by Jenn Stark
The rogue Fallen and his demons would not, if Finn had anything to say about it. Which, for the next twenty-three hours or so, he did.
Finn bent down to write out an amount that had nothing to do with the number the woman pointed at with trembling fingers. He handed her the check.
“Oh! That’s very generous of you,” she breathed, her voice still tremulous. Finn sighed. Despite his best efforts, his very presence had succeeded in frightening this one too.
Poor humans.
At least Dana Griffin had managed to hold her own with him. So there was some hope.
As he turned away, Finn’s mind returned to the mortal’s full lips pursing in annoyance and her unyielding, wary eyes. Dana Griffin, it seemed, bore many secrets.
He wondered how many she would share with him when he finally had her alone.
Chapter Five
Ritz Carlton Ballroom
Cleveland, Ohio
1:15 a.m., Dec. 24
“Wow, you’re a real American hero.”
Dana jerked her gaze to the front of the cage, taking in Max Garrett’s lanky, loose-limbed body that always reminded her of a newborn moose. He grinned at her, his lantern-jawed face irrepressible beneath the shock of golden-brown hair that he wore a little too long for respectability. He was young, but he was good—and very little caught him by surprise.
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you know they had this stupid cage thing planned?”
“I had my suspicions after Pettiman asked me for, like, the fifth time where you were. Which, actually, was a good question. Where were you? We were expecting you here at eleven thirty.”
“Why, was there a problem at the slushy machine?”
“No, but if you recall, the last time you didn’t check in, you ended up in pieces. And then there was that tiny problem of you getting attacked by wolves up in Canada. On solstice. Not to mention you getting shot on Samhain.”
“Halloween.”
“Tomato, tomahto. It’s a trend of holidays, and not a good one. Because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re officially at Christmas Eve. You ever hear of Yule? It’s a thing. And we’re in the middle it.”
Dana stifled a sigh. Max didn’t even know the whole story about what had happened in Alert. She wasn’t about to clue him in either. Not until she’d finished processing it herself. “I figured you would call me if there were any issues, so I took my time. I hate these things.”
More or less true. She did hate fundraisers, of course. Who didn’t? But the real reason for her delay tonight was that the walk from her apartment had taken longer than she’d anticipated.
Ever since the night she’d been attacked with Lester, the streets of Cleveland had seemed—unfamiliar. Almost threatening, which aggravated the hell out of her. Her father had been a beat cop in this city, and he’d taken Dana up and down these sidewalks more times than she could count. Still…something simply hadn’t been right tonight. A weird energy had filled the concrete canyons. She’d been so keyed up by the time she’d arrived at the Ritz, she could barely stay inside her skin.
“Well, just so you know, you’ve got major resting-assassin face,” Max said, drawing her attention back with a wide grin. “You’d probably get more cash if you smiled or something.”
Dana bared her teeth. “How’s that?”
“Still not good. You look like a piranha.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. How’s the AA patrol going?”
“I’ve ordered more drivers, and we have a block of rooms on hold for those too plowed on candy-cane cosmos. We also made the announcement we’d comp anyone’s parking fee who had to spend the night.”
Dana snorted. “We’re nothing if not conscientious here at Griffin Security. Remind me to post that tab to Lester’s bill. Now, do something else for me, if you would.” She nodded toward the front of the room. “You see that guy over there? At the auction table.”
“The big dude?” Max asked, straightening up to squint over the crowd. “Dr. Doom in a tux?”
“Yeah, him,” she said. “I need you to run a routine background check on him, but keep it low-key. He’s asking about Lester, and—”
“Roger that,” Max interrupted her, his entire body trembling as he went into full secret agent mode: hands loose, jaw tight, feet set wide, brows drawn together. Oh, geez, not this again.
Max wanted nothing more than to be a secret agent or possibly a superhero, but she couldn’t bring herself to call him on it. Back when she’d been strung out on pain meds after the attack on Lester, Max had been one of her most constant visitors—filling her in on new clients, current accounts, and the Cleveland PD’s complete lack of progress in finding her uncle’s assailants. One day, in a moment of weakness, Dana had suggested that Max might poke around on her behalf, see if he could find anyone with a reason to hurt Lester. He’d jumped on the task with far too much fervor, ridiculously eager for any security assignment that took him far away from coding and hardware. He’d first zeroed in on Sal Morelli, the closest thing to a godfather personality Cleveland had these days. Then he’d moved on to the FBI, secret societies, and international terrorists. The fallback, of course, was always aliens.
Now the guy was one comic book shy of a complete fanboy meltdown, and it was all her fault. Even as she watched him, he stared at her mystery man and released his breath in a soft hiss, dropping his voice to a strained whisper. “You think he might be tied to the attack?”
“No, I don’t,” Dana snapped, her tone not even fazing him. “And stop with the 007 crap, will you? The guy bugs me, that’s all.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Max nodded, still serious. “I’m on it.”
“I mean it, Max. I want this under the radar. If he’s some new prospect of Lester’s, I don’t want to piss off either one of them.”
A staccato tap of the microphone drowned out Max’s affirmative. “Ladies and gentlemen…Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” Margaret said, color high in her cheeks. “I’m delighted to inform you that we’ve received a most generous donation for the Founder’s Circle charity efforts.”
“Well, whaddya know?” Dana murmured. “He actually did it. He posted my bail.”
Max pulled out his cell phone, surreptitiously taking pictures of the mystery man as he stood scowling up at Margaret, his arms crossed, shoulders tight. The man really did look good from a distance, Dana thought. Frankly, she wanted him to stay at that distance.
