Imminent Conquest

by Aurora Rose Lynn

  "You broke in, but you didn't steal any photos?"

  "Never touched them. Don't have a clue what you're yakking about."

  The denial struck Bryan as odd. There was nothing missing except the old family photographs, treasures to remind him of his past, but they couldn't be more than junk to another man. “You break into my house and you tell me not to get worked up? What happens if I turn the tables and bust into your house and turn everything upside down?"

  "Upside down?” Colin asked, giving him a quizzical look.

  "My whole house was a mess. Drawers and their contents all over the floor as if someone had sifted through all my belongings.” Bryan's rage festered. He felt violated, as if his most personal possessions were no longer his own but public property for everyone to gawk at.

  "If it was a mess, it wasn't my doing."

  Squinting, Bryan considered Iceman's words. “You didn't break in here?"

  "Why would I?"

  "You turned everything upside down."

  Bryan found himself thrown against the wall and being held helpless as Colin jammed his forearm against his throat.

  "You want to know something, cousin? I'm a trained mercenary. If I didn't want you to know I was behind you, you'd never have a clue. Why? ‘Cause I walk as silent as a panther. I've killed men who had no inkling they were being hunted during their final moments. Don't fuck with me. If I was inclined to break in, I would have simply torched it. Got that?"

  Bryan nodded although he hadn't changed his opinion one iota. Why had Colin stolen the photographs? The pressure of the other man's arm eased against his throat.

  Colin set Bryan on his feet and brushed off his overalls. “You should take better care of yourself, buddy."

  Having never met a mercenary before, but having no problem believing Ice had a career killing people, he asked, “What's with the mercenary gig?"

  "It's a job. Pays better than most."

  Bryan understood how Colin was suited to the job in a way few people were. He was coldhearted, ruthless, and the devil himself couldn't compete. Whoever the man was, Bryan no longer wanted him in his house.

  "If I tell you to get lost, I don't suppose you'll march out like a good soldier would, huh?"

  "You want me to tell you why I want the bitch's ass? She botched up one of my jobs. She fucked it up so bad she gave me a bad rap. Now it's tough to get a job doing what I like to do best."

  Appalled by the revelation, Bryan stepped back. “I'm not going to ask what that is.” Colin had always given him the willies, but now he was giving him the chills. “Why don't we change the subject?"

  "That bitch won't live to see another day after I find her."

  Bryan felt like an accomplice to a premeditated murder in progress. “The door's over there in case you didn't see it on your way in."

  "I'm just warning you, buddy-o, if she comes around here, I'll know. Got that?"

  "She won't. She tired of me,” Bryan lied. “If I had wheels, I'd be hunting for a chick right now."

  "A man's dick has a tendency to fall off if he uses it too much with them bitches. It's a fact.” With a grim smile fixed in place, Colin walked out.

  Outside, his laughter raised the hairs on the back of Bryan's arms. The man was sick. Really sick.

  * * * *

  Michael didn't take the usual route from Nicole's house to his home on the far side of Eastwynd. He avoided the well-travelled and most direct highway and travelled on the dirt roads to circumvent the city and the possibility that roadblocks had been set up to net drivers who had enjoyed one too many Yuletide drinks. The road was bumpy and he had to slow the car down to take the hairpin turns. Eastwynd's lights shimmered below through the thin layer of falling snow. The wipers made no sound as they arced back and forth to clear the windshield.

  Nicole sat on the passenger side, her body slumped sideways as she dozed. He was thankful for that. She was so much like a child in a woman's body, naive yet tough to the inner core. If there was one thing in the world he could protect her from, it was erroneous accusations.

  He refused to believe she could kill anyone. Grimly, he figured he was more optimistic of her innocence than she had been of his, but that had been a long time ago and he had forgiven her. Most likely, he would have done the same thing back then if he had been confronted with the evidence she had seen. They had both been young then. They now knew better than to accept the evidence of their eyes. There was usually more than that to every situation.

