Page 3 of Polestar (The Global Paranormal Security Agency #3)

THREE

A na watched the landscape through the same small window of her plane seat.

The Irish coast was beautiful. And green.

Not the north, as she’d worked herself up for.

She stifled a yawn and glanced toward the closed cockpit door concealing her giant pilot.

Ana’s thoughts returned to the moment she’d awakened to discover that she was half naked and burrowed into an uncomfortable cot next to a blazing space heater.

Then, unexpectedly, had taken in a full view of her pilot dozing bare-chested on an office chair in the next room.

His long, long, jean-clad legs braced the chair against the wall behind him where his head rested.

His large hands lay clasped over his belt buckle.

Her eyes trailed over the tattoos adorning the muscle. On the small table next to him were the remnants of the mug he’d given her the night before. She frowned, unable to recall anything after… what? What had happened?

God, she couldn’t remember anything beyond feeling so damned cold.

And here she sat, flying to Ireland.

Bjornson, he’d said his name was. Agent? Yes, Agent Magnus Bjornson.

Tall, blond, and silent. He was a shifter of some kind. She’d gleaned that much from the unintentional contact.

He’d barely said anything to her since he caught her staring at him from her little bundle on the cot where she’d slept. As he seemed to have slept all night on an office chair.

She sighed.

What stupid shit did I say last night?

All she could piece together was the recollection of feeling… but it was gone again before she could grasp it.

Her heightened anxiety made chaos of her emotional barrier. The self-control that her boss, Jack Maeda, had been working to help her hone was rice paper thin. And with all the rain and the wind, being called to duty, and the storm forcing the plane down, it had all just torn through.

She glanced at the door again. Had Agent Bjornson touched her? If he had, she didn’t recall it, and normally she did.

Sometimes, when all her barriers became depleted, the slightest touch could bring her to her knees with information overload. But it would stay with her, like an echo chamber, until she could snatch every piece and categorize it.

This was different.

Her vision had gone blinding white. Then she fell into darkness.

Emotions, thoughts, impressions. None were tangible. Not enough. Too much.

Either way, she decided that until she had better control over her channeling, she wouldn’t touch him again.

Not that she should touch him again, because she shouldn’t .

Although, part of her secretly wished she could remember if he had touched her at all.

Ana’s cheeks burned as images of all those tattooed muscles rolled through her brain, where the psychic impressions wouldn’t.

She cleared her suddenly dry throat.

For the best.

I prefer clean-cut men; she reminded herself. Like Antony … her heart crumbled at the reminder.

Antony’s smiling face rose in her mind’s eye, blotting out everything else, followed by his other expressions.

Confusion over her explanations of her work.

Resolve when he’d ended their long-term relationship.

Fear over her insistent warnings that something was wrong.

Pity when he left on his voyage out to sea. Routine training exercise.

The end of her world loomed with his disappearance.

She shut down the rest with a deep, deep breath and turned her focus back to the window.

This was her life now.

She’d always been devoted to her work at the GPSA. And after so many recent heartbreaking experiences, it was her life’s work now.

No time for distractions, like attractive Viking-ish pilots, or dead relationships.

Her grandmother had warned her.

Ana hadn’t listened.

She was listening now.

The plane descended the last few hundred feet. She barely felt the wheels graze the tarmac as they coasted to a smooth stop.

Much better than last night’s landing .

Agent Bjornson emerged from the small cockpit door once he parked the plane and turned the engines off.

With her laptop bag slung over her back, Ana was already trying to free her suitcases from the aft baggage compartment. She glanced back as he opened the door hatch and lowered the steps.

A moment later, his large hand hovered over hers, straining on the suitcase handle. “Go.”

“But I can get this one—.”

He grunted, and she moved aside, surprised by his gruff non-verbal order.

She huffed, slid past him, and exited the plane.

They were on another private landing strip with an accompanying office and hangar.

Fine. If Agent Bjornson wanted to be her baggage handler, so be it.

Her conscience pinged her.

What was wrong with her?

He’d helped her last night. Maybe she had awakened shirtless, but she’d also been bundled onto a cot with a blasting space heater while the man had slept on a frikking office chair in a cold room.

Don’t be an asshole, Ana. Get your shit together and mind your manners.

“Thank you,” she said as he approached, exposed biceps flexed, carrying her cases like two shopping bags.

His second grunt sounded something like ‘welcome’ , but she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t head toward the office door as expected, but veered toward the side of the small building and a parked car.

At the car, he stopped, reached into his pocket, and pressed a button on a universal key fob. Releasing the trunk hatch, he tossed the cases into it and closed it.

Agent Bjornson opened the front door on the left of the vehicle, rounded the car, and got in on the right.

She sighed. He was her chauffeur, too.

Settled in next to him and belted, she leaned toward the door to create more space between them.

She didn’t want any more accidental readings. She couldn’t manage it while she wasn’t in full control of her abilities. “Where are we going?”

“Kane Estate.”

Ana sucked in a breath.

GPSA Headquarters.

