Drake Sisters 06 - Turbulent Sea

by Christine Feehan

  "Are you getting out, Joley?" Steve asked.

  She met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror and made a face. "I don't know. Maybe. Do you mind just waiting, Steve? I feel bad for dragging you out tonight."

  "That's what you pay me for," he reassured her. "If you want to sit here for a while, it's fine by me. I was surprised you wanted to come," he added, a note of worry in his voice.

  It had surprised her too, but she'd lain awake staring at the ceiling until she'd wanted to scream in frustration. She rarely slept, was a total insomniac, and she couldn't do anything but pace back and forth in her hotel room. The frantic call from Gloria begging her to find Logan had been all the excuse she'd needed. Gloria's daughter was in the hospital having Logan's baby and had already called the media and was making a scene, threatening to kill herself if Logan didn't show up.

  Joley told herself she'd come to the party to make certain Logan knew what he was doing, to send lawyers and security as well as her manager, but she could have done it all with a phone call or two. Lucy had already agreed to turn over the baby to him, and the papers had been drawn up, but everyone knew Lucy wouldn't go away that easily. There would be one scene after another.

  Joley shook her head as she turned her attention to Nikitin's grounds. There were people everywhere. They milled around the rolling grass, some making certain to be seen by the mob at the fence. A few hopeful starlets and male models even signed autographs through the gate. Cries and pleas and drunken laughter were every bit as loud as the booming music.

  She spotted Denny Simmons, her drummer, walking in the distance with a blonde, not his current girlfriend. She bit her lip hard. She didn't want to know any of them cheated. "Men are dogs, Steve. That's why I don't date anymore. Hound dogs."

  He sighed, watching Simmons. "They have too much, Joley. You know they drink too much or do a few drugs and they don't have a clue what they're doing."

  "Denny's been divorced once already and he acts as if his girlfriend is his world, but look at him now." She narrowed her eyes as Denny stopped to kiss the girl, skimming his hands over her ample breasts. The woman jerked his shirt out of his pants and her hand went to his zipper. "Damn him for this. I really like his girlfriend, and she has a child. I'm never going to be able to look her in the eye again."

  Men were dogs—all of them. Not a one could be trusted. Well, maybe her sisters's men, but not the ones Joley fell for. She liked them hard-edged and dangerous and that added up to… "No, not dogs, Steve. I like dogs and they're loyal. Snakes is a better word for what men are."

  "Maybe you shouldn't be here.'"

  She detested the compassion in his voice. Her rapid rise to fame had created this situation, and now their lives were little more than tabloid fodder. She tried to steer the other band members away from the life of excess, but it had been impossible when everything came so easy. And men like Sergei Nikitin knew how to use fame and popularity to get what he wanted. He'd supply the drugs and women and even the pictures for the tabloids if it furthered his own cause. And once he got his claws into a person…

  "Men can be weak," Steve said.

  So could women, Joley surmised. Or she wouldn't be here, chancing ruining her life. And for what? "That's just a cop-out, Steve. Everyone has choices. And everyone ought to know what the people in their life are worth. And men should have more self-respect—and honor—than to abuse the people who love them."

  His gaze narrowed and Joley looked away from the mirror. She couldn't bear to see the knowledge in his eyes—or in her own—that she was really talking about herself. How hypocritical was it to condemn Denny for making wrong choices when she'd probably come here for that very thing. She couldn't even bring herself to admit the truth, hedging in her mind, pretending it was to help Logan save his child when the real reason was purely selfish.

  Her body was on fire. Hot. Needy. Ultrasensitive. Her nipples brushed her lacy bra and sent streaks of white lightning zigzagging through her straight to her groin. Her body pulsed with life, with need, with want… Oh man did she want. She brushed a hand over her face to hide her expression from Steve.

  A crush of what looked like teenage girls dressed in too-tight clothing, too much makeup and heels to make them look older came rushing around the walkway toward the front door. They were giggling loudly and pulling at their clothes, trying to look as if they belonged. Joley swore under her breath as memories flooded back. Young girls servicing band members and roadies. Groupies, looking to do anything with someone famous. Drugs and alcohol to deaden their inhibitions.

