His answering grin was serpentine, a viper about to strike. “Hark! She lives.” He ambled forward, his head cocked to the side as he studied her. “That’s probably the most impassioned tone I’ve heard from you yet, Chase.” Before she could give him another, his expression hardened. “I have seniority, thus I am the lead on this team. You do as I say.”
She gave him a false smile guaranteed to annoy him. “I believe I was accepted into the SOS before you were, thus I am the one with seniority.”
He stepped closer, surrounding her with the vibrant energy of his body and the appealing scent of him. By rights he ought to have an irritating scent, like lye soap. But no, Jack Talent’s scent was instantly recognizable, yet drifting off before she could properly dissect it. Which made her want to lean closer and inhale deeply. Most annoying. And quite dangerous.
Mary tilted her head back and met his gaze. They glared at each other for a long moment before Talent’s clipped response broke their standoff. “You joined as Poppy Lane’s assistant. Should we be in need of secretarial work, Mistress Chase, I’ll be happy to let you lead.”
The dirty rotter.
He nodded as if she’d finally come to her senses. “Know your place, Chase, and we will not have a problem.”
Mary set her fists on her hips. “I am not doing as you say.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I am not.”
“Oh, yes, you are—” Talent broke off with a curse. Close as they were, the dark stubble around his mouth was visible in the morning sun. “Christ almighty, we are not in the nursery.”
“I agree. Kindly desist in behaving like an infant.”
His jaw clenched, red washing over his cheekbones. “So help me, Chase—”
Mary turned away from him, loving the way he snarled at her departure. “We have interviews to conduct, and the day is waning with all this posturing.” Her skirts swished about her ankles as she put a bit more sway into her walk. “Come along, Master Talent.” This time she used his title as a headmaster might and was rewarded with another blue curse from behind her.
Confident that he’d stomp along after her, she jumped only a little when his voice suddenly buzzed at her ear, the heat of his breath raising gooseflesh upon her skin. “It will take more than the sway of your arse to distract me, Chase.” Then he was ahead of her, once more leading the way and whistling a familiar tune.
Mary halted in the act of following him. “Are you whistling ‘Row Your Boat’?” Incredulity had her choking out the question. She detested the nickname he pinned on her, because he thought of her as a “merry bit of fluff.”
Talent’s happy little tune broke off mid-note, and his sly gaze slid over her for a moment. “Why, I do believe I am.” He turned his head back around, and his step grew lively. His pitch-perfect baritone lilted over the quiet street. “ ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”
Mary was contemplating murder by cranial bludgeoning when Talent gave her a look over his shoulder. A strange gleam sparkled in his eyes, but before she could question it, the light around him distorted, and his features blurred. Quick as a blink, he shifted.
“What do you think?” His voice was more gravelly now, an older man’s. “Am I the picture of a non-threatening yet authoritative inspector?”
Longer of face, wrinkled, bushy-browed, and sporting an impressive handlebar mustache of grizzled brown, Talent appeared a man of fifty years. He’d kept his height and basic form, for he could not alter his clothing, but a bit of a paunch stretched out his grey waistcoat.
“To the letter,” she admitted. “But why?”
The crow’s feet around his now-blue eyes deepened. “I have a suspicion that this household will be more accommodating to respectable old John Talent than scowling, yet undeniably charming, young Jack Talent.” His true grin on another’s face was a strange sight indeed. “With a blind niece in tow. God help me.”
Charming, was he? Mary barely refrained from rolling her eyes, but then paused. “Is your given name truly John?”
He touched the brim of his hat with a deferential nod to her, but the humor had dimmed in his eyes. “John Michael Talent, at your service, miss.” He glanced back at the door they were to knock on. “For all of one hour. Then back into the shadows he goes.”
Something dark and ugly rode in the undercurrents of his tone.
“Do you not like your given name?” She really ought to curb her curiosity in regard to him, but could not seem to do so.
“I hate it.” Then he stalked forward, leaving her to catch up.
The housekeeper answered the door. “The house is not receiving visitors at this time.” She moved to close the door when Talent stuck his boot in.
“We are not visitors, madam. We are investigators here to discuss the crime.”
The housekeeper’s thin face paled. “The both of you?” Her gaze landed flat on Mary, and she balked again.
Hubris was the damnedest thing, Mary reflected bitterly while refusing to look at Talent.
