by Lisa Childs
“That.” Damn him to hell and back. “And he wasn’t working alone.”
Morris shrugged broad shoulders. “Guess it would have been pretty hard for him to do all that destruction by himself. He must have had a partner.”
“Yeah,” St. John agreed, and he turned his focus on the former chief of security, studying the man.
“That guy’s dead, though,” Morris said.
“It would have been pretty hard for him to pull off all those heists and explosions by himself,” St. John mused. “He gets around the security systems. Cleans the place out and then blows it up. That’s a hell of a lot for one or even two men to pull off.” The man was damn dangerous enough on his own, but with help…
“So you think there’re more of them out there?” Morris asked.
“Yeah,” St. John replied. “I think he has more help.”
“Who?”
He stared at Morris’s face, his eyes narrowed as he continued to study him. “I don’t know. You tell me who’d be stupid enough to take me on. It’d have to be someone close to him. Or someone close to me…”
Morris stared off in the distance. “The enemies of thy enemy are thy friends…”
“That’s quite profound.” Especially coming from the muscle-head St. John had always figured Morris to be. He had underestimated the guy; he never should have trusted him.
Morris chuckled. “Hey, just repeating what I’ve heard you say before.”
St. John had only enemies. And it was well past time he got rid of them. All.
Chapter Five
“I’ve told you everything that happened,” she insisted, her eyes gritty with fatigue. The police had picked her up immediately following her last broadcast.
“He just accosted you on the street at the crime scene? How come no one else saw him?” Sergeant Breuker persisted.
“Everyone else had left for the morgue.” For no reason. Just as he’d predicted, the body had never arrived. “What are you doing to find the missing coroner’s van?” Fortunately, the attendants had not been harmed, as they had conveniently left the vehicle unattended while it had been stolen. Obviously someone had paid them or threatened them into leaving it unlocked in the parking lot of the city morgue. It had to have been St. John. Because if the man she’d called Dante had had the body, he wouldn’t have needed her to make the special report that had landed her in an interrogation room.
Color flushed the sergeant’s face. “We have units looking for it.”
“You have all your units looking for him.” The man with no face…
“Is he really out there, Miss Drake, or have you just invented this story as a way to increase your station’s ratings?”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. She could have proved her statement. After the man had left her car, she’d found blood smeared on the backseat. But if she shared that information with the police, they would confiscate her car. Though she doubted it would ever make it to the impound lot, just like the body had not made it to the morgue. Was there anyone not on St. John’s payroll? Besides her?
“I don’t care if you believe me,” she said, “just let me go. You can’t keep me here unless you’re going to charge me with something.”
“Obstructing justice, Miss Drake, comes to mind,” the sergeant threatened for the umpteenth time.
“Freedom of the press,” Jillian shot back at him for the umpteenth time. “I have every right to protect my sources.”
A knock at the door drew the sergeant’s attention from her. The door of the small windowless interrogation room opened, and broad shoulders filled the door way as Tobias St. John stepped inside. “I have some questions for the reporter, Sergeant.”
“You called him?” Jillian asked Breuker. “You told him you picked me up.” Hell, St. John had probably ordered them to pick her up.
“The police department has been gracious enough to keep me apprised of their investigation,” he answered for the officer. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, dismissing the older man.
The police officer hesitated for just a moment before stepping outside and closing the door behind him, locking Jillian in alone with Tobias St. John. To keep anyone from interrupting their conversation or to keep Jillian from escaping? She resisted the urge to run for the door and hammer at it. They had no right to lock her up, no right to keep her at all unless they pressed charges. But curiosity overrode her concern for her personal safety.
Tobias St. John stepped closer to the table, slammed his palms on the metal surface and leaned across it until his face nearly touched hers. “Why won’t you extend me that same courtesy, Miss Drake?”
“What?” She pushed back her chair, easing away from his angry face. She was curious, not stupid.
“Why won’t you keep me apprised of your investigation?”
“I’m not like River City’s finest,” she said. “I don’t answer to you.”
He laughed. “That’s about to change, Miss Drake. I just put in an offer for WXXM. Soon I’ll be your boss.”
As he already was everyone else’s, except the man with no face. She would have thought Dante answered to no one, until his admission the night before.
“What is it, Miss Drake?” St. John asked. His blue eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “For once, you’re speechless.”
She sighed. “No. It’s just that I wish I had nothing to say.” But St. John had a right to know what she’d learned.
“But you do know something,” he surmised, “something you haven’t admitted to the ineffective Sergeant Breuker?”
“I’m good at my job,” she said. And because she was, she hadn’t let Dante leave her car without answering at least one question for her.
As his arm had slid from around her shoulders, she’d clutched at it, holding it close to her chest so he could feel the pounding of her heart. “I won’t report your statement,” she’d boldly threatened him. “And killing me won’t get the word out that you’re alive.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” he’d assured her.
