Читать книгу Dark Matter - Cameron Cruise - Страница 12

The great city of San Diego did not claim to be paradise on earth, but it came damn close. An average temperature of seventy degrees Fahrenheit, less than twelve inches of precipitation annually, a slice of blue sky and seventy miles of beach pretty much clinched it. After Morgan Tyrell weathered one too many Boston winters, the city was also the site of the Institute for Dynamic Studies of Parapsychology and the Brain.

The Institute, as it was known, commanded a nice piece of real estate on the Point Loma peninsula. With the pounding surf below, the compound’s architectural design—a central galleria ringed by labs and offices—assisted its multidisciplinary collaboration. Hard science worked alongside soft, some might even say pseudoscience, the Institute being home to a phalanx of psychics.

Morgan had long ago adapted the scientific method to the study of paranormal phenomena, a feat for which he had been equally revered and ridiculed. Over the years, the Institute had a finger in extrasensory perception, psychokinesis and remote viewing, as well as sundry other psi disciplines. There’d even been a case involving a poltergeist that had, unfortunately, received quite a bit of publicity.

In the early years, Morgan hadn’t minded making headlines. The opposite, in fact. Morgan Tyrell had been accused of being quite the publicity whore. His motto: Create a scandal! That’s how a man made his mark on the world.

These days he had more than his reputation to think about. After living his life with his work as a singular focus, he’d somehow managed the coup of having a family.

The one thing his daughter didn’t want was publicity.

So Morgan had brought it down a notch—several, in fact—enjoying a more subdued lifestyle. On weeknights, he would send his limo for an evening out with Gia and Stella. Sometimes he even had his granddaughter, Stella, up for the weekend. There wasn’t anything Morgan enjoyed more than watching her peek in on the laboratories to discuss ongoing research conducted under the Institute’s many grants.

For the sake of his daughter and granddaughter, the only scandal Morgan created these days happened in a laboratory. Morgan and his minions at the Institute had handily managed to alienate both the scientific and paranormal communities, a fact that often brought a smile to the face of its fearless leader.

The Institute bragged state-of-the-art facilities that included a Cray Supercomputer and a NMR spectrometer. It housed ten laboratories in over three hundred thousand square feet overlooking the Pacific Ocean. At any one time, its offices supported a minimum of eight hundred professors, postdoctoral fellows and graduate students in research that spanned from conventional to downright weird, anything that demonstrated how human consciousness interacted with the physical world.

While nonprofit, it was a well-known fact that Morgan’s millions floated the Institute’s continued existence—which seemed only fair considering many believed he’d been unusually lucky in the stock market. Again, that rumored army of psychics.

When asked if he employed some paranormal technique in choosing his investments, Morgan always winked and answered it never hurt to bet on a good hunch.

At the moment, the Institute’s crowning gem, its self-proclaimed Brain Trust—a secret circle within what was already a circumspect community—held court in one of several glass-enclosed conference rooms. A teak sideboard from the Jaipur region of India lay loaded down with pastries and gourmet coffee. An ornate tapestry of a White Tara, the female Buddha worshipped in Tibet, added to the room’s tranquil atmosphere. Around an antique oval table carved in the traditional Tibetan style sat five famous, as well as infamous, academic figures.

At the head of the table, Morgan sat with steepled fingers pressed against his mouth as he leaned back in the soft leather chair. He wore a perfectly tailored Armani suit in a shade of gray that complimented his silver hair and pale blue eyes. As always, he played moderator for today’s topic of choice: Does God play dice with the universe?

The question, originally asked and answered by Einstein in the negative, had inspired one member, Gonzague de Rozières, or Zag as he was called, to publish a provocative article entitled Dark Matter and Free Will in the most recent issue of Journal of Parapsychology. Morgan had signed on to the article, bringing on the ire of one particular member of their sacred circle.

“Dark matter, dark energy, I don’t care what you want to call it, the concept has nothing to do with free will, the soul, the color of your aura or any other mumbo jumbo that you, Zag, want to legitimize with some slight-of-hand quantum equations.”

The challenge came from the cosmologist of the group, Dr. Theodore Fields. Theodore—never Ted or Teddy—was the group’s resident skeptic. At the moment, the man’s receding hairline did a nice job of displaying his furrowed brow. Zag never brought out the best in the man.

