"Could be worse, I suppose."
"Yeah, but now I'm nervous about what happened. It doesn't feel totally gone, and I can't afford a relapse in the middle of a multiple-murder case. I won't have my leads handed over to archrivals and bumbling goofs."
Holly nodded. Now everything was making more sense. "So basically you want me to find out what sort of whammy, if any, this girl put on you, and whether it's over and done with."
"In a nutshell. I remember thinking I wanted a day off, but hey, not like that."
"Right." Holly pondered a moment. "It's true I might be able to detect something if you've got some sort of psychic flu."
"How?"
"Um, different ways. The easiest is really pretty primitive. If she gave you something by kissing you, I could sense it the same way. By kissing you, I mean." Holly couldn't hold his gaze. "All in the interest of medical science, of course. Witches are generally immune, so there's no chance of passing it on."
Macmillan looked both startled and pleased. "Hey, this is like playing doctor the way it should be done."
"Yeah, well, um, witch doctor, maybe." Holly fought to look cool and professional, as if this were all in an average day's work. "Let's just do it, okay?"
They both got up, as if pulled by the same string, and moved to the end of the table. Macmillan took her hand. "No need to rush."
Holly stopped, looking down where he clasped her palm in his. His fingers were strong and square-tipped, a practical man's hand. Slowly her gaze traveled up the expanse of his soft red sweater to his face. He is awfully good-looking.
At his touch Holly's body fell still, though her heart began to race with anticipation. Macmillan's fingers slid up her arm, the slow brush of flesh against flesh. It fanned the embers of her moment with Alessandro, rousing an appetite not yet sated. She turned in to his chest, wanting to feel more of him on more of her. His hand traveled over her shoulder and up her throat, coming to rest in the thick fall of her hair.
Yup, this is more than a diagnostic kiss. More than I bargained for.
But it was just one kiss, and maybe it would serve as an antidote to forbidden desires of the vampire kind. An amiable lust danced in her blood. Macmillan—Mac—was warm and friendly, and his obvious interest made her feel desirable. It was liberating. No expectations, no future. No unrequited longing. He was just a good, plain, sexy man, easy on the heart.
Holly's fingers scrunched the thick knit of his sweater, the springy fabric full of the aromas of cooking and the clove aftershave he wore. She caught his earlobe in her teeth, thinking he was the most delicious, edible man she had ever met. His food obsession was taking over her thoughts.
Mac kissed her eyelids, his lashes flickering against tender skin. Holly raised her hand to his cheek, fingertips tracing the first shadow of roughness. Then her mouth found his, their lips hot and sweet with sugar.
Down to work. She opened her senses, searching for traces left by his mysterious Jenny. There was a whisper of something, subtle as a falling feather. She pursued it, considered it, but found no cause for alarm. Probably just the passing shadow of Jenny's presence. No hints of anything more. In fact, every double X chromosome in her said there was nothing wrong with Detective Macmillan.
Distraction shattered her thoughts. Strong and competent, Macmillan's hand quested downward, cupping her backside. Enough heat rose between them to threaten the synthetics in her little black dress. OK yeah. Cooking was not his only skill set, and she writhed against him, taking an animal pleasure in being stroked in all the right places. She felt warm, and fed, and wanted.
She pressed against Mac's weight, enjoying the sheer physicality of their bodies in space. Whether or not the encounter had a future, its present was damn fine. Delicious languor radiated from her belly, making her lean in even as she broke the kiss. Their lips parted with a faint electric tingle.
"Wow," she said, feeling suddenly shy.
If possible, Macmillan's eyes seemed even darker than before. There was a sheen of perspiration at his temples. He was feeling the heat as much as Holly was. Goody.
"What's the verdict?" he asked in a whisper.
Holly felt a sloppy grin cover her face. "Oh, I think you're healthy. You shouldn't have any more problems."
Relief widened his eyes. "Hallelujah. Then go make yourself comfortable and I'll bring our coffee." He gave her a sly grin. "Maybe we can discuss a program of preventive health care."
Holly gave a bemused smile, all logical thought having swooned away. She wandered into the living room, the air around her chill after the heat of their embrace. Her skin felt alive to the texture of the couch, the brush of her skirt against her thighs. Mac's embrace had held unexpected depths. It buzzed with the prospect of more. Holly felt like a skydiver at the brink of her jump.
But did she want to jump? Or did she want simply to walk away?
The sound of running water came from the kitchen, coffee on its way. What sort of a conversation would follow a kiss like that? What was Mac expecting? Holly leaned her head against the back of the couch, not sure what she wanted to happen. Even with all the spells she had at her disposal, she didn't have the gift of reading minds, especially her own.
The water sounds stopped. Coffee was getting closer and, with it, the need for decisions. Holly grabbed her handbag from where she'd left it by a chair, reapplied her lipstick, and waited.
And waited. Then she took off her shoes and picked up a magazine. Holly flicked the pages impatiently while she waited some more. How long does it take to make coffee?
She got up and went to the kitchen, expecting to hear more running water, maybe the clatter of silverware, but it was quiet. And empty. Dishes were piled in the sink; the dishwasher door was ajar. The coffeemaker carafe sat on the counter, full of water. It looked like Mac had set it down, interrupted in the middle of making coffee, and never come back.
Holly put her hands on her hips. Perhaps he had passed out somewhere, overwhelmed by her womanly charms. She checked the bathroom. It was white and chrome and empty of sprawled bodies.
Next Holly tried the study. It was a small, spare room with a desk, computer, and filing cabinet. On the wafer-thin monitor, a string-art screen saver did slow cartwheels in the darkness. She wiggled the mouse, but no Help, I've been abducted by aliens message flashed onto the screen. She was getting irritated and a bit scared.
Onward to the bedroom. Images of furry handcuffs and stethoscopes danced in her mind, giving life to all the bad-date urban legends that lurked in her imagination. By now in no mood to find Macmillan reclining on a fur rug, she flipped on the overhead light.
Mac was sprawled face-down on the bed, one arm dangling off the side. Then she smelled sickness—psychic sickness, a faint, desiccated, dusty smell, as if death had been dried and ground into a powder.
Omigod, how did I miss this? Alessandro said Mac didn't smell right!
Holly ran to the bed, grabbing his shoulder. The sweater was soaked through with perspiration, his hair trailing in sodden waves. "Mac?"
His only reply was a gurgling haul of breath.
Panic lanced through her. Sweet Hecate, this happened so fast! There must have been something there, festering, but something so foreign she didn't recognize it. Something hiding.
She dug her fingers into Mac's shoulder muscle, hoping for a flutter of consciousness that didn't come. She bent close. "Mac, can you hear me?"