Barefoot, she padded back into the bedroom and saw that the door was closed. Determined that she would wither away and turn to dust right here in this room before she would give him the satisfaction of looking for him, she spent some time straightening the bed, then looked around searching for some clue to the man. It was a beautiful space, a decorator’s dream, but as cold and impersonal as it was sleek and elegant. Not a photo or personal item of any kind marred the perfect balance of streamlined style. It was lovely, but it was cold, empty.
She plopped herself aimlessly into a gray microfiber club chair near the window and absently examined the small stack of books on the table beside it. A wide grin split her face as she noticed a slim volume of poetry; Sing to the Moon by K.L. Brookes. It fell open readily, the spine well worn, indicating it had been read often. Well, well, well. She usually avoided reading her own work once it had gone to print. She invariably saw room for improvement. Typical author; her own worst critic. This book was her first and had been a limited run by a small independent press. She wondered how McAlister came to have a copy. She settled back into the comfortable chair and began to read the words she knew by heart.
The night is death’s domain and latched windows and bolted doors cannot keep its stealthy invasion at bay…
For months after her mother’s death, Kat’s nightmares alternated with the darkness that was her waking reality. Night after night, every time she closed her eyes and drifted off she relived the accident. She’d feel the warm summer wind blowing through the wide open windows, tossing and tangling her mother’s golden hair while she sang along to some silly song on the radio. They’d been happy, basking in the simple joy of being together. Until the truck came out of nowhere, the driver’s gaze blank and staring, followed by the squeal of tires, the screeching grind of metal, her mother’s screams, and the hot, blinding flash of blue-white fire that should have burned, but didn’t, blotting out the world.
In what seemed like an instant, she’d opened her eyes at the side of the road surrounded by sirens, lights, and people, all of whom were trying to shield her from the mangled inferno that had been her mother’s car. Everyone believed it was a miracle Kat had been thrown clear without a scratch. Kat found herself incapable of believing in any miracle that reduced her remarkable, singular mother to a handful of dust in a pretty marquetry box.
In the weeks and months that followed, dreading sleep, Kat began to write. She passed the long, dark hours pouring out her heart on page after page, grief, loss, the conviction that it was impossible for anyone to ever really love her as unconditionally as her mother had. Kat’s only remaining relative was an older cousin of her mother’s. Miranda unenthusiastically stayed long enough to settle Kat’s mother’s affairs and make arrangements for the payment of the insurance. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to allow Kat the security of keeping the house. It also stretched to cover Kat’s college tuition. Miranda and Kat’s mother had never been close, and Kat’s self-imposed solitude didn’t invite intimacy. The old busybody had insisted they go through all of her mother’s things, but Kat hadn’t been ready to face the prospect yet. The day Kat came home and found Miranda rummaging through her mother’s room and packing things into boxes, she’d asked her to leave. Bristling with offended self-importance, Miranda returned to her antiques business in her New England cottage filled with herbs and cats, nose in the air and secure in her martyrdom, having done all that she could to fulfill her unwanted responsibilities. Though they didn’t see one another often, Miranda had made it a point to keep in touch and never failed to call or send a card when the occasion demanded. In actual fact, she made far more effort to maintain the relationship than Kat did. She’d never been able to read Miranda, and something about the older woman always rubbed her the wrong way.
It was Kat’s college English professor who suggested she consider submitting her work for publication after reading some of the poems that she submitted for a class assignment. He had contacted a friend in publishing who’d been happy to take a look, and the rest, as they say, was history. She would never be wealthy, but she didn’t require much and with a degree in graphic design, her freelance work helped make ends meet.
Lost in thought, Kat didn’t notice the soft click of the door. She sat cross legged in the chair, bare feet tucked underneath her knees, with the small book open in her lap, and took a deep breath. The work spoke to a place of dark desolation. It was not a comfortable read. It had not been comfortable to write. But remembering was easier than it used to be. Eyes closed, her graceful fingers moved over the page as she softly recited from memory…And in my dreams, my lost one sings, sad story songs that linger on, but never see the light of day…
****
In solitude, her defenses were down. In that brief, unguarded moment, Kassian saw the place inside that she hid from everyone else, the place where she believed she was destined to be alone, so different that no one could ever really love her. The icy cage around his heart was melting fast. Stopping himself from wanting her was like trying to contain an atom bomb in a paper bag. He, who had focused on a singular purpose for as long as he could remember, found himself distracted. His thoughts wandered, and since first laying eyes on her last night, he felt like he was in a constant state of arousal. She was smart and sweet and even lost in the folds of his old sweats, she was trip-over-your-own-feet-and-fall-on-your-ass sexy. And she didn’t take his crap. He had no right to want her, and less right to keep her. Hell, who was he kidding? If she knew the truth she would run as far and fast as she could, anyway. The biggest favor he could do for her was to ensure her safety as soon as possible and let her get back to her life. Maybe he should just seduce her and get her out of his system so that he could concentrate on his revenge.
“One of my favorites. You have good taste.” He said quietly.
