Targeting Dart (Satan's Devils MC #4)

by Manda Mellett

  “And a bottomless pit of money,” the detective adds.

  The lawyer nods, not trying to deny it. “As you say.”

  I’ve been growing more and more confused listening to them talking. As the conversation seems to reach an impasse I turn to my brother.

  “Jasim.” My voice shakes as I start to speak, not only with weakness resulting from whatever’s happened to me, but I’m very much beginning to dread what I might hear. “What the fuck has happened?”

  I see the detective shooting me a look as if he can’t believe I asked the question. But his next words show he knows he has to bow to the inevitable.

  “Remove the handcuffs,” he instructs the gendarme, spluttering out the order as he admits defeat. “Mr Kassis.” he looks down to address me directly. I note that he declines to use my title. “I suggest you stay out of Paris, damn it, out of France! Your money might have got you off this time, but you’d better pray to whatever god you have that you don’t cross my path again.” He turns to leave the room, but before he reaches the door, he spins back. Reaching into his wallet he pulls out a photograph and throws it at me. “And you might as well have this,” he snarls as the paper flutters down, landing on my chest. “A memento of Paris.”

  Bemused, I pick up the photo, glance at it and shudder, feeling bile rising into my throat. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve been in combat, seen injuries beyond belief on the battlefield—but to see a woman in this state is almost more than I can take. I don’t understand why I’ve been given the photo of a face so covered in blood that it’s almost impossible to recognise her. As I look closer, though, I know her immediately. It’s Chantelle. Fuck, she’s hurt! Who attacked her? Did the same person attack me? Is that why I’m here? Once more I address Jasim.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  The disappointment in his eyes almost undoes me. I watch him take a deep breath, and then exhale as if he’s having difficulty speaking to me. In the end, he chooses not to use words at all. He just pulls a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and holds up the front-page headline so I can read it. I immediately wish I hadn’t. “savage sheikh savages woman!”

  Swallowing a couple of times, I take the paper and try to get my eyes to focus and my brain to comprehend what the hell is going on. I read the text beneath the headline, feeling as if a cold hand is clutching at my heart. I turn my eyes up to my brother’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true, Jas,” I plead. “I couldn’t have done this!”

  Jasim shakes his head sadly, his despair plain to see. “It would appear that you could,” he tells me simply. “And that you did. This time, you’ve gone too far, Nijad. Your club membership is permanently revoked, and what’s more,” he pauses a moment, running his fingers through his hair before turning his face away from me, “I disown you as my brother.”

  I don’t know what shocks me most, the accusation of an inexplicably violent attack on Chantelle or my brother’s rejection of the relationship between us. My head is spinning as I try to take in everything that’s been said over the last few minutes.

  The police officers have gone, the lawyer following them. The doctor busies himself checking my vital signs, and then he too leaves. Apart from Jasim, the only person remaining in the room is Jon, standing stoically by the door, his arms folded, his feet apart in typical soldier stance. It’s the look of repugnance on his face that’s the final nail in my coffin. Rapidly, I rack my brain, unable to accept what I appear to have done. Surely I couldn’t have reacted so badly? I remember Chantelle and Henri’s appearance. I remember packing her clothes. I remember I was going to throw her out … But everything after that is a blank. I couldn’t have done it; there must be a way to prove my innocence.

  “The security camera …” I start, thinking rapidly. The newspaper report said it had happened in my flat, but Jon’s firm installed the security equipment for me.

  Jasim defers to Jon with a nod.

  “It was turned off,” Jon replies, his voice terse.

  My forehead creases. I realise I hadn’t reset the alarm in my hurry to get my rocks off, and Chantelle must have disabled the security camera while I’d been away. Presumably, so there’d be no evidence of her dealer’s visits.

  “How the fuck could you think it was me?”

