Dark Nights Dangerous Men

by Elisabeth Naughton, Cynthia Eden, Katie Reus, Alexandra Ivy, Laura Wright, Joan Swan

  If she kept it all in perspective, she could beat him at his own game and stay safely out of his bed. He was the last person on earth she could afford to get tangled up with. The events of last night had confirmed that fact loud and clear.

  Frustrated with herself, she sat up and raked fingers through her hair. Her gaze drifted across the room, landed on the backpack in the corner. She rose, pushed up the sleeves of Shane’s gray Northwestern sweatshirt and pulled Doug’s journal from her pack.

  She’d slipped it from the boxes before leaving her parents’ house. She hadn’t wanted Rafe to see it. Not yet. Not ever, if she could help it. Security, she reminded herself. The journal just might be her get-out-of-jail-free card if things got sticky.

  The leather cover was worn and scratched. She ran her fingers over the spine, remembering the hours Doug had spent holed up in his office writing in the damn thing.

  Another good reason not to get involved with a colleague.

  Or a treasure hunter.

  Their hearts were always focused on something else—the next big score, the next great discovery. She’d definitely learned her lesson with Dr. Douglas Stone. A woman had to be kicked in the teeth only once to get it.

  She sat on the end of the bed, laid the journal on her lap and stared at the cover.

  For the love of God, quit being such a wuss.

  On a deep breath, she flipped it open. Even fifteen years later, Doug’s slanted handwriting made her chest tighten with emotions she thought she’d dealt with long ago. Forcing back the memories, she paged through the book with all the objectivity of a scorned wife.

  Page after page of Greek lettering and symbols filled the journal. Long passages from Homer’s Iliad were hand copied, words and letters underlined in no apparent pattern. He’d spent his whole life working on this stupid diary, and now years later, it was all that was left of him.

  Her fingers paused when she came across a Polaroid tucked between two pages. A startled laugh slipped from her lips. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the photo of herself.

  She’d been about twenty-three then. Her hair was long, down past her shoulders, red and unruly, as it had been throughout her youth. In the picture she was covered in dirt, black smudges across her white tank top, dust smeared on her cheeks. But her lips were smiling, her eyes gleaming.

  Ecuador.

  The first dig she’d been on with Doug. The first time he’d looked at her as anything other than one of his grunts.

  Man, she’d been blinded by lust, enamored of a man who’d been more emotionally closed off even than she was now. She could see it on the face of the naïve upstart staring back at her.

  Oh, yeah, she’d played hard to get back then. She shook her head and frowned at the memory. She’d fallen into bed with him the second he’d crooked his little finger at her, not caring one iota about the repercussions or consequences or how it would change her life.

  Schmuck. What the hell were you thinking?

  She wanted to scream it at the photo, pretend the words could make a difference, that somehow the girl she used to be would wise up and listen.

  How many people had told her she was making a monumental mistake? Too many to count. And had she listened?

  Hell, no.

  As Shane was known to point out anytime the opportunity arose, she was bullheaded to the extreme. Well, that had come back to bite her in the ass several times over, hadn’t it?

  A thousand what ifs and I should haves ran through Lisa’s mind as she stared at a woman she barely remembered. None made up for her genuine stupidity. None changed the past.

  Resigned, she tucked the photo back inside, closed the journal and replaced it in the pack.

  Later. She’d read it in depth later. Right now she needed coffee.

  She found sports shorts in a drawer, pulled them on and rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t she have had a twin sister? One with a gentle disposition, some sort of fashion sense and clothes she could actually borrow?

  Dreading seeing Shane that morning because she knew exactly what he would say, she managed to find a way to keep the shorts from slipping to her knees by rolling the waistband down a few times. She brushed her teeth with a new toothbrush she found in the bathroom drawer, thanked the stars above for Shane’s practicality, finger-combed her hair and checked her reflection.

  She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. A good-sized bruise had formed near her temple. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, and her arm hurt like a bitch.

  Screw it. She didn’t care what she looked like. She wasn’t out to impress anyone anyway.

  She had more urgent issues, like what the hell they were going to do, now that Doug’s research had gone up in flames. His journal would only be helpful once they determined the right island. And at this point, it could be anywhere.

  She headed for the kitchen. Her brain was fuzz without her morning shot of espresso. If it hadn’t been for the damn caffeine withdrawal, she’d have gone back to bed and slept for the next twelve hours.

  Voices echoed from the front of the apartment, Shane’s distrusting tone followed by Rafe’s deep one. Fabulous. Male posturing. Just what she needed. There was so much freakin’ testosterone in the apartment, she could feel it clogging the air.

  She rolled her shoulder as she moved down the hall. If they’d drained the coffee already, heads were gonna roll.

  The both looked up when she stepped into the kitchen. Shane sat at the table, his eyes scrutinizing her face. Rafe stood quietly near the counter.

  “Good morning,” she mumbled, avoiding Shane’s probing eyes as she skirted the table toward the coffee pot.

  Her brother lifted his mug to his lips. “Hook up an IV, Lis. ’Cause we’re gonna have words.”

  Suddenly, that burning vehicle didn’t look so bad right about now.

