Nightingale (7 page)

No. I was definitely
not
telling Talon my real name.

“Tell you what—why don’t I just call you Talon, and you can call me … ”

My eyes flicked around the bathroom, as if an anonymous name would magically appear in the steam on the mirror.
 

“Um …”

My gaze fell to the floor. No name there, just puddles of water.

“Um …”

I looked out the open door. Talon’s clothes sat in a row in the next room. My eyes latched onto the winged bird insignia on the superhero’s ruined shirt.

“Wren.” It was the first thing that popped into my head. “Just call me Wren.”

“Wren?” Talon asked. “Is that your real name?”

“Of course not. But it’s a bird name. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“But why don’t you just tell me your real name?”

I sighed. “Look, you’re naked. In my apartment. I don’t usually have strange, naked men in my apartment, especially not superheroes. You’re not going to tell me your real name. Why should I tell you mine? It will probably be easier for both of us if we stick to anonymous names. That way, I won’t wonder whether my mailman is thinking about the night I took off his clothes whenever he delivers my packages.”

Talon threw his head back and laughed. The rich, throaty timbre rumbled through the room, almost like bass notes. The sound made me smile, despite the weirdness of the whole evening.

“Well, I can guarantee I’m not your mailman, but I get your point.” Talon smiled. “So, Wren it is. You saved my life. That’s all I really need to know. Nice to meet you.”
 

Talon must have still been feeling the affects from Bandit’s gas because he held out his hand about a foot away from where I stood. I leaned down and stuck my wet one in his.
 

“Nice to meet you too, Talon. Now, why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

“I’d like that.”

#

I spent the next half hour leaning over the tub, cleaning the wound in Talon’s shoulder. The bullet had gone all the way through, which meant I didn’t have to try to dig it out, like people always did in the movies. I don’t think I could have, given how much smelly blood would have been involved. Looking at the two small, neat holes in his skin was bad enough.
 

Talon pressed a hidden button on the side of his visor, which started humming. A moment later, the mechanized voice delivered its diagnosis.

No vital tissue damaged in shoulder region. Flesh wound only. Recommended course of action is round of painkillers and bed rest …

“Your visor can tell how seriously injured you are?”
 

Talon nodded. “Yeah. I don’t have superpowers, so I have to rely on my equipment more than most. I programmed the visor with a body scanner, basic medical information, and some other bells and whistles.”
 

“That is too cool,” I said. “A stun gun, a body scanner,
and
a medical encyclopedia. That thing’s better than a Swiss Army knife.”

The superhero laughed again. I liked the sound.

“You know, you have a very gentle touch,” Talon murmured as I rinsed off his shoulder. “I’ve barely felt a thing this whole time.”

A gentle touch? Yeah, I supposed so, now that my skin was supercharged to feel even the slightest vibration up to ten feet away. That was one of the reasons I usually wore oversized flannel shirts, baggy cargo pants, and custom-made camisoles by Bella Bulluci and Fiona Fine whenever I was at home. I couldn’t stand to feel anything but the softest, smoothest, silkiest material on my skin.
 

“Well, I’m trying,” I said. “It’s not every day I patch up a bullet wound.”

Talon shrugged. “Don’t worry. It’s not that hard. I’ve done it several times.”

I knew he had. Nicks and scars covered his body, the signs of old battles and the price of being a superhero—especially one without any regenerative capabilities. Unlike Striker, the leader of the Fearless Five who could heal instantly, Talon was more of a mortal superhero, a clever gadget guru who used his wits to get by, which made me like him even more.

“All right,” I said. “It’s as clean as I’m going to get it.”

It was clean—squeaky clean. I couldn’t smell any stench of infection and the edges of the wound looked better now, if a bit jagged.

“I’m afraid it’s going to leave a scar, though.” I patted the wound dry and squeezed some superstrength antibiotic ointment into it, being sure to smear the grease on the front and back of his shoulder.

“That’s okay. I’ve been through worse.” His mouth titled up into a smile. “Besides, chicks dig scars. Or so I’ve been told.”

I laughed. Any chick who didn’t dig him would have to be stone-cold dead. I didn’t tell him, though. I didn’t want Talon to think I was some weird
Slaves for Superhero Sex
groupie. I’d already stripped him naked. That was weird enough.

“Well, if chicks dig scars, they’ll be swarming all over you when they get a load of this one,” I replied, sticking a large, thick cotton bandage over the wound and taping it down. I repeated the process on his back.

“There. You’re all patched up.”

Talon grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers even warmer than the water around him. “Thank you, Wren. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“No problem.” I pulled my hand away and ignored the hot tingles spreading through my body at his slight touch.
 

“Now, let’s see what we can do about your eyes. Can you see anything? “Anything at all?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. The blinding gas is something new Bandit’s been using. The last time he hit me with it, I couldn’t see for two days.”

“But it’s not permanent, then?”
 

“No,” he said. “Just annoying.”

I let out a quiet sigh. In other words, I was stuck with a superhero for the night.

#

I left Talon alone in the bathroom so he could take off his visor and flush out his eyes with some warm water. He opened the door ten minutes later. His visor still covered his face, but the two metal bars that had clamped it to his head were gone. I guess the superhero thought he could trust me not to lunge forward and yank it off his face. Or he just knew I didn’t want to get shocked again.

Then came another problem—finding something for him to put on. I might be used to planning for every emergency, but having a naked, wounded superhero wearing nothing but a damp towel in my apartment was one even I’d never dreamed of.
 

My gaze traveled up and down Talon’s body, taking in his long torso, tight muscles, and white scars. Did this really qualify as an emergency? Because I could get used to this view—easily.

“I can just put my clothes back on,” Talon said. “It’s not a big deal. They’ve been dirty before.”

