“Runs in the family, I guess.”
He peered at her.
“I’m a graphic designer. I work for a software company here in town.”
“Ah.” An artist. That explained the haven she’d cultivated from a sterile concrete balcony. Artists saw things in terms of potential—what they could be, not what they were. He picked up the paper and pretended to study it. “The imagery does seem disturbing. Perhaps you should consult a mental health professional.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to get her to see a shrink, but so far, she’s been very resistant. I was hoping—” Her gaze lifted to meet his. “I know she didn’t show it, but she’s pretty impressed with you. Credits you with saving at least five kids. I think she’d listen to you.”
The squeeze of his chest was almost unbearable.
Rachel sighed. “She sure doesn’t listen to me.”
“Maybe her father … ?”
“No. Grant has trouble talking to her for longer than five minutes, and he phones only about once a month. He wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to say.”
“I see.” Actually, he didn’t. He’d never had any trouble talking to his own children, and he would give anything to … The paper in his hand rattled, and he quickly set it down. “You want me to tell her that dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that life is where the good stuff happens.”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“I may no’ be the right person to tell her that.”
“Why not?” She took the drawings back, folded the bunch into a tight square, and tucked them into her purse again. “Because you believe in the hereafter?”
“No.” The hereafter wasn’t the issue. The issue was the herebefore, his very ugly past. “Because Goths tend to reject organized religion. Any advice coming from a priest is likely to get discounted just because of the source.”
“But I don’t think she sees you like—”
“Perhaps no’,” he interrupted. “Still, it would be best if you found someone else to speak with her. A friend or a relative.”
Rachel’s expression stiffened. She stood, hooking her purse over her shoulder. “Okay.”
Lachlan stared at her, noting the telltale glimmer in her eyes. Bloody hell. This was fast becoming a disaster. One tear, that’s all it would take. One tear and he’d be on his knees begging her to let him help, tossing aside every strident warning his battered heart was drumming out.
Please, God, don’t let her cry.
Rachel’s chin lifted, and she stuck out her hand. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Thanks for your time, Father.”
Taking her hand in his, he gave it a gentle squeeze. Then he walked her to the door. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“Me, too.” Head high, she sailed out into the hallway.
He closed the door behind her with a light snap and leaned against it. His legs felt numb and his skin felt itchy and uncomfortable, as if it didn’t fit properly. And no wonder. Even a rough Scottish knight with more brawn than brains would have leapt at the opportunity to aid such a beautiful woman in distress.
Apparently, his chivalry had died along with his body.
3
A shadow darted out of the whitewashed apartment building and under the sprawling arch of a jacaranda tree. Lachlan easily tracked the dim figure from the vantage of his third-floor balcony. Victorian gas lamps dotted the flagstone path with soft circles of incandescence, but Emily carefully skirted them, keeping to the darkened edges of the courtyard garden.
A very determined young lass.
Only moments after the light in her mother’s bedroom window winked out, here she was, making a daring escape. At two in the morning. This lad she was seeing must be something special indeed.
Dressed in her usual black canvas mini, black stockings, and black, long-sleeved tee, Emily was little more than a murky outline as she navigated the flower beds, passing under one tree and hugging the trunk of another.
Her narrow face tilted up, and he froze.
As her gaze paused on the balcony immediately below him, he wondered what was running through her mind. Second thoughts? A modicum of guilt, perhaps? Whatever it was, it didn’t last long. A moment later, after expelling a light sigh, she slunk along the east wall of the building, rounded the corner, and vanished.
Lachlan gripped the wrought-iron balcony railing in anticipation of following her, but a flicker in the corner of his eye halted him: a second shadow, this one taller and not nearly so skilled at stealth. Rachel. He sighed as he watched her elegant silhouette, minimally disguised in black jeans and a sweater, dash through the garden in pursuit of her daughter.
Perfect.
Now he had two people to watch out for, not just one.
After one final check to ensure the coast was clear, he leapt over the railing and landed in an easy half crouch on the manicured grass thirty-five feet below. Jogging to keep up with his targets, he followed them out to the parking lot. There, just as he expected, Emily was hopping onto the back of a motorcycle, behind a leather-clad, helmeted figure.
Thumbing his keyless entry, he unlocked the door of his black Audi S6 and slid onto the charcoal leather seat. At the first turn of the key, the powerful engine purred to life, and his heartbeat surged with it—a primitive thrill his centuries-old body seemed incapable of taming. He glanced in the rearview mirror before he backed up and saw the motorcycle turn right on Coleman Road, followed quickly by a red compact.
So much for his hope that Rachel had forgotten her car keys.
The city streets were nearly empty at this hour, and exhibiting a surprising level of restraint, the red car stayed well back of the motorbike. Lachlan kept Rachel’s taillights in view. They turned left at Santa Teresa, sped past the Oakridge Mall, and merged into the Guadalupe Parkway. On the freeway, increased traffic and Rachel’s single-minded focus on Emily allowed Lachlan to close the gap between the cars and slide into the lane behind her.
This afforded him a clear view of her vehicle.
If you could call it that.