To his credit, he leveled the housekeeper with a stern, unyielding look. “The crime scene, if you please, madam.”
Her gaze darted about the empty street, then back to Talent. “Come.”
She led them into the front parlor. When Mrs. White had left, a man entered the room and frowned. “I am Mr. Rush, a longtime friend of Mr. Pierce. I am here to assist in closing up the house.” Rush was a man of about thirty, well groomed and so stiff-backed that it was a wonder he did not have a poker stuffed up his arse. “How may I help you?”
“I am Inspector John Talent, and my partner Miss Chase.” He flashed his credentials. Official-looking documents designed to impress and quell inquiry.
Rush’s gaze flicked to Mary, and his expression darkened. “Partner?”
Frankly, Mary was now as surprised as Rush. What had happened to “blind niece”?
“I’d rather you had not arrived so close to calling hours,” Rush said. “It is most indelicate. But I suppose there is no help for it now.”
“You plan to receive callers on such a day?” Talent asked.
“Well, no.” Rush frowned. “It is merely the principle of you being here during an hour in which callers might be driving past the house.”
“Can’t see how they’d know we are here,” Talent muttered as he pulled out a small notebook and pencil. Likely he didn’t need them, but he’d clearly decided to act the part of a proper investigator. “Who discovered Mr. Pierce?”
Rush clearly wanted acknowledgment for his little chastisement, but he answered. “That would be Mrs. White.”
Talent scribbled something down, and Mary glanced at his pad, stifling a laugh as she read the words: Look into the prat’s background—Mrs. White’s too. He pocketed the notebook. “We’ll need to speak with her, then. And view the crime scene.”
Again, Rush’s gaze darted to Mary. “Of course, Inspector.” Then he gave her the condescending look one employs with an ignorant child. “If you’ll wait here, miss. I’ll have tea sent in.”
“Miss Chase shall be accompanying me.”
Rush’s thin nostrils flared, then pinched. “A crime scene is no place for a lady.”
“Try not to view me as such at the moment, Mr. Rush.” She moved nearer and caught his gaze. Only a moment more, and he’d be hers. But he broke the connection.
“Believe me, miss”—cool grey eyes traveled up and down her form in a way that made her skin prickle—“that shall not be hard. Regardless—”
And that is when Talent’s temper broke. He stepped closer to her, his body not quite shielding, but aligning itself as if he would, given further provocation. Dark clouds of irritation twisted his features, a gesture familiar to her, even though he wore the face of another man.
“Here is what shall happen.” Talent’s tone was iron. “You shall turn around, walk out of this room, and collect Mrs. White, who shall answer any and all of our questions. And then we shall view the body.” His gaze bore into Rush. Though he was now older and softer about the middle, Talent’s physical presence was undeniable. “Or I shall haul your arse down to the magistrate so that you can explain why you have interfered with an official investigation.”
All color fled Rush’s face, and his thin mustache quivered with outrage. He made no move to answer. Talent’s setdown had rendered him frozen.
Talent’s expression turned bland. “One foot in front of the other, Rush.”
Really, Mary thought, as she laid a hand upon the irate Mr. Rush, Talent had no sense of delicacy whatsoever. Upon feeling her touch, Rush glowered down at her, and Mary locked eyes with him and let her full power go. The effect was instant, and the man’s body went lax and warm. She gave him a little smile. “You will do as the inspector says, then you shall go find yourself a nice cup of tea.”
“Tea sounds lovely,” Rush murmured, gazing down at her with something akin to adoration.
“Yes, doesn’t it now?” She gave him a gentle pat. “And when you have finished your tea, you shall have no memory of me.”
“No memory.” He nodded in an absent-minded way.
“Lovely.” Mary gestured to the door. “Now off you go, Mr. Rush.”
Rush ambled off as though in a fog. Perhaps it was because GIM were not as physically strong as other supernaturals that Adam had sought to give them other methods of defense, but whatever the reason, a GIM had the power to beguile a person into doing her bidding by simply locking gazes and willing it so.
The moment the door closed behind Rush, Talent sneered. “I swear to all that’s unholy, Chase, if you ever come after me with those GIM eyes, I’ll…” He faltered there, and she laughed lightly.
“You’ll what? You wouldn’t even remember.” Mary would never use her ability on Talent; it wouldn’t be sporting to best him in that manner. But he needn’t know that.