Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  St. James swore, both men lost their balance, and they toppled over, still fighting for control of the hunter. Dallas’ strength was greater, and he rolled on top of St. James, pinning him to the ground. But St. James was not about to submit so easily. Raking a fistful of dirt into his free hand, he flung the earth and stones into Dallas’ eyes. Dallas let go of St. James with a cry and fell backward, stumbling to regain his feet. Until he could clear his vision, he had to put as much distance between himself and the vampire hunter as possible.

  Suddenly he felt something cool, long, and metal being shoved into his hand. Sensitive fingers probed the tool while flashes of light, one after another, exploded behind Dallas’ eyelids. He heard St. James swear just as his own thumb pressed against a button on the metal object, sliding a blade free. Dallas blinked and saw enough. St. James was still on the ground, one arm flung like a shield over his eyes, the other arm, the one gripping the Hunter, supporting his weight. Dallas wasted no time. In a movement so swift as to be nothing more than a shimmer to the human eye, he circled behind St. James, seized him in a chin lock with his left arm, and thrust the blade into St. James’ heart with his right hand.

  He felt a tug on his sleeve and a voice only inches from his ear, clearer than the shriek pouring from St. James.

  “Dallas, let’s go! Now!”

  His eyes, half blinded by the dirt and spots of color he saw dancing in front of him, still managed to register Tia beside him. Her hand, warm on his arm, pulled at him.

  “Come on!

  He complied, running with her back toward the parking lot. His fluid strides quickly overtook hers, and soon he was the one pulling her in tow. A touch of the Lincoln’s remote unlocked the doors and turned on the interior lights.

  “Get in,” he commanded, indicating she get in on the passenger side.

  “Can you see to drive?”

  “Well enough.” He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and put the car into gear with his foot already on the gas. The tires screeched and spit a cloud of gravel as the car lurched forward.

  “God, Dallas, we have to call the cops. Where’s your phone? I left mine in my car.” She expelled the words between great gulps of air. He could feel the heat and adrenaline in her body as intensely as if she were pressed up against him. It was a pleasant distraction in an evening overflowing with unpleasant diversions, but it was not the time to think or act on it.

  “No cops.”

  She persisted in a nervous searching of the car’s storage compartments that were within her reach. “Listen, I don’t understand half of what I just saw, but you just killed a man. That much I know.”

  He reached his right arm across her and slammed the glove box shut, then, using a dexterity and speed bordering on celerity, snagged both busy hands in his. Clutching her hands tightly, he pressed them to her lap. “No cops, and that’s final. It’s over. Understand?”

  He glanced quickly at her face. Her eyes were wide and her open mouth almost as much so, but the frozen expression seemed to indicate more lingering shock and fear than determination to oppose him. He released her hands. They stayed in her lap, but she gave no response to his question.

  He shifted his eyes between the road and Tia. “Are you all right? Answer me.”

  She finally nodded.

  “Good. Now stay quiet and let me think.”

  He had accomplished his goals. He had prevented St. James from having Tia, and he himself had survived the encounter. But in the process he had created a larger problem. Tia now knew too much, and with her resistance to him, he doubted he could successfully compel her to forget everything she had witnessed. It would be far too dangerous now for both of them to send her packing.

  Much too dangerous. Because he had lied to her. It wasn’t over.

  Seven

  HE HAD TO TELL her the truth. It would awaken her suspicions about him even more, but if he didn’t tell her the truth, he had no doubt she would persist in her quest to involve the police in this, regardless of how strong his admonishments were. He took a deep breath. “He’s not dead.”

  She turned to him. “What?”

  “St. James. He’s not dead.”

  “That was nearly a five-inch blade on my tactical knife.”

  His eyes scanned the road ahead. “Thank you. You saved my life. What was the light I saw?”

  “Don’t change the subject. What do you mean he’s not dead? A five-inch blade isn’t the biggest knife in the world, but in the right spot kills a man. I know about these things.”

  He glanced at her. “The light?”

  She sighed. “The flash from my camera. I figured if I got close enough, I could blind him long enough for you to do something.”

  “You shouldn’t have gotten that close. He would have killed you had he realized what you were doing.”

  Another exasperated sigh. “You’re welcome.”

  They rode the rest of the way to Rose Hill in blessed silence.

  TIA WAS EXHAUSTED. Not from the ordeal, but from talking her head off to no avail. Since arriving at Rose Hill, she had lost every argument with Dallas Allgate. After having been introduced to John Giltspur and Rae Sovatri, she had appealed to them as well, but it hadn’t done her a bit of good.

  He wouldn’t let her call the police. He wouldn’t let her return to her hotel. And he wouldn’t let her leave Rose Hill. She indulged herself with a small smile, the first of the evening. A night at Rose Hill with Dallas Allgate was what she had wanted it, wasn’t it?

  Sure, just not while embroiled in the middle of another murder.