  Jon shrugs. “I was first on the scene. There was no one else there. Chantelle told me, and the police, that you attacked her.” He shifts awkwardly and, at last, looks me in the eye. “Ni, I’ve spent the last two days while you’ve been unconscious trying to find another explanation. Chantelle is adamant it was you who attacked her, and the available evidence backs it up. Blood from your knuckles was on her face and her blood on your clothes. There’s no doubt.”

  A touch on my shoulder brings my attention back to Jasim. “You did this, Nijad. Just like you lost your temper with St John-Davies. You’re out of control.” He shakes his head sadly. “Fuck knows what’s going to be done with you.”

  I stare at him but see only the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. With no alternative, I have to accept what he’s telling me. This time, I’ve gone too far. I’ve hurt a woman. Badly. I hurt Chantelle. Jasim’s right; I’ve no control, I’m no Dominant, and I won’t be able to trust myself ever again. Closing my eyes, I can’t forget the newspaper headline. I’ve earned a new title. I think I would rather be dead.

  Chapter 1

  Cara

  “Hunter! For heaven’s sake, you scared me!” I almost scream at his sudden appearance, jumping so much I only just manage to keep a hold of my jar of instant coffee. “Did you have to creep up on me like that? I thought you were waiting in the sitting room!” My free hand covers my heart to try to still its frantic beating.

  “Nervy much?” Hunter gives a short laugh. He’s standing, no, looming, in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his tall frame almost filling the entrance; his muscular arms are folded in front of him, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, looking more attractive than anyone has the right to be. But it’s the expression on his face I don’t appreciate. He regards me with an intensity that seems to see right through me, and I know I’m going to have to play it very carefully when he asks, “What have you been up to, pet? I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Cara.”

  Turning back, I continue making the coffee knowing, if I look at him, I’ll give myself away. I pour boiling water onto the coffee granules and add cream and sugar, making it just the way he likes it. Picking up the cups, I carefully school my features.

  “Excuse me.” I want to get through the door to take the drinks into the lounge.

  Stepping aside to let me pass, he reaches out and holds my arm gently. His other hand comes up to cup my face and he regards me with that lazy smile, the one that makes other women throw themselves at his feet.

  “You’re looking good, pet.”

  I cringe as his hand touches my blighted skin, and shake my head. “Come off it.” I dismiss his comment, not wanting to go through the same old dance again.

  “You’re not the person you were then,” he says forcefully. “Haven’t you looked in the mirror lately?”

  I pull away from his grasp with a frustrated shrug. “No mirrors here,” I tell him glibly, hoping he’ll drop the subject. There hasn’t been a mirror in my house since I smashed the last one seven years ago. “Do you want to get your accounts sorted, or what?”

  Ignoring his sigh of exasperation, I lead him into the sitting room that doubles as my home office, out of which I run my successful accountancy business. I know he’s only looking out for me, in the same way he has for over ten years now. It started out as an odd friendship, beginning when he first protected an overweight, spotty fourteen-year-old new girl from bullies trying to steal her book bag. Then, Hunter was as much an oddity as I was: a gangly American boy, only lately arrived in the UK, with an odd name and a penchant for calling football ‘soccer’. Neither of us fitted into our new school easily, and while a couple of years on Hunte
r’s height and obvious good looks resulted in him being one of the most popular boys, excelling at sports and attracting all the girls, I hadn’t changed at all. But he continued to look out for me, smoothing my path under his protection. When I lost my mother, Hunter took me under his wing and became the only family I had. Our strange relationship somehow endured even after we went our separate ways. Months might pass before we get together, but as soon as we do we slip back into that easy friendship that we’ve always known. At twenty-six, even I have to admit he’s fit, a tousle-haired man with film-star good looks, well over six feet tall and with bulging muscles, apparently from working out. But me? Well, I haven’t changed at all. I remain a freak.

  I wave at the couch, and then wait until he rearranges the furniture to allow sufficient room for his long legs to stretch out. Once he’s made himself comfortable, I indicate the file on the coffee table lying between us.

  He hesitates before picking it up, conscious I’m trying to get his focus off me and on to something else. I should have known he isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

  “Seven years is a long time, Cara. You really have changed. You’re not the same person you were then.” The words spill out forcefully, willing me to believe him.

