Lincoln took a deep breath and didn’t need to ask who. “It looks that way.”
Her breath shuddered out.
“He won’t get near you again.”
Her eyes bore into him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lincoln.”
Lincoln reached up, grazed the frown lines between her brows. “I’m not, luv.” He stared into her eyes, willing her to believe him. “I’m not.”
For a minute she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, then she blinked and licked her lips. “You look the same.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to say you don’t. Other than your surroundings and the obvious”—he motioned to her left arm with the bandage—“you look well.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she scoffed. “That’s just what every girl wants to hear, Linc.”
Neither of them was ready to delve into why he was here, why she was in the hospital. He knew the questions were coming. From him, from Tarver, from the sheriff’s department, from the state boys.
He wasn’t ready to give her up to all that just yet.
“You know, several people want to talk to you.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, careful of the IV taped near her wrist.
She nodded, leaning her head back against the pillows. “I would assume they would.” She blew a breath out. “My brothers?”
“Will be questioning with the best of them, I’m sure.”
The tears in her eyes pooled and trickled down. “What do I tell them, Linc?” Her hand trembled in his. “How do I tell them?”
He reached up, brushed a tear away. “You just say the words, Morgan. Relate the facts. Same way you did to me.”
Her mouth tilted ruefully. “It’s not the same. They’re my brothers. It’s not the same. How do I tell them I was a whore?”
He shook his head. “You can’t change the past, Morgan. You weren’t a whore. Granted, people paid to have sex with you. That’s the cold hard truth, but it was never by your consent. You. Were. A. Prisoner.” He leaned in and brushed another tear away, whispering, “But you escaped and made something of yourself.”
For a long moment, she was silent. Then, taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m not the only one. Amy’s—” Her eyes widened, locked to his. “Amy . . . Linc?” she whispered.
He stared into those eyes, lashes spiky with tears, wishing he could tell her something other than what he expected, and knowing he couldn’t tell her that. Not yet.
“We don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Her question sharpened her voice from one of fear to one of anger.
“I mean, she’s missing. We can’t find her.” That much was at least the truth.
Her eyes held his. “You’re not telling me something.”
He patted her hand. “I’m telling you all I can. We don’t know where she is, or what happened to her. She’s missing.”
Again, she searched his face. “Mikhail?”
Lincoln shrugged. “He’s been in Miami for several weeks. His actions accounted for. If he had something to do with her, we don’t know about it.” Yet. But they would. Perhaps they could link the man in her kitchen to whoever the attacker was in Amy’s apartment.
Again she blinked, sighed and leaned back. “If he knew where I was, he’d know where Amy was.” Her eyes slid closed and she yawned.
He was not getting into this now. Not right this moment.
“Rest.”
Morgan didn’t want to rest. She studied the man with those harsh black eyes and wondered why she felt calm when he was around. Why, in this storm surrounding her, he was her one anchor.
She didn’t take her eyes off him, just stared. His face hadn’t changed. Perhaps there was a bit more silver near his temples, or maybe it was simply the lighting reflecting in his dark hair. Still narrow of face, with high arched brows, a deep, almost Gothic widow’s peak. Eyes framed by lashes women spent good money to make that dark. His forearms were muscled and corded, exposed by the rolled-up slate blue shirtsleeves. He still favored monochromatic colors, it seemed. Today’s choice had been dark slacks and the blue slate shirt. Black stubble already peppered his jawline. The silence stretched between them but didn’t tense, or make her edgy.
A soft smile eased the corner of his mouth. He lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” His eyes narrowed on her and she trembled from the intense look.
What was this man to her?
“You’re always saving me,” she whispered. “Always helping, always rescuing.”
She wondered if anyone had ever saved him. If anyone ever helped him when life seemed to be falling apart, when safety was shattered.
“You saved yourself, Morg. You fought the bastard off.” Those soft lips kissed the back of her hand again. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, you’re a survivor. Do not ever forget that.”
“I knew him,” she admitted, tilting her head on the pillow, partly wishing she’d stayed in the fog of sleep instead of opening her eyes and remembering.
Something in her warned not to pursue the questions with Amy. It was that cold, frozen look that often cloaked his expressions.
She licked her lips, started to ask anyway, but the fear, the knowledge of what could have happened to her friend stopped her. If Lincoln knew anything, he’d tell her.
“I guess you were just in the neighborhood, huh?” she asked instead.
His eyes caressed her face. “Something like that.”
She yawned again. Damn her arm hurt. She looked at it, flashed back to the kitchen. Remembered falling, the rake of metal down her bicep and elbow, the sting of exposed tissue.
She remembered too Vescilly’s eyes laughing down at her. Laughing and taunting until . . . until . . .
Finally, she looked back to Lincoln. “Did I kill him?” She could all but taste the blood that had hit her hot in the face.
For a moment, his eyes narrowed at the corners, then, “Would you have rather he taken you hostage, delivered you to Mikhail, only to be beaten, tortured, raped and killed? Only to have your family wonder what happened to you? Or to have them find your mutilated body if they were so bloody lucky?” His voice never rose above a whisper, but it lashed out at her nonetheless.
