Edge of Darkness Read online

“Friend” wasn’t exactly the term. Duncan thought of them more as friendly competitors. He’d gone to school way back when with Trey. And Serena. If he had to choose which one to take with him into a dark alley, he’d choose Trey. At least he was predictable. But if it was a dark bedroom, Serena was the hands-down winner.

  Not that he’d ever do anything that stupid. Or dangerous.

  All that fire and sensuality wasted on a husband three years older than dirt. He didn’t get it.

  “Are you going to have time to chase this killer?” Landis demanded. “Rumor is, you’re running for Head of Council.”

  He snapped his errant thoughts back into place. He had every intention of winning the post as Head of the Wizard Council. He knew he had enough votes for a nomination, all he needed to do now was win the various Tests. Winning two Tests out of the four was all it would take. Piece of cake.

  “I haven’t thrown my hat in the ring yet,” he lied easily. It wasn’t to his advantage to have the general population of wizards know that he was going to be in Test mode in a week. Jealousies, politics, and just plain shittiness from a wizard faction might screw with the outcome.

  “Not what I’ve heard.” Landis gave him a pointed glance.

  Duncan shrugged. “Let me know what you discover on that satellite.” After arranging a meeting later in the week to exchange intel, he teleported from T-FLAC headquarters in Montana to his seldom used flat in London.

  NEW YORK CITY

  Serena teleported directly from the desert into her New York apartment bathroom. Dirty, tired, and still seriously pissed off, she turned on the shower, then yanked off her boots and socks. She could magically become clean, lotioned, and ready for bed in seconds, but this situation warranted a real-time shower.

  Stripping off her sweat-stained, sand-encrusted shorts and tank top, she kicked the pile aside. She still wasn’t sure if she’d been antsy all week because she somehow sensed she was being watched. Or if it was a presentiment of impending—what? She had no idea. Things at the Foundation had been copacetic. Much-needed financial support had poured in from the last fund-raiser, and Ian’s two adult sons had been ominously quiet.

  Which was almost more disconcerting than when they were harassing her with their latest attempt to vacate the terms of Ian’s will. Maybe someday the greedy bastards would understand that their father had left almost everything to her for a reason. Ian had known long before he’d married Serena that his sons didn’t share his humanitarian leanings. And that she’d use the very last breath in her body to make sure Ian’s wishes were followed to the letter.

  A year of motions, depositions, and mandatory court appearances was getting old. Had Duncan Edge somehow gotten involved with Paul and Hugh Campbell? It seemed doubtful. But anything was possible.

  This, however, wasn’t the hour to worry about it. Right now she was going to take a lovely hot shower, slather herself in scented lotion, and crawl between her one-thousand-thread-count sheets. After a good night’s sleep she’d look into Duncan’s intrusion. She shivered just thinking about Duncan joining forces with Ian’s greed-driven sons. Hell, she shivered just thinking about Duncan period.

  Giving herself a shake, Serena pulled off the baseball cap she’d worn to keep her long hair out of the way. Then enjoyed the glide of her long hair down her bare back. Tonight was for her.

  Used to extreme temperatures in the places she visited for the Foundation, Serena was rarely fazed by weather. Hot or cold, it was a given that each location she and her team visited would be poor and rural, the temperature just one more difficulty they’d face. She was used to sleeping on the ground wrapped in a blanket, used to not looking too closely at what she was eating, used to primitive facilities—assuming there were any facilities at all. Which was why she relished her infrequent visits home. She could hike the jungles with the best of them, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a girl who appreciated the indulgence and sanctuary of her perfectly appointed penthouse.

  Like the rest of the apartment, her bathroom was spacious, and opulently luxurious. Creamy, peach-veined marble, twenty-four-carat gold fixtures, and plush carpeting the color of ripe apricots. They were her favorite colors, and knowing exactly what she loved was just one of the many things her husband, Ian, had been good at. He’d spoiled her, and loved her, and known her, sometimes better than she knew herself.

