White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(3)

What would a member of Houston’s magical elite want from me? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. Baylor Investigative Agency specialized in small-time investigations. Contrary to the PI novels, gorgeous widows in search of their husband’s killer or billionaire bachelors with missing sisters rarely darkened my doorstep. Insurance fraud, cheating spouses, and background checks were our bread and butter. Please don’t let this be a cheating spouse. Those were always so difficult when children were involved.

I unlocked the door. “Mr. Harrison. How can I help you?”

“Good evening,” Cornelius said, his voice quiet. His gaze snagged on the shoes in my hand and moved on to my face. “I need your help. Augustine said I could come by.”

Augustine . . . Oh. So Cornelius was the client Montgomery wanted me to see.

“Come in, please.”

I let them in and shut the door.

“You must be Matilda.” I smiled at the little girl.

She nodded.

“Is that your dog?”

She nodded again.

“What’s his name?”

“Bunny,” she said in a small voice.

Bunny looked at me with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for rattlesnakes. Cornelius was an animal mage, a rare brand of magic, which meant Bunny wasn’t a dog. He was the equivalent of a loaded assault rifle pointed in my direction.

“He can smile,” Matilda offered. “Smile, Bunny.”

Bunny showed me a forest of gleaming white fangs. I fought an urge to step back.

“Is there a place Matilda can wait while we talk?” Cornelius asked.

“Of course. This way, please.”

I opened the door to a conference room and flicked on the light. Matilda took off her backpack, put it on the table, then climbed into the nearest chair. She opened her bag and took out a tablet, a coloring book, and some markers.

Bunny took a spot by Matilda’s feet and gave me the evil eye.

“Would you like some juice?” I opened the small refrigerator. “I have apple and kiwi-strawberry.”

“Apple, please.”

I handed her a juice box.

“Thank you.”

There was something oddly adult about the way she held herself. If this was what Cornelius was like when he was a child, Adam Pierce and his chaos must’ve driven him insane. It was no wonder that he’d distanced himself from both Houses.

“Do you have many clients with children?” Cornelius asked.

“A few, but the juice boxes are mine. I’m hiding them from my sisters. This is the only place they won’t raid. Let’s talk in my office.”

I led Cornelius across the hallway to my office and my head almost exploded. A page from Bridal magazine was taped to my office glass door. It showed a woman in a spectacular gown made with long white feathers. Someone—probably Arabella—had cut out my head from some selfie and pasted it over the bride’s. A big heart, drawn in a pink marker and sprinkled with glitter, decorated the bride’s dress. Inside the heart someone had written N+R = LURVE. Little pink hearts floated around my face.

Killer way to make the first impression. I wished I could fall through the floor.

Through the glass I could see another bridal photograph, this one embellished with glittering dollar signs, waiting on my desk. On the bride’s dress, big block letters written with Catalina’s painstaking precision, said Marry him. We need college money.

I had to murder my sisters. There just wasn’t any way around it. No jury on this earth would convict me. I could represent myself and I would still win.

I pulled the photograph off the glass and swung my office door open. “Please.”

Cornelius settled into one of my two client’s chairs. I grabbed the second photograph off the desk, crumpled both, and threw them in the trash.

“Are you getting married?” Cornelius asked.

“No.”

R stood for Rogan. Connor Rogan, except nobody called him that. They called him Mad Rogan, the Scourge of Mexico, the Butcher of Merida, the man who’d nearly leveled downtown Houston trying to save the rest of the city. Mad Rogan and the rest of humanity were never on a first-name basis. He cut buildings in half, threw buses like they were baseballs, and when he and I were done with Adam Pierce, he’d invited me to become his . . . mistress would be the polite term. It took all of my will to turn him down. Even now, when I thought about him, my pulse shot up. Unfortunately, my grandma witnessed our parting fight and decided that sooner or later we would get hitched, a fact she shared with my two sisters and two cousins, and since three of them were under the age of eighteen, the teasing was relentless.

“Coffee? Tea?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine Mad Rogan in my office. I remembered the feel of his hands on my skin. I remembered his taste. I slammed a mental door on that thought so hard my whole skull rattled. Rogan and I were over before we even had a chance to start.

I took my seat, trying to remember everything I could about Cornelius. He had distanced himself from his House and moved out of their territory to a very comfortable, but modest by the House’s standards, residence. He was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife worked somewhere—I had no idea where. He detested the entire Pierce family. That was pretty much it.

“Why don’t you tell me about your problem and I can tell you whether or not we’re equipped to handle your issue.”