  In the early days she had tried to stop it. Now she knew she couldn't. What others did and what they could live with was on them. The only stipulation she'd adamantly enforced was that any groupie had to be old enough. The girls didn't look it, but she was getting older and everyone seemed to look about thirteen to her these days. Maybe she was just jaded. Her manager and certainly the band would never break that one taboo, and risk losing everything.

  The rush of excitement the show had produced drained away, even the fire racing through her veins, leaving her feeling tired. As if reading her thoughts, Steve cleared his throat and leaned out the window to get a better look at the girls.

  "I swear, Miss Drake, looking at those girls, I'm feeling ancient. They look like they should be home playing with dolls."

  "I must be ancient, too," she conceded, watching as one of them broke away and dashed around the corner to hide in some bushes. The girl pulled out a cell phone and quickly made a call.

  Her eyes were bright and she couldn't stop smiling, her excitement at the opportunity of mixing with the band members and all the celebrities at the party nearly palpable. She was pretty. Young. Even with the makeup she looked no more than fourteen. Innocent looking. Definitely in need of protection. The poor girl had no idea what she was getting into. Joley pushed the door open even wider and swung her feet out of the car.

  "We're not supposed to tell anyone they're letting us in," one of the other girls called out. "You'll get us kicked out. They told us not to tell anyone."

  Joley glanced at Steve. "That doesn't sound good. If someone told them not to tell, they have to be underage."

  The girl with cell phone hastily snapped it closed and shoved it into her purse out of sight. "I left a message for my mother that I'd be late," she said and ran to join the group.

  Joley got out of the car, frowning. She wouldn't have her band members or even the road crew picking up young teenagers. That was the one hard-and-fast rule the band had sworn never to break, and if any of them had been a party to the invitation for the teens, they were gone. Just like that. She'd quit before she'd have this kind of thing going on, and they knew it. She'd done it once and she'd walk away again. She could only hope her own crew had no idea who had been invited to this party. In any case, the teens had to leave immediately.

  She took a couple of steps toward the group just as a limousine with tinted windows pulled up between her and the girls. Even as Joley started around the large vehicle, the door to the house swung open and several men came out. Joley recognized two of her roadies as they intercepted the girls. Relief flooded her until one of them laughingly put his arm around the girl who had made the cell phone call. Fury swept through her. The girl couldn't be more than fourteen. He had to see that.

  "Dean!" She shouted his name. He was so fired. If she had any clout in the industry, he would never work for anyone in the business.

  Dean spun around, the smile slipping from his face. The other roadie half turned and then said something, throwing up the hood of his sweatshirt so she couldn't get a clear look at him. The girls instantly stopped laughing and ran around the corner of the house, both roadies and two other men following after them, urging them to hurry.

  Brian Rigger, her best friend and lead guitarist, stepped out of the house, a frown on his face. He looked around as if a little bored and then over at her. A smile broke out in greeting. "Joley! When did you get here?"


  "Just now, Brian. I saw Dean and some friend of his with some teenage girls." She had to shout to be heard above the noise of the music and party pouring out the open door. "They took off that way." She pointed, even as she tried to walk around the absurdly big car that had pulled up at an angle to her. "And I need to find Logan."

  "He's not here. Gloria called Jerry shrieking at him to get Logan to the hospital. It's a big mess, apparently. Logan took off with Jerry."

  Joley sighed. Of course Gloria would call the band's manager, Jerry St. Ives. And being nearly as psycho as her daughter, she wouldn't stop there. Logan had given her Joley's cell number to use in an emergency. Joley was so having the number changed immediately. "Well, I hope he has an attorney with him." She hadn't really needed to come at all. Now she didn't even have an excuse to be there. "Go find the girls, Brian, and get rid of them."

