Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“But let me first say,” she goes on. “If you’re going to warn me about the evils of Jamie, I’m a big girl.”
I hadn’t planned on discussing him, but since she brought it up… “Are you interested?”
She shrugs. “Why do you care?”
The possibility drives me mad. I’ve never been jealous of such a wanker. Hell, I’ve never been jealous, period.
Splendid. A new low…
I have to stifle this feeling. Revealing it would be a match on kindling, since I suspect Sydney is attracted to me, too. Still, I must have latent masochistic tendencies because the urge to tell her in excruciating detail exactly how I want her in my bed, her nails in my back, screaming my name, bombards me. But I can’t get distracted, or I’ll never find Anka. And my brother will pass to his nextlife.
“It’s none of my business, I grant you. But you can do better.”
Sydney cocks her head. “Are you offering?”
My heart launches into a furious rhythm. Every muscle tenses. She can’t possibly know how close she is to feeling her desk against her back as I pin her under me.
“I’m merely pointing out that you’re a beautiful, talented woman. You deserve more than Jamie.”
Sydney studies me from beneath her sooty lashes. “Why do you care?”
“If he turns out to be an axe murderer, I’m out of a job.”
She rolls her eyes. “Prat. I’m leaving. On Monday, we’ll continue with the magical battle story. I should have more details by then.”
“Are you convinced it’s real, then?”
She shrugs. “Anything is possible. But even if it’s not, it’s a fantastic story, and readers are eating it up, which makes Holly happy”
My gut tightens. “Will you be talking to your source over the weekend?”
“It depends on how willing she is to talk.”
I need to know if Anka is her source almost as much as I fear Sydney’s columns will incite Mathias’s wrath. “I have a great deal of experience at extracting information from interview subjects. My military background, you know. If you bring me along—”
“No. I’m not even certain she’ll emerge from hiding.”
“I’ll protect her, if that’s her concern.” And you.
Sydney waves me away. “Against magic? You can’t. But this conversation has me wondering… If you have so much experience in the States working for a ‘reputable’ paper, why are you squatting in the gutter at Out of this Realm?”
Clever. Of course she’s questioning my cover.
“My brother is gravely ill. I don’t know how long he’ll need me, and a man has to make a living.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
Explaining mate mourning to a human? A definite no-no. “His doctors aren’t certain, so I may be here for some time. I could be very beneficial to you.”
“Unless you’re offering me more than pictures, you can’t. Stay away from my magical war story. That’s final.” She grabs her purse and the book, then gestures me out of her office. “See you Monday.”
Chapter
Seven
After Sydney’s exit, I need a plan B—fast.
I need to ask Aquarius how she acquired the tome.
Five minutes. I’ll give Sydney that long to visit the loo, say her goodbyes, and leave the old building.
While I wait, I send the picture I snapped of the book to Bram.
Moments later, the wizard texts back.
Bingo! Grab it.
As if it’s that simple…
Too impatient to wait, I pop by Aquarius’s cubicle. But she’s gone. Lights out, hippie tie-dye coat off its hook. I never thought to ask where she was taking her holiday or when she’d return. Damn it.
I wince against an oncoming headache.
Plan C, it is. I’ll focus on Sydney.
Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, I head nonchalantly down the hallway. Sydney’s office is clear, laptop shut down and lights off. Good.
If the woman refuses to take me when she meets her source, I’ll find another way to learn the woman’s identity. That’s top priority. Bram would disagree…but so bloody what? If Anka is Sydney’s source, this might be my only chance of finding my brother’s mate, bringing her home, and restoring his sanity.
Inside Sydney’s office, I shut the door. Darkness envelops me. The November sun sets much earlier in London than my adopted home in Texas. Though I grew up in the UK, I’ve forgotten how long the nights can be. It’s just past five and pitch black, so I don’t dare turn on the lights. Instead, I flick on my phone’s flashlight and block the light with my body.
Sydney often jots thoughts on little pieces of paper. Where would she keep those notes?
I open a few drawers. Plastic spoons, snack crackers, chewing gum, a calculator, lots of red pens, and paper clips by the dozens. Some old news articles, now yellowing, about nothing of importance. I find zero in her handwriting—no addresses. Nothing that might lead me to Anka.
With a quiet curse, I shut the drawers. Where the bloody hell would she stash her notes? I spin around to a short filing cabinet. Locked, both drawers. I reach behind me for a paperclip. This is hardly the first time I’ve picked a lock. But as I shape the little scrap of metal for my purposes, a burst of energy floods my senses. My fingertips tingle. A wave of dizziness and a cold sweat follow. Then I’m swamped with a distinct urge to pass my fingers in front of the cabinet and focus on unfastening the lock.