by Jordan Dane
"I am sorry for my innocent deception. Seeing you in that blindfold, I could not resist."
He turned his head to gaze upon a familiar face marred with a nasty bruise on her left cheekbone. The beautiful Asian woman slipped a hand conspira-torially through his arm.
"Innocence and you parted company long ago, lady," he said. "I don't appreciate you barging in here." He yanked his arm from her in protest and stepped aside. His reluctance only amused his intruder. And she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it.
"And I thought you and I were such good friends." Her eyes appraised him. "It's nice to see you in daylight, my love. You are even more handsome than I remembered." The woman smiled like an accomplice, no doubt enjoying her hoax. Dressed in a vivid red silk pantsuit, she looked stunning with her dark features and shoulder-length black hair. "And you are well skilled in the art of Kenjitsu . . . among other things. This pleases me."
Sidestepping a carton of cracked eggs and a melon, Raven narrowed her eyes in disbelief and bounded across the floor in record time.
"I've got skills too, and I'd sure like to demonstrate a few, but by the looks of your face, someone beat me to it. Pun intended." Raven stepped closer to the woman, standing nose-to-nose. "Must be your charm. So who the hell are you?"
Raven's ploy had little effect, despite her attempt at intimidation. Jasmine only returned her glare, not backing down. Having seen the deadly assassin in action, Christian would not have expected otherwise.
"My name is Jasmine Lee. Although I did not share my identity at the time, Christian remembers how we met, don't you?" She shifted her gaze to him, her eyes taking in the length of his body. The gesture added fuel to an already blazing fire.
Not one to back down, Raven inched closer. But before she voiced an opinion, Christian interceded by answering the woman's question.
"Yes, I do," he said, his voice tempered by the gratitude he felt. In reaction to a memory, phantom pain radiated from the scar on his belly, a souvenir from his brush with death nearly a year ago. "I owe her more than I can ever repay."
"I'm glad you remembered, lover . . . and that you are so very grateful." She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. "I was afraid your memory might be a little . . . vague on some points."
He understood the underlying meaning in her cryptic message—heard it loud and clear.
He could tell by her expression and the innuendo in her voice. Jasmine suspected he hadn't told the complete truth about what happened. Being a cop, Raven wouldn't have understood why he kept his involvement with an assassin to himself. Their pact had been unspoken, for they both had killed that night. He understood his motivation, but why Jasmine killed was still a mystery.
In the meantime, ground rules had to be set.
"No matter how grateful I may be . . . that doesn't mean you can barge in here unannounced. I don't appreciate your head games." He pointed a finger at Jasmine. His raised voice reverberated off the walls. "So knock it off."
Slowly, she nodded in acknowledgment, making a graceful gesture with her hand. A sign of her concession. But the smile lingered, flavoring her truce with a heaping dose of ridicule.
"I have come to collect on my marker. You owe me, Christian. And I am afraid no is not an option. I do not have the luxury of time on my side."
Something in the woman's eyes changed, almost imperceptibly. He heard the urgency of her message. Yet laced between her words, he found an intriguing vulnerability. And in that instant the all too familiar sensation of dread and nervous energy gnawed deep in his gut. This couldn't be a good sign.
Something was terribly wrong in Jasmine's world— something frightening and out of control. Whatever it was, he had a feeling it would turn his world upside down.
CHAPTER 3
Although the woman kept her distance, the room could never be large enough for Raven's preference. While Christian's shower rumbled in the background, Jasmine Lee wandered through his home, leafing through books and handling his personal photos like she belonged. Nothing could be further from the truth. Underneath vivid red silk, the woman's body moved with sensuality, displaying an enviable feminine confidence.
Jealousy reared its ugly head. Raven conjured up a million ways to undermine that confidence with a liberal dosage of Fear Factor reality TV. Slithering worms and roaches, steep cliffs, and meaty bull testicles came to mind. She smiled. Ob, yeah. Now you're talkin'.
