by Jordan Dane
It wasn't a question. He searched her eyes, surprised to discover concern. It stirred him. After their earlier verbal jousting, he hadn't expected such a personal remark.
Surprisingly, her presumption felt like comfort, that someone knew him well enough to confront him. So many people in his life left him alone, taking for granted his complete control. His pensive demeanor and aloofness sent a clear message by design. Yet with her boldness, Raven insinuated herself into his narrow circle of acquaintances. He should have resented her forwardness, but instead, he liked the way it felt.
With the precision of a laser, her dark eyes easily cut through the wall he'd erected, as if it were constructed of warm butter. Fearlessly and without effort, she debated him in her quiet way. The intimacy in her voice touched him.
"Sleep is overrated," he replied matter-of-factly, trying not to betray himself. "And it's for those who earn the right to it."
Avoiding her stare, he focused on the crumbs of pastry on the discarded plate of Detective Rodriguez. For most people, his response would've ended the subject, but not with Raven.
The woman calmly persisted. "Hardly. I've seen stone-cold killers sleep like babes." She reached across and touched his arm. He could no longer avoid the woman.
Her gaze held him as she spoke softly. "I believe a different kind of hell keeps you awake. And it's one I may know a little something about. If you ever want to talk—"
The woman had done her research. Now the look of concern made sense. He'd seen pity in her eyes. One of many reasons he avoided sharing himself with anyone. Pity was inevitable.
"Look, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need—" He stopped midsentence, hearing how he sounded. Her intentions were good, but most people had no idea of the living hell he'd endured. "Thanks. It's something I've lived with for a very long time. Not sure I'd know how to talk about it. But I appreciate the offer."
"My invitation still stands. I mean it." Once again, she squeezed his arm reassuringly, not backing down.
He nodded. His only reply to her invitation. He needed a change in subject.
"Mickey had an office on five and a gym locker in the basement. I'm sure you'd like to get on with your investigation. Shall we?"
As the detective stood and walked toward the door to his suite, Christian found himself wishing Raven met his expectation for a cop. It'd make resisting her so much easier.
And for what he had in mind to reclaim his day, he hoped she had a sense of humor.
"He ditched me, damn it." Raven grabbed Tony by the elbow as he exited the men's room on the twentieth floor, near the Dunhill human resources area. "I turned my back for only a second, and he pulled a fast one. Switched places with one of his security men."
"You mean he found a way to resist your feminine wiles? Amazing, Mac." He pulled away, facing her with a look of indignation. "Hey, did you follow me? How did you know I was in the men's room?"
"How long we been partners, Tony? I could set my watch by your morning constitutional." She smirked, temporarily setting aside her problems with Delacorte to tease her friend.
Without much discretion, he tucked the sports section of the paper under his arm. "Well, you know the expression—a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." He grinned. "So you lost him, huh?"
Narrowing her eyes, she paced in front of him along the corridor. She gathered her thoughts, chewing the inside of her lip.
"As far as I can tell, he's not in the building. Believe me, I asked and searched a few floors." Leaning against the nearest wall, she crossed her arms over her chest. "And it seems Mrs. Dunhill is AWOL. I can't raise her on the cell phone Delacorte gave, and she's not in the building according to security. But they weren't exactly helpful, if you catch my meaning."
"That's because we don't sign their paychecks." He offered his explanation with a shrug. "I'm beginning to think this whole cooperation thing with the Dunhills has run its course. The chief won't want to hear that, but as I see it, we got an investigation to conduct. What say we grab our coats and blow this joint?"
"I'm with you, pal," she agreed, and accompanied him down the hall toward the elevators. "What did you find out?"
"Well, I got some general information on our vic, but nothing to shed any light on his extracurriculars, other than to make it painfully obvious the man was moonlighting. His salary didn't support the lifestyle he led, not enough jack to pay for all his bling. And what about you—find anything worth knowing?"