  Her heart squeezed painfully. God she missed him. Missed his dry sense of humor. Missed the love he’d lavished unstintingly on her. Missed his counsel and his wisdom.

  The fact that he’d given her almost everything her heart could desire, and countless things she hadn’t even known she’d needed or wanted, was immaterial. Those had only been things. Lovely things to be sure, but just things.

  She missed him every day. And at night, when she lay in their vast empty bed, she missed the comfort of his arms around her.

  Neither of them had cared what people said. Their world was complete. They’d had each other, and they’d had the Foundation. And knowing intellectually that her husband would die decades before she did, hadn’t changed the heart-wrenching emotional blow she’d felt when he’d closed his eyes that night a year ago and never woken up. How stupid to think that just because she’d anticipated being a widow, Ian’s death wouldn’t have a devastating emotional impact on her.

  Their luxurious home wasn’t home anymore. The apartment, which overlooked Central Park, was much too big for just her. She’d sell it eventually. Find something smaller. But not now. It was too soon. Too complicated. Too painful.

  Ian would have known how to deal with Duncan. Henry, too, would know what needed to be done. She couldn’t even think about Henry lying in a hospital bed, so pale and lifeless. Did everyone she love have to die?

  Oh, for goodness sake, she thought, annoyed with herself. “Get a grip. Stop being so damned melodramatic,” she said out loud. “Henry’s not dead.” As for Duncan Edge—“Damn that interfering son of a bitch. What’s he up to?”

  The mirror over the sink bounced against the wall and three bottles of scented lotion on the counter skittered across the marble in response to her inner turmoil. Closing her eyes, she willed herself calm, forcibly reining in her temper. Only Duncan Edge had this infuriating effect on her telekinesis skills. Another annoying thing she could lay at his door. His revolving door.

  Playboy jerk.

  The last bottle fell to the floor. Damn, damn! That’s what he did to her. Made her curse and lose her temper. She’d always had a problem containing her telekinetic power, and Duncan made that control snap like no one else. And even after all these years, all her hard work to channel the power constructively, just the thought of him made it go haywire.

  Her reaction to him hadn’t changed a bit, from fourth grade all the way to twelfth. Serena scratched an insect bite on her arm as the large bathroom started filling with steam. The mirror stopped moving as she regained control of her temper.

  Duncan had always mocked her lack of emotional control.

  Her temper was perfectly controlled, thank you very much. Unless he was anywhere in her vicinity. And now, apparently, even when he wasn’t in close physical proximity. Just thinking about the man made Serena’s blood pressure soar. The large antique mirror scraped the wall as if in warning.

  The mirror started dancing, and her favorite perfume bottle crashed to the floor, filling the room with the fragrance of jasmine.

  Had Duncan had more than three of his minions watching her? It was pure fluke that she’d managed to catch the men at all. They’d been Halves. Clever of Duncan, since she hadn’t sensed their presence. She’d never have known they were there if they hadn’t been so stupid. The Halves hadn’t bothered to check before levitating food and water to their hiding spot behind a sand dune.

  She opened the wide, clear glass shower door and stepped inside the enormous steam-filled stall. The water was hot and plentiful. Bliss. Lord, she needed this, she thought with a happy sigh. Her parched skin almost sucked up
the liquid before she could soap up. It had been an unofficial visit to Mongolia. Unofficial meaning she’d teleported in and out instead of using the Foundation’s private plane.

  Her team there was doing a terrific job as always. The two-room schoolhouse/medical center was almost ready for occupancy. The village was already using the basic latrines they’d built for them, and the people had enough food, medicine, and livestock to sustain them until the new cattle bred, and the newly planted crops came in. Serena had “discovered” an underground water source while she was there. She’d left the villagers and her team celebrating their good fortune.

  She was a little embarrassed and a lot irritated that she’d dispatched Duncan’s men back to him with more force than necessary. It wasn’t their fault that she had unresolved issues with their boss. Still, none of his men had cooperated with her when she’d demanded to know what they were doing in a small village on the outskirts of nowhere Mongolia.