  It took almost an hour to circle Eastwynd. He stopped the car at the wrought iron gate and punched in the security code. The gates swung apart, and he drove the car up the half-mile to the house before he parked and killed the engine. For the time being, Nicole was safe here but if for any reason he determined she wasn't he had the money and the resources to get them out of the country and to safety.

  * * * *

  She woke with a start, shocked she could fall asleep under the circumstances. “Where are we?” she asked, blinking to clear her vision. The view out of the window showed a gaily lit mansion with a late colonial style facade. Pine trees covered with snow mantles gracefully surrounded the two-storey structure. Not even Michael's father had lived in such ostentatious splendour.

  "This is where I live,” he replied. His profile was unmoving.

  "Oh,” was all she could think to say as he walked around the front of the car and opened the door for her. She stumbled as she got to her feet. He seized her and lifted her into his powerful arms.

  "Please. Put me down. I can walk on my own,” she protested, doubting she could. Fear pricked at her spine.

  "I don't think so,” he said easily, opening the front door.

  The mansion's opulence amazed her. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and mirrors graced the wall along with elegant paintings of gardens and forests. The floors were hardwood covered with decadently expensive Persian carpets.

  "You live in a palace,” she murmured in awe, allowing her head to nestle against his shoulder. What harm was there in indulging herself for a few minutes, in pretending everything would be all right between them. For now, though, she could absorb some of his potent strength, feel safe in his arms, if only for a short while, and not feel so alone in the world.

  He strode up the curving staircase to the second floor and into a long hallway flanked by doors on either side. Near the end, he pushed a door open on the right-hand side and once again she couldn't help a gasp of wonder.

  They entered a suite, passed through a living area with a plush Italian-style couch and cherry coffee table and end tables. The fire in the hearth made the room warm and cosy.

  In the bedroom, she sucked in a breath. The room had floor to ceiling length windows along two walls and a king-size sleigh bed, with an inviting, pale yellow comforter, in the centre against the wall. To one side, she saw a bathroom painted in pale blue with a heart-shaped jacuzzi just visible past the door.

  Michael gently laid her on the bed over the comforter. “This is our room."

  "Our room?” She sat up abruptly. “I can't stay with you."

  Dizziness tilted her world dangerously, forcing her to lie back against the eyelet lace pillows.

  "Our room,” he repeated, slipping out of his jacket and throwing it on a nearby chair with ornately carved legs.

  He looked good enough to eat. Her gaze raked over his trim waist and muscled thighs. His type of ultra powerful sexiness needed to be outlawed. She almost came undone when she glanced into his sapphire blue eyes. If she wasn't mistaken, she saw reassuring love there.

  Again, she tried to sit up but the dizziness hadn't abated. Maybe he was trying to trick her by spiriting her away with the excuse the cops were searching for her. He didn't even know for certain if the body in his car was Brad's. Or had there even been a body? She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, confused and afraid. What if Michael was telling the truth? How would she deal with that?

  He sat next to her and lean
ed his back against the pillows, at ease in his surroundings. She watched with rapt attention as he unfastened his tie and threw it on the chair on top of his jacket. When he unbuttoned his collar, she caught a glimpse of blond chest hair.

  "I don't want to make love to you,” she objected at his nearness.

  "Frankly, I'm too tired.” He curled his knuckles and rubbed his eyes.

  Nicole found the child-like movement endearing. She relaxed marginally.

  "I went down to the cop shop this afternoon,” he began. “I explained to the detective that you had been upset with me over some lovers’ tiff."

  Nicole bristled at his words. “Are you up to your manipulative tricks again?"

  He shook his head. “No."

  He sounded sincere enough but she couldn't tell for certain.

  "When he told me they had found a body in the trunk, charred and burned almost beyond recognition, I couldn't think at first. It was so much like what happened with my father. But the detective told me I wasn't a prime suspect.” Michael paused. “You were. I explained you couldn't hurt a fly if you were so inclined but he was beyond listening. Sadly, history is repeating itself.

