Enchanted Again. Robin D. Owens

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СКАЧАТЬ “I’m sorry.” She made her voice as soothing and gentle as she could. “My workload is full right now.” A lie, she could use a good client or two—but not this one. “I can recommend—”

       “Please, Ms. Sarga. I must speak with you immediately.”

       “Sir, genealogy is not a business that has emergencies.” She couldn’t help him now—maybe never—but not now, when she might be able to learn more about her magic from the brownies and how to use it better.

       There was a long pause. His voice cracked. “My wife has vanished, along with my year-old son.”

       A shudder passed through her. She wanted to ask what his curse was—but that would be revealing too much.

       “I’m sorry.” She forced the words from her throat.

       The man jerked hard on the gate and she stepped back.

       “Conrad, take it easy.” The blond guy put his hand on the dark one’s shoulder.

       “Conrad?” asked Amber, then felt a surge of anger at herself. Don’t ask names. Don’t get involved. Her gift didn’t age only her. And she’d given up her magic as too dangerous months ago, gotten the puppies to ensure she wouldn’t waver.

       The blond man weighed her with a hard stare.

       Words tumbled from Conrad. “I’m Conrad Tyne-Cymbler. My curse has already happened. I’m worried for my son.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I don’t want him to grow up without a father like I did.”

       She flinched at the pain in Conrad’s voice. “I’m sor—”

       “Please help me. You’re a genealogist. I have a family tree. I can hire you to work on that as well. I’ll pay you whatever.”

       “I can’t find your son—”

       “I have private investigators,” Conrad said at the same time the blond man said, “We’re working that situation.”

       Conrad continued, “I’m desperate. Please help me.”

       Amber blinked again, this time against stupidly stinging eyes. She couldn’t refuse a direct and desperate request for help. At least she could listen, maybe trace the original curse so the guy could break it himself. That could happen. Maybe.

       “All right.” Her voice was thick, dammit! She didn’t want the man to know how weak she was.

       “Can we come in?”

       She said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have your family tree?”

       “I…uh…no.”

       She looked at the blond, who had angled his body as if to protect his friend from her. “Do you?”

       He snorted. “No.”

       She widened her hands. “I need to prepare. Come back tomorrow.”

       “You promise you’ll listen?” persisted Conrad.

       Amber hesitated.

       “I need you,” he pressed.

       Again she couldn’t say no. A problem most of the women of her family had had. They were all dead now. “All right. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. at my office on Hayward and Oak. You have the address?”

       Conrad nodded. “Thank you.”

       “This is crap,” said the blond.

       She sucked in a breath. “Do you have a card?”

       “Card?” Conrad asked blankly.

       After another narrow-eyed stare at her, Conrad’s friend dipped a hand in the pocket of Conrad’s fine gray suit jacket and pulled out a piece of pasteboard. Scowling, the man shoved it though the spears of the gate.

       Amber had to go closer to get it and as she did, the hair on the back of her neck rose. This man’s curse was even worse than the other’s. He didn’t appear to care.

       She took the card, avoiding his fingers.

       “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked to her backyard. Pred, the brownie, was still there.

       They stared at each other silently until the roar of the engine announced that the men were gone. The brownie looked up at her with big, sad eyes, his ears rolled down to his head. “Too late now. I will have to tell Tiro about you. He will be angry.” The small being shook his head. “It is not good to live with an angry brownie.”

       “Live! What?”

       With a shake of his head, Pred said, “And that is not the worst. Your magic hurts you when you use it. I am sorry for you.”

       But not as sorry as Amber was…

      Chapter 2

      RAFE HAD BEEN driving for several minutes when he had to say it. “That was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen you do.”

       “I’m dealing with my curse and the aftermath,” Conrad snapped, not opening his eyes. “Unlike you. And you’ve made a career of being stupid. Rock-climbing, glacier snowboarding, extreme sports. Like you’re tempting death to take you before you’re thirty-three.”

       “Like I’m living every moment of my life to the fullest,” Rafe said evenly, an old argument.

       “I really love Marta and my son.” Conrad veered back to the most important topic.

       “I know you do,” Rafe said. He threaded through the traffic on Speer, muscles moving as he used the clutch and gearshift. He was better with action.

       Conrad said, “You told the P.I. team to check out flights to Eastern Europe, right?”

       “Of course. And did you do a run on her?” Rafe asked.

       “Marta ran,” Conrad answered.

       “I meant, did you have someone investigate the sexy genealogist?”

       Conrad cracked an eye, the side of his mouth near Rafe kicked up. “Sexy, huh?” He closed his eyes. “She did have a good body. Looked like her name…Amber. Yeah, I had someone research her background.”

       “When?” Rafe asked.

       “When?” Conrad’s tones were getting slow and foggy. “When I got her name. ’Bout a year and a half ago, I guess.”

       “You still have the file?”

       “Sh-sure.” Conrad fell asleep.

       Rafe took the exit for Conrad’s mansion in Cherry Creek. Since Rafe only had a small, dusty apartment in Manhattan that he hit from time to time between adventures, he was bunking with Conrad.

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