  Had they even known why they’d been sent to the Gobi to spy on her? Probably not. Duncan liked to play things close to the chest.

  She hadn’t had any sort of meaningful conversation with him in five years, seven months, and three days. Not that she was counting, she thought with irritation as she reached for the soap. It flew off the soap dish, missed her shoulder by an inch, and thunked—hard—into the glass door before shooting upward to hit the ceiling. The scented bar skimmed the marble tile, and crashed down again, hitting the showerhead before breaking in half.

  “Oh, for—” She made a grab for the long-handled back scrubber as it flew around the inside of the stall in counterpoint to the two bits of soap.

  Deep breath. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Breathe out.

  She caught the pieces of soap and the back scrubber’s handle before they hit her. She hadn’t lost her temper in years. Five years, seven months, and three days to be exact. Even the evil step adults and their neverending legal maneuvers didn’t make her this nuts. Duncan brought out the absolute worst in her.

  What possible reason could he have for sending people to spy on her? None. Their paths had no reason to cross. They didn’t stay in touch, they rarely saw one another. They’d had an adversarial, highly competitive “relationship” for want of a better word, in wizard school. These days they occasionally bumped into each other at some fund-raiser or charity event.

  Pouring a generous amount of fragrant shampoo into her palm, Serena started washing her hair. It was long and thick and she rarely wore it down. Wearing her hair pinned up in a classic, if old-fashioned, chignon suited her perfectly. When it was short, her hair curled like little Orphan Annie’s, and made her look and feel…out of control.

  Duncan preferred cool blondes.

  She’d spotted him with a gorgeous Nordic model at the Met a few months ago, but he hadn’t seen her. She remembered how damned handsome he’d looked in a stark black tux, his dark hair curling against his collar, that single dimple in his cheek flashing as he spoke intimately to his companion.

  It hadn’t been her fault that an urn had toppled to the floor, or that a pile of programs had gone flying like projectiles all over the lobby. Could have been a gust of wind from an open door. Or not. Serena dug her fingers into her scalp and scrubbed her—

  She felt a sudden tingle, and blinked. “Holy shit!”

  She’d been teleported from her lovely hot shower to a chilly, ultra modern kitchen. She knew only one man who’d have a stark black-and-silver kitchen. One man rude enough, and confident enough, to do this without permission.

  “Hello, Serena.” Duncan’s dark blue eyes scanned her naked, dripping body. “You’ve lost some weight. Been working out?”

  Furious, she met his cool expression. “I’m going to kill you for this!”

  Indolently he leaned a hip against the counter, one large bare foot crossed over the other, his arms folded over his broad chest. He, of course, was fully dressed, except for his feet. He looked perfectly at home, unbearably sexy, and completely at ease. Until one noticed the glitter in his blue eyes, which turned from ice blue to the hot blue of a flame as he watched a blob of shampoo plop onto her bare shoulder.

  His sexy mouth twitched, causing the single long dimple in his right cheek to flash. “Tsk, tsk, Fury. There goes that temper again.”

  Serena’s blood pressure thumped behind her eyes. The heat flooding her body should have made the sudsy trail of water down her back sizzle. But her nudity took a backseat to her struggle to prevent an emotional outburst. She was now embarrassed and furious, and unable to do anything to rectify either emotion at the moment.

  She couldn’t materialize clothes when she was struggling to control a physical manifestation of her anger. And damn him, Duncan knew it.

  Think calm—Calm. Calm. Calm.

  “This is an abuse of your powers.” How could such an arrogant man be so damned appealing? A rush of heat went through her as his gaze swept her body in a slow visual scan that felt like a physical touch. She felt as though she’d just run a seven-minute mile. Her heart was pounding, her breath was rapid, and her entire body was suddenly…hot.

  One dark eyebrow—the one, she noticed with satisfaction, with a familiar little scar bisecting it—lifted. “Is that so?”