With her partner's question, Raven recalled the only high point of her search. Blair's office held few personal items, no photos or special mementos. The man had been a ghost at Dunhill, purposefully keeping his private life apart from his work. Considering Mickey had a more lucrative business venture outside Dunhill, this didn't surprise her. It looked as if she'd come up empty on any leads.
But catching a glint under his desk changed all that.
The waning sun had shone through Blair's former office window for only an instant, shedding some much-needed light. As she'd shoved a drawer closed and pushed back from the desk, a glimmer caught the fleeting rays of sunshine. Kneeling for a closer look, she'd crawled under for a better view and made a discovery. After punching the down button on the elevator panel, she turned toward Tony, holding her bonanza.
"I found a key, Tony." At eye level, she held up a plastic bag with a small silver key dropped inside. "It was on a ring along with the rest of his desk keys, inserted in a lock, just dangling there. It stood out from the rest 'cause it was a little longer."
"Longer gets noticed a lot. Trust me," he teased with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Even though most women won't say it to your face."
"Well, this woman notices things like that." She grinned, letting him infer what he wanted from her remark. "So I compared the lock number to the ID on the keys and found that the longer one didn't match the set."
"That Mickey was a sly dog, hiding it in plain sight like that. Did you happen to find a home for that key?" Tony asked. The elevator door opened, and they stepped inside.
"Not yet. It didn't fit anything in his office or his personal Dunhill locker. But I'm gonna ask around, see if anyone knows about a place outside of work that he could've had a locker or office."
Once on the ground floor, bundled in her coat, Raven stopped at the front security kiosk to check out of the building.
"Let's grab a bite to eat on our way back—" Raven's cell phone chimed, stopping her in midsentence. "Mackenzie here. Talk to me."
"Hey, Raven. It's Scott. Got something interesting on that property search. Looks like your long shot paid off in spades," the CSI man joked.
"Tell me something good, my friend."
"We got a download of properties, but there was one that stood out from the rest—an old armory belonging to the Dunhill Corporation. Any bells going off for you?"
"Loud and clear." She reached into her purse and pulled out a pad and pen to jot down the information. "Give me the address."
Tony's voice droned in the background as he grabbed the notepad from her hand. He was on his cell calling in the information so authorization would be granted to enter the vacant property. Thinking ahead, he wanted a jump on the paperwork while they made their way back to the station house.
"I owe you one, buddy. Thanks." Raven finished her call, then turned to her partner. "Guess we can forget lunch for now, partner. We got places to be and things to do."
But her mood quickly changed. Stepping up her pace with Tony by her side, Raven tuned everything out, thinking only of Delacorte as she navigated the busy thoroughfare. She had a bad feeling that Christian was involved in Fiona's mess.
How much did he know?
He had deliberately ditched her earlier. She was sure of it. How far would he go to protect Fiona's interests, or worse, cover up a crime he committed? Her stomach twisted in a knot just examining the many questions in her mind. Could she have been that wrong about him? Even more disturbing—why did she care?
&nbs
p; "Don't borrow trouble." Tony's voice brought her back to the steady hum of traffic.
"What?"
"My mother always used to say that, when she thought I was worrying over something I had no control over," he ventured. "Don't borrow trouble, Raven. Let's just see what we see, okay?"
She stopped for a moment to search his eyes, then smiled. "How did I get to be so lucky, having a partner like you?"
"He works in mysterious ways," Tony offered.
Surprised by the reference, Raven asked, "Who? God?"
"No, the chief. Same difference." Tony laughed.
It reminded her how much she loved her partner.
The limousine rolled quietly through the shabby neighborhood with the full-bodied sound of an orchestra playing faintly over the speakers nearest his ear. Music fortified his tolerance, but did nothing for his disdain at the squalor. He had no sympathy. There would always be poor.
"How else would civility stand out if not for the dregs of society?" His voice resounded off the glass pane. Boredom tainted his tone.