Kat’s eyes flew open and she jumped to her feet, snapping the book closed, along with her mind. She awkwardly replaced the book on the table.
“Um, thanks. Not the most cheerful work, however.” She smiled ruefully.
“Karma is arbitrary.” He shrugged casually, but his eyes were shadowed. “Grief, loss…they’re universal. No one gets by unscathed.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Everyone loses someone, sometime.” His lips twisted wryly. If you lived long enough, you lost nearly everyone who mattered.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t wish the emptiness embodied in that book on my worst enemy. Those are the words of a lost soul, a soul crying for comfort, for acceptance, for love.”
“Sometimes love hurts in places you didn’t know you had,” he quoted the final line. He wondered if she would think him any less of a bastard if she knew how closely he personally identified with the work. There was no humor in his quick smile.
“Sometimes it does,” she agreed. “But I think that when something speaks to you on such a visceral level and makes you realize that the emotion and experience isn’t uniquely yours, it’s somehow comforting.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, surprised that she’d verbalized his exact feelings. “Well, before we both feel compelled to throw ourselves from the terrace, how about some coffee? I seem to remember promising you some. Apparently you know your Brookes,” he added and she bit her lip.
“Um, yeah. Yeah, coffee would be great. Then I really do need to go. I have tons of things to do.”
He didn’t argue, he simply pushed the door wide, indicating with a wave of his hand that she should follow. She trailed behind him through the beautiful, open living room decorated in the same style as the bedroom. He led her into the equally sterile kitchen. Every room was so sleek, so shiny, so beautiful. So cold. He’d hired one of the most sought after decorators in the city and had been more than pleased with the result. He just hadn’t realized how empty and uncongenial it was until he saw it as her eyes might be seeing it now.
“How do you take it?” He poured the dark, steaming brew
into two heavy earthenware mugs. “Hungry?” He indicated a white pastry box on the counter
“Black is fine...and no, thanks.”
He handed her a mug and shortened his long strides to allow her to keep up as she padded behind him in bare feet back through the living room and then through a set of double doors on the opposite side of the apartment. He thought she appeared more at home in here, this room where he spent most of his time. The office was lush and comfortable, all dark wood, warm earthy colors, and thick carpeting. The walls were lined with book-filled shelves, though even here he was careful to avoid any display of photographs and personal mementos. The room was neat and well organized, except for the top of the desk which was cluttered with CDs and papers, an open laptop pushed off to the side. He waved her into one of the plush leather chairs and moved around the vast expanse of the desk to sit across from her, choosing the furthest point in the room from where she sat. He figured he was safer that way. He leaned back in the chair and sipped his coffee thoughtfully, in no hurry to speak.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence had passed, Kat apparently decided she’d been as patient as it was possible to be.
“Look, Mr. McAllister, I appreciate that you got me out of there last night. I don’t know what happened, but whatever happened, it wasn’t pleasant. I don’t mean to appear ungrateful, but you implied earlier that I can’t go home. That isn’t acceptable to me, so maybe an explanation of why you feel that’s even an option would be a great place to start.”
He blew lightly on the surface of the hot liquid, took another sip, and let out a long breath before meeting her dove gray gaze with his own dark one. With her hair pulled back, her face free of make-up, and a bare foot tucked beneath her, she reminded him of a high school cheerleader. It did nothing to quench his lust.
“How old are you?” he asked curiously. She appeared incredibly young, but then again he didn’t look so bad for his age either. Earthbounds weren’t immortal, but they did live an incredibly long time by human standards, unless someone managed to strike a lucky blow with a blade forged in either Heaven or Hell. After reaching the age of thirty-five or so, they aged so slowly that it was barely perceptible over a human lifetime. It was one of the reasons many were forced to move to a new place every few decades.
“Twenty-five, why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, I was just curious.” He couldn’t even remember who he’d been at twenty-five. He plunked the mug on the desk and sat forward in the chair. “You really have been patient. I wouldn’t have been half as pleasant under the circumstances.” Actually, someone would probably have ended up dead by now. He took a deep breath. “A woman was murdered near Finley’s last night. Her body was found in a Dumpster early this morning. You’re an empath…” He raised a brow when she opened her mouth and started to shake her head. “Why would you deny it?”
“Why? Let’s see, maybe because you already knew enough about me to scare most people silly? I don’t see the need to parade any more little freak show talents in front of you. Look, Mr. McAllister, I don’t exactly go around flaunting my abilities. They tend to…well; let’s just say they can be a bit off-putting to some people. As you have a few talents of your own, I’d think you’d understand that better than anyone. I wasn’t intending to be dishonest, it’s simply become second nature to hide what I can do.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. It was clear she’d had to struggle with her abilities. Furthermore, it was becoming more apparent to him with every passing moment that she also had no idea that she wasn’t human. Well, not completely human at any rate. She’d been able to see his blade hidden in the intricate ink of his tattoo, a blade that wasn’t visible to the human eye.
“Why?” She shrugged. “It isn’t your fault.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it sounds like you haven’t had an easy time.”