Theodore’s penchant for colorful bow ties—today’s was a splashy red-and-yellow-striped number—seemed to magnify rather than update his age. Despite Theodore’s valiant attempt, there was nothing cool or modern about the dumpy figure tossing verbal grenades from across the table, which made absolutely no difference to those who coveted his company. The man was a certified genius in physics.

“Once again, Theodore, you seemed to have missed the point.”

The challenge came from the article’s author and the group’s more colorful personality. Zag, the youngest member of the Brain Trust, never tired of waving the psi flag before Theodore’s nose.

“Really?” Theodore replied, acid in his voice. “And here I was certain you didn’t make a point, at all. Not a valid one, in any case.”

“Oh, come now. I was quite clever in citing your own take on the uncertainty principle to validate my thesis,” Zag replied silkily.

Morgan held back a smile. In the world of quantum physics, the location of a particle can never be discussed with a hundred percent certainty. Rather it can be discussed only in terms of probabilities. And while a Google search of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and free will would yield over a hundred thousand hits, it was the mathematical dexterity Zag used, manipulating Field’s own equations, that made his take truly unique, worthy of publication in a peer-reviewed journal and bearing the Institute’s name with Morgan as a coauthor.

The younger man reminded Morgan of himself during his early years: self-made, fearless in establishing his dominance in the field of parapsychology. There was even a slight physical resemblance. Both men possessed a shock of white hair; Morgan’s the product of age, Zag’s, a credit to his stylist.

Morgan had never seen hair so white-blond it was almost translucent. And the fashion eccentricities didn’t stop at his hair color or the occasional eyeliner. Last week, Zag had shown up wearing a leather kilt.

But then, given the company he kept, rock stars and Oscar winners, the choice in wardrobe was hardly surprising. His suit today was a patchwork of suede dyed in shades of brown, making the man’s near-colorless eyes appear almost beige. Like Morgan, he was popular with the ladies. Only his broken nose prevented his delicate features from being too pretty.

Morgan always claimed it was Zag’s seminal work in auras that had granted him the keys to the Brain Trust. But there was also the matter of money. Zag’s corporation, Halo Industries, made even Morgan’s vast fortune appear modest. Even now, work was being done on a new underground laboratory, courtesy of Halo Industries, one to rival any used by the government for its supersecret black projects.

“If all the laws of physics are set,” Zag continued, “then from the moment of the big bang, everything is predetermined. How you act, how you think, even if you should want spaghetti for dinner, these are just atomic interactions—in your brain, in your body. At a fundamental level, even people interacting are just atoms interacting.”

“But even as you yourself point out in the article, the laws of physics are not set. Under quantum physics, the world is full of uncertainties.”

This soft lob came from Martha Ozbek, considered by many as Theodore Fields’s opposite number in academia. An anthropologist by training, she had developed an expertise in psychic artifacts and the paranormal. Her recent book, How To Find Self, a tome discussing man’s unique relationship with the paranormal over the centuries, had remained on the New York Times bestseller list for half a dozen weeks.

While cagey in revealing her own beliefs, she was a fervent advocate for the paranormal, often coming to Zag’s defense in these clashes. She’d had the privilege to work with the likes of Thelma Moss, a parapsychologist known for her work in Kirlian photography, photographs that purportedly supplied tangible proof of supernatural auras. To Martha, the belief in the paranormal dated as far back as the cave drawings in France, and therefore, was a legitimate area of study for an anthropologist.

Martha herself was worthy of a little study. At almost sixty, she could still catch a man’s eyes. She favored flowing caftans in colors that accented her bright blue eyes and short platinum hair. Recently, there’d been rumors of a talk show.

Zag held up his hands and smiled. “That’s right, Martha. The world is full of uncertainties. Anything is possible. In quantum physics, all outcomes are merely a matter of probability, which opens the door for free will. Come on, Theodore, you can’t tell me it’s not at least worth discussing?”

“It’s worth discussing about as much as it is worth pondering the question do pigs fly?” Theodore scoffed. “You’re trying to use quantum mechanics as the scientific basis for free will. And there is no scientific basis for free will. You can’t observe it, you can’t measure it, you can’t study it.”

Martha placed a calming hand on Theodore’s. “And yet, before Galileo, we didn’t know the equation for the relationship between velocity and acceleration. Perhaps, Theodore, we merely do not yet know the equation to study free will.”