  It doesn’t work. I shrug off his comment, not deigning to answer. I know what I am, how I look. He’s just trying to be kind. But if I can’t acknowledge the truth to myself, who could I be honest with? I don’t need a mirror to reflect my appearance back at me. It’s been described quite succinctly in the words which play on a loop round my brain. Every. Fucking. Day. Closing my eyes briefly, I try to erase the bleak memories from my mind, and then open them again. Raising my cup, I take a long sip and make a last-ditch effort to distract him.

  “What’s all this ‘pet’ stuff, Hunter? You sound like a Dominant in some of the books I read.”

  This time, it works. Barking out a laugh, he tells me with a smirk, “You read too much, little one.” I see his eyes flit to my bookshelves and my face grows warm as he obviously notices my collection of erotic romances. My suspicions are confirmed as he continues, “I’m a bit worried about the subject matter too.” He lowers his voice. “Are you offering to be my submissive?”

  I almost spit out my coffee.

  “What the heck, Hunter? I’m not submissive; I’m a strong, intelligent and independent woman!” I raise my eyes to look at him, but when he holds my gaze, I quickly look at the floor.

  After giving me a pointed look full of amusement, he tells me, “I think you’re reading the wrong books, sweetheart.”

  “I think we should change the subject!” My cheeks are burning now. Hunter’s like the brother I never had and I’m not going into this kind of discussion with him. I’m just glad he’s not seen the book collection on my e-reader.

  Chuckling, but relenting, he grabs the file I pointed out to him, flicking through the pages until he sees the bottom line. Slowly he grins and looks up. “Is this for real?”

  “Yup; you hadn’t claimed relief on some of your expenses.”

  Plopping myself down on the chair opposite him, I curl my legs underneath me, unable to prevent the feeling of pride swelling through me. I like a satisfied client, and at least it’s made him change the subject.

  “No wonder I come to you. You’re a bloody genius!”

  As he continues to read through the tax return, I muse that there’s one positive that comes from not being a social person. I spent my youth not out partying, but studying. Without distractions, I’d been able to drown myself in books, making the most of my education and leaving university with a first-class joint honours degree in accountancy and economics, together with a number of prestigious prizes and awards from world-renowned financial organisations. The results of my efforts meant top-notch employers had lined up and vied to offer me work. Now, at my relatively young age of twenty-five, I’ve gained a sufficient reputation to enable me to set up my own business, working from home and keeping interactions with people to the minimum. It’s perfect. I no longer have to do the tedious work of balancing numerous end-of-year accounts, but I make Hunter’s books an exception, and pride myself on being adept at finding every single legal loophole possible to minimise his tax bill.

  Ping! The sound comes from my desk on the other side of the room.

  “You’ve got a message,” Hunter states unnecessarily, still reading the paperwork.

  I go to collect my phone from the desk and glance down to read the text. It’s nothing very exciting. The sender is ‘DELIVERY’, and the message tells me my package has been dispatched and that Bob will helpfully deliver it to me tomorrow morning. My face scrunches up as I rack my brains, wondering what it might be. I order just about everything online so it’s certainly not unusual; in fact, it’s more unusual not to have parcels arriving. Hunter’s watching me expectantly.

  “It’s just telling me when to expect a delivery,” I explain.

  “Anything exciting?”

  My brow furrows as I try to think what I’m expecting. “With any luck, it’s the printer cartridges I ordered, I’m almost completely out of ink.”

  He laughs, idly running his hand over the cover of the seat he was sitting on. “You must be on first-name terms with the couriers, babe. You’re always having something delivered.”

  I pretend to be affronted and then give him a broad smile. “You know me too well, Hunter,” I admit. I watch as he settles back on the couch and his action induces me to copy him, so I rest my head back and sigh, feeling the tension of the day drifting away. We might not get together often, but when we do we soon settle into a comfortable companionship. But I relaxed too early. I should have known he wasn’t going to leave it alone.

