Page 49 of Spooked

“You did that on purpose.”

Mr. Vale was unrepentant. “Did what?”

“Crept up behind me.”

His playful grin made me smile too. Who knew he had a sense of humour? His expression quickly grew serious again, but I knew what I’d seen.

“Purse shopping?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Just looking.”

“You like the red one?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Buy it.”

“No, no, it’s far too expensive. And I already have a purse, see?”

“Are you disobeying a direct order, Miss Adams?”

“Uh…”

He leaned in close, so close that his lips brushed my ear. I wasn’t prepared for the flood of heat between my legs, or for my knees to buckle the way they did.

“Buy the purse, Meera, and the shoes. Quickly. Then meet me at the gate.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

* * *

The New York branch of Nyx occupied a row of four converted brownstones in the Upper East Side. From the outside, there was no hint as to what might lie within, just a discreet entrance flanked by two topiary bay trees and a small brass plaque with a number on it. The real estate alone must have been worth millions.

But inside, what a mess. The laundry room was blackened with soot, and the twisted, melted hulk of the faulty machine gaped in a silent scream. The kitchen next door was unusable, the walls stained, the air thick with the stink of smoke. A professional cleaning crew was on the way, an electrician too, but their work would take several days.

Downstairs in the basement, temporary lights illuminated the three flooded rooms. Dirty water had run through the ceiling ducts and poured onto the soft furnishings. Carpet squelched underfoot.

“At least it only hit three of the private rooms.” Jarrod poked at a soggy mattress. “The bar escaped unscathed.”

Mr. Vale surveyed the damage. He seemed remarkably calm, considering. I gawked at the remains of the furnishings themselves—the huge wooden X screwed to one wall with a leather cuff dangling from each arm, the weird swing hanging from the ceiling, the squat little seat that looked a bit like the commode chairs we used in the hospital but undoubtedly wasn’t. I’d have to google that one.

Or perhaps not.

“We need to get everything dried out,” Mr. Vale said.

“I’ve hired ten dehumidifiers. They’ll be here”—Jarrod checked his watch—“in less than an hour. The guy’s dropping them off this evening as a favour.”

“And the dumpsters?”

“They’re arriving tomorrow morning.”

“How are the clients?”

“Okay, for the most part. One or two are unhappy. We’ve rerouted Congressman—” Jarrod glanced at me and raised an eyebrow, checking whether it was okay to mention names.

“It’s fine,” Mr. Vale told him.

“We’ve rerouted Congressman McCall to Virginia, and Bernie Mathis to Boston.” There was a Boston branch? I’d have to avoid that one. “Ted Cutter’s going to stay in LA and use the facilities there.”

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