Theodore grimaced. “Don’t you see what he’s trying to do? If you buy his argument, you can use quantum mechanics to legitimize anything—even his kiddie camps for pseudopsychics.”

Zag leaned back in his chair, enjoying the moment—the great Theodore Fields losing his cool. It seemed to happen more and more these days. And Zag was just getting started.

“Is that how you see the Halo-effect schools? Kiddie camps for pseudopsychic ability?”

“Or worse,” Theodore said.

Zag grinned. “Oh, please, Theodore. Don’t hold back.”

“I can understand bamboozling some rich asshole who wants to cultivate some fantasy that his child is special. But this recent addition of working with autistic children at these schools—really, Zag, it’s too much. You tell their poor, desperate parents that their children are unique rather than disabled, that you can help them develop their unusual gifts, milking them with that hope.”

“But they are unique, Theodore,” Zag continued coolly. “I’ve been working with autistic children since graduate school. I’ve seen these children do incredible things. You want to put them in a box and drug them, I see them as an evolutionary next step in brain development. My work is to try and use psychic tools to access their potential.”

“Psychic tools? What is a psychic tool? Oh, wait!” Theodore reached for an empty space on the table and held up his hand as if holding something. “Here it is! My psychic tool!”

Morgan held up a hand. “Enough, gentlemen. While I enjoy your verbal sparring, I believe we were discussing Zag’s unorthodox use of the uncertainty principle. Lionel?” Morgan asked, reaching out to the group’s resident mathematician and referee, who was sitting between Theodore and Zag. “Do you want to chime in here?”

Dr. Lionel Cable had recently been recognized for his seminal work in algebraic topology. A compact man of African American descent, he had a prominent scar in the middle of his forehead caused by a childhood accident. He was the most recent recipient of the Fields Medal, the equivalent of the Nobel Prize for mathematics and the only cool head in the room.

He didn’t hesitate to step in. “It is true that the uncertainty principle can be misused. Since Einstein, we’ve been trying to apply quantum physics on the cosmic scale. We have no idea if these principles are even relevant at the macro level.”

“We don’t know being the salient point, Lionel,” Martha argued. “So why run from the discussion? During the eighteenth century, the French Academy of Science denied the existence of meteorites. Museum curators all over Europe threw out their collections of meteorites for fear of appearing backward. Stones falling from the sky? It smacked too much of religion—the hand of God and all that. Once it was the church persecuting theorists, now it’s science? Well, I for one refuse to be bullied from discussing the topic at hand.”

Morgan turned to Lionel. “Isn’t the macro level merely the summation of what happens on the molecular level?”

“Wonderful,” Theodore said. “You make up a law and then find a way to apply it broadly. That’s great science. Did we read the same article, people?” He looked around the table, sounding almost desperate. “The man quoted Edgar Cayce and Madam Blavatsky!”

Edgar Cayce, the sleeping prophet, was possibly the best-known American psychic. He was also responsible for some of the more controversial theories about the lost city of Atlantis—a favorite topic of Zag’s and another one of Theodore’s pet peeves.

“Cayce believed that the Atlanteans had a great crystal that allowed its people to focus their extraordinary abilities to achieve fantastical things. Helena Blavatsky claimed that Atlanteans invented airplanes and grew extraterrestrial wheat,” Theodore continued, his face growing ever more florid. “Atlantis is fodder for Disney, for God’s sake, not science. Is this the kind of hogwash you want to sign your name to, Morgan? I can’t believe it was published in a peer review journal.”

“Both Cayce and Blavatsky were mentioned as historical context only,” Zag said.

“Or to keep the tabloids interested,” Theodore countered. “The man feeds these ridiculous rumors that he is some kind of descendant from Atlanteans who escaped in aircrafts before their own big bang.”

“I actually found Zag’s discussion on Atlantis quite fascinating,” Lionel said, again acting as mediator. “I don’t believe anyone has ever postulated the possibility that it was in attempting to isolate dark matter that the Atlanteans caused their destruction.”

“Well, then, perhaps you don’t read enough science fiction,” Theodore added.

“Then there’s the idea of the Atlantean crystal,” Lionel continued. “It’s somewhat reminiscent of Morgan’s psychic artifact, the Eye of Athena. I believe it was your point to connect the two, Zag?”

But before Zag could answer, Theodore threw up his hands. “Now it’s back to psychic artifacts? More mumbo jumbo!”