  "I questioned him. Why would you take a car that's not your own and drive it over a cliff so it will explode? Something doesn't sit right with that. He got pretty nasty, but what would you expect from a cop?"

  He shrugged. “The detective had the audacity to say you had killed the man and wanted to cover up the deed by causing the car to explode."

  No matter how many times she heard Michael say she might have killed someone, the accusation didn't sit well with her. “That's not why I took your car,” she spat out. “I wanted to get back at you."

  "For what?"

  "For tying me up and making me feel helpless."

  He chuckled softly but without humour. “All I was trying to do was turn you on."

  She thought about how he had trussed her up twice and how the mere contemplation of those actions was turning her on again. She tried to turn her mind away from his nearness and the possibility that he would make love to her. “Maybe it wasn't so much feeling helpless but when you sent the presents last night—"

  "What presents?"

  "As if I have to explain the roses and personal gifts."

  He frowned, making her scrutinise his face. How could a man pretend to be so innocent?

  "Roses? Personal gifts? What kind?” he asked.

  "As if you don't know."

  "I may have forgotten. Humour me."

  "A room full of roses and intimate wear.” She remembered the scrap of lace that passed for panties. How would it feel to wear one, to have a thin elastic strip between the crack of her ass? If she hadn't been so upset, she might have tried one on to see how it fitted.

  "I wouldn't forget sending you gifts like that."

  She blushed at her reflection in his blue eyes. “You're a liar. Why don't you admit you sent them?"

  "That would be the same thing as admitting I committed murder when I hadn't.” His tone held a slight hint of admonition. His shoulders slumped. “After I drove you home from the restaurant, I came to the conclusion that, no matter how much I loved you, you were out of my grasp. I spent the night finding solace at the bottom of a whisky bottle."

  Nicole saw his shoulders droop even more. His voice was quiet. She wanted to reach out and pat his hand but feared the action might be construed as an attempt to instigate sex. His face expressed a melancholy sadness, as if he had suffered a deep loss he would never recover from.

  "I never sent you anything because I was forced to accept you didn't want me when you slapped me in the restaurant. When you called to ask for my help, my heart lightened. I thought maybe we could love each other, like we used to. We would never regain lost time but there was hope."

  Nicole's heart plummeted. She had forever dashed those hopes. Despite his protestations that he had forgiven her, he most probably couldn't have. What kind of man spent years in prison and continued to love the woman who had testified against him? And now she had sprayed his face with Mace and trashed his car the chances were nonexistent of getting back together.

  "That was until you sprayed my face. I couldn't understand why your anger was so deep-seated. Then I realised you held on to the past so tenaciously with both hands, as it were, you couldn't see past it and into the future.” His voice trailed off.

  In a hardened tone, Nicole said, “I've made my peace with the past."

  Michael shook his head, the movement slow but adamant. “You've made peace the only way you know how. By not letting the past go. You made a terrible mistake, jumped to an erroneous conclusion, and didn't bother questioning whether I had murdered my father or not. The evidence of your eyes was enough to convict me. And, I believe, you were so terrified by what you saw, you blocked out common sense and the ability to reason. So the image stayed locked in your mind."

  Nicole drew a deep breath. Could he possibly be right? That she hadn't let the past go? That she had not given him the benefit of the doubt? Despair rose and engulfed her. Michael might have hit on the truth but dared she let him know that?

  "We were both young and the trauma of seeing a bloody knife and a dead man you loved as much as your own father may have altered how you thought about us."

  Speechless, her fingers fluttered to the base of her throat. She stared into his face.

  "You have to forgive yourself because your heart demands it. I'm going to find out who did this and prove to you that I'm innocent,” he finished.

  She shook her head from side to side, frustration building within her. How could he say she hadn't let the past go? Hadn't she spent the last ten years doing everything she could to banish thoughts of him?