  She opened the cupboard, avoiding Rafe as much as she could while she searched for a cup. Too many thoughts from last night were racing through her mind, too many other what-ifs.

  Holy cow, did the guy just pump out heat or something? It felt like it was nine thousand degrees in the kitchen, and he wasn’t even close to her.

  A full mug of steaming coffee slid down the counter toward her. Startled, she glanced up, her fingers pausing on the cupboard door.

  And her breath nearly stopped when she looked into Rafe’s smoldering, I-still-want-you eyes. A shadow of beard covered his jaw. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, his lips full and tempting. And that lazy half smile screamed of the thousand different ways he could make her beg for more.

  Well, shit.

  Spread some butter on her and call her done. She was still toast.

  Burnt toast, from the looks of it.

  Chapter Eight

  “You look like crap.”

  Thank God for Shane’s perfect timing. All that sultry heat she’d been feeling slithered away at the disapproval in his voice.

  Lisa lifted the mug and took a long swallow of hot coffee. She could feel Rafe’s gaze searing her, and damn if it didn’t unnerve her more.

  And royally piss her off.

  She slid into a chair across from Shane, shrugged and took another sip. “You have such a way with words, little brother.”

  Shane leaned back in his seat and studied her with that searching gaze of his. “Fidel over there isn’t giving me much to go on.”

  Rafe huffed and pushed away from the counter. “I’m gonna hit the shower and let you two argue about me behind my back.” He flashed a droll look at Lisa and slipped from the room.

  One down. One exasperating male to go. Lisa lifted her coffee.

  “So start talking,” Shane said.

  “Sullivan didn’t already fill you in?”

  “He mentioned an accident. It wouldn’t happen to be the one on Springfield Avenue last night, would it?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Shit. You could have been killed. And you do realize leaving the scene of an accident can get you int
o serious trouble, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t particularly want to end up as the scene of the accident.”

  He pinned her with a look that said Enough, smartass. “Where were you registered last night?”

  “Which hotel?” she asked with surprise. “The Marriott.”

  “Fuck.” He ran a hand over his face. “At O’Hare?”

  She nodded.

  “Two rooms?”

  “No.” His questions sent a shiver down her spine. “I booked a one-bedroom suite with a pullout couch.”

  He groaned.

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention.” She sat up straighter. “Now you spill.”

  He let out a long breath. “Couple was found murdered at the O’Hare Marriott early this morning. Desk clerk said they checked in late last night after a cancellation.”

  “Oh, crap.” The blood drained from her cheeks.

  “Door was open. Night security guard found them. What time did you cancel the reservation?”

  “After we left Mom and Dad’s. Nine, nine thirty.”

  “Couple checked in around ten forty-five P.M.” His eyes sharpened. “What the hell’s going on, Lis?”

  Lisa braced her elbows on the table, rubbed her throbbing temples. Tried to think coherently. “O’Hare’s not in your district. How did you find out about it so fast?”

  “Chicago’s not such a big place. We keep each other informed. What’s going on?” he asked louder with his you-can’t-distract-me voice.

  No way she could keep him out of this. He was like a bloodhound chasing a scent when he got going. Relentless. Obsessive. Irritating beyond belief.

  They were way too much alike.

  She dropped her hand in defeat. “Did you tell anyone about the Furies?”

  “Me?” His brow lifted. “No. That’s what this is about?”

  “It could be.” She darted a look toward the hall. The shower was going. Rafe couldn’t possibly hear them. “Someone trashed Sullivan’s house the day I showed up in Florida to track him down. Best guess? That someone was looking for Alecto. Sullivan says he knows where Magaera’s located.”

  When Shane looked at her like she was rattling off unnecessary and completely useless information, she shifted in her seat. “That leaves Tisiphone. I realize you don’t know much about Greek mythology and ancient art, but all three reliefs together? They’re worth a small fortune.”

  That piqued Shane’s interest. “How much are we talking?”

  She shrugged and lifted her mug again. “Enough to buy a small country.”

  “Shit.” His features hardened as he shifted into cop mode. He did it with such ease, she doubted he even realized when he moved from approachable to downright intimidating.

  And judging by that look, she realized this was her one and only chance to keep him from going off the deep end and taking over. “My gut tells me someone’s onto us. That they followed us to Chicago thinking we know where Tisiphone is located. Or, at the very least, that they believe we know where to find her.”

  “All the more reason to forget this stupid treasure hunt and get out now.”

  She shook her head, set the mug down and wrapped both hands around its warmth. “No. That’s all the more reason to find it before someone else does.”

  When he grimaced like she was the dumbest person on the planet, she softened her tone. “Look. I thought about this a lot last night. I’m not being stupid. If someone followed us here, then they think I have Tisiphone or know where it is. Walking away won’t keep me any safer. They’ll just follow me wherever I go. The only way I’ll be safe is to find it before they do.”

  “What about Sullivan?”

  “What about him?”

  “How do you know he’s not behind this?”

  “You think he hired someone to try to kill us?”

  “To scare you, sure. To get you to back off.” He tapped his finger on the table. “He had Stone’s research in his grimy little hands last night. Why would he need to keep you around?”

