No. If I search, I’ll scan.
Shit. Elena bit down hard on her lower lip. Ideas? It was never a good plan to go into a room with unknown threats.
It’s highly unlikely that anything this close to the entrance is beyond the expected. Unethical and ugly if the people within are coerced rather than volunteers, but nothing dangerous.
Elena nodded. Right. It’s all about easy access. Exhaling quietly, she twisted the handle with care and stepped inside, going low so Raphael could see over her.
Her mouth fell open.
She—Raphael, too, when he came in behind her—stood in a lush living area. It was nice and spacious, the carpet beneath their feet a thick, velvety gray, while what looked to be priceless paintings hung on the walls on either side. The settees—definitely not sofas—were an exquisite, deep burgundy with curved wooden arms and legs.
The furniture was clearly meant to accommodate wings.
A waiting area, Raphael said.
Or one where the sick bastards hang out. Scanning the three doors to their left and seeing no differences between them, Elena decided to go from closest to farthest. She walked in silence to the first door while Raphael stayed slightly back so he could cover her from threats from the other two doors or the one through which they’d entered.
This time when Elena opened the door—after turning the key in the lock—she scented the opulent perfume . . . and came face to face with a small and curvy young woman dressed only in a towel, her hair damp. Her mouth opened, as if to cry out in shock, but Elena was already moving, her hand clamped over the woman’s mouth before the sound could escape.
The mirror in front of them reflected their images, Elena’s golden-skinned hand covering the woman’s mouth—a woman who had her own hands, her skin a rich cream, holding on tight to her towel. Her eyes were huge amber orbs.
Shaking her head in the mirror, Elena lifted her free hand and pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh.” A sound and an action understandable in any language.
The woman gave a jerky nod. Releasing her but ready to react at any hint she might scream, Elena watched as the brunette spun around to face her.
40
“Hunter angel.” It was an awed statement.
“You speak English.”
Another jerky nod. “Do you want . . .” She waved hesitantly at the bed on her right, the sheets still tumbled.
Relieved not to see any bruises or other signs of mistreatment on the woman, Elena put her hands on her hips. “You think you can compete with Raphael?”
The brunette smiled with firefly suddenness, dimples appearing in both cheeks. She was beautiful, Elena realized, but it wasn’t the kind of beauty that was intimidating. No, her beauty was soft and sensual and welcoming. “I am glad you do not stray,” she whispered. “You and your archangel, it is a storybook come to life.” A long sigh. “C’est tellement romantique.”
That had definitely not been Moroccan, and this woman’s English was accented in a way that wasn’t local . . . and that made an ache form in the center of Elena’s chest. “You’re French?”
“Oui.” Still smiling, the woman pointed to a small vanity that held the usual accoutrements—well, usual for most women. Potions and pots and cosmetics. “I will brush my hair, yes?”
“Go ahead. I just wanted to talk to you, promise. Nothing to fear.”
“But it is . . .” The woman lifted a finger to her lips.
“Yeah.” Arms folded, Elena leaned against the wall after letting Raphael know everything was fine. “How did you come to be here?”
“I came with an angel down the long tunnel.” She shivered. “I had to close my eyes or I would’ve screamed.”
“No, not physically. How did you come to be . . .” Elena fought to find words that wouldn’t be an insult.
“Providing joy to the Luminata?” A mischievous smile. “I was traveling through this area and I was made an offer.” A liquid shrug. “It is a wild thing to do, but they are angels and I have not made promises to any man yet. When I am old and gray, I will have scandalous stories to tell my children, non?”
Elena felt her lips curve at that utterly unrepentant and happy statement. “What’s your name?”
“Josette.”
“Josette, I got to agree with you about angels—though I’m only partial to one particular angel.”
The other woman’s laugh was half giggle and all delight. “If I had Raphael, I would not look at any other pair of wings, either.” Having combed her damp hair smooth, the dark strands showing signs that they might curl as they dried, Josette turned and went to her wardrobe to pull out underwear. Unself-consciously shrugging off her towel to slip on white lace panties, she then picked up a nightshirt she’d already hung on a chair and pulled it on. “You worry for me?” Josette asked.