Dark Enemy Redeemed

by I. T. Lucas

  If there were a way to tap into the government data without working for Uncle Sam, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Nearly twenty years of dedicated service was more than enough to do for one’s country. True?

  Definitely.

  Not that he had regrets, he’d loved his job up until the powers that be had decided to chain him to a desk.

  Pushing away from the damned thing, Andrew got up to get himself coffee.

  There was a new caricature taped to the wall above the counter in the break room, this time of Rick, and Andrew wondered when Tim would get around to his. Not that he was looking forward to it. The guy was vicious, blowing up each and every flaw—from yellowing teeth to a double chin and thinning hair.

  And Tim didn’t spare the female agents either, nothing was off limits, wrinkles and sagging breasts included. One day they were going to gang up on him and take their revenge.

  Andrew’s lip curled in a smirk. He’d better hurry up and ask the guy to make a forensic sketch of Bhathian’s long-lost lover before someone arranged an unfortunate accident for Tim. And considering the background of Tim’s many slighted coworkers, it wasn’t such a far-flung scenario.

  Coffee mug in hand, Andrew wended his way through the maze of cubicles looking for Tim’s—the one with pages upon pages of black and white caricatures pinned to every surface of the divider panels delineating his space.

  The guy had definitely too much free time on his hands.

  “Andrew, my man, what brings you to my humble little cube?” Tim begrudged Andrew his spacious office, even though he was sharing it with three other agents—or analysts according to what it said on the plaque on the door. Thank God. If he were forced to work out of a cubicle Andrew would have gone insane.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “It would be my pleasure to draw your portrait.” There was an evil gleam in Tim’s eyes.

  “Not if you want to keep your nimble fingers in one piece. It’s not for me. I need you to make a forensic sketch for a friend of mine.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Helping a guy to find his long-lost love out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Nope.”

  “A couple of beers?”

  “You’ve got a deal.” Tim offered his hand, then quickly withdrew it. “These babies are too important to be squashed in your paw.” He wiggled his long, elegant fingers.

  “Tomorrow? Barney’s at seven?”

  “Fine, but I also want their grande nachos and pizza to go with my beers.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. He had no doubt that before the evening was out Tim would renegotiate the deal again. “No problem.”

  It wasn’t as if it was coming out of his pocket. And spending a few bucks was a good deal for Bhathian even if nothing came out of the search. At the very least, the guy would have a picture of the alleged mother of his child.

  Back at his desk, Andrew texted Bhathian the time and place.

  Damn, he was itching to do a little preliminary investigation based on the woman’s fake social. But knowing himself, chances were that he would get sucked into it, and hours would pass with him glued to the monitor before he realized six had come and gone.

  Not something he should do while on the clock.

  A quick look was one thing, spending hours working on a private investigation was another—it was unethical.

  Better to wait for the forensic sketch, and once it was done dedicate an evening to the search—maybe even a weekend.

  No big deal, he was used to working evenings and weekends.

  But today, he was going to leave early, well, early for him. He needed to stop by the supermarket and buy wine and chocolates for Bridget before heading home to shower and change. And chug those energy drinks…

  Unfortunately, there would be no time for a nap.

  CHAPTER 13: AMANDA

  The Anna had left Avalon an hour ago, but at her current speed, she was still at least an hour away from the mainland marina. Supposedly, plenty of time to think and plan—if one wasn’t running in mental circles, that is.

  Drinking coffee and snacking on pieces of cut fruit, Amanda appeared calm and collected when she was nothing but. The Russians were suspicious enough as it was, and looking distraught might give them ideas.

  Besides, projecting a façade was her default state.

  There were the nagging suspicions about Alex—his lavish lifestyle that couldn’t be reconciled with his legitimate finances, the unusual choice of crew, and the hidden section of the closet. Nothing added up, but she was no closer to solving this mystery than she had been yesterday—and not ready to chuck the whole thing as a product of her overactive imagination either.

  Maybe she could’ve done better if her brain had stayed focused on solving the puzzle instead of constantly wandering to a towering hunk of a man with warm brown eyes and big gentle hands.

  What was she going to say to him when she returned? Hi, I’m back, let’s pick up from where we left off?

  Not likely.

  Some form of heart-to-heart was in order. Trouble was, she didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Seven years of intense academic study and she was fumbling for words like a high-school girl.

  Perhaps she should see her mother first and listen to some words of wisdom before trying to organize the jumble of thoughts that were bouncing around in her head like a bunch of agitated molecules.

  Like, how could she consider a murderer as her perfect mate? And what did it say about her? That she was insane? Insecure? Desperate?

  But how could she deny her gut—the instinct that was relentlessly tugging at her to return to Dalhu?

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t her gut or her instinct at all that were doing the talking, but her hormones. If there was one thing that was beyond contestation, one thing that was perfect between them, it was the sex.

  Fates, the sex.

  Even not fully consummated, it had been the best she’d ever had. Amanda wanted more of that.

  Heck, she was starved for it, would never have enough.

  If only she could turn off her brain and forget all about Dalhu’s rotten baggage—his sordid past that was stinking up what could’ve been as close to perfect as she was ever going to get.

