After a long minute, he spoke without moving. “I don’t think so.”
“I was told you’d agreed to cooperate.”
A yellow eye peeked out before he turned his head. “Then they lied to you, lady. But that’s what they’re good at.”
Anjali tilted her chin. “You feel they’ve lied to you here, Mr. Finn?”
His laugh sounded hoarse. This was not a man given to laughing. “Every damn day.”
Keep him talking. “What have they lied about?” Anjali measured his arm reach and inched closer.
“How about that I’m guilty?” His gaze found hers for an uncomfortable second, his masculine beauty so magnetic it was both hard to look at and difficult to tear her eyes away.
A shiver ran though her. “You’re saying you haven’t done any of the things they claim?”
“I don’t know. What do they say?”
She snatched the tablet off the table and tapped through it. Though her eyes were on the records, she could feel the burn of his gaze on her face.
Tap, tap, tap. She continued through the myriad of photos of Finn taken at various ages. She stopped, finger in mid-air, feeling a strange sensation crawl through her as she studied the image filling every pixel of her tablet.
A scrawny, defiant boy, hair shaved short, face covered with dirt and bruises, glared out with ancient eyes. She hesitated, then scrolled down to the write-up, though she didn’t have to read it to know what it said.
She glanced at him, and Finn’s electric gaze slid away. “You didn’t kill your foster father when you were eleven?”
He shrugged. A simmering tension in his shoulders belied the diffidence of the gesture. “He wanted to be ‘more than friends.’ I objected. Besides, I wasn’t the only one.”
Anjali forced down the acrid bile clogging her throat. It made her sick to think of anyone victimizing helpless kids. Nor could she imagine the fear and shame masked by that simple summation.
The case had struck her when she’d first read his file. Starting with this example—the murder with a clear justification—would hopefully lead him to open up about the others, but it felt like dirty pool, rifling through what must have been some of the worst moments in his life. Events that had molded the monster.
Her teeth pinned her lip for a moment. “You admit you killed him.”
He ducked his head, broad shoulders rising and falling, as if he were fighting some strong emotion. Anger? Shame?
She eyed him. “Are you sure the person who’s lying to you isn’t you?” She scrolled the page. “Richard Sumner, Patrick Palmer, Edward Samms? Do those names mean anything to you?”
“Contestants on American Idol?”
Anjali gritted her teeth. Hold your temper, Anjali. You need him. “Men you killed.”
“So you say.”
“Do you deny killing them?”
Silence.
Anjali decided to try a different tact. “You think you should be set free? That you pose no threat to society?”
His head came up and his gaze bored into her. “Shit, no, lady. I’m one hell of a threat.”
Why did he bother? Jake ambled back to his bunk, leaving her standing there, behind that ridiculous purple tablet.
How many doctors had they sent since he’d been recaptured? How many questions had they asked? Fifty? One hundred?
None of them had stirred him to answer. But there was something about this woman. Something that reached inside him and woke a part he thought long dead.
A part that cared for more than just freedom, that hungered for belonging, friendship—love. He studied her secretly, trying to pin down the cause of the unwelcome emotions.
She wore little makeup on her honeyed skin and her eyes were long and liquid dark, like obsidian. Her rounded cheekbones highlighted a pointed chin and lush mouth. She was undeniably lovely. But appearance meant little to him.
Rage had held him for days, playing with his mind, making him see, smell, and taste the world as if he were a beast.
He’d been pretending to read when she’d entered the outer chamber, listening to the sounds through the cinderblock walls. Sounds he knew he shouldn’t be able to hear, but did.
The beast inside him had been pacing, plotting, imagining what destruction it would wreak when he won the opportunity to escape. He’d even thought he felt claws trying to burst through the tips of his fingers. He’d been fighting the delusion when he heard her speak to the guard.
Her voice, with its melodic accent, had burrowed beneath his skin and the feeling passed. Peace washed over him, like a summer breeze.
And then she’d floated in, and he’d smelled her. The sweet, spicy scent of her, covered by other perfumes no doubt in her shampoo and other products.
