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Maybe they had put garlic in my lunch salad.

Chapter Four
    “Merlo, you got company. And where’s my exclusive on that alley DB from the other night?” Micky Boyle, my editor, liked to make an entrance. He blew through the newsroom, too busy and important to actually stand still while he spoke.
    I called my power without even realizing I was doing it. The hairs at the back of my neck tingled. “Gimme another twenty-four hours, Mick, and I’ll have a deeper angle.”
    He stopped. Looked at me. “You know what, take twenty-seven. I want you to really dig deep on this one. Find the story underneath the news.”
    “You got it, boss.” A twinge of guilt prickled down my back. I didn’t like using my power on the everyday people in my life. I didn’t like the feeling I was cheating to get ahead in my career. Every other reporter who made it to the big leagues managed it without the power of suggestion. So could I. Mostly.
    “Miss Sophie Merlo?” I snapped my head up following the sound of the male voice next to my desk. I hadn’t heard him approach.
    “Yeah?”
    He looked like a soccer dad in leather. He was bald, kind of short, maybe five-six, with a small paunch around the midsection that puffed out the bottom of his zipped leather jacket. He wore black leather chaps over jeans, clunky black leather biker boots and carried a black biker helmet with his leather gloves sticking out. Not sure what gave him the soccer-dad look to me, maybe the soft brown eyes and the laugh lines around the mouth. Just too sweet to be biker bad.
    He held out an envelope, greeting card sized, aged, tea-stained color, not white.
    I took the envelope and read my name scrawled in fancy red handwriting, then flipped it over. The back was sealed with a glob of red wax and pressed with a stamp that read, Sinners , and lettered like you’d see on a diploma. I glanced back to the leather-clad messenger. “Who sent this?”
    He didn’t answer and I looked back to the envelope, sixth sense tickling at the base of my spine. The letter was heavy and thick. The wax seal broke when I tugged, and I pulled out the multilayered cards. The main card matched the envelope with a graphic of the Sinners red-wax seal at the center and opened like double doors. Inside was a smaller matching card, an invitation with a sheet of red tissue paper in between. Beneath the tissue paper was a response envelope.
    I glanced at the biker messenger again. “You’re not waiting for a reply now, are you?”
    Again he didn’t answer, his gaze locked on me, brow smooth, his mouth a straight, thin-lipped line. He gave nothing away, no expression. He just stood there…watching. I read the invitation.
    Dear Miss Sophie Merlo,
    You are cordially invited as my personal guest for an evening of cocktails and fine dining at my five star restaurant, Sinners. 8:00 pm, all necessities will be provided. I predict it will be a night you will not soon forget.
    Sincerely,
    Mr. Octavius Perrotte
    I’d probably be a little more impressed if I knew who the heck Octavius Perrotte was. There was only one option. I accept your invitation. I flipped it over. Nothing. I looked inside the little response envelope. Empty. I checked inside the big envelope and all through the wasted paper cards. Nothing.
    “Well that’s stupid. What if I don’t want to go? What if I can’t?” I stared at soccer dad, biker-dude wannabe. He didn’t answer and it was really starting to piss me off.
    My eyes closed to help me focus and I reached for that pool of desire somewhere in the far recesses of my mind. I want answers . Electricity tingled at the back of my neck, a soft vibration humming through my head.
    I opened my eyes. “You should tell me why this Octavius Perrotte person wants to meet with me.”
    His brow creased and he shook his head. His mouth opened and shut twice. “I…he—he didn’t tell me.”
    Biker dude’s brow creased harder and he clenched his lips together so tight they turned