The crystal, the Eye of Athena, had been an ongoing topic of conversation with the Brain Trust. Ten months ago, it had made the headlines as part of a collection of psychic artifacts confiscated after the murder of David Gospel. The man, a local real-estate mogul, had accumulated quite the collection—most of it obtained on the black market, of course. And while many of the artifacts had been authenticated by their own Martha and colleagues, the Eye of Athena had turned out to be a fraud.

Soon thereafter, Morgan began discussing the crystal, artfully dangling the possibility that he’d gotten his hands on the real deal. Thus far, Morgan had refused to produce it, talking about the Eye of Athena only in the theoretical, claiming his interest in the artifact had been brought on by the recent headlines and his own history with the stone.

It was a facile explanation. Morgan’s lover, Estelle Fegaris, the mother of his only child, had been obsessed with the Eye. Some said the crystal had even cost her her life.

“The comparison seems more than plausible,” Martha mused. “The theory is that the Eye works on the brain, helping to enhance certain psychic abilities…facilitating what Zag refers to as brain evolution. I believe Cayce made similar claims for the Atlantean crystal.” She turned her attention back to Zag. “You suggest, of course, that the artifacts are related. But do you also believe that the crystals actually are dark matter?”

Again, Theodore answered. “If this object—a theoretical object that Morgan refuses to even admit he possesses—were dark matter, our humble building would be weighted down by what was essentially over a ton of gravitational pull. Tell us, Morgan. Do you have a miniature atom bomb hidden somewhere?”

“I know how much you enjoy sounding important, Theodore,” Martha said with a wink, “but for those of us in the room who speak English and not techno nerd, please elaborate.”

But it was Lionel who answered this time. “As I explained last week, the existence of dark matter was first theorized to explain the rotational speeds of galaxies. An answer to the missing mass problem,” Lionel explained. “Dark matter reconciles observable phenomenon with the big bang theory. It, along with the more nebulous concept, dark energy, allows for a sort of fudge factor. Theodore is right. If the crystal were dark matter, it would be significantly heavier than plutonium.”

“Couldn’t the crystal possess a femtogram of dark matter?” Martha insisted.

“Add a pinch of spice and make everything nice?” Theodore scoffed. “That’s about as brilliant as Zag’s concepts about these crystals focusing psychic energy like some idiotic lens. Oh wait, I get it. That’s one of your psychic tools, isn’t it, Zag? Do tell! And what would a parapsychologist of your training, Morgan, title such an artifact? A magic wand?”

“A magic wand?” Morgan grinned. “Now I rather like that, Theodore—and not just because I’ll enjoy watching you eat those words someday when it comes to the Eye. Unfortunately—” Morgan glanced at the conference room clock “—the topic will have to wait for another day.”

Morgan was the self-appointed timekeeper of the group. Discussions like these, while extremely valuable to the Institute, could get out of hand, lasting for hours. But that wasn’t why Morgan cut short today’s debate at what was surely its most interesting juncture.

Later, when he found Zag fast on his heels, Morgan knew his timing had been perfect.

“Morgan.” Zag continued hurrying down the hall toward him, the excitement in his eyes unmistakable. He was almost breathless when he stopped and asked, “How long are you going to keep us guessing? Do you have the Eye or not?”

“Wouldn’t it be wild if I did?” Morgan answered.

“So you haven’t authenticated it?”

Morgan paused, meeting the man’s curious eyes. At the moment, the pupils appeared impossibly large, showing only a rim of ice-water blue.

Morgan lowered his voice, dropping his final crumb of bait. “I’ve run some tests.”

The Eye of Athena was the oldest psychic relic ever found. It could be traced back to the Oracle at Delphi—even to Athena, the Greek goddess. Presumably, the Eye, or the central crystal on the ancient necklace, had been worn by the goddess herself. While he’d never explicitly stated he had the crystal, the last months Morgan had carefully hinted to having it ensconced in his vault, hoping for just this interest from the enigmatic Zag.

“I can help. You know I can,” the younger man said, reaching up to grip Morgan’s arm.

Jesus, he was practically salivating.

“If you’re suggesting some sort of collaboration?” Morgan asked. “I might be interested.”

Suddenly, the man’s curious eyes widened. A smile crossed his lips as he dropped his grip on Morgan and took a step back. “Why do I suddenly feel so easy?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you could mean by that,” Morgan said with a faint smile of his own.