She’d expelled a shaky breath of relief then, even though she would have been foolish to trust him to keep his word. Hell, she’d be foolish to trust anyone at all
“But I can’t believe you’re willing to give up an exclusive,” he’d mused, his raspy voice full of doubt.
“Exclusive?” She’d snorted. “You’re not dead. Some breaking news,” she’d scoffed. “Who the hell are you?”
He’d leaned over the back of the seat, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips brushed the lobe. “I’m not telling you that.”
She’d glanced into the rearview mirror, but all she’d seen was the top of his head, the thick dark hair that fell over his face. “I call you Dante,” she’d admitted.
He’d laughed that gruff, rusty-sounding chuckle. “That actually fits more than…”
“Your real name?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Just one,” she’d negotiated. “Answer one question honestly and I’ll make the statement for you.”
While he’d continued to hold on to her with his right arm, the gloved hand of his left one moved over her face and down her neck. His fingers wrapped around her throat. “You think you’re in any position to be making deals with me?”
“You just admitted that you’re not going to kill me,” she’d said, forcing certainty into her voice, even though she’d felt none. She’d been lied to before, many times.
“What do you want to know?”
“I think you know.”
“I’m not revealing my identity.” His grip had eased on her throat, his fingers stroking her skin as if to soothe any hurt he might have inflicted.
Goose bumps had lifted along her arms, and she’d shivered.
“Hurry it up,” he’d urged her. “You need to get out of here. File your report.”
“Your report,” she’d corrected him, her fingers still clutching the sleeve of his thick wool trench coat. “Which I w
on’t make until I get one answer.”
He’d laughed—another rusty-sounding chuckle. “You better make it a damn good question. And I told you, I’m not saying who I am,” he said, his voice rough with impatience. “Your time’s running out.”
Panic had rushed over her. And she, who had never been at a loss for questions, floundered for one that he might actually deign to answer. Then she’d remembered St. John’s suspicions. “Are you working for someone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you doing all of this—breaking into and blowing up St. John’s businesses—for someone else?”
“Yes,” he’d replied without hesitation, his voice deep with an urgency she didn’t understand. But then she really didn’t understand anything about his war against Tobias St. John.
Disappointment had flashed through her, easing her grip on his arm. And he’d pulled free. But before he’d opened the door of the backseat, he’d leaned over her again. She’d felt the skim of his lips, and the heat of his breath against her cheek—and then she’d felt the supple caress of leather. But his hands weren’t on her.
And when she’d glanced in the rearview mirror this time, she’d seen his face—or she would have, had he not been wearing a leather mask.
The man with no face…
Fingers snapped in front of her, bringing Jillian back to the present and St. John’s face, his chiseled cheekbones flushed with anger and impatience. “You have something to say to me…you damn well say it!”
“I, uh…” She blinked, pushing thoughts of the man in the mask from her mind. “You were right.”
St. John eased back again, his eyes still narrowed with the suspicion that seemed such a part of his personality. Mistrust was a trait that Jillian could relate to. “What about?”
“He is working for someone else,” she explained. “He admitted it to me.”
“Did he tell you who?”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t say.” He hadn’t said anything else, and she’d been too stunned over seeing the mask to ask him anything before he’d slipped away, leaving behind only those thick smears of blood on the light gray leather of her backseat. And on her fingertips from where she’d touched him. He was mortal all right, maybe even mortally wounded.
St. John laughed and shook his head as if he pitied her. “I guess now we know why he kept you alive the other night.”
“We do?”
“He’s using you,” he said with a grin, “to send messages to me.”
She shrugged, unable to deny that she’d let herself be used. But this time, at least, she’d been aware. And she’d gotten something out of it—that exclusive he’d promised.
“I’d be careful, Miss Drake,” he warned, leaning across the table again. He touched her face, sliding a rough fingertip along her jaw. “Even a woman as beautiful as you are can outlive her usefulness. The next time he grabs you, he probably won’t let you live.”
“He’s not a killer,” she said.
“Someone died last night,” he reminded her, “in an explosion he caused. That makes him a killer.”
Her mystery man hadn’t offered any explanation for the other man’s death, hadn’t sworn it an accident. He’d done nothing but leave that blood behind in her car. His? Or his victim’s?
“Who was it that died last night?” she asked.
St. John lifted those broad shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I guess we’ll never know since his body disappeared,” she said, studying his icy blue eyes for a flicker of guilt.
But he betrayed no emotion. Was he capable of feeling anything besides anger? “Your friend didn’t tell you last night?” he taunted her. “Because I’m sure you asked.”
“No, he didn’t,” she admitted. “I don’t know if the dead man was working with him or helping you. Did you have guards stationed at the jewelry store?”
St. John shook his head, but not in response to her question as he said, “You’re the one under interrogation, Miss Drake. Not me.”
“I’ve told the police everything I know,” she insisted, her head pounding with frustration that she didn’t know more. Sure, she’d convinced him to answer one question, but it wasn’t the question she’d really wanted answered.