He’d wanted to stare at her, to drink her in, but the voice of his foster mother in his head kept him from daring too long a glance. Keep those ugly yeller eyes on the floor, boy, she’d drilled in with a belt. “Normal people shouldn’t have to see ‘em.”
But Dr. Mehta’s fragrance overwhelmed his training. It’d been all he could do not to rub like a giant cat against the bars. Then she’d mentioned Guy Thomas and sparked memories that shook him to the ground.
He didn’t want to see the thin faces of the other children in his mind, to remember the wide eyes of the little ones when Thomas singled them out.
To remember he’d purposefully drawn his foster father’s attention that day to keep him from one of the girls, a blue-eyed waif who’d seen more trouble in her short life than most grown-ups.
The beast roared inside him, slashing at its restraints, desperate to lash out. To defend. To escape. To kill. Only Dr. Mehta’s voice, the concern he saw in those dark, dark eyes kept the sane part of him in control.
He didn’t recognize the names of the other men she’d listed, but he supposed some of the guards he’d fought the day he’d escaped three years earlier might have died.
Remorse burned in his chest for moment, but he scrubbed it away with his hand.
They’d laughed as he screamed, goading his torturer to new heights. He hoped one of those names belonged to the man who’d tormented him.
He didn’t remember much. Just pain. Gut-wrenching, never-ending, pain.
Joking and chatting about their weekends, they’d carved him up like a pumpkin at Halloween. Or so it had felt. Perhaps the torture was all part of his illness, because when he’d come to, covered with garbage in a dirty alley, he didn’t have a mark on him.
And the sane part of him had told her the truth. Though there was nothing the beast wanted more than to be free, it was far, far safer for everyone that he remain behind bars.
She watched him now, her eyes following every shift he made on the bed. A compulsion stronger than the call of jewels came over him and he returned to the bars. She licked her lips as he approached, her dark pupils merging with irises that rivaled onyx.
He could hear a soft intake of air and the tattoo of her heartbeat. Her scent flooded over him again, that rich spice, a tiny acid drop of fear, and the sweet musk of arousal. Even through the poison of ‘The Group’s’ lies, she wanted him, though he doubted she was conscious of it. She seemed too ‘buttoned down’ to be the kind of woman who was turned on by a man behind bars.
He smiled. “Come closer, Dr. Mehta. Don’t worry. You, I won’t bite—very hard.”
Chapter 2
“Scared her away?”
Kincaid. Jake hid a flinch. God, he hated the sound of the asshole’s deep voice. Jake hadn’t moved from the bars since Anjali had left. Stretching, his earlier exercise had been cut short, not because he thought she might return. Right.
Hands stuffed in his suit pockets, the older man strutted up to Jake’s cell.
Come to—what? Needle him? Gloat?
Kincaid had aged in the three years Jake had been free, time dredging deep creases beside his mouth and eyes, but he was still as trim and well dressed in his gray suit as he’d been when they’d first met th
irteen years earlier, though his hair-club-for-men mane now gleamed completely white.
That big, blond bastard, Anders, hovered behind him.
Jake glowered at his jailer.
Kincaid eyed the distance between them and took a step back, making a show of straightening his cuffs.
The beast inside Jake beat against the walls of his prison. Gareth Kincaid had controlled and tormented him his entire life, and no one roused his delusions as swiftly as Kincaid did.
“She’s an excellent researcher,” Kincaid continued as though unaware of the danger. “She should do well here. Though she’s not much to look at, is she?”
The old man must be losing his eyesight. Jake gritted his teeth and turned away, swallowing the urge to rage against the bars. That never left him anything but battered and bloody.
“Didn’t take your meds today, did you?”
Jake felt the lion roar inside. He shook his head. The drugs calmed the delusions, but shifted the world into slow motion.
Kincaid tsked. “That medication is for your own good. And talking to Dr. Mehta may help us make breakthroughs in treating people with your disease.”
The air smelled sour. Kincaid was lying about something, but with Kincaid the truth was rarer than fiction.