  But how?

  How could she forget about Mark? Dishonor his memory by joining with the one who had ordered his murder?

  Apparently, sleeping with the enemy wasn’t the lower than low she had believed it to be; falling for the murderer of her nephew was worse—way worse.

  Help!

  She felt like taking a page from Marta’s book—finding a corner and rocking back and forth on the floor while chanting; oh my God, oh my God, I’m going to burn in hell.

  Trouble was, Amanda didn’t believe in Marta’s God or her biblical hell.

  But then, the hell of her own making—the one burning her gut, cutting her heart, and incinerating her brain—was bad enough.

  CHAPTER 14: DALHU

  As he scanned the room for an empty spot for the drawing he’d just finished, Dalhu rubbed a charcoal-stained palm over his mouth.

  Ever since Anandur had left him with the supplies, he’d been drawing like a man possessed. The black and white sketches were spread out over every available surface of the small living room.

  It started with the various pencils and charcoals, tempting him to give them a try. But then one stroke had led to another, and not before long Amanda’s eyes were gazing at him from a dozen or so drawings—smiling, deep in thought, sitting in a chair, reclining on a sofa, dressed, and undressed…That one, though, he’d stashed under his bed.

  As it was, by neglecting to work on the profiles he’d promised to compile he was already courting Kian’s wrath. To add a nude depiction of Amanda’s perfection on top of that had the potential of pushing her brother into a full-blown murderous rage.

  Hopefully, the guys watching the security cameras’ feed hadn’t been paying close attentio
n to what he’d been sketching. Though if they had, so be it, there was nothing he could do about it now.

  Propping his latest creation against the wall, Dalhu stepped back to admire his work.

  Damn, he needed some sticky tape or some pushpins to tack his drawings onto the wall. Save for the woman herself, there was nothing else Dalhu would rather stare at.

  Though not as good as an actual photograph, he believed he’d managed to do justice to Amanda’s beauty. But was he really as talented as the men had claimed he was? Or had they been simply impressed by his impeccable memory and his ability to reproduce on paper the snapshots that he’d taken with his visual cortex?

  But then, producing an accurate rendition was more of a skill than an art, and he had no idea what was that special something extra that differentiated between the two.

  He cast a guilty glance at the bar where the laptop sat still unopened on top of the counter. It wasn’t smart to delay the profiles he’d promised Kian. He’d better stop with the drawing and get to work on those.

  And yet, clutching the charcoal pencil in his hand, he couldn’t bring himself to let go of it.

  Hell, he didn’t want to.

  For those couple of hours or so that he’d been consumed by the sketching frenzy, he’d felt alive, and to open that laptop would be like dying again. Because the only way he could deal with diving back into the cesspool that had been his life over the hundreds of years of service in the Brotherhood was to get back to feeling nothing—numb—dead on the inside.

  On the other hand, as gratifying as it had been to immerse himself in creating them, dozens of Amanda’s portraits would get him nowhere. If he were right to assume that she’d abandoned him on her brother’s orders, and not out of her own free will, then Dalhu’s first priority should be gaining favor with Kian. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to achieve this by producing even more sketches of Amanda.

  True, Kian had been impressed with that first sketch, and subsequently his attitude toward Dalhu had improved somewhat. But it wasn’t enough to overcome the guy’s hatred, or to influence his decision to disallow contact between Dalhu and Amanda.

  As much as he loathed having to do it, Dalhu had to prove himself to the sanctimonious prick. And the only way he could attempt it in his current situation was to compile the fucking portfolios and sketch the goddamned portraits of Navuh’s army top commanders.

  He’d better do an outstanding job on those and impress the hell out of the asshole. Perhaps this would convince Kian that Dalhu could be trusted.

  Yeah, as if there is a chance in hell that’s going to happen.

  Still, there was nothing else he could do to improve his position, and it was worth the effort even for the less than slim chance that it might make a difference.

  Closing his fist around the piece of charcoal, he crushed it to dust, then headed to the bathroom to wash his hands.

  CHAPTER 15: KIAN

  “You want to take me out tonight?” Syssi asked, her voice sounding a little panicky.

  Kian shifted the phone to his other ear as he turned on the ignition of the Lexus and shifted into gear. “Why? Is that a problem? I figured that I still owe you a date.” It was a shame he couldn’t ask her in person like he’d wanted to, but there was a jeweler waiting for him behind an unmarked storefront in Beverly Hills.

  According to Annani, those interested in the best jewels in the world were referred to LaBurg Jewelers by other distinguished clients. No signage identified the place.

  Syssi chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we should go on at least one before getting married. It’s just that I’m drowning in work with all the preparations for the wedding. But I’ll make time for this. When do you want to go, and where?”

  “I made a reservation for eight at By Invitation Only.”

  “Oh, that’s actually perfect. We could sample Gerard’s creations before he finalizes the menu—an opportunity to make last minute changes if we find something we really like or conversely do not.”

  “Hey, that’s great, that way no one can claim that I haven’t taken part in the planning. Correct?”