  The minute they had pulled into the drive at the townhouse, Dallas had started issuing orders. Sovatri was to go the River Park Inn and retrieve Tia’s luggage. The man they called “Gillie” helped Dallas clean and bandage the wound on her neck. It was small, the skin just having been torn, and it hadn’t bled profusely, so she hadn’t insisted on going to the hospital. After Sovatri returned with her things, which were put into the most spacious bedroom she had ever seen, Dallas himself went with Rae to pick up her car. She argued again to come along, but Dallas would have none of it.

  “The police are probably there, and they’ll see my car and want to know what I was doing there, and the next thing you know . . . ” she said.

  “The police won’t be there, and neither will St. James. We’ll be back in twenty minutes. Now be a good girl and don’t give Gillie a hard time. He’s already had two heart attacks. Wouldn’t want him to have a third,” Dallas said.

  “What? Well, living with you I can understand it, but don’t you think . . . ” But the door slammed before she could finish her question.

  She stood for a moment, then looked sideways at Gillie. “Is it true about the heart attacks? How can you stand working for that man?”

  “He exaggerates. I’ve only had one. And, yes, it’s not always easy. Mr. Allgate is rather, ah, set in his ways. Why don’t you take the opportunity to have a shower and change, and I’ll fix you something to eat. Might do to be fueled up for the next skirmish, eh?” With that the old man gave her a sly wink and walked her upstairs to the bedroom. She stuck on a smile, nodded her thanks, and closed the door behind her. The old man was a match for his boss when it came to eccentricity.

  He was right about one thing, though. She desperately wanted a shower. She was hot, sticky, and grimy. Catching her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she groaned. “Grimy” wasn’t the word. Her white jeans were streaked with dirt, and her white and blue floral camisole top was spotted with blood.

  Remind me never to wear white to a cemetery again.

  Her reflection stared silently back at her, and she winced. Her eyes were as puffy and red-rimmed as if she’d been on an all-day crying jag, and her black eye makeup was in evidence everywhere but where she had applied it. Her tangled hair p
rovided an appropriate frame to the nightmarish portrait.

  Just what have I gotten myself into this time?

  She stripped her dirty clothes off as fast as she could in a frenzied attempt to avoid answering the question. She pulled clean underwear, shampoo and conditioner from her suitcase and stepped into the spacious bathroom. The fixtures were old, but the room was fastidiously clean, and a modern shower had been added to the tub. Thick, fluffy towels hung neatly from a towel rack.

  The pelting of the warm water soothed her, and she addressed the plaguing questions she had ignored thus far. The whole evening had been frightening and strange, to say the least, but the murder was all she could think about. It wasn’t as if she was sorry James was dead. She had perhaps been foolish to go alone with him to the graveyard, even thinking he was a friend of Dallas’, but what he had done to her had been inexcusable. She had been briefly charmed by his intriguing looks and outrageous persona. A nice change, she had thought, from Dallas’ brooding, reticent ways. But after the first kiss James gave her behind a mausoleum—a hard, cruel kiss—the charisma had fallen away like a mask. What she thought was a charming, self-deprecating arrogance was a manipulative disregard for others. When she had told him “no” in no uncertain terms, he had continued his assault, invading her mouth with his tongue and fondling every inch of her body. She had tried the defense and arrest tactics she had learned years before as an officer, kneeing him in the midsection, kicking him, and using elbow thrusts, but his strength had been extraordinary. She hadn’t even been able to throw him off balance. She had resorted to dirtier tactics not taught by DAAT instructors, but those, too, had been ineffectual. Most likely James was high on something. Drugs could give a person superhuman strength. She had witnessed the phenomena more than once on the job.

  When she had seen Dallas arrive, she couldn’t have been gladder than if he were the proverbial cavalry. When James finally let her go, her first thought had been flight, but upon reaching her car, she hadn’t been able to force herself to leave Dallas behind. She had grabbed her camera and the large folding knife she still carried in her car when she traveled. It was the extra weapon she used to carry while working the street as a cop. Not exactly legal, but if it saved her life in a fight, who cared?

  She had crept back to watch Dallas and James, but had had trouble seeing them. Maybe it was the shadows of the dying sun, or maybe the ordeal had made her dizzy, but the men seemed to move so fast she couldn’t follow their actions. Dallas appeared to be on the losing end, however, and when Tia had seen the strange dagger that James drew, she knew she had to act.

  No, she wasn’t sorry James was dead. She hadn’t killed him, and it was no more than self-defense anyway. But she was definitely party to the crime, and she didn’t relish the idea of spending hours before cops, detectives, and district attorneys explaining her actions. How could she articulate what she had seen and heard? Her eyes had registered little more than shadows and shimmers of black and white, and all she could remember hearing was strange talk about blood, feeding, and revenge. She shivered even in the stream of warm water. Maybe they were part of some weird cult, though she never would have thought Dallas the type.

  Exiting the shower at last, she dressed carefully in a white cable-knit top that showed off her tanned arms and a long, slim black skirt. If the cops were going to be questioning her, she wanted to at least look decent.

  Tia heard engines on the driveway below and car doors slam. Dallas, the police, or both? She opened the bedroom door and padded on bare feet to the end of the upstairs hallway. The low, steel wool voice that could only belong to Dallas floated up to her, followed by the higher voice she recognized as Gillie’s. No others. Good.