This was more important than she thought.

M agnus glanced at his passenger while navigating the car up the long drive toward the manor house.

He ignored the circular path, steering the car around the back toward the carriage house’s converted garage.

Pressing a button to open the door, he parked the car, retrieved Agent Ortega’s baggage, and led the way through the back halls of the house.

Ortega’s heels clicked a staccato behind him as she kept pace with his long strides.

Mentally, he grumbled over her sharp accusations about the integrity of his flight skills.

He quashed the temptation to lengthen his strides and increase his pace.

Thankfully, she maintained her silence.

“Magnus! Give the girl a break!” Agent Raya Burns’ voice echoed up the hall. “You’re making her run a marathon in heels with the pace you’re setting, man.”

Magnus halted, swinging around, narrowly missing Ortega with the life-size suitcases, to see Burns’ head poking out of a side room they’d just passed.

“No worries… Burns… I can keep up. Good to see you again, by the way… And thanks for the replacement shoes,” Ortega said between gasps.

Magnus rolled his eyes, set the luggage down, and backtracked to speak to Burns. “Maeda?”

“Kane’s office,” Burns said to Magnus. Her gaze swung back to Ortega. “They fit?”

Ortega gave Burns a thumbs up as she rubbed a stitch in her side.

Magnus sighed. “How long have they been there?”

“Couple hours. Ortega’s room is in the east wing across from mine.”

A couple of hours? Not good. Not surprising, but not good.

He grunted, retrieved the bags, and resumed his quest to deposit Ortega in her room and get on with the investigation they’d gathered for.

“I can do that,” Ortega called after him. “I told him I can carry my own luggage.” He heard her say to Burns.

Burns snorted. “There’s no elevator in this place. Hey Magnus, she has a sweet face but don’t let her touch you with her woo-woo hands or she’ll steal all your secrets.”

“My woo-woo—” Ortega huffed. “Funny.”

The clicking heels also resumed behind Magnus, catching up to him shortly after rounding the corner and thankfully turned to dull, rapid thuds when he cut through the study for the service stairs.

Finally, he deposited her bags outside the room Burns had mentioned.

“This place is incredible,” Ortega said, stopping next to her bags.

He gestured toward her door.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. “Really. For getting me here and hauling my bags.” She stuck her hand out in front of his midsection.

The corner of his mouth twitched at the professional gesture after their last interesting twenty-four hours together.

Burns’ words about woo-woo hands echoed back to him. Whatever that meant. Besides, the only secrets he had that she could steal from him were about his work, and she was already here for that.

Accepting the handshake, the firm effort she put into it surprised him.

“There is a house manager if you need anything. There are phones in the rooms, like in hotels. Since Kane and Maeda are still in a meeting, I’m sure you’ll have a bit of time before they send someone for you.”

She nodded, not making any effort to go into her room.

“Anything else?”

She bit her lip. “Just an apology.” She blew out her breath. “For being so rude last night—”

He lifted a hand to stop her words. “Forgotten. See you around.”

He spun away as she drew breath to say something else, and walked away before she could. At the end of the corridor, he opened the door to his own room. Glancing back, he noted Ortega was struggling with the second of her two suitcases.

And Perenga wanted to send this woman to Iceland? The man was losing his faculties after gods only knew how many centuries he’d spent in this planet’s oceans. If Ortega could be afflicted with hypothermia from a rainstorm, she’d never survive actual cold weather.

Or maybe they’d redirected the plane here because Perenga realized how much of a mistake sending that woman into the frigid landscape would be.

He shrugged, pulled his shirt off, balled it up and threw it into a hamper as he strode toward his shower.

Not my problem.

I did my job. Now she’s Perenga and Burns’ problem.

As he stepped under the steaming water, he couldn’t help but recall the sensation of her vulnerable body balled up on his lap, shivering in his arms. Her silky-smooth skin smelled of California sunshine, vanilla coconut, and a scent that was uniquely hers.

He blinked away that wreck of a thought-train, snatched the soap from the shelf and began lathering.

She’s not my type, anyway.

Magnus was used to women who had a powerful presence, could hold their own on a physical level, and wouldn’t fly away with a sneeze.

But, if he was honest with himself, as he usually was, he grudgingly admired her stubborn determination to handle those ridiculous suitcases herself.

Adorable.

And those dimples… when she actually smiled.

Magnus snorted and turned his back to the water stream.

Despite her tantrum, she’d never acted as though anyone ought to serve her. Quite the opposite. He attributed the poor behavior to fear and fever right before she passed out.

He frowned, recalling Burns’ words again.

What the hell does that even mean?

He shook away the thought after trying to reconcile the weird statement with the pretty round face, pert little nose over full, pillowy lips.

Soft.

He was sure of it.

He grunted away the thought, glanced down and sighed, noting the erection that told him just how soft he thought Ortega’s lips were.

That wouldn’t do.

He faced the hot stream again and cranked the faucet, blasting himself with frigid water.

No. That wouldn’t do at all.