He shook his head. “I faked it.”

“Really? So did I. I guess we’ll have to try again.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Okay, but the tarp has to go.”

“Deal.”

19

I’m one step away from being rich.

All I need now is money.

—MEME

We talked all night. And ate Reyes’s amazing bourbon chicken. And discussed … everything. He answered anything I asked, and though I had no idea why he was opening up now, I was never one to look a gift horse in the chops.

We’d gone from the Twister mat to the sofa to the bathroom sink—long story—and finally ended up in bed. Bed was a massive four-poster of rustic gray woods and smooth, tasteful lines.

He asked a lot of questions, too. I explained about Heather, the homeless girl who’d been cursed, I’d mentioned in my drunken stupor at Satellite. Told him where we were on that case. And then I told him about my actual case.

Since he didn’t work for the police in any way, I told him who’d hired us, mostly because I wanted to explain the other remark I’d made while inebriated about how Nick Parker has a file on us and Beep. How he was currently using it to ensure my cooperation on his case, but that it wasn’t necessary, because Fiske truly was innocent of the charges against him.

But Reyes’s interest snagged on the fact that Parker had a file on us. The apartment almost exploded around that time. I was forced to take Reyes’s mind off Parker by flashing him Danger and Will. Totally worked. My girls always came through in a pinch.

But I knew Reyes well enough to know that he would not let that one drop. Not for a minute. And he could make things very sticky for us and our extremely delicate situation. The last thing we needed was a full-blown investigation into something that could get us both thrown in prison. I was pretty sure falsifying birth records and giving your child away was illegal.

I tried to feel him out as delicately as possible about the whole god thing. It was one thing for me not to know I was a god, but for Reyes, who’d been Rey’aziel in hell and then Reyes here, who’d been alive in his current state of mind for centuries, to have no clue. He was either playing that one very close to the bulletproof vest, or he really and truly didn’t know.

It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position.

I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“What are you doing?” he asked without removing his arm.

“Giving you CPR.” I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I’d straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say.

“I’m not sure I’m in the market,” he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn’t appreciate my dedication.

“Damn it, man! I’m trying to save your life! Don’t interrupt.”

A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions.

“Don’t you die on me!”

And praying.

After another round, he asked, “Am I going to make it?”

“It’s touch-and-go. I’m going to have to bring out the defibrillator.”

“We have a defibrillator?” he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed.

I reached for my phone. “I have an app. Hold on.” As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. “You don’t have the app,” I said from between clenched teeth.

“I had no idea smartphones were so versatile.”

“I’ll just have to download it. It’ll just take a sec.”

“Do I have that long?”

Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I’d forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted?

“Got it!” I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, “Clear!”

Granted, I didn’t get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway.

He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper.

After two more jolts of electricity—it had to be done—I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat.

“Well?” he asked after a tense moment.

I released a ragged sigh of relief, and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. “You’re going to be okay, Mr. Farrow.”

Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair.

It was a miracle!

“But are you?” he asked, the question part promise and part threat.

I giggled as a strong hand slid into my boxers. “No,” I said breathlessly. “Never.”

And as he slid inside me again, my body clenching around him in reflex, I believed it. I would never be all right again. And somehow I was good with that.

* * *

“You know,” he said at around three in the morning, “there is one secret we’ve never talked about.”

I tried not to get too excited, but … “Is this one of your two?”

“No,” he said, then he laughed when I pursed my mouth in disappointment.

“So there’s another one?”

“Kind of.”

“You had three?”

“It’s not really a secret. You’ve just never asked.”