Morgan hadn’t wanted to be the one to come, hat in hand, asking for help. Rather, he’d fanned Zag’s enthusiasm for the stone, knowing that eventually it would be Zag begging him for a chance to play.

“Well done,” Zag acknowledged. “Of course, you need my resources.”

“As I said,” Morgan answered carefully, “I am open to a collaboration between us. Here, at the Institute, and with my people in charge.”

The younger man acknowledged Morgan’s conditions with a quick nod. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Fifteen minutes later, Morgan was almost to his office, marveling at today’s success. For years now, he’d worked to capture the interest of Gonzague de Rozières and Halo Industries. Zag was exactly what the Institute needed: young blood and powerful ambition. At just thirty-four, Zag had done the impossible: he’d made the paranormal a bankable industry. And while his public-relations machine didn’t exactly publicize the true goings-on at Halo, Morgan had his sources.

Remote-viewers working for homeland security, research on artificial limbs—computers, even video games, operated by conscious thought. And then there was his pet project, his Halo-effect schools.

When Morgan alluded to having the crystal, he’d expected Zag to fall in with his plans.

What Morgan hadn’t anticipated was finding Carin Barnes waiting in his office, those stormy gray eyes cocked and ready to fire as he entered the room.

“You have got to be kidding,” she said, all Sturm und Drang as she jumped to her feet. “You are not going to give him the crystal.”

She made an imposing sight. Tall, just shy of Morgan’s six feet some, she had the slim figure of an athlete. She wore what Morgan had come to call her uniform: a dark suit with a cuffed white shirt underneath, looking every bit the FBI agent. She’d recently shorn her hair to within an inch of its life. The boy cut only made her gray eyes look larger on her refined face.

“Why would you even think such a thing, Carin?”

“Do not bullshit me, Morgan,” she said, stabbing the air with her finger. “Ten months after I hand you the Eye, Zag writes a check big enough to buy even your filthy-rich ass and I’m supposed to believe it’s not connected? I did not risk my career so that you could trade it in for some easy capital.”

Carin Barnes worked for NISA, the National Institute for Strategic Artifacts. Ten months ago, when David Gospel’s collection of artifacts surfaced—presumably purchased from black-market dealers—the FBI had been on the case. Carin’s job: bring back the stolen goods and deliver them to their country of origin.

Only, like Morgan, Carin and the Eye had a history, the kind that was difficult to ignore. She might be a dedicated agent, but her desire for the Eye went beyond even her duty to God and country. The last thing she wanted was to have such a powerful artifact end up filed away like some X-file project at the Bureau.

Carin had been the special agent in charge when the police confiscated Gospel’s collection of rare artifacts. With Morgan’s help, she’d been able to switch out the crystal for a clever fake.

“I know what you did for us,” Morgan said, stepping in to take both her hands in his. “I won’t throw it away. But Zag might be just what we need. Think about it. Halo Industries and all its resources at our disposal.”

She brushed off his hands. “You’re not thinking. Jesus Christ, Morgan, three weeks after I hand you the Eye, Zag suddenly takes an interest in the Institute? You don’t find that a tad convenient? You didn’t have to bring Zag into your confidence, signing him up for your damn Brain Trust. He knew you had the Eye—he came here just for that.”

“Don’t let your history with the man cloud your judgment.”

Carin’s cheeks flamed red. “Is that what you think?”

“He broke your heart and ruined your academic career. I wouldn’t blame you for carrying a grudge. But a man can change, Carin. It wasn’t so long ago that I committed similar damage to someone I loved.”

“My history with Zag taught me one simple fact. Something you ignore at your peril. You can’t trust him.”

But Morgan pushed on. “Okay. You’re right. You know him better than I ever will. But we’ve had the crystal for ten months and we are no closer to finding out how to harness its unique powers than the day you handed it to me. We need Halo.”

“It’s a bad move, Morgan.”

“But a necessary one.”

She slammed her fist on his desk in frustration. “Do you really think you’re in control here? Do you know how desperately Zag wants the Eye? He tried to buy it off Gospel just months before the man died!”

“Which only means he’s made a careful study of our prize and most certainly has valuable information—information from which we stand to greatly benefit.” He came in close, grabbing her shoulders. “Estelle gave her life for that crystal. What good is it doing sitting in my vault?”