As the coffee maker gurgled fresh aroma in the air, Raven sat at the breakfast bar with an elbow on the armrest of a bar stool, observing Jasmine's every move. The woman would be trouble. Of this she was certain. And the cop in her would not stay silent any longer.
"So how do you know Christian?" Raven asked, raising her voice to make sure the woman heard her across the room.
With her back to the kitchen, Jasmine stopped her pacing, standing near Christian's bed when she turned around. With a deliberate motion she ran her fingers along his bedspread, inch by inch from the pillow to the foot. Red glistening nails set against pale skin tortured Raven. The strange woman's eyes never wavered in their insolence.
"Just lucky, I guess. Lucky for Christian, that is." Defiantly, she sat on the corner of his mattress, crossing her shapely legs with a flaunting smile on her face. "I would have expected you to be more . . . grateful. Christian certainly is. Have you not heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth?"
About the same time, the coffee stopped brewing and the shower ended, leaving Jasmine's not so subtle message hanging in the air. Raven knew she'd been asked to mind her own business. And that had to be the equivalent of waving a red flag in the face of a cranky bull. She hated this woman shared a past with Christian ... a secret.
"Oh, I've heard of it. I'm just afraid I'm staring at the other end of the horse. The part that produces all the fertilizer."
"You sound like an expert."
The gloves were off, on both sides. Raven preferred it that way. Subtlety took way too much energy. And besides, a full frontal attack felt more honest. Yet Jasmine was anything but honest. Raven suspected the woman would avoid answering any question she had.
Raven trusted Christian with her heart—and her life. And she knew he loved her, enough to risk his life to save her. That kind of love . . . that kind of man, she should have been grateful to have him in her life. But what Christian hadn't shared with her weighed heavy between them, like an impenetrable wall.
And Jasmine only rubbed salt in the wound. Her cop instincts tingled with ferocity as she stared at the unwanted intruder sitting on Christian's bed. She'd have to grease the skids with motor oil to let this one slide.
"It appears we both possess the ability to recognize a heaping pile of horse hockey when we hear it." Raven stepped down from the stool and meandered closer to Jasmine, sitting on the leather sofa in the center of the room. "My horseshit detector is firing on all cylinders."
"The feeling is mutual. And I have no fondness for police."
"I'm a homicide detective with the Chicago PD."
"Yes, I know." Jasmine raised an eyebrow and crooked a wily smile. "My statement stands."
Taking a page from Raven's book, Jasmine rose from the bed and walked toward the living area. Under the guise of complete boredom, she plopped down on the other end of the sofa, across from Raven. Yet her focus told a very different story. The mysterious woman drilled her with a steady gaze, without an ounce of contrition showing in her vague expression.
"In case I have been unclear, you and I have nothing in common. And I do not wish to talk to you. So perhaps it is best you leave Christian and me to discuss our business in private ... as it should be."
Anger surged under Raven's skin, bringing heat to her face. Just as she prepared to respond to the woman's arrogant audacity, a deep baritone voice filled the space between them.
"Whatever you've come to say, you'll do it in front of Raven. If this is not acceptable, then you should be the one to leave. Hit the bricks . . . now."
Christian
Delacorte's appearance was bad timing for Jasmine. Now she risked alienating the one man she needed most. She hoped to be discreet when it came to her open resentment toward the detective's involvement. She would have to be craftier to pry Christian free of this woman's interference. A worthy goal.
Yet when her eyes met his, she nearly forgot to breathe. Every nuance of his face stirred a memory, a bittersweet reminder of why she had sought him out in the first place. Indeed, his face triggered a pang of regret and flooded her with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. So much so that she had to remind herself that this was a very different man. And as he walked toward her with anger in his gaze, a sweeping fragrance of herbal soap and the essence of his skin preceded him, reviving her to the present with all the subtlety of a sharp pinch to tender skin.
He moved with masculine ease, yet his gaze remained guarded and alert. His eyes never wavered from her face. Broad shoulders and narrow hips dominated her imagination. Even with the oversized furniture in the living area, Christian eclipsed the space with his presence, his height well over six feet. She had nearly forgotten how impressive he was. And once again, she found herself drawn in, completely captivated by the similarity.
