Industrial Magic

Highly Inappropriate



WE TOOK THE CORTEZ JET BACK TO MIAMI. LIKE STAYING in their hospital, using their jet was a question of safety versus, well, safety. Was I in greater danger on their plane or on a commercial flight? I’d have been happy taking my chances on a regular plane. Not that I expected to be attacked in mid-flight by Cortez hitmen, but because it was in my nature not to make a fuss where my own health was concerned. Lucas disagreed and, considering I couldn’t yet sit upright for longer than a few minutes, he was probably right.

Back in Miami, Benicio was scrambling to make peace with Lucas in the only way he could—by arranging for us to see Weber. Although Weber was being held in Cortez custody, each Cabal had assigned a guard. Such cooperation would be heartwarming, if they hadn’t done so only to safeguard their own interests in the prisoner. No one, not even the son of a CEO, was getting near Weber without approval from every Cabal.

I thought our request was simple enough. We’d promised to comply with any security precautions. We were on the same side. Moreover, without us, they wouldn’t have Weber. Yet, as quickly became obvious, that was probably more a deterrent than an asset. The Cortez Cabal had scored a major coup when we found Weber, and the other Cabals seemed to be refusing our request out of pure spite.



We spent the next day at the clinic, working through the case details while Benicio lobbied the Cabals on our behalf. Lucas had managed to track down the ingredients for a healing poultice and a healing tea. I prepared them myself, and he didn’t argue—both were witch magic, requiring witch incantations, and although he knew the procedures, I was better at them. That’s not ego talking—witches are better at witch magic, just as sorcerers are better at sorcerer magic. This was also my first field test of a stronger healing spell that I’d learned from the tertiary-level grimoires I’d found that spring. I cast it on the poultice, where it was supposed to not only speed healing, but act as a moderate-strength topical analgesic. To my delight, it worked even better than I expected. By the end of the second day, I was out of bed, dressed in my normal clothes, and feeling more like someone under house arrest than a patient.

Dana’s father hadn’t yet arrived. Getting word to Randy MacArthur was proving nearly impossible. As for Dana’s mother, well, the less I thought about her, the better, or I’d pop stitches. While I was at the clinic, I assumed the role of surrogate visitor. Dana was beyond knowing or caring, but I did it anyway.



That night I persuaded Lucas that I was well enough to go out for dinner. To stretch the excursion out as long as possible, I’d ordered dessert. Afterward, we lingered over coffee.

“Your dad seems to be really pushing for us on this,” I said. “You don’t still think he had something to do with the raid, do you?”

Lucas sipped his coffee. “Let’s just say that, while I don’t discount the possibility of his involvement, I admit I overreacted. You were hurt, I was frightened, and I lashed out at the most convenient target. It’s just…I have some serious trust issues with my father.”

I slipped him a tiny grin. “Really? Go figure.”

Before Lucas could continue, his cell rang. After two nos, one thank-you, and one “We’ll be there,” he hung up.

“Speak of the devil?” I said.

He nodded. “The answer is still no. Worse yet, it seems likely to be a permanent no. They’ve moved the trial to tomorrow.”

“What?”

“They say they’ve rescheduled because both sides are ready earlier than expected, but I suspect our sustained efforts to obtain an audience helped sway their decision.”

“So they’re blocking us by bumping up the trial.” I leaned back in my chair, hiding a grimace as the movement pulled at my torn stomach muscles. “That’s it, then. We’re screwed.”

“Not yet. As my father pointed out, if Weber is found guilty, there’s always the option of appeal. At least this will give us the opportunity to hear the entire case. If the prosecution presents concrete evidence linking Weber to the attacks, we may deem an appeal unnecessary.”

“And save everyone, including ourselves, a lot of grief.”

“Precisely. Likewise, if they’ve found nothing new and they fail to address alternate possibilities—that Weber was working with the real killer, or unwittingly obtained the information for him—then we have grounds for appeal.” He sipped his coffee. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to go to the trial, if that’s what you’re asking.”