  His tall, lean body was clothed in jeans and a black, close-fitting T-shirt. His dark hair, thick, lustrous, and with a hint of curl, brushed his broad shoulders. He’d been the class hunk even back in sixth grade. Handsome, smart, funny, charming, and athletic. He’d been slavishly adored by all the girls, and admired by the boys.

  He’d goofed off in class, but he’d still managed straight As, while she’d worked her ass off for Bs.

  They’d both lost their parents too young. Serena had thought that their circumstances would forge some sort of bond between them. Too bad neither of them ever wanted to talk about the past. Too bad he was an Edge. Still, she’d desperately wanted to be part of his charmed circle. Just not desperately enough to let him know it. The simple reason was that she hadn’t wanted to be just one more member of the gaggle of girls vying for his attention. The complicated reason was—more complicated.

  The only times she hadn’t passed beneath Duncan’s radar was when they competed against one another. They were both fiercely competitive. If he wouldn’t be her friend, then she was more than willing to beat his ass in everything from telekinesis to tennis.

  She might have fantasized about being naked with Duncan at sixteen, but at thirty-three she was just pissed off that he was seeing her body this way. And annoyed was exactly how she wanted to appear when her telekinetic powers went berserk around him. She’d hate him to know that it wasn’t just anger, but also attraction that made her lose control.

  She observed the movement of his lashes as he visually tracked the white foam now gliding slowly down the upper swell of her naked breast.

  “We need to talk.” Duncan’s voice was deeper than she remembered as he languidly raised his lids to look at her face.

  She met that dark blue gaze unflinchingly, but wondered if anyone had ever died of embarrassment. Probably not. Perhaps she’d be the first. The copper pots in an overhead rack started clinking together as she just stood there, totally and literally exposed, dripping on a silver metal floor, while trying to rein in her temper. Duncan would enjoy it if she lost it. He always did.

  She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Next time use a phone,” she told him, keeping her voice low, calm, and rational, which would have been great if her inner turmoil wasn’t making the pots rattle faster and faster as her temper rose.

  She tried to override it and materialize something, anything to cover herself. She was too agitated for her magic to work, which made her anger that much hotter. “Besides a total misuse of teleportation, this is an invasion of my privacy. And damn rude. Even for you.” She tried, she really did, to use her most reasonable tone. Hard to do when her blood was on fire and her heart was racing and those damned pots were doing a samba.

  He
r fight-or-flight response whenever she was around this man was in the stratosphere. But she couldn’t do a damn thing until she got her emotions under control. Her temper, the bane of her life, screwed up her abilities to use any of her other powers.

  The black lacquered cabinet doors started slamming. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Slamslamslam. The pots clanged against each other in a cacophony of noise that made Duncan’s lips twitch. If he laughed at her loss of control she was going to—

  Damn it. No she wasn’t. He was the one who used his might to control situations. She was the one who’d taught herself, and it hadn’t been easy, that a rational conversation was always the best course of action. Far more effective than his Neanderthal approach to everything. Of course, no lesson in self-control covered standing naked in this man’s home. She bit her tongue and utilized her relaxing breathing technique until the pots and doors slowed down a little. Duncan’s amused gaze was still locked on her face.

  “If you’ve looked your fill, please give me something to put on.” There was nothing within reach, and she still hadn’t quite harnessed her powers.

  Smoky eyes swept her body. “What if I haven’t?”

  Skin hot with embarrassment and fury, Serena blinked. Damn it, she couldn’t think with the pots and pans crashing against one another and his freaking cabinet doors slamming. “Haven’t what?” she demanded.

  “Looked my fill,” he said in an even tone, not a hint of what was going on in his devious mind showing on his lean, handsome face. Even his eyes were now opaque.

  She’d just started to control her inner turmoil when he added, “Different having a man your own age looking at you instead of one fifty years older, isn’t it, Fury?”

  The spice bottles in the rack beside the stove flew across the room. Laughing, Duncan ducked as one by one, they sailed by his head. The bottles spun and twirled, forming a vortex over the center island. He grabbed a copper saucepan lid and held it up as a shield even though the bottles were a good six feet away from his hard skull. “Temper, temper.”