BONDS OF JUSTICE

“Sophia’s a J,” Max said, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb.


She noted the corded forearms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his vivid blue shirt, noted, too, the easy grace with which he made even the smallest of movements—this man, she thought, was built along the sleek lines of the low-slung cars preferred by so many of the emotional races.

Her gaze clashed with his at that moment, and the question in them made her aware they were all waiting for something from her. Breaking the contact—which felt oddly, inexplicably intimate—she took a step to her left. “I’ll leave you to your visit. Detective Shannon, if you’d just let me know when you’re ready to start—”

“We can start now,” he interrupted, still in that lazy position against the doorjamb. If she hadn’t seen him in Wyoming, she might have been fooled into believing him “safe.” But she had seen him in that prison. Not only that, she’d read the file that chronicled his stubborn, relentless pursuit of the Butcher of Park Avenue. She knew the danger that lay beneath the languid charm.

“We’ll leave you to it, then.” The woman named Talin stepped forward to kiss Max on the cheek, breaking Sophia’s line of sight. “But I was hoping you’d have dinner with us,” she said, turning to include Sophia in the invitation.

Max glanced at his watch even as Sophia curled the fingers of her left hand into her palm. What Talin had just done, that easy contact . . . it had been ordinary. Human. And it had made Sophia brutally aware of the gulf between her and this cop whose presence, whose watchful eyes, fanned the fires of rebellion in her.

“It’s almost three now,” Max said, his voice low and smooth—and disturbingly abrasive against Sophia’s skin, “so how about dinner around seven? We should be ready for a break by then anyway.” A glance up at Sophia from those eyes that saw far too much. “That work for you?”

She didn’t know why she said, “Yes, that’ll be fine,” when she should have demurred from the social invitation. As her response to Max demonstrated with manifest clarity, she’d failed in her attempts to be the most perfect of Psy. But she was in no way similar to a human. She was, in all probability, even less “human” than most of her brethren, her psyche having been worn away by the corrosive acid of the images stored in her brain.

Clay said good-bye then, his voice deep against Talin’s softer tone. As the couple left, the leopard male’s hand on his mate’s lower back, Sophia found herself the sole focus of Max’s perceptive near-black eyes, the eyes of a man who was used to stripping shields, unearthing the most deeply buried of truths. “Come on in,” he said, “unless you need to grab anything from your place? We should go over the details, make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Yes, I’ll retrieve my organizer.” The words came out calm, though her heartbeat had turned erratic. “It’ll take me only a minute or two.” Stepping to her door, she pushed through and picked up the small case she’d left on the coffee table. She should’ve walked straight back out, but she took a minute to breathe, to check her PsyNet shields for any minor fractures that might betray the swiftness with which her recent reconditioning had begun to degrade.

Satisfied that everything was holding for now and certain, too, that her secrets were safe from a cop who saw too much, she went to Max’s. His living area was empty. Assuming he’d gone to retrieve his own notes, she closed the door and took a seat at the small table in the dining alcove near the window.

She’d just opened her case when a huge black cat jumped onto the chair opposite, placed its front paws on the table, and looked at her with one gray and one brown eye. Physically startled, she nonetheless contained her reaction—that aspect of her conditioning was so much a part of her, it no longer took much effort to maintain.

The cat continued to stare at her.

Curious as to what the creature would do if touched, she extended a hand and brought her fingers to its nose. It sniffed at the leather-synth of her glove before proceeding to stare at her again.

“Ignore Morpheus.” Max walked back into the room and picked up the cat to drop him easily to the floor. The feline padded off, tail in the air. “He likes to stare people out.”

“I see.” She found herself following Max’s movements as he put some cat food and water into a split feeding dish. He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt that bared his arms, the color an austere contrast to the golden warmth of his skin tone. “Have you had any further contact from Bonner?”

Sleek black hair fell across his forehead as he shook his head and rose. “No.” A single harsh word. “Bastard’s probably waiting for us to crawl back to him.”

“He’ll wait a long time.”