As if he’d read her mind, St. John cautioned her. “Be careful what you learn, Miss Drake. It may be enough to get you killed.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asked, with a glance to the door. Not that it would matter if the police sergeant had overheard it; he wouldn’t do anything to St. John, not with all the commerce and humanitarian awards the mayor had heaped upon him over the years. Until recently, she’d believed he’d deserved them; she’d nearly believed the good press all his generous donations had bought him.
“I’m offering you some friendly advice,” St. John replied, but there was nothing remotely friendly about the cold gleam in his ice-blue eyes. “You’ve let a dangerous man use you. If you get too close to him, you’re only going to wind up hurt. Or worse.”
Was St. John right? If she ran into the masked man again, would she become his next victim?
“DEATH WAS ALWAYS a possibility,” the man in the leather mask said. “I warned you all up front that this was a dangerous mission.” But still the tight knot of guilt in his gut didn’t ease. It didn’t matter that they had been aware of the risks; it hadn’t felt real until now.
“You giving us an out?” someone asked from the shadows. These men—men who’d committed themselves to helping him take down St. John—had been living in the shadows with him. In his own personal hell. Jillian Drake’s nickname for him fit far more than she knew.
“No. That was another warning I gave you up front,” Dante reminded them. “Once you’re in, there’s only one way out.” The way his friend had gone the night before.
Fear flickered in their eyes and added tension to the already thick atmosphere of the dark tunnel. Despite the faint light, Dante could see their faces and their regrets. They wondered now if they’d backed the right man, or if he was more dangerous than the man they were going after. He could have answered their unspoken question, but the truth would only add to their fear and regret.
“We’re close,” he assured them. “It’ll be over soon.” Hopefully with the outcome he’d planned. Or else he might as well die, too.
“What about the reporter—Jillian Drake?” asked one of the soldiers in the war he’d declared.
“What about her?” Dante asked, his lips twitching as he remembered the sweetness of her skin against them.
“She’s trouble.”
He’d figured that out for himself a long time ago. And now, having touched her silky skin, having felt the curve of her breasts, the heat of her breath…she’d become a distraction he couldn’t afford.
That same nervous soldier warned him, “She could blow everything up.”
And that was his job. To destroy everything St. John had claimed for himself until the man had nothing left and nowhere to go but the hell to which he’d sent Dante.
“I won’t allow her to interfere,” he assured his crew. Sticking to the plan he’d made was the only thing keeping him going, keeping him sane—especially now that he’d lost one of his friends.
“You think she’s going to let up until she uncovers the whole truth?” one of the men asked.
“No,” he admitted. She was too ambitious. Yet this was about more than ambition or greed; at least, to him it was. And that was why he couldn’t let Jillian interfere. If she found out about his plan before he’d had a chance to carry it out, she could cost him what mattered most to him. “But I’ll stop her before she figures it out.”
“How?”
“By whatever means necessary…”
THE DOOR TO Franklin Eberhardt’s house stood ajar. Jillian’s fingers trembled as she reached out for it.
“Hello?” she called out. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Where was the man’s security system? His
body guards? St. John had all that and more. But then he needed them. St. John was the one under attack. She should have been with Charlie and Vicky, staking out one of the billionaire’s remaining businesses. She should have been waiting for the next bombing.
But she didn’t want to wait for something to happen; she wanted to find out why it was happening in the first place. And so she had to find someone who would actually answer the questions everyone else kept ignoring.
She wasn’t too hopeful, though, that Eberhardt would consent to an interview. None of the other people on the list she’d compiled of St. John’s enemies had been willing to talk to her. She suspected, though, that fear more than guilt had kept them silent.
Not that Franklin Eberhardt had any real reason to seek vengeance. Sure, St. John had bought out his furniture factory, but Eberhardt would have lost it had the former marine turned entrepreneur not convinced him to sell it to him before the foreclosure.
“Mr. Eberhardt?” Her voice echoed in the eerie silence.
She pushed the door just far enough open that she could step inside. While the house wasn’t as opulent as St. John’s estate, the contemporary structure had soaring ceilings and walls of glass. Burnished sunshine, the last rays of the setting sun, bathed the off-white carpet.
This wasn’t a frightening place; there were no shadows or raspy whispers. Still, goose bumps lifted along Jillian’s arms, and the nape of her neck tingled. Her instincts alerted her that she’d stumbled into a dangerous situation.
“Mr. Eberhardt?” she called out as she stepped into the bright living room. She’d never backed down from danger before, especially not when she was on the verge of cracking a story.
A noise drew her attention to the windows just as one pane shattered. She flinched and screamed. “Mr. Eberhardt?”
Another pane shattered, bits of glass flying like a hard rain off concrete. Another scream tore free of her throat as pain pierced her shoulder. Blood—warm and sticky—trickled down her arm. Was it glass or…a bullet that had grazed her skin?
Her heart pounding at a frantic rate, she dropped to her stomach. Shots, probably fired from a gun with a silencer, continued to shatter the windows in the living room. Shards of glass rained down onto her back and into her hair.