  "I'm going to ask you some questions,” he said quietly. “I want you to think about them and answer them for yourself."

  She nodded.

  "What possible reason could I have had for killing my father? Think about it. There wasn't enough time between when you went upstairs to wash up and came back downstairs for me to have killed him. Next, did you ever hear my father and I arguing at any time you were upstairs? If I had actually committed murder, why would I have remained standing around with a bloody knife for you to find me? Be honest with yourself, Nicole. You didn't give me a fair trial and your assumption that I had the knife in hand led you to a mistaken conclusion."

  Choking back a small cry, she lowered her gaze to his thigh. Had she done him an injustice? Had she put an innocent man behind bars with her testimony, the only one the prosecution could find?

  "I couldn't have murdered my father. He believed in me when no one else would. He believed in you, in us. He wanted the same thing we did, for us to get married and live happily ever after. He meant the world to me, encouraged me when I was in college to strive harder and achieve my goal to become the best damned power engineer I could be."

  "What were you doing with the knife?” she asked in a small voice.

  "When you went upstairs, I heard a small noise coming from the study. I became worried that Dad didn't have the pills he needed for his heart condition close to him so I went to make sure he did.

  "When I got behind his desk, he lay there, his throat slashed from one side to another. He was still alive. His eyes met mine.” Michael's voice broke. “I saw his love for me before his eyes went blank. Then he died."

  His sob tore through the stillness in the room. “I don't know why I picked up the knife. All I could think of was whoever had done this would answer to me. I was bewildered and dazed. I couldn't believe Dad was dead. I wanted to get the bastard who had done this and rip him apart with my bare hands but I had no idea who it was or where to look. Then you came in and saw me."

  Tears trailed down Nicole's cheeks. She couldn't imagine walking in to find her father's throat cut. Worse, Michael's father had bestowed his last, silent gift and given him a look of pure love before he died. Her heart shattered, both for Michael and the old man she had loved as h
er own father. She had compounded the situation by reporting what she had seen to the police rather than talking with Michael first. “I only told the truth as I saw it,” she whispered.

  "That's all the cops would listen to. Innocence wasn't something they believed in to begin with. I was at the scene of the crime. I held the murder weapon. In other words, I had opportunity and the means, although they might never find out what the motive was.” A long sigh escaped his lips.

  Nicole's shoulders shook as she cried quietly. He had suffered more than enough because of her callousness and her youthful and misguided actions.

  "I couldn't bear to think you believed I would hurt you that day, that you ran because you feared me and what I might do to you."

  His eyes were rimmed with red although he repressed the tears in a way she couldn't. She saw him with new eyes. He was crushed, broken hearted and betrayed by the one he loved the very most. “If you didn't"—she couldn't say the word murder—"your father, who did?"

  "I've been looking into it since I got out of prison, and I'm very close to the answer.” Terrible sadness mingled with raging anger for the briefest second before his expression faded to neutral.

  "Who is it?"

  "I'd rather not say until I have more conclusive proof.” He shifted, crossing his legs and picking a piece of white lint from his black sock.

  With the tears still streaming down her cheeks, she trailed her finger down his left cheek, starting at the corner of his eye and ending at the curve of his lips. “Are you in danger from the one who murdered your father?"

  "Not at the moment. I don't believe he has any inkling I'm garnering facts.” Abruptly, he looked guilty, lifted her hand from his cheek and got off the bed. “I'm thirsty as all hell. Can I get you something? Wine or juice?"

  She shrugged listlessly, not caring. The horror of what she had done to him began to sink in.

  "I'll see if I have some chamomile tea to help you relax."

  She hardly heard him leave, his footsteps were so quiet across the Persian carpets.

  No longer dizzy as she had been before, she rose and looked around the room at the stark simplicity even though the furnishings were, no doubt, expensive. She found a TV and turned the screen on with a remote control. She watched listlessly as the female newscaster reeled off the day's events.