  "It's done," Brian assured her and took off briskly in the direction she indicated. Joley took a step to follow, but the door of the limousine swung open, blocking her path. She sent one panicked glance toward her driver before she composed herself and turned a look of sheer, utter contempt on the man who emerged from the backseat.

  "Well, well, well. If it isn't Nikitin's new playmate. RJ the Reverend. Or should I say the predator? I thought you'd be in jail by now."

  Her heart was pounding too hard, so hard she was afraid she might have a heart attack. She didn't want to step back, or show fear, but as his bodyguards surrounded him, she moved to position her feet for better defense. Up on the balls of her feet slightly, shoulder width apart and one back, relaxed, one arm across her waist in a casual pose while the other hand was tucked under her chin where she could use it to block any incoming punches. The tallest one was the most aggressive. He'd struck her once before, weeks earlier, and she kept a wary eye on him.

  RJ glared at her. She noted that he had to assure himself he was surrounded by his men. His fingers curled into fists, and maniacal hatred shimmered in the air between them. She had exposed the Reverend on national television when she'd gotten him on live tape claiming he could end Joley's wild ways by tying her down, flogging her and having sex with her to drive out her demons. The media had played the clip endlessly for weeks after, and clearly RJ hadn't forgotten that any more than she had.

  "Joley Drake. Whore of the devil. I've wanted to talk to you for a long while."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Talk? I doubt talking is on your mind. Unless it's to hear the sound of your own voice. You're cruising for women, you and your little pack of wolves, so don't even try to give me your idiotic spiel about saving souls. Save it for someone who doesn't know what a sick pervert you are."

  The taller bodyguard stepped close enough that she could smell his cologne. It seemed absurd that he was wearing something spicy and nice smelling. "You bitch."

  Joley rolled her eyes. "Can't you come up with something a little more original?"

  "Now, Paul," RJ said in a soothing voice. "I do want to talk with Ms. Drake. She needs our sympathy and compassion. You're right, Joley, I am a human male. And my body often betrays me, but I try to overcome the weaknesses of the flesh." He spread his arms to take in the house. "Wickedness and debauchery are taking place in this establishment and I mean to aid those who will listen."

  "Do people actually believe you? You're here for the sex and drugs, nothing else. At least the rest of them don't lie about it."

  "Is that why you're here?"

  The question caught her by surprise and she inwardly winced, keeping her famous smile plastered on her face. She might pretend to the rest of the world that she'd come to do a great deed, but she knew better and his question had hit a little too close to home.

  "I'm not doing this with you." She glanced over her shoulder to try to see the young girls, but they were out of sight along with the roadies and Brian. Logan was already gone and she wasn't siccing the Reverend on him. If he knew Logan's unwed girlfriend was giving birth, he'd race to the hospital and try to grab headlines at Logan's expense.

  "I overheard you say there were teens here. If that's true, perhaps I can be of some assistance." RJ moved closer, crowding her personal space.

  She should have shifted, stepped to the side to give herself more room, but the taller bodyguard, Paul, blocked her path. She found herself surrounded, in a tight circle.

  "Get in the car, Joley," RJ said. "We can discuss this without all the noise. If the young people need to be saved, I can do it. You have to believe in me. One slip only makes me human. Let my record speak for me."

  His voice had dropped a bit, and she recognized the famous charismatic note he could produce. She nearly laughed. She was a Drake, and her legacy was spell-singing, the most powerful gift of sound in the world. If the Reverend wanted to engage in a battle of sound, he had chosen the wrong opponent.

  "I suppose everyone is human, RJ," she conceded, dropping her voice into a low, sexy drawl, one designed to slide over a man's senses. She saw the Reverend's shiver of awareness, felt the rising heat in the circle of men and realized she was playing with fire. Paul crowded her even closer so that she could feel the brush of his thigh against her hip.

  That was stupid, Joley! Are you trying to get yourself raped or worse?

  The voice slid into her head. Male. Humming with a kind of sexual fury. Her heart jumped and her stomach did a small, crazy flip. She didn't dare take her eyes off of the men surrounding her, but in spite of herself, she felt relief along with absolute exhilaration.