Morgan closed her eyes. She had killed Vescilly. To be honest, she felt nothing about that, or maybe she just didn’t want to feel anything right now. What would Dr. Stewart call this? Regression? Denial?
No, she killed a man. Was she sorry? No. Linc was right. In that kitchen, in the narrow space between the old scarred farm table and the sink, it had been either her or him. And she was damn glad it was she who survived.
But she remembered the shocked look in Vescilly’s eyes when she’d stabbed him. Morgan shivered and shoved the thought away, opening her eyes.
She could even now be at Mikhail’s mercy.
Instead she was lying in a hospital, quietly talking to this man who seemed a constant during troubles. Automatically, she reached up, glad to feel the ring resting where it should be on the chain around her neck. He still stared at her, this man she’d trust with her life. This man she’d seen kill as easily as other men threw a ball, this man who sat beside her in the hospital in the early morning when the rest of the world slept. With worry in those harsh dark eyes.
“You’re knackered, you should rest.”
“Knackered?” She couldn’t help but smile.
“Tired. Worn out. Sorry.”
Sometimes he sounded so very British.
“Knackered,” she muttered. She might be knackered, but she was calm and safe. Morgan squeezed the hand that held hers. “I am tired.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “I told you to rest.”
She tried to keep her eyelids open. “I’m afr—” She stopped. “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered.
For a moment, he didn’t answer her, and she closed her eyes. On the edge of sleep, she heard him.
“I wo
n’t leave you, Morgan. And there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m not going anywhere.”
More easily than she would have thought, she gave up the fight. If Lincoln was here, things would be all right.
Chapter 27
Near DFW International Airport; November 8, 10:42 a.m. CST
Mikhail finished printing out the photos he wanted from his portable printer. Granted, they weren’t as big as he’d like them to be. He’d rather have had eight-by-tens. But these four-by-sixes in harsh black and white would do nicely.
M. Gaelord.
Morgan Gaelord.
Stupid little bitch.
He took a deep breath and picked up his faceted crystal tumbler and tipped it back. The cognac swirled in his mouth.
Did she honestly think she’d get away?
Yes, yes, of course she had.
Of course, now things were a bit more complicated, thanks to Vescilly’s incompetence. Bloody bastard.
Stabbed with a damn fork. Who the hell died by death of a fork? Mikhail shook his head and listened as the printer slowly licked out the next batch.
As soon as he’d landed, he’d mailed off a package to Dusk. Morgan-Dusk. She’d always be Dusk to him.
He hoped she enjoyed her surprise. A shirt and a disc. He wondered which would unsettle her more. He needed two sets of the photos. One would undoubtedly suffice, but he wanted two. One for each brother. When enemies closed ranks, the motto was divide and conquer. He looked at the one photo he held in his hand.
These should divide.
In black and white, Dusk was giving a patron, a certain ambassador, head and looking as if she was enjoying it; the ambassador certainly was.
His own groin tightened at the memory of those lush lips wrapped around him.
They might even like this one. He frowned at the photo of her chained to the bed with a ball gag strapped around her head, of the man fucking her with a cigarette in his mouth. Mikhail remembered that night. Probably the only time she’d been happy to see him. He still remembered the smell of her burned flesh from the bastard’s cigarette. Man had almost strangled her.
If not for the man’s contacts to a certain oil family, he’d have killed the prick and enjoyed every minute of it. But he’d had to let the spoiled prick go.
God, she was the best. It was really a shame he had to kill her. If she’d only complied. Agreed. Hell, he’d offered the stupid girl marriage. Now he simply had to kill her.
Just went to prove that one should always, always be very careful of their decisions.
As if his current situation with Calsonone didn’t remind him daily.
One day he’d get in his car and boom.
The door opened behind him and he smelled the strong musk of cologne that Ivan preferred. He’d told the man time and again cheap cologne did no one any favors. And the man wondered why he had to pay for fucks.
“Did you find out where she was sent?” Mikhail asked, running his finger down the glossy black-and-white print, caressing the frozen lips that sucked hard enough to make a man scream.
“Yes, boss. Her brother’s place is already swarming with press and cops and God only knows.”
“Was it really?”
What about delivery boys? He glanced at Ivan. No, that would never work. If Vescilly was Slavic, Ivan looked like a Nordic bodyguard, over six and a half feet of muscles and white-blond hair. The man wasn’t known for blending in. No, they needed someone else.
Besides, there was still the meeting with the informant.
Perhaps that was the key. He’d find it. He always did. And the cops knowing he was looking was just a bonus.
Granted, now that he’d flown the nest from Miami he’d have others looking for him. Not just the cops, the feds, but men his own bosses sent to look for him.
And there was always Calsonone.
He’d be damned if he died now, now that he’d worked so bloody hard.
He just needed to get Dusk, eliminate her, get to the islands. Then, then he could disappear forever.
* * *
Calabria, Italy; November 8, 5:55 p.m.
“What have you found?” Antonio Calsonone asked Giovanni.
