by Jordan Dane
"I'm gonna look through the rest of the house, if you don't mind, make sure we're alone." He narrowed his eyes. "Can I make you some hot tea? Or something?"
"Please. The teapot is on the stove," she called down the hall after he'd slipped out. The cop in her added, "And be careful what you touch. I'm gonna call for a team to dust for prints."
Raven couldn't just sit, like some grand queen bee. Sliding from bed, she tightened her robe around her waist and gave the sash a tug. She picked up the phone from her nightstand and called the station house. A long shot, but maybe the bastard had left some fingerprints. Raven ended the call, knowing a team would be arriving soon. She had to get dressed.
"I'm just gonna rinse off, get the soap out of my hair," she called to him. The idea of a cold-water rinse gave her a shiver, but the message on the mirror had to be preserved. More steam would cover it up. Maybe a blast of ice water to her scalp would jump-start her brain.
Stepping back into the bath, she found Christian staring at her mirror, his jaw tense. He'd started his search of her house where the whole thing began.
"So this wasn't a random break-in. The bastard killed Mickey." He stared at Raven, trying to make a point. "And he tossed a photograph into your dinner plans. Any connection? The man in the photo was a cop in uniform."
"You're observant. A photograph of my father."
She crossed her arms, amazed how he'd noticed so much in his short walk through the kitchen. A wet strand of hair fell across her face. With a finger, she tucked it behind an ear.
"If this wealthy bachelor gig doesn't work out, maybe I can find an opening for you in law enforcement."
"Not exactly my thing, but thanks." With his green eyes fixed on her, he pressed, "Now answer my question."
"Not sure I can. Just give me use of my bathroom and fix me that hot tea you promised. It'll give me time to think." She led him by the arm and switched places in the cramped quarters.
Christian's stoic expression returned, as if she'd just given him the brush-off. But to his credit, he didn't interrogate her any longer. He turned toward the kitchen. A tinge of guilt gnawed at her, for what she'd thought about his intentions. Before he was out of eyesight, she called to him, peeking around the bathroom door.
"Christian?"
He looked over his shoulder, the concern for her safety still in his eyes. God, she hoped she wasn't imagining it.
"Thanks, for everything. I'm glad you're here." And she meant every word.
A faint light from her bedroom painted his handsome face with warmth. His expression softened. A lazy curve to his lips broadened into a seductive grin.
And time stopped. Oh, that smile! Downright lethal.
His eyes locked on to hers in knowing silence. Suddenly, she became aware just how naked she was beneath her robe. She clutched the collar of her garment and inched farther behind the door. Her cheeks flushed with need. Maybe he wouldn't notice.
In an awkward gesture, she cleared her throat to ward off the emotion. He seemed to read her mind. Without a word, his smile faded, and he quietly resumed his trek down the hall.
Just like that, the moment came and went between them. Slowly, she closed the door behind her, struggling with a grin of her own.
His smile. Just like she remembered. Damn it! She wanted to be right about him.
Pulling into his driveway, Tony knew Yolie would not be pleased with his late hour. He'd missed dinner and tucking the kids in bed. Admittedly, Celia and Junior would be mortified if their friends knew they were still getting tucked in for the night. But this was a family ritual that Tony wanted to keep sacred for as long as possible. A parent didn't get these years back.
As usual, his front porch light was on, as well as the living room lamp. Yolie always told him it represented her burning love for him. He liked that idea, very much.
His shoulders ached with tension from the long day, but the warm welcome home lifted his spirits. Parking the vehicle in the drive near the front of their house, he turned off the ignition and flung open the car door. The Latino radio station abruptly came to an end. Stepping out of the car, he fumbled with his key ring, looking for the one for the front door. Slipping from his grip, the keys hit the ground with a clink. His eyes followed the sound, then he stooped to pick them up.
In that instant, a shadow eclipsed the streetlight, casting its length along the driveway. He looked up, half expecting his Yolie to be standing there, something she did on occasion. But a darkened silhouette stood before him. A man.
