Secrets at Midnight(7)

“No.” Her answer was driven by instinct, the moment pregnant with a meaning she couldn’t consciously grasp. “Memories,” she found herself saying to the beautiful male who’d been a stranger an hour ago. “I remembered something that made me sad.”

Bastien reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, his fingertips brushing the curve of it to shimmer sensation through every inch of her. “Do you often remember?”

She shook her head as the prickling in her skin eased—to be replaced by a greedy desire for more. “No.” The dream-crying had faded to nonexistence in the later part of her childhood, only to return with a vengeance when she relocated to San Francisco. “I think it must be from the stress of moving to a new place.”

Bastien went as if to play with another strand of her hair, then glanced at Vera’s cottage. “She’ll accuse us of necking in her drive if we don’t get going.”

The dry words made her laugh, the sadness fading, and she knew he’d done it on purpose, this leopard she didn’t know . . . and yet did in her very bones.

Starting up the car, his grin devastating, he said, “Which way?”

Kirby gave him her address, then realized she’d never asked his original destination. “Will it be out of your way?” She should’ve offered to get out at the transit stop, but she couldn’t make herself say it.

One hand confident on the wheel as they pulled out, Bastien reached across to run the knuckles of his free hand over her cheek. “You could never be out of my way, Kirby.”

Every inch of her melted at that rough caress of sound. “Vera is right. You’re dangerous.”

“Who, me? I just deal with stocks and bonds all day.”

Fascinated by him, compelled to know everything, she angled herself in the seat so she could look at his profile, the hard line of his jaw cleanly shaven. “Really?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m in charge of DarkRiver’s financial assets.”

Kirby thought of what she’d read in the papers about the pack and how it was effectively one of the biggest corporations in the city, a corporation in robust financial health, and knew she’d been right. Bastien was very good at his job. “Do you have other clients as well?”

“A few small ones. Why, do you want to invest?” A raised eyebrow. “We could definitely come to an agreement about my fees,” he added with a smile that invited her to play.

Kirby wanted to trace that smile, kiss it into her own mouth. “Kindergarten teachers don’t make enough to invest.”

An interested look before he returned his attention to the road. “Which kindergarten?”

“The one near DarkRiver’s city headquarters in Chinatown.” As a result, she had as many changeling students as human, and had spent the past month learning how to handle children who didn’t yet have full control over their shifting.

“The other day,” she told him, the memory a delight, “I couldn’t find a student until my assistant teacher pointed out that he was in cub form on a tree branch above the swing.” Kirby had eventually coaxed the boy, who’d apparently had a fight with a friend, to jump into her arms. “They didn’t cover that in my training.”

Bastien turned onto the main road back to San Francisco. “You should talk to Annie,” he said. “She teaches seven-year-olds I think, including a lot of changeling kids, could probably give you some pointers.”

“Would she mind?” Kirby loved her new position and wanted to do a good job; she wasn’t too proud to ask for help from more experienced teachers.

“No, she’s a sweetheart. I’ll get her number from the pack directory, tell her to give you a call.” His lips curved again. “Of course, that means you have to give me your number.”

“Or I could ask Vera for Annie’s contact details,” she teased, the compulsion to touch him so aggressive that she had to fold her arms to keep from reaching out. Still, a wild, unknown part of her lunged at him, as if it would shove out of her very skin.

“Oh, that’s just mean.” Scowl darkening his features, he reached across to tug at her hair. “Did you meet Vera at the kindergarten?”

“Two of her grandchildren attend and she comes in as a volunteer a couple of times a week.” The other woman had, for reasons of her own, taken Kirby under her wing at their first meeting, becoming her first friend in this city. “Do you always work on Sundays?”

“Only when necessary.” Settling into his seat as they hit the highway, he said, “Tell me more stories about the kids you teach.”