Jake closed his eyes, wrestling to restore what little sanity he had. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled.
But Kincaid had never been smart enough to know when to cut and run. “Does being so close to a woman make you miss your freedom?” His cold, gray eyes were intent, his mouth lopsided with malice. “I’m sure they find you attractive. I imagine you partied hard while you were able.” He sounded almost jealous.
Kincaid inched nearer as he spoke and Jake appraised the distance between them. Just a bit closer, whispered the beast.
“Every night,” Jake said, though nothing could have been farther from the truth. He’d been running, taking menial jobs when he could and stealing gemstones when he couldn’t. He’d had neither the time nor inclination to ‘party.’
Though he’d told himself he didn’t dare get close to a woman and risk losing control of his delusions, the truth was, he hadn’t even been tempted.
But Anjali was different. She drew him, stirred a dormant need he hadn’t known he possessed. Didn’t want to possess. A dangerous need. Maybe even deadly.
Kincaid stared at him for a moment, his face set in narrow lines, then strode away. The massive door slammed a minute later.
Anders remained. Jake knew that without looking. Everything from the man’s scent to the way he moved shredded Jake’s nerves.
He didn’t bother to face the guard. “What do you want?” As if he didn’t know.
“Just thought I’d have a little chat with my old buddy. Get reacquainted.”
Jake could hear the sneer twisting the guard’s tone. Didn’t answer.
“I was thinking that new doctor might like a friend. What do you think? She’s kinda of a Plain Jane, but I could make an exception. Even if she is a dot-head.” Anders laughed.
Jake felt a muscle bulge in his cheek. He clenched his fists, barely restraining the fury riding him, as he battled the urge to remove Anders’ smug head from his shoulders.
“You’d like to do her, wouldn’t you, you sick fuck? Too bad you’re so goddamn ugly. She could hardly bear to look at you.”
Used to the guard’s slurs, Jake strode to his bunk. Ugly, crazy, stupid. The asshole might as well make a recording. It wasn’t like Jake hadn’t heard it all before. Anders was just another in a long line. Yeller Eyes. Someone should tell them the daily reminders weren’t necessary. Hell, he could barely stand to see himself in the mirror.
“She checked me out, though,” Anders said.
Jake didn’t glance up, but he couldn’t stop a flinch.
The guard rapped his steel baton on the cell. “Girl like that’s probably hard up for dates. Maybe I’ll do her a favor and fuck her up against the bars. Bet you’d like to watch that, wouldn’t you, you psycho?”
The image of Dr. Mehta, Anjali, trembling in fear, pinned against the bars by the guard’s bulky body lacerated Jake’s chest. Rage burst white-hot past his control.
He lashed out like a wounded animal, springing at the guard, closing the two-foot gap between them in less than a heartbeat. Pain exploded in his chest and shoulder as he slammed into the bars, thrusting his arm far enough out to tear his cartilage, and took a swipe at his enemy.
The claws curving from the tip of his fingers felt lethally real.
Anders leaped back. “Shit.” He fingered the scratch Jake had carved on the side of his throat in the millisecond it had taken him to move.
His pale-lashed gaze flicked to the camera.
Jake growled softly, but some of the rage seeped away. Why had Anders stopped? The guard lived to goad Jake. He’d never held back before.
Jake knew not to react, but his control slipped more every day. It seemed to grow harder to contain the anger that fed his psychosis. He tensed, waiting for the guard to retaliate. Hell, if he were lucky he might still be out of it when Anjali came back and he wouldn’t have to deal with her. Or maybe he’d get real lucky and not wake up at all.
Anders grunted, like the pig he was, pinning a hate-filled gaze on Jake. A muscle twitched in the blond’s square jaw, but finally he pivoted his block-like shoulders and skulked off, a hand pressed to his neck.
Jake rested his head against the cool bars, unsure if the emotion zinging through him was relief or regret. Damnit. Why had he reacted? Anders was an idiot. He should’ve been able to ignore him.
