain her actions or defend herself before. Why now? And why to him? “You know that’s not true, or I wouldn’t have helped Rowan Masters.”