He narrowed his eyes, ready to speak when a muffled scream jolted his attention. Looking over his shoulder, toward a second-story window, Yolie pounded the glass. Her face distorted in terror.
"Run! They have guns. Run!" she cried.
In his mind, the scene slowed as if he were mired in quicksand. Part of his brain knew it was already over. Too late. He reached for his service revolver, pulling it from his shoulder holster, instinctively releasing the safety.
The stranger didn't flinch. Calmly and without a word, the man raised his hand, then slowly pointed a finger.
A signal. A series of red lasers launched from the trees and hedges across the front of his house. A deadly light show. Five. There were five others. He was sorely outnumbered.
"What the hell—" It was all Tony got out.
Thud! Searing pain tore through his left shoulder, spinning him to the ground. As he fell, a ricochet sparked off the sidewalk. The bullet pierced his chest. Oh, God! This was bad.
Yolanda shrieked. "No! Tony, noooo!"
Suddenly, the side of his house erupted. Bullets came from all directions. Rounds shattered his front window and ripped apart the brick on impact. Careful with his aim, he fired two rounds, then rolled for cover behind a brick planter. Shards of stone nicked his face and hands. The man who'd given the order was long gone, becoming a part of the deepening shadows. He'd lost his best target.
Silenced gunfire? The precision of the attack, the hand signals, the stealth. It all pointed to one thing— mercenaries. What the hell was happening?
The front of his shirt grew wet and sticky. And he knew the tang of blood when he smelled it. He had to remain calm. For now, the shooting had stopped. But he still felt them out there, waiting for him to make a mistake. Keeping his head down, he shoved nearer his porch. His chest on fire.
None of this made sense. But it didn't matter. Now, he had only one thing on his mind—to protect his family. Ever the pragmatist, with his cop instincts he envisioned the worst. He pictured himself pinned down while others broke into his home from the rear. The imagined screams of his children overloaded his head like an insidious migraine. Only one thing left for him to do. Reaching into his pocket, he found his cell phone and dialed 911.
He recognized the dispatcher's voice. After giving his address, he added, "Officer d-down. I repeat, officer down. Proceed C-Code Three." He wanted sirens loud. Lights flashing.
"ETA five minutes. Tony, are you okay?" The female dispatcher broke protocol.
"No, Sara, I'm not. Just t-take care of my f-family, okay?" He ended the call.
Tony still heard Yolanda crying upstairs. He blocked out her agony, flashing on memories of his beautiful wife holding their firstborn child, Celia, in her arms, a tiny pink bundle. Tears filled his eyes. He was powerless to help her and the kids now. Their safety would be in the hands of others—and God.
He tasted blood in his mouth. The chest wound was nasty. A numbing sensation inched across his body. Before long, he'd lose consciousness. Picking a target, he carefully squeezed off another shot, and was rewarded by a grunt. Maybe that would give them something else to think about. The howling dogs in the neighborhood nearly masked the sound. Tony had never been so thankful for all the mangy mutts in his "hood." The more noise, the better.
His breaths came in short wheezes now. He was losing his fight. Choking up blood, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Please, God. H-hold my family s-safe—in your arms," he
whispered his prayer.
Slowly, he slumped with his back to a brick wall, so near the front door of his home. The numbing cold began to claim him. Streetlights blurred, warping into a series of shimmering rings around the bright globes. In the distance, sirens teased his ears, becoming louder as the night was set on fire. Flashing beacons of red and blue circled the night sky, streaking their message. The cavalry bad arrived—Code 3.
He wanted to smile, but couldn't muster the strength. His jaw went slack. He struggled for every breath. Tilting his head back, he turned his eyes toward the heavens. Beyond the lights, the stars dotted the sky and shimmered, until one by one they melted into inky black. He focused on the last star, but eventually, his eyelids fluttered closed. Still, one thought persisted.
He only hoped it wasn't too late for his family.
CHAPTER 9
Raven rushed from her home, leaving the CSI team to lock up after they'd processed her break-in. It couldn't be helped. Tony's wife, Yolanda, should not be alone at a time like this.