“They’ve moved her. The same feds that were in New Mexico are now here in Texas.” Gio sighed. “The woman was attacked in her home, Tony. A young woman, only a year older than Teresa would have been. By Vescilly.”
“Mikhail’s man.”
Giovanni ignored the interruption. “She has brothers who raised her after her parents died. They’re an old family from the area, by what the reporters are saying. But then everyone seems to have a theory and neither the lady herself nor the cops are talking.” Giovanni finished.
The warm air from the Tyrrhenian Sea blew through the open windows of the villa. Antonio looked out across the olive orchard and asked, “Do you think she knows anything?”
He heard Giovanni’s sigh. “I don’t know. As soon as I do, I will contact you.”
The wind carried a warning, an awareness, and his gut tightened, as it often did when he was questioning.
“We’re getting close, Gio.”
“Sí, Tony, I feel it too.”
For a moment, he said nothing. He didn’t want to ask, but he forced the words past the tightness in his throat. “She’s . . . Teresa Maria . . . My daughter, she’s not—not, still alive, is she, Gio?”
He heard the sigh, but the phone clicked in his ear without Giovanni answering him. Not that the man needed to. Antonio knew, as he always had, that she wasn’t coming back.
The anger he’d kept under tight control for over a year flicked to life.
She would have justice.
* * *
Dallas, Texas; Gideon’s house; November 8, 3:26 p.m.
Morgan sat in the living room. They’d come here because the cops were still working out at the ranch. Actually, she knew the place was currently closed. Jackson had told her they’d go home soon. A special cleaning crew was coming in, one the cops had recommended.
She’d had nothing to say to that. What was she supposed to say? Oh, good. Hey, Jack, you ever wonder how they advertise for that? Specialty cleaning. We remove blood, bodies and crime scene residue. Contact us for a free quote.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead. Gideon had bought her some clothes. Not from the ranch. He’d gone shopping. He now knew her taste and had been smart enough to go for comfort rather than elegance. The dusty blue drawstring pants and tunic shirt made her feel better, put together.
Together.
Hell, at this point she’d take any illusion she could get.
Mikhail had found her.
There was no doubt in her mind about that. She’d been here at Gideon’s for a couple of hours. The doctors at the hospital had wanted to keep her longer, but she told her brothers and Lincoln that if they didn’t get her the release forms, she’d walk out the door her damned self.
They apparently listened to her. She’d assumed they’d be going to a hotel. Or feared a safe house that Linc mentioned only once. She’d stopped his opinion on her safety with a pointed look.
So now here she sat in her brother’s stylish yet clearly male domain. The living room was sleek, black and beige furniture. Black leather couches, black patterned rugs, dark tiled floors. The artwork on the walls ranged from vintage black and whites to modern photos of various locales. There was the occasional burgundy throw pillow, the colored photographs of her and Jackson sprinkled throughout.
Personally, she thought he could benefit from a few hours of the DIY Network.
“Who did you say your decorator was again?” she asked, sipping the fruity protein drink Gideon had blended for her.
He frowned at her, with that expression that told her he didn’t know where the question stemmed from. “A firm from downtown. Why?” He glanced vaguely around.
“I just wanted to know so that if I ever throw off my cowardly cloak and move into my own place I don’t hire them.” She shuddered. The place wa
s nice, inviting, but still too . . . sterile and straight-lined for her.
“To each his own,” Gideon muttered, looking at her.
She could hear Jackson talking quietly to Lincoln in the kitchen. Other law enforcement officials moved back and forth through the house, connecting wires, some special system that Gideon wanted installed with cameras and heat motion detectors or something. Phones were being tapped and she had no idea what all else. There was a Texas Ranger here, someone from the sheriff’s department, Tarver—the fed she recognized from the day she arrived back Stateside—and a few people she didn’t know but who either wore badges or talked to someone who did. Shadow lounged near the doorway, as dark and foreboding as ever. The track lights from the entryway shined dully off his bald head. Every now and then she saw and heard Becca talking to people, that slow Southern slide of voice. She remembered Becca from Prague, from London, and wondered if Becca knew anything about Amy. Were they all coming back? Who was next? The doctor-driver George something or the other.
She shook her head.
Tarver and Lincoln were keeping the local and state boys at arm’s length, and her brothers kept asking what was going on.
She couldn’t tell them, not yet. Not just yet.
One of the cops walked in with a package under his arm. She watched as he talked to Tarver, who looked at her. Then he nodded, signaled to Lincoln. After a few short words, a motion to the package, Lincoln quickly took it, frowning.
The package was a large blue bubble-wrapped plastic envelope. The cop who carried it in pointed to it, then shrugged.
“I’m not letting her open it,” Lincoln said, low, yet she heard him.
Morgan stood, walked to the entryway and snatched the package away from him.
His eyes, those wicked black eyes, bore into her. “You’re not opening that parcel, Morgan.”
She tightened her hold on the smooth blue plastic, feeling the bubbles under her fingers. “Funny, it’s addressed to me.” Without looking back at him, she directed her attention to Tarver. “Is there a reason I can’t open this? Is there a bomb? Can’t y’all check for that?”
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