Page 11 of Seducing Hope (The Hope Legacy)

I’m too heated to continue a conversation about this. I pull my hand out of his grip and march to my bedroom to pack.

Tossing my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and clearing my king-sized bed of my laptop, Kindle, and journal, I throw my suitcase on the bed and consider my wardrobe. Given the majority of my time is spent running after demons and fighting, I own jeans, combats, leather pants, T-shirts, tank tops, a leather jacket, and a few dresses I wear on the rare occasions I go out—but nothing suitable for a boardroom. Duncan appears in my doorway, startling me. I can’t decide if he teleports or just moves fast. I asked him once. His response? “I have a knack of being in the right place at the right time.” Typical Duncan—dodging the question.

One of the most feminine statements I’ve ever spoken falls from my lips. “I have nothing to wear.”

Duncan leans against the doorframe and arches an eyebrow. “I came to tell you that your new wardrobe has already been delivered to the apartment.” My shoulders sag in relief. Wait, someone chose my clothes? Weird, but I can’t muster the energy to care.

Duncan studies my face. “Are you worried?”

“Of course not,” I grouch, throwing my arms in the air, “I can act like a professional business woman. Pretend I know what a merger is and understand the need for a legal team. I can sit in boardroom meetings for hours on end without falling asleep…” I groan. “This is ridiculous. I need to speak to Charlie. He’s finally lost his marbles.” I stomp forward. “Move,” I uncharacteristically snarl at Duncan.

He ignores me. “Aaden will guide you—you’ll be fine. Don’t be angry with Charlie; he wouldn’t have trusted you if he thought you couldn’t handle it.” He wraps his arms around me. I tense before relaxing into his warmth, taking a deep, steadying breath, and inhaling his unique scent of cinnamon, oranges, and fresh linens. His calmness strips away my anxiety and tension.

“Do you want me to come with you tonight?” he offers, resting his chin on my head.

I consider it. But if I’m going to pull this off, I need to be as independent, cool, and collected as possible. I bite my lip. “No, I’ll call if I need you.”

He pulls back and pins me with his stern eyes. “You better.”

Yeah, he didn’t need to work on his stares. He cups my face. “Don’t let your guard down. We don’t know who these people are, apart from dangerous. It’s possible they can read minds, and if they can read auras, they’ll find it odd you’re shielding, but it’s safer than them seeing it.”

Four years on, and we still have no real clue as to the meaning of my unicorn aura (I nickname everything). What we do know is supernaturals are drawn to it—maybe out of curiosity, maybe because they know something we don’t. Despite popular sci-fi fiction portrayals of mind reading as a common gift, in reality for humans, it’s rare. Given the business we’re in, we have a small concentration of people with this gift: Duncan, Uncle Charlie, and Aaden.

Duncan places a chaste kiss on my forehead and walks out. Three seconds later, I stick my head around the door to say goodbye, but he’s already disappeared down the long, stone-walled corridor. My money is on teleportation.

I chuck the essentials in my suitcase, including my journal. I use it to write down my strong feelings and thoughts to help my mind deal with them, making it easier to shield my aura. I lean on my suitcase, stuff in the protesting contents, and wrestle with the zipper until it’s closed. Sighing, I take one last look at my personal sanctuary, already mourning its temporary loss.

In the garage, I meet Aaden, Uncle Charlie, Jack, and Zee, who I shoot a ‘you better behave’ look. He gives me an innocent ‘what, me?’ face, and I let out a derisive snort. Yeah, right. As if he didn’t have trouble with a capital T written all over him. Despite our constant butting heads, I begrudgingly admit I trust him implicitly with my life.

Jack stands beside Uncle Charlie with a scowl that matches his clouded aura. Charlie barks some final instructions while standing with his arms crossed in a defensive posture, clearly anticipating a fight. I don’t have the energy for the battle he’s expecting, so I stroll toward the car, my suitcase wheels whirling against the concrete floor. I sense his guilt and almost turn back. But he needs to feel the pain, too. Pausing at the open trunk of the car, I begin to lift my suitcase. I groan as my muscles protest, still sore from my earlier body-lifting excursion. Zee sidles up to me and, with little effort, drops it in the trunk. I turn to thank him, but he’s already getting in the driver’s seat; sometimes that man surprises me. I sit in the passenger seat, and Aaden does some final preparation on his laptop in the rear.

Resting my chin in my hand, I gaze out the window as the familiar buildings of the business park recede, then the lush green outskirts of Seattle fly past, giving way to excessive traffic and steel structures that dominate the skyline, darkening the streets and judging those below like looming gods. Aaden and Zee remain quiet. Drawing in the heavy, clogged air, my lungs weigh down with every breath, and a nervous fluttering in my stomach forewarns me of the danger we are willingly walking into.

Chapter Four

Natia

Tauruses are stable, possessive, and stubborn. They don’t like change, and they need to feel secure.

Stepping out of yet another black SUV, a valet takes the car keys from Zee, and a cute bellboy named Mark with dimples and curly, chestnut hair takes care of our luggage. “Good evening, Miss Waterford. The apartment is ready for you.”

Zee raises his eyebrows. “Looks like we’re expected.”

“Yeah, my grandfather will have called ahead to prepare the apartment.”

Aaden helps Mark load the suitcases on the trolley. “They know who you are?”

I nod. “My grandfather is the owner.”

Zee hands me the purse I’d left on the back seat. “Ah, owner of the apartment.”

“No,” I say, jogging up the curved steps toward the lobby, “owner of the building.”

My boots click along the opulent marble floor with elegant, gold, decorative edging. The scents of lilies and roses tickle my nose from the tall, fresh floral displays outlining the spacious oval lobby, creating a splash of color on the otherwise soft, neutral backdrop.

Warm light dances around the room from the central demanding, grandiose, antique crystal chandelier restored by my grandfather when he bought the building. I step around the sofas positioned underneath it to reach the curved oak desk at the rear of the lobby.

An elegant lady in her forties wearing a stylish ivory blouse and navy pantsuit greets us. “Welcome, Miss Waterford. It’s lovely to see you again.”

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