God, don't die on me, Tony! Please . . .
The call she'd received from dispatch still resonated in her head, triggering a painful memory from her past. Her partner had been attacked and mortally wounded outside his house. Early reports indicated six armed gunmen were to blame. Although barely conscious, Tony had told fellow officers on the scene that his assailants had been mercenaries. Except for his wife, no other witnesses corroborated his story. Too much of a coincidence that this attack had happened on the same night Blair's killer paid her a visit. Whoever was behind this had flagrantly thumbed his nose at the police—with deadly consequence.
On a deeply personal level, she grappled with the jumble of emotions in her mind. For the sake of Yolanda, Raven needed to dig deep for whatever strength lay buried under the despondency bubbling to the surface. Once again, violence had touched her life, jabbing at an unhealed wound.
With Christian offering to drive her, she sat in the passenger seat of his car, letting silence build between them. Overhead streetlights lolled in and out of the darkened interior of his SUV. The mind-numbing road noise and the interminable drive time worsened her anxiety. For all she knew, Tony was already dead.
Not Tony. Not her partner.
Nothing Christian could say would comfort her. Intuitively, he must have sensed this. He hadn't said a word since they started. Given his history, perhaps he was rapt in his own brand of hell. So Raven focused on her partner, struggling to pray for him as Christian drove. Eventually, she closed her eyes and quit, fearing her prayers might do more harm than good. She had no right to ask for divine intervention now, not when she had turned her back on her faith all those many years ago. Her throat clenched as tears blurred her vision.
With Christian by her side, she walked through the emergency doors at Mercy Hospital as they hissed open, numb to the possibility of her partner's death. Her memory flooded with images from another wintry night when she was seventeen.
This couldn't be happening—not again.
The waiting room hadn't changed, still colored in bland oatmeal and pale greens. With dour faces, the thick-skinned ER staff performed under pressure, handling desperation as if it were paperwork. Raven knew she filtered the scene through her own draining experience. She had blocked so much from her memory.
But one remembrance had been etched in her mind.
After being fatally shot, her father had never regained consciousness in the ICU. Thinking back to the day he died, she'd opted to sleep in, not getting up to make his breakfast on a Saturday morning. A part of her understood a father's absolution over the trivial incident. But as a daughter, she was less forgiving. She'd never gotten a chance to tell him how much she loved him or to kiss him good-bye.
As she spied Tony's wife down the corridor, she only hoped the woman would have at least that much.
The lustrous olive skin of Yolanda Rodriguez looked pale, tinged with gray. Her dark, shoulder-length hair fell across her face as she paced the waiting room, clutching a wad of tissues. Her eyes brimmed with tears and inconsolable heartache.
God, was she too late?
"Yolanda? Is he—?" She couldn't bring herself to say it. "How's he doing?"
"Oh, God!" Rushing to her, Yolanda collapsed in her arms, clinging to hope. "T-tell me this is all a bad dream, Raven. This c-can't be happening." Her sobs escalated into spasms, words choking in her throat. "I saw it all, and I c-couldn't help him. The phones were out. I couldn't help—"
The feeling of powerlessness overwhelmed her as she held Yolanda. She knew the feeling all too well.
"What's happening, Yolie? Where is he?"
"He's in surgery." Yolanda pulled from her arms. Her eyes barely met Raven's. "But I saw it on the doctor's face. It doesn't look good, Raven."
"Don't borrow trouble by reading into anything. Tony would hate it if you gave up on him. You know how stubborn he is." She searched her heart for any words of comfort. Her partner's own words about "borrowing trouble" seemed so right.
"Where are the kids? Are they—?" Raven didn't know what to say. She knew firsthand that the kids weren't okay. Tonight, Tony's children had lost their innocence and their sense of security. Nothing would ever be the same again.
"They're at a neighbor's house. I didn't know what else to do." New tears drained down Yolanda's cheeks. "I haven't called San Antonio, to let his parents know. What am I going to tell them?"
After leading Yolanda to a nearby sofa, Raven sat beside her and rubbed the back of the woman's neck. None of this would be easy. And it had only just begun.