Gazing through the window, Nicholas Charboneau bore witness to the depth of disgrace as if it were a boorish documentary unfolding. He distanced himself from it. On the surface, a thin shield of bulletproof glass insulated him from the rest of humanity. Yet so much more distinguished him from the multitudes.
Slender pale fingers slid down his thigh, long red nails glistening. The scent of exotic spice wafted by him. Turning, he met her eyes. For as long as he'd known her, touch had been her preferred way of communicating. She quietly observed life when it suited her, but her sultry voice beckoned his complete attention.
"You forget yourself, Nicky. Remember, you thrive on the misfortune of others. Do not now condemn them."
Elegantly dressed, the petite woman at his side wore a silk dress of midnight blue, her coat tossed onto the seat. Her dark hair was pulled loosely from her face, accentuating her slender neck and delectable jawline. Because she was of Chinese descent, her serene dark eyes masterfully slanted, giving her a mysterious and intelligent quality. Flawless skin reminded him of creamery butter.
His young bodyguard was exquisite—and quite deadly.
"You know me well. And you are most correct, dear one. I can attribute my livelihood to the weaknesses of others. In theory, I should celebrate their adversity."
Good-naturedly, he laughed at her bold observation.
Being the heir to a crime family, he often found himself surrounded by people who guarded their true opinion. They told him only what they thought he wanted to hear. Not Jasmine Lee. She always spoke her mind. He remembered how they'd met. And it always brought a smile to his lips.
Glancing down at her delicate hands, he remembered the time that he'd witnessed those graceful fingers taking a life, when she was barely out of her teen years. In a rough area of downtown Chicago, he'd accompanied a rather shady friend to some forgettable jazz club. Not much remained in his memory of that night, except for the vivid details of Jasmine. The man had been many times her size and looked as if he had instigated the confrontation. In actuality, she had quietly spurred him on and wielded a knife to make her point. For her part, and to witnesses, it would appear to be self-defense, but he recognized premeditation when he saw it. And he'd noticed with admiration that fear never once shadowed her face. The attack was over almost before it began, and she never hesitated to do what had to be done.
But it wasn't her efficiency that piqued his interest.
It was the essence behind her enigmatic eyes, vessels brimming with a lust for life—and death. She seemed to enjoy the kill, such a rare and valuable quality in an employee, much less one so beautiful. Yet she held her vulnerability restrained, not letting it show until later. She had killed the man for a sin he had committed against her family. It wasn't until later that she told him the whole story, and he admired her all the more.
The adrenaline rush compelled him to act, to take her into his life and eventually hire her. Yet a deeper desire to harness her savagery, for his own benefit, drew her into his inner circle—and into his bed. Her loyalty knew no bounds.
"We're almost there, Mantis."
His affectionate nickname for her brought a graceful curve to her lips, pleasing him immensely. The female praying mantis always devoured the head of the male in the throes of copulation. He often wondered if the male of the species believed such sacrifice to be worth the extra effort.
"I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasant business. As soon as we conclude this distasteful interlude, I shall make it up to you over dinner."
"Just being in your company comforts me, Nicky."
Nicky. Prior to Jasmine, it had been many years since someone had called him by that name. His bodyguard and confidante had no idea that the nickname engendered many bittersweet memories in him. Only one other person called him Nicky. And he had already taken a course of action to destroy a woman he still loved. Memories flooded his mind, back to his early twenties—a lifetime ago.
Feeling like Romeo to her Juliet, Nicholas couldn't resist a young woman named Fiona Fitzgerald. In her late teens, she'd captivated his complete attention during an intermission in the opera La Bohème, her lithe form made even more beautiful by the white beaded gown she wore. Although their affair had been torrid from the start, it was all too brief, cut short by her arranged betrothal to Charles Dunhill, the heir apparent of a rival crime family to his own.