The rear ornament labeled it a Datsun 210, but years under the hot sun had faded the red paint to a mottled rose, rust had pockmarked the trunk lid to the point that the latch no longer held it shut, and the left-rear tire shimmied. Judging from the persistent growl and occasional burp of the engine, the exhaust system needed a major overhaul. Add to that the faint blue smoke and the smell of burning oil the car exuded as it ate up the miles, and you had the epitome of a clunker.
His hands flexed on the steering wheel.
Hadn’t the last Datsun rolled off the production line sometime in the eighties? Where in hell had she found this horrific piece of junk? Just thinking about her driving it to work every day made him cringe.
Up ahead, the bike exited at Curtner Avenue, and Lachlan eased off the gas pedal. Moments later, just beyond the cemetery, Emily and her beau made a right and entered the Santa Clara fairgrounds. The gate hung wide open, not a lock or guard in sight. The deep-throated roar of the motorcycle engine died off not long afterward, hinting at an easy walk.
To his immense relief, Rachel chose not to follow the bike, parking instead in front of the betting house. He snorted as she locked the doors of her rickety antique.
Who would steal the damned thing?
Waiting until she disappeared around the corner, he quickly parked the S6 in the shadows of Gateway Hall and cut between the buildings to reach the garden area. With a protective cluster of trees and several picnic tables, the greenhouse was the most likely tryst spot.
His guess proved accurate.
As he crept through the trees toward the light above the greenhouse door, he spied Emily’s slim figure perched on a wooden picnic table. She was surrounded by five men and two women, all attired in black clothing, all painted with the same liberal dose of eyeliner, and all with an open bottle of beer in hand. A few were smoking and, judging by the glazed eyes and bucolic smiles, not just tobacco. Only one of the young me
n wore a leather jacket—understandable given the warm weather—so pinpointing the motorcycle driver was easy enough.
Lachlan glanced around for Rachel.
She had approached the group from the opposite side of the gardens and stood deep in the gloom of the wooded copse. She hadn’t noticed him; her eyes were locked on the defiant group lounging around the picnic table. Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs—a mother’s worst imaginings come to life.
The conversation was impossible to discern from his current position, so Lachlan carefully wove through the trees to narrow the gap. The higher-pitched tones of Emily’s voice firmed into identifiable sounds soon after.
“School is such a fuckin’ drag.”
One of the lads mumbled something agreeable in return.
“They make you do the same shit over and over again, like you’re not smart enough to figure it out the first time.”
Lachlan halted behind a wide, lichen-dotted tree trunk and stole a quick look at the group, just in time to see Emily’s beau stiffen. For a heartbeat he thought it was his movements that alerted the young man, but the lad’s gaze swung in the opposite direction, toward Rachel, snapping precisely to the shadowy niche where she stood.
Fear ripped through Lachlan’s veins.
Although his warrior instincts urged him to leap between Rachel and the possibility of danger, he resisted, remaining stationary, his eyes trained on the young man’s thin face. His heart pounded. Spotting Rachel’s cloaked figure in the pitch-dark woods was beyond a human’s visual acuity. He knew that because he could barely see her himself.
Which meant Emily’s swain was not the twentysomething human he pretended to be.
He was a demon.
Indeed, though he couldn’t place the firm jaw and heavy brows, Lachlan was certain he knew the creature. Which was strange, because few demons he battled ever got the chance to walk away. In fact, during the four hundred nine years he’d been a Gatherer, he could recall only three, and that included his hulking friend of the other day. This fellow was none of them.
But the sense of familiarity deepened when the demon smiled faintly and turned his head to stare directly into Lachlan’s eyes.
When the young man’s gaze shifted away, Rachel released an uneven sigh of relief. Her slim view of Emily had implied this spot was well hidden and his pointed stare had rocked her. And not just with the fear of discovery. She’d suddenly realized how tenuous her position was, out in a deserted fairground with seven hooligans, five of them men, all drinking.
Maybe it hadn’t been the wisest decision to follow Em out here alone. But she was still glad she had.
The question was, what to do next? The angry part of her wanted to stomp over there, grab Em by the ear, and haul her ass back home. The calmer part pointed out that Em had prudently declined their offerings. Still, the girl must be crazy. These were not your average pimply-faced teens. They were delinquents, maybe even felons.
Had every warning she’d given her daughter over the years gone in one ear and out the other?
Her hand tightened around her car keys.
This boy she was dating wasn’t even a boy. The gauntness of his aristocratic face and the dark stubble on his chin placed him in his twenties. There was also a hard look about him that suggested he knew a helluva lot about the seedier side of life—more than she ever wanted Em to know.
Almost as if her fears had prodded him into action, the young man shifted, leaning toward Em with a smile. As Rachel watched with mounting horror, he slanted his head, threaded his fingers through the long strands of her black and blond hair, and tugged her close for a kiss.
Not a casual kiss.
A deep kiss.
And not a kiss Em was expecting, either. Her slender hands fluttered in the air above his shoulders, uncertain about what to do.
Rachel’s stomach roiled. A girl’s first kiss should be a memory she treasured forever, the sweet, starry-eyed pinnacle of a schoolgirl crush—not some crass mating of mouths. This wretch was taking advantage of her, stealing her innocence.