  “Hey, girlfriend. You’ve got to leave this place sometimes.” His sharply snapped comment shows the concern he has for me. I know he hates my hermit-like existence, but it works for me. And I’m not a total recluse.

  “I get out!” There’s a bite in my voice as I’m forced to defend myself. “I had to go out last week.” I glare at him to emphasise my point. But what I don't admit is I took taxis all the way from my front door into the centre of London, never walking or using public transport. But thinking back to the meeting I attended, I can’t hold back a quick grin. The Scotland Yard detective I dealt with expressed no wish to know the full details of how I’d gotten the information that was going to put yet another criminal behind bars. He was just happy to have the evidence to prosecute the money launderer, and my assurance it would stand up in court was his icing on the cake.

  Officially, I’m employed as a forensic accountant, an expert at following the money trails. Unofficially, I’m a computer hacker, and adept at finding information by fair means or foul. And as long as I get the desired results nobody asks too many questions.

  “I know you get out for work, you have to. But that’s not what I bloody well mean, and you bloody well know it!” Sounding totally exasperated, Hunter pushes back the reddish-brown hair that’s flopped down over his forehead and sighs.

  I watch the gesture; it’s a familiar one and signals I can expect a lecture if I don’t get him talking about something else. Although barely a year older, Hunter feels he has to play a big brother role with me, and his nagging about getting out into the big wide world always comes up. But it’s so easy for him, he doesn’t look like Elephant Man! OK, perhaps I don’t seem quite as bad as poor old Joseph Merrick, but I suspect I have some idea of what that poor devil went through, having to cope with people’s varying degrees of disgust and sympathy. If that makes me a self-imposed social outcast so be it. I just wish Hunter would accept I’m happy enough as I am.

  Thinking quickly, I come up with something to distract him. “I sent you a report and some other documents a month ago. Did you have a chance to look at them?”

  His eyes sharpen and, like a switch being thrown, he changes from his brother role to that of work colleague.

  “I certainly did.” Running his han
d over his chin he continues. “It’s very strange. Half the report reads as though it’s well researched, the other half looks like it’s been made up by some arse who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But whatever the report says, everyone knows Joseph Benting took money, not only to fund oil exploration in Amahad but also to develop the oilfield he said he’d found. But he didn’t deliver.”

  “I think that’s the definition of a con,” I tell him dryly. His comment piques my interest. When I’d come across the rather odd report, my first thought had been to send it to Hunter. Hunter’s degree was in geology, his thesis on undiscovered oilfields, so that part made sense, and I knew he was somehow still involved in that area. But his principal employer is Grade A Security, and while I don’t know exactly what he does there, I suspect if there was anything that needed investigating further, that organisation would have someone to do it. I’d tried to discover more about the workings of Grade A, of course, I had. But even I had to admit defeat in an attempt to get behind their firewalls and came away with a grudging admiration for the anti-hacking measures they had in place.

  “Everybody accepts it was a con, but I have my doubts, Cara. What you also managed to send me were the original survey reports. As a professional, had those been submitted to me, I’d have put five years’ salary on there being oil in that desert. All the geophysical evidence pointed to it.” He pauses to give a confused shake of his head. “Yet Benting was pilloried for being responsible for drafting fake reports. The thing is, the originals don’t look fake to me.” He shoots me a curious glance. “How the fuck did you get hold of those papers?”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I wonder how much I should admit. He’s realised I hacked the information, but doesn’t have a clue why. Am I going to tell him? Am I going to explain that, while I never had the slightest interest in Joseph Benting when he was alive, my curiosity had been piqued six months ago when I read that he’d died, apparently driving through railings and crashing down a mountainside in France while drunk? That his body, together with that of his mistress, had burned to a crisp when the car exploded? I can hardly explain it to myself. Both his sudden death and the facts that surrounded it were so vague it meant I found myself just having to know more. My intrigue led to me hacking into his databases and systems to learn about the man I’d only ever met once in my life.