The session was set to begin promptly at eight; Lucas assured me this was normal for a Cabal trial. Unlike human murder trials, a Cabal session never stretched for weeks or months. Their court days ran from eight A.M. to eight P.M. and every effort was made to finish within a day or two.

We arrived by cab just past seven. The court and holding cells were almost exactly what I’d first expected the corporate offices to be, a renovated warehouse hidden deep in an industrial ghetto. Lucas had the driver drop us at the sidewalk behind one of the shabbier buildings.

Normally, I’d have insisted on paying the driver, but today I let Lucas. The last thing he needed was a squabble over cab fare. Every stress of the past few days was etched on his face. As he turned from paying the driver, I noticed his tie was crooked. I had to do a double take, certain I was mistaken.

“Hmm?” he said, catching my look.

“Your tie’s crooked.”

His hands flew up to adjust it.

“Here, let me.” I stood on tiptoes to fix it. “You need to get some sleep tonight. In a real bed. We’re moving to a hotel.”

“Not until you’re better.”

“I am better,” I said. “I look better, don’t I?”

A small smile. “Better than better.”

“Well, then—”

“Oh, look,” a voice said behind me. “If it isn’t the geek crusader.”

Lucas stiffened. I stifled the urge to sling a fireball over my shoulder. Lucas didn’t need this. A fireball would be justified. Inappropriate, but justified.

I turned to see a slim, well-built man in his early thirties, his model-caliber face marred by a sneer. Behind him stood William Cortez, which led me to hazard a guess at the identity of the younger man: Carlos.

“There must be a protest march going on somewhere,” William said. “I’m sure they’d be more appreciative of your talents, Lucas. Leave the real work to the grown-ups.”

I clenched my jaw to keep from reminding him who’d done the “real work” of bringing in the killer, and risked their lives to do so.

“Paige, you’ve met William,” Lucas said. “And this is Carlos. Carlos, Paige. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

“Not bad, little brother,” Carlos said as he checked me out. “Got to hand it to you. Better than I expected. You must have some hidden assets after all.”

“Oh, Lucas has hidden assets,” William said. “About five million of them, and that’s just the guarantee. Hold out for the big gamble, and he has a half-billion more.”

Carlos laughed. “No shit. That kind of dough, any loser can get laid, huh? A few blow jobs is a small price to pay for a shot at Cortez cash.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “From what I hear, it can be too high a price.” I met Carlos’s gaze and smiled. “At least with some of the Cortezes.”

His eyes hardened. “Like hell.”

“If you say so.”

I let Lucas lead me away. We’d gone about five steps when he leaned down.

“Dare I ask?” he whispered.

“Jaime.”

He started to laugh, but choked it back. “Jaime and Carlos?”

“No,” I said. “Jaime and not Carlos. She decided five million wasn’t enough.”

His laugh escaped then, a burst of laughter that made me grin and squeeze his hand. I glanced back to see Carlos glaring after us. Guess I hadn’t made a new friend. Too bad.

“To be honest, I suspect it’s far less than five million by now,” Lucas said as we walked. “At the rate he goes through money, I’d say Carlos is down to about five dollars. He’ll have to hold out for the inheritance.”

“I thought five million was the inheritance.”

“No, the trust fund.” His lips curved. “Silence falls, as she refrains from stating the obvious, namely that her impoverished boyfriend is not as impoverished as she believed. Remember that next time you challenge me for paying cab fare.”

Lucas pulled open the back door to the warehouse, and we stepped through into a lobby that would be the envy of any small-town courthouse. A few people milled about, but Lucas looked neither left nor right, just led me toward a set of interior double doors.

“Somehow I suspect you’re no more able to pay the cab fare now than you were ten minutes ago,” I said. “No trust-fund-dipping from this Cortez. You could be kidnapped by demon guerillas and still refuse to use any of it for the ransom.”

“True.” He smiled down at me. “But if you’re ever kidnapped, I’ll make an exception.”

A swarthy young man in a suit and cap appeared at Lucas’s side. “Mr. Cortez, sir?”

“Yes?” Lucas said.