Nothing good could come of his attraction to the beautiful doctor. Even if she were as drawn to him as he was to her; even if he were free, his illness made a relationship impossible.
Despair rose up, black and hungry, ready to swallow him.
The beast reveled in the man’s despair. It knew no pain or sadness, only the savage joy of instincts. The lion understood nothing but sleeping, running, killing, eating, and mating.
And though the man resisted, the beast hungered for Anjali’s return.
So she’d run away. Anjali closed her apartment door and leaned back against the white-painted metal. Her cozy studio apartment usually felt like a refuge, but her racing heart refused to slow.
What was the big deal? She’d face him tomorrow.
And it hadn’t been running away exactly. More like a strategic retreat. In the middle of the day. On her first day at a new job. If there was a Biggest Wimp award, it’d be hanging around your skinny neck right now.
She tossed her keys on the walnut, Georgian-style writing desk near the door and massaged her temples.
With a sigh, she glanced at one of the many pictures flanking the silver-framed mirror on the wall behind the desk.
Her cousin Vinit raised his gangly arms in triumph over his head, dark eyes gleaming. The picture was quite old and he wore the blue jeans and denim jacket favored by a Hindi movie character of the time. He’d quoted the movie at every turn in those days, until all the aunties shouted him down.
She shuddered to think what her irrepressible cousin would have said about the debacle this afternoon.
He’d probably have threatened to punch Jake in the nose. Though a year younger than she, he’d always been ready to defend his older cousin. Skinny and serious, she’d needed plenty of defending.
She threw her purse on the low cocktail table and dropped like a stone onto the black leather couch, kicking off her shoes and digging her toes into the Persian-inspired area rug.
God, Jake Finn knew how to push buttons. Anjali jumped up and paced to the mirror, the hardwood floor cool on the soles of her feet.
A wisp of black hair had escaped her braid and tangled in her eyelashes. She blew the strand away, but it settled back exactly where it had been. “Who does Mr. Kincaid think I am?” she asked her reflection. “Jodie Foster in the Silence of the Lambs?”
She rested her forehead on the taupe wall beside
the mirror for a moment, then shook her head and took two steps back to the couch.
She wasn’t an F.B.I. agent. She was a medical doctor and a PhD. A tiny laugh quaked her chest. “Damnit, Jim. I’m a doctor, not an F.B.I. agent.”
Swiveling, she pitched backward onto the couch, rubbing her hands over eyes. Living alone with nothing but television for company was cracking her up.
She twisted the bangles on her arm, making the designs line up. The truth was her nerves didn’t stem from the fact that her subject was a murderer and could snap her like a twig. Eyes closed, she let her head roll back in her neck. Shame made her scrub her hand across her lids. No. If she were honest, her problem arose from her inappropriate attraction to her subject. The man was sex on a stick.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Anjali, beta? Is everything all right?” Meena Masi’s gentle voice came through the door.
Anjali picked herself up and headed for the door. As soon as it was open far enough for Meena Masi to squeeze through, the older woman barreled in. “I was doing my laughing exercises on my balcony and saw you drive in. Has something happened?”
Anjali smiled. “Everything’s fine.” She scrambled for an excuse that didn’t make her sound like a complete lunatic. “I just forgot to pack a lunch and work isn’t too far—” She entered the kitchen area and started dragging out tiffins. “I thought I’d pack something quickly.”
“That’s good to know. I’ve known Gareth for years and I’d hate to think he’d scared you off on the first day.”
“Mr. Kincaid could never scare me.” Anjali paused with her hand in the fridge. “I’m not sure he has a mean bone in his body.”
Meena laughed. “He has his moments. You should play him in bridge.”
Anjali finished filling her spare lunch bag and zipped it up. She was going to have way too much food at lunch. “I guess I should be getting back.”
“Keys, keys.” She fished for them on the end table and brushed a stack of file folders, sending papers cascading to the floor. “Shit.”
Her colleagues were always stunned to hear her swear. They claimed she was too sweet, but ‘shit’ wasn’t much of a swear word in India.
In Like a Lion (The Chimera Chronicles) Page 2