“Estelle?” She shot him a look, her eyes the color of a summer storm. “That would be the woman whose heart you broke and whose career you ruined?”

He had the audacity to smile. “As if she cared about such things. Like you, Estelle had grander ambitions. And what about Markie?” he asked, stepping back. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted for your brother? Why you entrusted his care to me and what we could offer him here? Imagine it, Carin—a crystal that can enhance human brain functions. Let me do my job. Let me find out how the damn thing works. Let me use it to help people like Markie.”

“How dare you?”

Morgan knew he’d overstepped, opening deep wounds. Carin’s brother was a twenty-three-year-old autistic man living at the Institute. Twelve years her junior, Markie was the agent’s raison d’être…and it had been her work on autism—research meant to help her brother—that Zag had sabotaged.

Still, he pressed his point. “Do you remember the day when you brought Markie to Estelle? You’d never even heard the sound of his voice before then. She gave you that, Carin,” he continued, reminding her that it was Estelle’s gift as a psychic that had allowed Markie to utter his first and only words: I love you.

“Let’s finish the job she started,” he said. “It’s what Estelle would have wanted. It should be what we all want.”

She shook her head, looking away. “You’re a son of bitch, Morgan. You know that?”

Carin glanced down at his desk. Suddenly, she reached for one of several photographs and turned it to face Morgan.

The photo showed Morgan’s daughter, Gia, holding his granddaughter, Stella, in her arms.

“You said it yourself, Morgan. You ruined Estelle’s career and broke her heart. Be careful who you sell out this time.”

She put the photo back and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Theodore Fields hobbled through the parking area toward the front door of his waterfront condo. Damn Achilles tendon. Every morning he woke up barely able to walk, it felt so tight. Now the damn thing was giving him problems even after a long drive in the car.

Seriously, he was beginning to feel ancient.

He switched the bag of Chinese food—it was probably already cold—to his left hand and took out his house keys.

Fucking Zag.

Theodore didn’t consider himself a violent man. But more and more he wanted to shove his fist into that pompous face.

The fact was, Zag de Rozières had everything. Money, prestige, good looks.

And youth. The bastard had years ahead of him to accomplish whatever he wanted in life.

Not Theodore. He had a bitter ex-wife who’d taken him to the cleaners and was still bleeding him for alimony, and a daughter who’d come out of the closet. Last week, she’d brought her butch lover to their lunch together, parading her around for anyone to see.

Fuck. What a bunch of losers.

Theodore hated losers. All his life, he’d been a winner. He’d won the fucking Nobel, for God’s sake. And he was still the man when it came to membrane theory.

But there was Zag, sitting smugly across that ridiculous table and its Tibetan carvings, talking about bullshit like magic crystals and Atlantis. He could publish his silly theories in legitimate journals solely because he had more money than God…as if anything that man came up with could forward real science.

He should never have agreed to associate with Morgan and the Institute. He’d never have done it if it weren’t for Lionel’s involvement. Now there was a real scientist. And for a while, the work had been interesting. They’d been able to achieve statistically significant samples of telekinesis at the molecular level. That’s why Morgan had brought him on, to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Only now, Morgan was obsessed with this artifact, this Eye of Athena. And he’d signed on as coauthor to Zag’s embarrassing article. Theodore couldn’t help but fear that his current association with the Institute was putting his reputation on the line. It had been too long since he’d published anything significant. And now, he was involved in this bullshit. He was in danger of becoming the laughingstock of physics.

Shit, he could already feel his acid reflux kicking in. Forget the Chinese. He wouldn’t get through the night.

“Theodore?”

The sound of her voice startled him. Theodore turned, his heart hitting his throat, making it difficult to catch his breath. He searched the shadows and found her standing near the bougainvillea.

Her bright red hair was severely pulled back and she wore a black vinyl trench coat tied tightly around her slim waist and ruby-red spiked heels, the same color as her lipstick.

Immediately, he cleared his throat—a nervous habit. He walked to her and grabbed her arm, steering her deeper into the shadows.

He looked around nervously. “I told you never to come here!” he whispered harshly.

But he could already feel his growing erection. Jesus.

She stepped back. In clear view of his neighbors, she opened her trench coat to expose her beautiful naked body.

Her bright red pubic hair had been shaved in the shape of a heart.

“Should I go home, baby?” she asked sweetly.

His hands shaking, Theodore couldn’t get the front door opened fast enough.