I looked at the shirt. To my sensitive nose, it reeked of blood, metal, and gunpowder. The boots and pants weren’t so bad. They just smelled like wet leather. But I shuddered at the thought of Talon putting that nasty shirt against his smooth, gorgeous skin—and clean wounds.

“Trust me. You don’t want to put your clothes back on. At least, not your shirt until I wash it.”

“You can’t wash leather,” he pointed out.

“Oh. Right.”
 

I knew that. I’d told Fiona Fine the same thing when she’d shown up wearing a white leather sundress at a barbecue I’d planned for Nate Norris. I’d warned Fiona her pristine leather probably wouldn’t make it through the day stain-free, but the flamboyant fashion designer insisted dirt wouldn’t
dare
stick to
her
clothes. Sure enough, ten minutes into the barbecue, someone jostled Fiona, causing her to spill a bucket of baked beans onto her dress—ruining it. I’d had to chew gum the rest of the day to keep from telling Fiona
I told you so
.

But something about Talon made me tongue-tied. Normally, I had no problem talking to people, even confronting them, no matter who they were, as long as it was in a professional capacity. I’d gone toe-to-toe with Joanne James, Johnny Bulluci, and all the other Bigtime wheelers and dealers. Maybe it was because he was paying so much attention to me, but I felt different around Talon. A little shy, a little uncertain, and not like myself at all. I wanted him to like me, and I wasn’t quite sure why. Or perhaps it was just because he was rough and tough, and I was totally in lust.

“Maybe your husband or boyfriend has an extra T-shirt and some pants I could borrow?” Talon said.

“Sorry, I don’t have a man of the house. It’s just me.”

The superhero looked at the wall where he thought I was. “You’re not with someone?”

I shook my head. Then realizing he couldn’t see me, I spoke. “Nope, afraid not. No pets either. It’s just me.”

“That surprises me,” he murmured.

“Why?”
 

It didn’t surprise me. I worked sixty hours a week planning event after event. What little free time I had I spent with Piper or at The Blues
singing karaoke. Even when I was up on stage belting my heart out, it wasn’t like men lined up to get my number. I wasn’t exactly a knockout when it came to looks. My hair was long, straight, and brown. Not auburn, not caramel, not tawny. Just … brown. I had nice skin, if a bit on the pale side. My eyes were light too, a pretty but unspectacular green.
 

It all added up to a pretty average package. I was lucky if someone bought me a drink once a month. Even when I was on stage and supposed to be the center of attention, I always managed to fade into the background.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d dated several guys over the years, including some of Bigtime’s playboy businessmen, but things never jelled. I worked too much, and he didn’t work enough. I couldn’t cook or decorate, while he was a gourmand. I liked rock ’n’ roll, while he preferred—heaven help us all—polka music. And with the playboys, I was never rich or thin or pretty or flamboyant enough to hold their interest for very long.
 

I’d given it my best shot with Ryan Rivers, the hotel heir. Ryan had been everything a billionaire playboy should be—charming, handsome, funny. So charming, so handsome, and so funny I’d been willing to overlook his love of the aforementioned polka music. Shudder. Things had gone great for about three months. Then, Ryan grew distant. Canceling dates. Ignoring my phone calls. Never wanting to hang out. He’d delved to the depths of Abby Appleby and decided to move on to greener, richer, prettier pastures.

I didn’t want to have another failed relationship, so I resorted to desperate measures—and tried to mold myself into the sort of woman I thought Ryan wanted. I started dressing up, acting coy, and being as girly-girly as I knew how. Which, sadly, wasn’t very. But the tighter I’d tried to hold on to Ryan, the faster he slipped away. He took me out to Quicke’s one night and gave me the old
It’s-not-you-it’s-me
speech. Except I knew it was me, and not him. At least, it was in his mind.

The day after he broke up with me, Ryan showed up at one of my events with a supermodel on his arm, looking happier than he’d ever been with me. Ryan didn’t acknowledge my presence the whole night—or at any other event since. After that night, I vowed never to change anything about myself ever again. Especially not for some spoiled rich guy who thought he was better than me.

After Ryan, I’d concluded that relationships were messy, and not worth the effort. Besides, I hadn’t met a guy yet who wasn’t turned off when he saw how I yelled at people to get things done. Or who didn’t sneer and scoff at my vest.

Getting my heart trampled on by another Bigtime businessman and being tossed aside for a flashier model was a mistake I wasn’t going to repeat—ever. My eyes went to Talon’s obscured face. No matter how tempting it might be.
 

I shook my head. A relationship? With Talon? I barely knew the guy. Lust at first sight was one thing, but this was ridiculous. Forming an immediate emotional attachment to a superhero was something one of the
Slaves for Superhero Sex
groupies would do. I wasn’t that much of a superfreak.
 

My eyes flicked over Talon’s body again. It was the towel, I decided. Slung low on the superhero’s hips, that damp, little towel revealed far more than it concealed. It was teasing me. Taunting me. Mocking me with brief flashes of Talon’s impressive assets and reminding me how long it had been since anybody had rocked my world, so to speak.

“It surprises me you’re not with someone because you’re a remarkable woman, Wren,” Talon said.
 

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls who save your life.” I tried to keep my tone light so he wouldn’t hear the longing in my voice.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, I just haven’t met the right guy yet.”
 

It was my typical answer to end this runaway train of conversation. Some of my clients, especially the older society matrons like Grace Caleb, thought I would make an excellent blind date for their thirty-something grandsons. I’d gone on a couple of those dates and lost some clients when things didn’t work out. Now, I had a strict,
no-dating-clients’-grandsons
policy.

Talon opened his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off. I didn’t want to hear him expound on my virtues anymore. It only made me want things I’d given up on a long time ago. Love, tenderness, decent sex. Things I could never have—like him.