  Curious now, she scampered back to the room and quickly donned a little jewelry and makeup. Dashing down the stairs as quickly as the tight skirt would allow, her hair still damp, she was disappointed to see no one but Gillie in the dining room. Only one table setting was laid out on the large table.

  “Where’s Dallas?”

  “Like you, cleaning up. Have a seat, Miss Martell.”

  “Oh, Tia, please.” She flicked her eyes at the table setting. “Surely I’m not the only one eating?”

  “Mr. Allgate indicated he wasn’t hungry just now, but he’ll join you as soon as he’s changed.”

  Tia sat, and Gillie disappeared before she could ask more questions. She glanced around the room. The pieces were all massive and looked to be authentic antiques. Dark, heavy drapes covered the windows, and though a large, ornate chandelier hung over the table, candlelight at her place setting provided the only light. She wondered where Dallas’ bedroom was. He hadn’t passed her on the stairs. She stared at the wall nearest to her, and somehow knew that his room was the adjacent one. The thought of him changing clothes on the other side of that wall brought a flush to her face. All the strange things that had happened to her, and all she could wonder about was how Dallas looked without his clothes on.

  Gillie brought in cold chicken and ham, bread, fresh salad, fruit, and a bottle of wine, and arranged the platters on the sideboard across from her. Tia fervently hoped that Gillie’s eccentric nature didn’t extend to the reading of minds, but the artful smile he gave her made her believe he could. He left without a word.

  She stood to step to the sideboard when Dallas stole into the room with the stealth of a large cat. She turned and ran into him, raising her hand before her like a stop sign to prevent a collision. It didn’t work. Two hundred pounds of raw sex appeal dressed in chocolate brown snatched both her breath and desire for food away. In her heels she was almost as tall as he was, and with the warmth of his chest under her palm and his green-glass eyes just inches from hers, she forgot the two dozen or so questions she had wanted to ask him.

  “Have your trials and tribulations rendered you speechless, Tia? This is serious, indeed. Perhaps you need medical attention after all.”

  He was making fun of her again. How could he look at her like that and make jokes? If she didn’t owe him her life, she would . . . she would . . . Which reminded her, ignorant bastard though he was, she hadn’t thanked him for what he had done.

  “You saved my life,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  His eyes were an elixir, sweet and potent, and they told her that he saw her only too well. Suddenly she felt strangely vulnerable and forced her own gaze downward. She stared at her hand, still flat against his chest, and she vaguely wondered if the pounding she heard was his heart or hers.

  Dallas reached for her hand and drew it slowly to his mouth. He pressed the heel of her palm to his lips and kissed it as if he had all night to enjoy the sensation. She closed her eyes, and the feel of his warm lips against her skin sent rivulets of tiny shivers down her body like a waterfall. God, did he know what he was doing to her? Did she know what she was doing? She didn’t care.

  He lowered her hand, and she opened her eyes just in time to see him lean into her. His mouth closed on hers, and the heat she had felt on her palm was nothing to the fire she felt now. His mouth was hot and soft and played with hers in a gentle tug of war that stirred more than her competitive spirit. She snaked her arms up to his neck and, holding him closer to her, ran a hand through his thick hair. It was heavy and still damp, and he smelled of pine soap.

  He dragged his lips from her mouth downward along her neck, and when she flinched, he released her abruptly.

  She looked into his eyes, and they were as ancient and hard as amber.

  “My apologies. After what happened to you tonight, that was . . . unforgivable.” The low voice, as elemental as his eyes, continued the effect on her his lips had begun. She stood stupidly while he glided to the far side of the table and shaped himself to the chair.

  “Have something to eat. It’ll be good for you, and Gillie’ll be offended if you don’t at least have some of his homemade bread.”

&nb
sp; The flinch had been automatic. What Dallas just did to her was not even comparable to what James had done. Could she explain that? Would he understand her if she could? She put some of the food on her plate, but when she sat down, she didn’t touch any of it. He rose, opened the bottle of wine, poured a little into a crystal goblet, and swirled it. He held it to his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep whiff of the golden liquid. Then, filling the glass, he set it before her.

  “Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked, watching his eyes as he seemed to pour himself back into his seat.

  He looked at her for a long moment, and just when she wondered what was wrong now, he spoke.

  “No.”

  She took a small sip of the wine and broke off a corner of the thick slice of bread she had taken. “Is my car okay?”

  He nodded. “It’s in the carriage house.”

  “And James?” She chewed the bread slowly, feeling self-conscious that she ate while he didn’t.

  “His name is Jermyn St. James. He wasn’t there. I told you, he’s not dead.”

  “He told me his name was James Mavrick.”

  Dallas gave a small shrug. “An alias.”

  “Tell me why he isn’t dead.” And don’t shrug this one away.

  “It wasn’t a clean blow. I felt the blade hit the sternum and slide sideways. A lot of damage to his pretty outfit, I’m afraid, but I missed his heart and lungs.”