Hackles up, Rachel stepped around the tree trunk, only to have her path blocked by a very big and very formidable … Lachlan MacGregor.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
His sudden appearance in the dark should have frightened her. Instead, the sight of his handsome face, etched with obvious resolve, filled her with a feeling of deliverance so intense she was tempted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. Of course, she didn’t. Despite the ease flooding her chest, she huffed her disagreement and attempted to dodge around him. Someone had to stop that creep from kissing Em.
He blocked her advance. “He knows you’re here. He’s just doing it to goad you.”
“How do you know that? She’s only fourteen.”
“Trust me.”
He took a firm step toward her, forcing her to back up, but also conveniently occluding her view with his large body, protecting her from a sight he knew would upset her. Constrained by darkness, with only a few visual elements to focus on, her senses clung to other things. Such as his scent, subtle and free of cologne. It was a breathtaking swirl of warm wool and spice—very sexy … and damned inappropriate for a priest.
“He looked right at you,” Lachlan pointed out. “And it’s pretty obvious he’s never kissed her before. It’s just a show.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t,” he admitted. He took another step, again encouraging her to retreat. “But I’ve learned to trust my gut.” Rachel dug her heels in, refusing to let him herd her any farther away from Em. He closed the gap in one decisive stride, his broad shoulders towering over her, crowding her. But if his intent was to intimidate, he failed. Despite his size, she felt no fear. “I can’t leave her here. Not with them.”
“I suspect they won’t hang about much longer, but just to be certain, I’ll go back and watch them.” He stared into her eyes with an oddly intimate look, as if they shared more than just a common goal to protect Emily. It made Rachel’s heart pound. “I need you to go home, Rachel.”
“But—”
“You’ll want to be home when she gets back.”
Or face the consequences of Em finding out she’d followed her out here. Valid point. Still, she squirmed. “If he—”
“If he goes further than a kiss, I’ll take care of it.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I promise.”
Before she could point out there were seven of them and only one of him, he was gone.
The alarm went off at precisely 6:55 the next morning.
Rachel whacked the OFF button and rolled onto her back with a low groan. The grit in her eyes felt like gravel. Even after she got home, she’d lain awake, tense and worried, until Em had returned to the apartment. Thankfully, Lachlan had been right about the timing. Em had been right behind her.
Lachlan.
She grimaced in the dark. When had she gone from thinking of him as Father MacGregor to calling him Lachlan? If she wasn’t careful, she’d slip up while talking to him, and how embarrassing would that be? No matter how attractive he happened to be, you didn’t call a priest by his first name unless it was preceded by the title Father.
Married to God, remember? Celibate.
She snorted. It was almost impossible to imagine a guy who looked as hot as Lachlan MacGregor abstaining from sex. How the hell did he manage it?
She squeezed her eyes shut.
None of her damned business, that’s how.
She should be mulling over what to say to Em, not dwelling on the sex life of a man who was as off-limits as you could possibly imagine. She needed to sort out whether to play tyrant mom, or to say nothing for now. Should she wait to find out more about last night’s escapade, or just bar the windows and lock her daughter in her room?
Rachel pulled a pillow over her head, breathing in the scent of lemon-fresh Tide. Where was the book on parenting that dealt with this stuff? The one that
taught you to stay completely calm in the face of heavy doses of attitude and late-night joyrides with beer-swilling, drug-smoking strangers?
Because, honestly, she wasn’t sure she could pull off calm.
Worry was already burning a hole in her chest, and she had to face Em over a bowl of Cheerios in a few minutes, look her in the eyes, and smile. How the hell was she going to do that when the next words that spilled out of her mouth would probably poison their relationship forever?
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried.
Em greeted the morning with glazed eyes and an unusually pale face, sleepwalking through breakfast and the trek out to catch the school bus. Chin drooping, she barely acknowledged Rachel. Exhaustion, combined with the natural self-involvement of teenhood, saved the day.
Rachel’s coworkers, lined up like zombies before the coffee machine, weren’t much more on the ball. No one commented on the dark circles under her eyes—not even Amanda.
“Keep your head low,” Mandy muttered as she grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and handed one to Rachel. “She’s in a foul mood.”
Rachel nodded absently as she reached for the coffeepot. She referred to their boss, the company’s creative director, Celia Harper. A difficult taskmaster at the best of times, in a bad mood, she was Satan. The trick to pleasing her was to stay out of her way as much as possible, while miraculously producing the exact imagery she envisioned in her head.
Rachel poured herself a cup and brought the steaming mug to her nose, savoring the rich, nutty aroma. Already anticipating the jolt of energy she’d get from the caffeine, she groaned. “There really is a god, and his name is Coffee.”
Mandy grinned. “Better hope he grants you superpowers or a bulletproof vest. We’ve got Creative Review in five minutes.”
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. A quick glance confirmed that Mandy had her leather portfolio tucked under her arm. Today was Thursday. How had she forgotten that?
“Damn,” she said.
“That about sums it up,” agreed Mandy. “See you in the conference room.”
Drawn into Darkness Page 4