“I work for the St. Clouds. Mr. St. Cloud’s driver.”

“Rick, isn’t it?”

The man smiled. “Yes, thank you, sir. I just wanted to say we appreciate it, what you did, catching this guy. Griffin’s inside. He’ll speak to you himself, but I wanted to add my thanks. And, uh—” His gaze flicked to the double doors. “To say there’s a back way in there, if you’d rather take that.”

“Back way?” I said.

“Uh, yes, miss. Past the others. The Nasts and a few of the St. Clouds are in the waiting area. There’s another way into the courtroom. You and Mr. Cortez might be more comfortable using it.”

“Thank you,” Lucas said. “But we’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man backed away and slipped into a side hall. I glanced up at Lucas’s taut face. All the tension he’d expelled on our walk into the building had returned double-strength. Once we walked through those doors, it was only going to get worse.

Lucas needed a distraction. As I glanced down the two side halls, I had an idea. Highly inappropriate but, sometimes, a little impropriety is exactly what you need.

“Nearly forty-five minutes left,” I said. “We’ll be sitting all day. No need to rush in there.”

“Do you feel well enough to take a short walk?”

“Not what I had in mind.”

I tugged him toward the nearest side hallway. His brows lifted, but when I didn’t answer, he followed. I turned at the first branch, walked to the third door and opened it. An office. I tried the fourth. Locked. A quick unlock spell and the door opened into a large storage closet.

I flicked on the light. “Perfect.”

“Dare I ask?”

“If you have to ask, you really are tired this morning.”

He hesitated, then smiled.

“Well?” I said, backing into the closet.

He strode through the door, kicked it shut behind him, and cast a lock spell. I stepped back, but he grabbed me and pulled me to him in a deep kiss.

“Damn,” I said, gasping as I pulled back. “I’ve missed that, Cortez. Last night I was wondering how much weight my hospital bed held. Should’ve conducted a test.”

“Perhaps tonight.”

“Uh-uh. Tonight we’re springing for a hotel and a bed for two.”

“Are you sure you feel up to it?”

I showed him how up to it I felt. After a few minutes of kissing, I slid my hands between us, unbuttoned his shirt, and ran my hands down his bare chest.

“You know, Carlos got me thinking,” I said. “If I’m going to be become a CEO wife—”

“Co-CEO, wasn’t it?”

“Sorry. Co-CEO. It’s going to cost me a lot of blow jobs, isn’t it?”

Lucas laughed. “Yes, a lot, I’m afraid.”

“Then these few days in the hospital have put me behind on my quota. I have some serious catching up to do.” I traced a finger down his chest and slipped it under his waistband. “The doctor said no bending, but he didn’t say anything about kneeling.”

Lucas’s breath caught.

I grinned up at him. “Well?”

“As loath as I am to refuse, you are still recovering.” He reached down and hiked my skirt up to my hips, lips going to my ear. “May I suggest something less taxing for now?”

I pushed my skirt down. “Uh-uh. It’s a blow job or nothing.” I stepped backward toward the door. “Of course if you’re not interested…”

He pulled me to him, then pressed my hand to his crotch. “Interested enough?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, tracing my fingertips across the bulge in his pants. “It’s a bit hard—”

“A bit?”

“—a bit difficult to tell.” I undid his belt, then his slacks, and slid my hand inside. “Umm, let’s see. Yes, I’d say that’s interested enough.”

I lowered myself to my knees and set about distracting him.



Afterward, we talked quietly, delaying our exit from the room. At 7:45, I pulled away.

“Fifteen minutes,” I said. “We should get inside.”

“In a moment.” He kissed me. “I love you.”

“Of course you do. You have to. It’s the law.”

A smile. “Law?”

“Any girl who gives a guy a blow job in a broom closet is entitled to at least one ‘I love you.’ Whether you mean it or not, you’re morally and legally obligated to say it.”

He laughed, then kissed the top of my head. “Well, I do mean it. You know that.”

“I do. And I also know that if we don’t get into that courtroom before the session starts, they’ll have an excuse to not let us in at all.”