  He’d just voiced everything she’d already thought of, and she knew she didn’t have an answer that would satisfy him. Only a feeling. One that said the guy may be a thief, but he wasn’t a murderer.

  She rubbed the heel of her hand across her forehead. “Okay, thinking rationally, I can see your point.”

  “Can you?” he asked with sarcasm.

  She shot him a dry look. “But, if he were behind the chase and shooting last night, then he royally screwed himself, because we lost Doug’s research. I don’t think he’s that stupid. And he was with me at the time of that hotel murder, so there’s no way he could have been personally involved with that. I can’t see a connection there anyway.”

  Shane rested both elbows on the table, pinched the bridge of his nose. No way Sullivan was off his short list of suspects. She could see it in his rigid body language. She could also see that he agreed with her conclusion that she wouldn’t be safer by letting this go—and that he hated it. “So someone else is looking for the Furies.”

  “Maybe.” She sipped her coffee. “Maybe more than one someone.”

  He looked up, his dark eyes softening with genuine concern. “If I ask you to let this go—”

  “You won’t,” she cut in quickly.

  “Dammit, Lisa.”

  She smiled, and a warmth closed around her heart as she reached across the table to squeeze his arm. “You do love me.”

  “Like a bad habit. You’re a royal pain in my ass.”

  Her smile widened.

  He blew out another long breath. “So what’s your plan now?”

  She let go of his arm and rose to get more coffee. “Now I’m going to try to track down Alan Landau.”

  “Why?”

  “Because his name was all over Doug’s research when I was flipping papers last night. I vaguely remember him. I think they may have worked together on some of his research years ago.”

  “He’s a big-time art dealer here in Chicago.”

  “Landau? Really?” Eyes widening, she slid back into her chair with a full cup of java. “No wonder the name’s so familiar.”

  “Has an auction house downtown. Specializes in rare sculpture and antiquities, I think.”

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  He grimaced.

  “Shane?”

  His eyes darted away before landing on hers again. “His assistant, Laura Hamilton, was murdered last week. Case has been a bitch crawling up my ass for the last seven days.”

  Cup in hand, Lisa paused with the steaming liquid midway to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head, the look in his eyes screaming, Fuck, this had better not be related. “I wish to God I were.”

  ***

  Small miracles were a wonderful thing.

  Lisa tugged Shane’s leather jacket tighter around her shoulders as she waited for the Purple Line to take her into downtown Chicago. She could have saved time by hopping a CTA bus then would already be cruising down Michigan Avenue, but instead she’d hoofed it several blocks to the El to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  So far, so good. She was a lone woman in a sea of grumbling Chicago commuters.

  And lone was the key word in that thought. She was thankful she’d managed to get away from those stifling men for a few hours at least. Shane had been called out on work, and she’d convinced Rafe to stay at the apartment and do research on the Landau Gallery.

  Pushing thoughts of Rafe out of her mind, she rode the train to the Chicago station and walked the rest of the way to Michigan Avenue. A crisp fall breeze blew off Lake Michigan. The scents of exhaust and fried food from a vendor down the street greeted Lisa’s nostrils. She breathed deep and felt her muscles relax one by one for the first time in days.

  Home.

  She might spend a good chunk of her life in subpar living conditions and dank caverns, but she would always be a city girl at heart. And part of being a city girl meant she knew a little
about style. She didn’t need to look like a cave dweller in tattered clothes to study ancient artifacts.

  After an hour in Banana Republic and another half hour in Ralph Lauren, she felt better. She found several outfits to get her through the next few days and a snazzy pair of black boots that propped her up at least two inches. Dumping her purchases on the counter in the last store, she pulled cash from her pocket and waited while the sales clerk rang her up.

  She’d even managed to find a few things for Rafe, ingrate that he was. Her mood slid south again at the thought of her obnoxious thief. As the clerk handed her the bag, she plastered on a smile for the overly cheery employee’s benefit. Mister Macho could just pay her back and thank her for even thinking of him.

  With the bag in one hand, she headed back out into the masses. She had one last stop before catching a bus north again. Turning south on Michigan Avenue, she wove between hurried shoppers and lingering sightseers and crossed at Huron Street. The Landau Gallery sat halfway down the block, towering columns advertising the entrance to the stately building.

  Lisa pushed the glass doors open and stepped inside. The busy rush of city life faded into the background. Inside she was enveloped by art and antiquities from around the world in a two-story main room with marble floors and a wall of windows. Her back tingled with the familiar feeling of history.

  The towering sculpture of a bull’s head made from polished black limestone captured her attention. Mesmerized by the intricate artwork, she crossed and stared at the artifact—truly, a wonder of ancient man—and could barely imagine unearthing something so incredible. She’d found her fair share of astonishing relics over the years, but never something as awe inspiring as this. She lifted her hand to run fingers over the smooth surface.

  “Please don’t touch that.”

  Startled, Lisa turned toward the female voice. A slim woman wearing a knee-length black skirt and matching jacket walked toward her from across the room. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight knot. Wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on her straight, aristocratic nose. Her badge identified her as Christy Swanson, the gallery’s manager.