  Syssi hadn’t asked for his help, but he had a feeling that it wasn’t because she had no need, but because she’d known what his answer would be. And it wasn’t only on account of his busy schedule. Truth was, he had nothing to contribute, and didn’t really care about the details. Whatever made Syssi happy was fine with him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—eloping and skipping the big party altogether would’ve made her happier.

  “Your only job is to show up looking handsome. Which reminds me, Mr. Fentony will be here tomorrow at twelve. I figured that scheduling him for lunchtime will work best for you, but if it’s a problem, I can call him and move the appointment. For you, the guy would reschedule the President.”

  “It’s fine. Noon tomorrow works for me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you more, be ready by seven-thirty.” Smiling, Kian ended the call before Syssi had a chance to respond with an I love you more of her own.

  It was silly, competing for who said it last and won. But it was fun, and if it made him feel like a stupid teenager, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for a two-thousand-year-old fart.

  As he rolled down the freeway at a snail’s pace, he tried to imagine the perfect ring for Syssi and drew a blank. Perhaps he should not have kept it a secret and asked her to come with him? Let her choose what she liked best?

  Except, knowing his sweet, unassuming Syssi and her frugal predisposition, she would’ve chosen something simple and argued with him endlessly about spending too much money on a proper ring.

  Hell, she would’ve never agreed, and the outing would’ve ended in a big fight. Because there was no way he would’ve compromised on that one. His girl deserved only the best—even if she didn’t want it—and he certainly could afford to give it to her.

  Some impatient idiot honked the horn, interrupting Kian’s musing. Where did the moron think he could go? He fought the urge to open the window and flip the guy. They were all stuck on this endless ribbon of asphalt-covered concrete, and the only way off was to find an exit. Trouble was, the surface streets were just as clogged.

  Kian sighed and turned on the radio, which was tuned to his favorite classical station. As Mozart’s Concerto Number 21 filled the Lexus’s interior with its timeless sound, Kian relaxed into his seat, his grip on the steering wheel relaxing.

  If Amanda were back home, he would’ve brought her along to help with the selection. Except, he doubted she would’ve gone anywhere with him after the way he’d treated her. And frankly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for her company either. It was so damn difficult to get rid of that bitter feeling he’d come to associate with her.

  Disappointment. Betrayal. Taint.

  The steering wheel groaned as Kian’s grip tightened again.

  On some level, he was aware that his lingering resentment toward Amanda no longer made sense. Spending time with the Doomer, Kian had to concede, albeit grudgingly, that he wasn’t pure evil. Not to mention that it was glaringly obvious the guy was in love with Amanda and would do anything and everything for her.

  Same way I would for Syssi.

  Damn, where did this come from? Kian hated that his brain had spewed out such nonsense. Comparing his feelings for Syssi to what the Doomer felt for Amanda? Ludicrous.

  But was it?

  Kian’s gut, or perhaps it was his conscience, insisted that the difference existed only in his head, tinted by his perception of who and what Dalhu was.

  An enemy. A killer. A heartless, cruel creature with no conscience or morality. A self-centered, self-absorbed opportunist.

  Or was he?

  Casting a glance at Brundar’s stoic face, Kian shook his head. There would be no words of wisdom coming from that direction. The guy was there only because Kian had promised his mother he’d go nowhere without his bodyguards, and not because he needed the guy’s advice or his opinion. And it wasn�
�t as if he would’ve gotten any if he asked. Brundar would’ve just arched his blond brows and returned to staring ahead.

  It was easy to forget that he was even there.

  Weird guy. But a goddamned excellent fighter. If Kian ended up buying a million dollar ring for Syssi, which was his intention, he wanted an extra pair of capable hands to guard it on the way home. And besides, having a passenger allowed him to make use of the carpool lane if one was available.

  The drive that should’ve taken no more than ten minutes stretched to double that, and as he left the SUV with the valet, he was already five minutes late for his appointment with the renowned Mrs. LaBurg. A few seconds later, the reinforced glass door was opened by a courteous employee in a three-piece suit who introduced himself as Pierre. Kian wondered if the French names were real. Probably not. More likely a sly attempt to add a flair of sophistication meant to impress the high-class patrons of the place.

  “Please, follow me. Mrs. LaBurg will see you in the private viewing room.” Pierre dipped his head in a perfunctory bow and motioned for them to follow through a cleverly-concealed metal detector. The main showroom was not as large as Kian had expected, but it was classy and understated. A pale Aubusson rug covered the hardwood floor, and several small oil paintings in substantial yet minimally adorned wooden frames hung on the walls. Small light fixtures cast soft illumination on the paintings’ surfaces, but little else.

  The lack of bright light was a peculiar choice for a place that was supposed to showcase diamonds. But what did he know, perhaps this was the standard for jewelry stores.

  As Pierre opened the door to the back room, an older lady rose to greet them. She was wearing a conservative beige suit that even Kian recognized as signature Chanel, and her small stature was aided by a pair of high-heeled shoes that seemed too tall for a woman who looked like somebody’s grandma.

  Her intake of breath as she got a good look at him was audible, but then her eyes drifted to Brundar and a tiny smirk lifted her thin lips. “Welcome, Mr. Kian.” She offered her slightly wrinkled hand.