He never understood why she chose another. Especially since he felt so sure she loved him. Fortified by the invincibility of youth, he begged her to marry him instead, in total disregard of his own safety. For her love, he'd been willing to wage war against his rival. But in the end, she refused to see him, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. His throat clenched with the memory.
But his Fiona gave him a precious gift, something her husband would never claim. Given such innocence, no gift ever touched him quite as much.
Despite his feelings for her, Nicholas had seen Fiona become his new rival after the unsolved murder of her husband. Conducting his own investigation of the assassination, he'd found the chink in the Dunhill armor, and discovered his lover had grown a spine—and a ruthless nature. To not take advantage of such an opportunity would have been foolish. And he no longer considered himself a foolish young man. Business was business.
Drawing him back to the present, the late-afternoon sun stabbed through the gray clouds and warmed his face through tinted windows. Even with dark glasses, he squinted against the light, catching his image in the glass when the sun cooperated.
His dark hair, infused with gray at the temples, glistened in the light. The deep blue of his eyes flashed in the warm rays, even under his designer frames. He had changed from the man Fiona knew. Time and cynicism had weathered him.
Yet in spite of being in his late fifties, he still garnered the attention of women, even before they discovered his identity. His reputation as a powerful and wealthy man drew them like bees to warm honey, augmented even more by his notoriety as an accomplished lover. He'd cultivated his celebrity over the years on all fronts. But he had never proposed marriage to any woman other than Fiona, preferring his solitude to anything second best.
"Perhaps some entertainment might distract you." Jasmine's soft voice kept him from falling victim to his memories. Her gaze directed him elsewhere. "I know how you are so easily bored."
A motion to his left snared his attention to a darkened corner of the vehicle. A drama played silently on a small television. A DVD looped images that served to inspire him. Scene after scene of death played out before his eyes. Even now, a pride of lions devoured a wildebeest, their muzzles red with blood from a successful hunt, their half-lidded eyes satiated with the kill.
The brutality made a mockery of the classical music lilting in the background. Yet, such was his paradoxical life—the exhilarating adrenaline rush of his criminal endeavors tempered by the civility he favored. He had been truly blessed, and cursed.
No pretext of love existed between him and Jasmine. They filled a need in each other that no one else understood. And she knew merely what he allowed her to know. Only one woman understood his softer underbelly. It had been the last time he felt so vulnerable to another living soul. Love was a weakness. And it'd been a painful lesson indeed.
Dismissing his unsettling reflections, he watched the drama played out on the screen. A cheetah slowly stalked a herd of gazelle in search of the weakest—a fine example of Darwin's theory on survival. Terror in the eyes of prey infused him with a sense of power as menacing death pursued its next victim. Truly an inspiration! Yes, he'd never feel vulnerable again.
His driver slowed and turned onto another side street. He glanced at his watch. Just past three. If this had been a peer in his social circle, he would've been embarrassed by his own tardiness. But he planned to meet with one of his more depraved contractors—a necessary evil in his line of work.
Logan McBride could wait. The man was a bleak illustration of how much he'd changed over the years. Harnessing a beast like McBride reminded him of the power broker he'd become—one of the many reasons he minimized face-to-face meetings with the man.
The limo turned right and entered a cyclone-fenced parking lot near a warehouse. Standing by a loading dock, McBride waited, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a coat draped over a cheap suit. The driver pulled alongside the man. The vehicle stopped only long enough for him to grant entrance to the unwanted intrusion.
"Thanks for meeting me. I know this is a risk—" McBride spoke as he slid inside, his eyes cagily searching the interior. "Oh, my. I wasn't expecting company."
Charboneau kept his eyes on McBride, who was quite charmed by his Mantis. From experience, he knew that her expression would not change with the flattery. Her hand tightened on his thigh ever so slightly, communicating her dislike for the man. But McBride was obviously pleased at finding a beautiful woman so near. Charboneau had seen the look before. Taken by her beauty, many men underestimated her—another one of his distinct advantages.