His dark wavy hair, still damp from the shower, framed a handsome face. A strong jawline with a day's growth of beard gave him a rugged edge, offset by the sensuality of full lips. Dark lashes accentuated the deep green of his eyes, a complex blending of flecked gold and striations of azure. From this distance, combined with the blue of his chambray shirt, she could not discern the natural color of his most expressive eyes. Although the eye color was vastly different, the resemblance was striking. Remarkable.
His masculinity reminded her of—
"Well? What's it gonna be?" he demanded. His gaze drilled her like a weapon.
"It seems I have little choice in the matter." Jolted back to reality, she forced a smile. "May I trouble you for some coffee? It smells delightful."
He raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. After a long moment of silent deliberation, he finally offered, "Yeah. I'll get it."
Christian stepped toward the kitchen, leaving her to face a very perturbed woman at the other end of the sofa. Raven had seen through her subterfuge and her feigned pleasantry. She was too damned smart for her own good and much too inquisitive—annoying qualities in an adversary. Christian would be difficult enough to handle without the added complication of a shrewd police detective.
Yet the emotion the woman wore on her sleeve made her vulnerable. Perhaps it could be used to her advantage, when the time was right.
So much depended upon this meeting with Christian. She could not afford to be distracted again by this woman or thwarted by his stubbornness. Failure was simply not an option. Fear wedged in her throat when she contemplated the consequences. She swallowed hard. Her throat tightened with emotion.
"You are my last hope," Jasmine blurted out as Christian handed her a cup of coffee. She held her cup and saucer in both hands, as he handed Raven her cup, trying to hide the betraying sound of porcelain in trembling hands. "The American Consulate in Brazil and the State Department have refused to intervene. They would prefer to turn a blind eye to the whole distasteful affair. And I have run out of time . . . and resources."
From the kitchen, as Christian served himself coffee, he said, "Hey, you better back it up. Tell me why you're here. I don't understand."
"Yes, of course." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The side of her face still felt swollen as she moved her head to face him. "My employer, Nicholas Charboneau, was kidnapped three days ago in the city of Cuiabá, Brazil. If I don't wire a million dollars in U.S. currency to a Swiss bank account in seven days, he will be killed."
With a puzzled look, Christian stopped mid-gulp, lowering his coffee mug. But the woman detective interceded. "Wait a minute. I know that name. Charboneau heads up a crime syndicate here in Chicago. He's a tough guy to catch 'cause his assets cover legitimate businesses. As I recall, he makes his money the old-fashioned way, drugs and illegal arms trading mostly. A real specialist. What was he doing in Brazil? Arms trading? Drug dealing? And why do you need help from Christian?"
Jasmine had expected such questions from him, but the intrusion of this woman proved irritating. For now, she had no other option but to tolerate it.
"Mr. Charboneau does not confide his business affairs to me. I am his personal bodyguard. That is all."
With a doubtful expression, Christian chimed in, "I don't know. Someone in your position must see and hear quite a bit. And you look like a smart enough woman to do the math. I think you know exactly what he was doing in Brazil."
"And the fact that Charboneau got kidnapped on your watch, that's gotta hurt." Raven cut her to the bone with her perceptive observation. She deserved it. Not a day had gone by that she didn't chastise herself in much the same way. Guilt was a pervasive disease.
"It does," Jasmine replied. "You have no idea." It was the first honest emotion she had shared since her intrusion into their lives. Yet she despised vulnerability. With her eyes downcast, she avoided their stares.
Shifting the focus, she directed her next comment to him. "I am asking for your help. It is not just a matter of collecting on a debt, although that should be a compelling enough reason for an honorable man."
"Don't waste your time with this guilt trip. You're tap dancing around something. What is it?" he demanded.
Clearly, Christian would not make this easy. But there was honesty in his candor. And she respected him for it. Still, going against Nicky's wishes felt like a betrayal.