Before she spoke, Christian interceded, handing them both a cup of coffee. "It's gonna be a long night. This might take the chill out of the room."
She'd nearly forgotten about Christian. Awkwardly, she made the introductions, knowing Tony's wife would be paralyzed with worry. "Yolanda Rodriguez, this is Christian Delacorte. He drove me." Any other explanation was far too complicated.
"I'm sorry to meet you under such terrible circumstances, Mrs. Rodriguez. If there's anything I can do . . ." Christian's voice faded. He extended his hand, gently taking the woman's trembling fingers.
Kneeling in front of her, Christian spoke to Yolanda in a hushed tone, meant for only her. But Raven was privileged to hear it all.
"I couldn't help but overhear. If you'll allow me, I'd like to offer the use of the Dunhill jet to transport Tony's parents to Chicago. Just give me the word and I can make it happen."
Yolanda turned her heartbreaking gaze to Christian, as if seeing him for the first time. Fresh tears welled in her eyes; her lower lip quivered. Without a word, she reached for his neck and pulled him to her. By his reaction, it was evident. The intimacy surprised him.
"May God bless and keep you, Christian," Yolanda whispered, clutching him to her embrace. "Thank you so much for your generosity."
Raven sipped her coffee to choke back the emotion, witnessing the exchange. In that moment, she felt certain. Christian Delacorte had been fighting his demons—and still was. And he might never trust her enough to confide in her. But her trust barometer had not been wrong. Christian was a good man who deeply understood the pain of losing someone.
The truth was as unmistakable as the tear rolling down his cheek.
Château de Banville
Versailles, France
In the pale pink of dawn, the chateau reflected off the still lake, a pastel gem against the blue of a wakening sky. The image was crystal clear, like a photograph, in its perfection. Classic stone walls radiated a delicate pearled luster. Designed by Francois Mansart in the 1620s, the private residence was surrounded by exquisite gardens, accenting a spectacular fountain similar to the cascade at Louis XIV's Chateau de Marly.
But despite the beauty of the pristine and tranquil setting, Fiona was a prisoner of her own volition, no longer enamored with the breathtaking opulence. Her heart longed for something beyond price—to be with Christian.
In the chill of the early morni
ng, she sat on the grass across the lake, gazing toward the grand chateau of a very dear old friend, her arms wrapped around her knees. Filling her lungs, she inhaled the earthy aroma of the water nuzzling the tall grasses. Even though her cheeks were still warm from her brisk walk through the wooded trails of the massive estate, she felt the cold creeping through the layering of her sweats and into her bones—the chill linked to troubling thoughts.
Christian had been on her mind since she'd left Chicago, leaving him to face his unsettling future—alone.
Late last night, it came to a head. She had a fit of conscience and placed a call to his Dunhill cottage. But when she heard his voice on the answering machine, emotion gripped her throat, and she lost her fleeting courage to speak. Perhaps it had been more from weakness that she made the call in the first place. She would gladly trade her wealth for his happiness. Yet for all her hollow wishes, she'd been the cause of his pain—all of it. And after her moment of frailty, she vowed that her past would not destroy his future. She must remain firm, for his sake.
Slowly, she stood and brushed off blades of grass from her clothing, her feet and legs numbed by the cold. From the start, desperation colored her world, robbing her of a normal life. How long did she have to pay for her past indiscretion? She knew unfinished business loomed heavy in her future. She would not escape it. Captive to her sins, the prisoner returned to her gilded cell, uncertain of most things—except one.
Her unbearable solitude could not go on forever. Like the bite of the crisp morning, she felt it in her bones.
The gray haze of daybreak arrived, migrating through small windows along the length of the room, at odds with the persistent nip in the air. Christian steadied his breathing to focus on anything but his discomfort, knowing his jacket had gone to a good cause. In the early-morning hours, the waiting room to the ICU had grown quiet, leaving him alone with a sleeping Raven Mackenzie. She had tried to stay alert, dosing herself with caffeine. But in the end, she had succumbed to exhaustion.