She didn’t answer and simply shrugged. She continued to regard him levelly across the desk. When he realized he was enjoying the sensation of losing himself in her wide gray eyes way more than he should be, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and continued.
“Anyway, about this murder…I think what happened last night was that you intercepted and absorbed the energy. It seems to be the most sensible conclusion. I’ve known one or two empaths in my day and sometimes it’s next to impossible to block very strong emotion. What emotion could be stronger than someone being attacked and murdered?”
He watched as the color drained from her face. Damn, he hoped she wasn’t going to be sick on his Savonnerie; the carpet had been a gift from a rather memorable French aristocrat and he’d had it for over three hundred years.
“Oh, my God, as bad as it was for me, how much worse must it have been for her?” Kat’s eyes filled with tears.
“She wasn’t the first, and the killer is still out there.” And he’s all mine, he thought grimly. “So, you see why you can’t go home yet…it isn’t safe.” There, it was out. Now, surely she would see the logic in his reasoning.
Kat stared at him incredulously.
“No offense, but I see no logic in your reasoning, whatsoever! Other than getting dropkicked by some rogue energy, I have no connection to the victim or the situation. Honestly, Mr. McAllister, it’s a sad commentary on society, but no one is safe these days and I can hardly see why I would be any more at risk than anyone else. I have no idea what you think the problem is, but I am leaving and if you’re so worried about my safety, hire a bodyguard…God knows you can afford it.” She started to get up. “You obviously have some warped and overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Admirable, I suppose, but hardly my problem.”
“Sit. Down.” His voice was as cold as death. She froze; and the look she gave him said she wondered if he might be the one she should be afraid of.
“Sit down, Kat,” he said more gently, and then waited until she hesitantly complied. He slid a folder across the desk. Kassian knew that showing her the photographs made him about as subtle as a sawed off shotgun, but she needed to understand the seriousness of the situation. “Open it.”
Kat flipped open the folder and gasped. She clapped a hand to her mouth while her throat worked convulsively. She flipped through the photos, one by one, each image more depraved and disturbing than the last before she closed the folder. The eyes she raised to his were filled with grief and they tore at his conscience.
“I…this is unspeakable…there are no words…,” she croaked. She swiped at her eyes and pushed the folder carefully across the desk. She took several deep breaths and cleared her throat. “I see what you mean, it’s horrible, but I still don’t understand what it has to do with me.”
“That girl’s death was a message, Kat…a message meant for me. She wasn’t the first. This animal and I have been enemies for a long time. He knows you left that party with me and he also knows you spent the night. The press is still downstairs,” he said by way of an explanation. She closed her eyes and groaned. “The point is, right or wrong, you are now someone of interest he’ll think he can use to hurt me. He’s done it before. It’s my fault that you’re in danger. You may not like it any better than I do, but, it’s now my job to keep you safe.”
She was quiet, frighteningly so. He wished he knew what she was thinking, but, except for the one unguarded moment when he’d entered the bedroom, her shields were firmly in place this morning; even her expression wasn’t giving her away. She was staying, one way or the other, but it would be easier if she didn’t fight him. Maybe he should have kept the photos to himself; they’d obviously scared the hell out of her. Then again, fear would keep her on her toes; of course that was irrelevant as he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.
“Well.” He heard the tremor in her voice, but she looked him straight in the eyes. “First of all, I don’t know if I buy the theory that my spending the night makes me a target. What if something had happened between us? Hasn’t this guy ever heard of a one-night stand? Not a w
hole lot of emotional attachment going on there as a rule. Secondly, you apparently know who you’re dealing with, right? Why can’t you simply go to the police and let them handle it?”
“It’s…complicated. The police can’t help.”
Christ, he was lame. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours and already he’d knocked her out, kissed her senseless, locked her up, threatened her with being murdered, then informed her the police couldn’t help. Oh yeah, she should trust him, all right. He was about as smooth as sandpaper on gravel.
“Complicated?” Her brows drew together. “I mean, I get it that someone in your position is bound to have enemies, but a killer who would murder women to get your attention? That’s one extremely sick ticket if you don’t mind my saying so. Is it…well, like organized crime or something?”
“Or something…” The explanation worked as well as anything for the time being, and it was a comparison that she could relate to. The truth would make him look crazier than he suspected she might already think he was.
He made his way around the desk and leaned back against the edge towering over her. Staring down from his great height, he realized that he’d automatically assumed a position of dominance in an unconscious attempt to intimidate her into going along with his wishes. The technique had served him well in business. She craned her neck and stared back. Funny, she looked more annoyed and inconvenienced than intimidated.
“You aren’t involved in anything illegal, are you?”
“No.” Of course, he operated by a completely different set of laws, but she didn’t need to know that.
“You would physically prevent me from leaving?”
“I would rather not have to, but yes. Kat, you are staying until I can resolve this. You don’t have to understand it, and you don’t have to like it. The bottom line is, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You are staying.”
Undiscovered Angel Page 5