  She tried to retreat, to get out of the circle, realizing the back door of the limo was still open and she was only a step from it. She glanced up at Paul as his arm came sweeping around her waist. Determination to toss her onto the backseat was on his face.

  She spun away from his body, shooting her elbows out as weapons, trying to gain inches so she could use her feet. With her body weight behind a kick to the knee, she could easily bring him down.

  Without warning, another man moved into the circle. He glided in total silence. Complete and utter confidence surrounded him. Everyone froze, including Joley.

  And just like that, Joley couldn't deny the real reason she had come in person rather than make a few phone calls. This was what she'd come for. Ilya Prakenskii. Russian bodyguard to Sergei Nikitin. A dangerous man with a murky past, death in his eyes and a dangerous, volatile appeal that sang to every one of her senses.

  That look on his face. Ilya Prakenskii was always in control, always cool and expressionless. His eyes ice-cold, and never, never could she just read him like she could others—unless he wanted her to, unless he opened his mind to hers deliberately and let her catch small glimpses of the real man. She had never really seen him angry other than at her. She had power over him whether he wanted to admit it or not—and maybe that was what made him angry. He wanted her. It was in the heat of his gaze, the set of his mouth, the hot lust when he looked at her, but most of all, in his mind-to-mind touch—possession and promise and a dark need that bordered on obsession.

  He was why she couldn't sleep. He was why her body felt hot and tight. She wanted to claw at everything and everybody. She swallowed fear and stood still, afraid that if she moved, if he touched her, she would wrap herself around him and be lost forever.

  "Paul." Ilya said the bodyguard's name in a low voice, but one that carried the razor edge of a knife. "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself."

  "I see you've come to save your boss's little pet," Paul said.

  Despite his bravado, Joley found it significant that not only did Paul move away from her, but all of the other men did as well, including RJ.

  "He sent me out to save you," Ilya corrected. "Getting your ass kicked by a girl would be embarrassing, especially with so many people watching." He caught Joley's wrist and tugged until she came to his side. Instead of placing her beneath his shoulder, he brought her just one step behind him so he could shield her body should he have to. "Sergei is waiting for you, RJ."

  "He's the Reverend
," Paul corrected. "Everyone calls him Reverend."

  Ilya merely stared at the man until he shepherded RJ and the others up the walkway to the house.

  In the ensuing silence, Joley feared Ilya might be able to hear her heart beating. She tried not to notice the width of shoulders, or the heavy muscles on his chest. He wasn't obvious about his strength until you got up close, but more than his physique, more than his perfect masculine body and his tough, heart-stopping face, she was drawn to his mental strength and intellect.

  Everyone gave in to Joley. Everyone wanted to please her. She was strong, smart, famous, wealthy, and she had the gift of sound. With all that, she was beautiful, with satin skin, bedroom eyes and a sexy, curvaceous body. She was also stubborn and liked her way. She could read people—except for Ilya. He was every bit as smart, every bit as strong, and he had every single psychic gift her family had, each well developed. Aside from that, he was the sexiest thing alive and she was mesmerized by him.

  "Trouble?" His gaze followed the men before he turned his full attention on her. Those ice-blue eyes drifted possessively over her face and down her body, touching her breasts, sliding over the curve of her hips and down her legs with a long, slow perusal that should have struck her as rude but instead sent her pulse skyrocketing.

  Her entire body reacted with scorching heat. She felt herself go damp. Even her breath came in a little rush, lifting her breasts and unsettling her even more. Her face flushed. He knew what he did to her.

  He turned her hand over, the hand he had zapped with some sort of spell months ago, the hand imprinted with his touch, his scent, the hand that marked her as belonging to him. It had happened so fast—in a little place on her home turf. She'd been dancing and he'd come in with his boss. Even then she could barely breathe when she saw him. And now, thanks to the little psychic mark he'd branded her with, she could always sense where he was, and how much her body craved his. Her palm—his mark—itched. And nothing seemed to alleviate the itch but Ilya being close.