"My employer would not wish for me to tell you this. In fact, he expressly asked me not to contact you. But as I have said, I am out of time."
"I don't know the man. Why would he give such an order? You're being painfully cryptic, Jasmine."
Delaying her response, she took a sip of coffee, then slowly set the cup and saucer on a table. It had come to this. Only the truth would satisfy him.
"It is a sensitive matter. Yet I find I have no choice. Your mother, Fiona Dunhill, knew Nicholas quite well. If she knew of his plight, she would help."
"How do you know about Fiona . . . and my relationship to her?"
"The same way I know of your father . . . your biological one." She felt her heart skip a beat, then quicken its pace. It pained her to be the one to break the news, to deny Nicky of his choice in the matter. Her betrayal knew no bounds.
"Nicholas Charboneau is your father, Christian."
"How could you possibly know that? This better not be another one of your mind games," he bellowed, then clenched his jaw in anger. "Besides, I know all I need to know about my real father."
Yet his words of denial felt. . . wrong.
Christian knew John Delacorte had raised him as a son. And the man had made the ultimate sacrifice, giving his own life to save him from certain death all those years ago. The memory had been buried deep in his mind and only recently unlocked, the dark childhood tragedy that defined him. No one would replace John Delacorte in his role as his real father. Still, Fiona confirmed what he'd already suspected, having kept the identity of his biological father from him for a reason.
Perhaps that reason had a name: Nicholas Charboneau.
"I knew it the moment I set eyes on you, the night we first met. You look just like him. But don't trust me. Talk to your mother. Tell her Nicky is in trouble, or she might continue to keep her secret and deny his . . . contribution. But whatever you do, please . . . make it fast."
Nearly spilling his coffee, Christian collapsed into a nearby chair, unable to take his eyes from Jasmine. The strange sensation he'd been feeling over the past several days bubbled to the surface, churning his stomach with the reality of his life.
Setting down the mug, he shut his eyes. His mind reeled with a flood of old conversations. Fiona's words replayed in his memory. No matter how many times he begged for the true identity of his father, his mother kept her silenc
e. After seeing the pain in her eyes, he knew she would never disclose the truth, as if she were protecting him.
And with what Raven revealed about Charboneau and his connection to organized crime, maybe she had gooci reason. Yet Fiona's gall boggled his mind. She herself was a matriarch to an enterprise rooted in crime, perhaps a direct rival to Charboneau's. Her disapproval of him as a father made no sense, not if she examined her own life under such scrutiny.
It struck him. He had spent much of his life living in the shadow of her lies. She had kept him apart from "the life," limiting his involvement in the Dunhill family business all those years. Now it appeared he had never fully grasped the depth of her secrets.
Raven's voice yanked him from his dismal thoughts.
"If your employer kept his affairs to himself," she said to Jasmine, "without confiding in you, as you've said, then how do you explain knowing so much about Christian? That seems like pretty sensitive information for a mere bodyguard to have."
"Very perceptive, Detective. I may have misrepresented my relationship with Christian's father. But I will not compromise Nicky by revealing certain aspects of his business affairs. It would be unprofessional . . . and unwise."
Intently, Christian watched the woman speak, as if she communicated in a different language. Perhaps she did. Her world was steeped in shadow and deception. Honesty would be a rare commodity.
"Your instincts are correct, Raven," he said. "This is a woman with secrets. Trusting her would be a mistake." Resentment colored his tone. He glared at Jasmine, searching the subtleties of her face to find a glimmer of the truth.
The woman flashed indignation. "You trusted me once. That night. I could have led you into an ambush."
He stood abruptly and turned his back, crossing his arms over his chest. Looking at her only made him angry. "I was desperate. I had no choice."
"Now you see my predicament. I am out of options as well." Jasmine stepped toward him. Her voice lowered as she pleaded her case. "This is not about me. Nicholas will die in seven days. What would you have me do? How can I prove myself to you? I am only a messenger, speaking for a man who cannot. Please do not condemn him for Fiona's error in judgment."