“Dana Griffin,” Margaret continued, squinting down at her clipboard. “Is officially released on bail to Dr. Lee Schaeffer, for the donation of…fifteen thousand dollars!”
An appreciative gasp went up from the crowd, and Max whistled low beside her. “Looks like Dr. Doom has a crush on you,” he said, tucking his phone back inside his jacket. “You’re, like, Invisible Girl, I guess.”
Dana ignored the comment, waving at the applause and forcing a polite smile to her face. She suspected she still mostly resembled a piranha, but there was no helping that. “Call Lester for me,” she said through clenched teeth. “Make sure he’s got A-1 security on him, wherever he is. And find out if a Dr. Lee Schaeffer means anything to him.”
“Got it,” Max said, but he continued to stare at Schaeffer, transfixed. Dana stepped over, poking him in the shoulder through the bars.
“So go,” she said.
“I’m going, I’m going.” Max melted back into the crowd, and Dana watched as Margaret swanned off the stage, all but throwing her keys at Dr. Schaeffer as she pointed in Dana’s direction.
Dana stared hard at the man walking toward her, arrogance curling off him like faint smoke. He sure as hell didn’t remind her of any doctor that she’d ever seen.
“You’re free,” he said, placing a hand on Dana’s cage as she stepped away from the bars. He could probably rip the thing apart without ruffling his dinner jacket.
Dana glared at him. “A man of your word, I see,” she sai
d.
“Always.” His dark gaze met hers, a hint of a smile on his face. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“I’ll try to recover.” Resolutely, Dana shifted her eyes away from his face. She couldn’t afford to be attracted—distracted, she meant. Distracted. Her alarm system was still going full tilt. The man was some sort of threat, dammit. To her or to Lester, she wasn’t sure which.
After turning the key in the lock, he pulled the cage door open and gestured her out. “Ms. Griffin.”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Dana stepped out of the cage. “Your donation was very generous, Dr. Schaeffer,” she said. “The children of Cleveland thank you.”
“Call me Finn,” he said, watching her as she shifted away from him another inch. “And you can thank me by taking me to Lester Morrow.”
Dana burst out in a startled laugh. “You don’t give up, do you?” she asked. “Please let me be clear, then. Mr. Morrow isn’t taking any further meetings tonight. You’ll have to contact his office tomorrow. And I thought your name was Lee.”
“I never said it was, Dana.” He full-on grinned this time, and Dana’s temperature went up another ten degrees. He’d used her first name, she realized, and she felt her focus wobble dangerously. Had she given him her first name?
Oh, wait. They’d said it in the announcement; that’s how he knew. Of course. It shouldn’t feel so awkward.
“Pose for a picture!”
Lights flashed in front of them, and Dana blinked in surprise as her benefactor took a sharp step backward, his gaze swinging around as if he expected the gala photographer to bash him in the head with his Nikon.
So, the good doctor didn’t want his photo taken. Interesting. With a reaction like that, she’d bet the Christmas bonus she planned to give herself that the man had a record. But if so, why the public donation? What did he have to gain from this? And why did he need to see Lester so quickly?
“Closer together, please.” Another society-page photographer, this one from the Plain Dealer, moved into position. Schaeffer glared at the cameras for another moment, then stepped toward Dana decisively, sliding his right hand behind her to rest on her lower back. Dana found her left hand had nowhere else to go other than high up on Finn’s shoulder—and she clamped her lips into a tight smile to keep from falling down on film.
Dr. Schaeffer was on fire. Or she was. Beneath her palm, the muscles of his broad shoulders bunched together in a thick knot, his possessive hand on the small of her back making her feel claimed, almost wanton, the plaything of a god. He smelled of cinnamon and sex, the heat of his gentle touch twisting within her and flushing her cheeks as the camera lights flashed, a chorus of photos taken and retaken.
Dana suddenly began to feel claustrophobic, aching to get away, but Schaeffer leaned down close to her as the photographers changed position. “Would you care to get a drink?” he asked.
“A thousand percent,” she said, her eyes fixed solidly ahead. “Just not with you.”
He chuckled and replaced his hand on her arm. “I get that all the time.”
Doing her best to ignore the hand scorching her through her silk jacket, Dana gazed blankly through another wave of photographs and tried to unscramble her brain. Her uncle’s business had been her number one priority for more than five years, and it had become an obsession since the Halloween attack. She had dossiers on all of Lester’s business partners, his employees, his golf buddies, his charity connections, his clients, and his clients’ clients. Since early December, she’d had Lester’s calls recorded, his movements tracked, and every one of his contacts scanned for ties to international terrorists. Her uncle couldn’t buy an ice-cream cone without her shaking down the Good Humor man. So how come she didn’t know this guy?
What’ve you been up to, Lester?
Still, every time she looked at Dr. Lee Schaeffer—Finn—she wanted to give in to an overwhelming sense of well-being, an instant opiate of calm. It was only when she turned away that the anxiety returned.
Dana grimaced. She was probably thrown off because she was attracted to him. God knows that hadn’t happened in a while.
Pushing back her misgivings, Dana turned to Schaeffer as the photographers moved away. “Look,” she said, forcing a smile. “You mind telling me why you’re so interested in Mr. Morrow that it requires an immediate audience?”
He took a moment to glance out the far windows at the brightly lit city, a king surveying his domain. “As I said, we had an appointment, and I’m only in town for the day.”
Uh-huh. “Then I’ll call him tonight and set it up,” she said. We’ll have a nice cozy breakfast, all three of us. “How about eight a.m. tomorrow morning, at Ritz’s restaurant on the first floor? Would that work for you?”
Schaeffer looked back at her, surprise and concern in his gaze. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, you know.”
Dana’s chin firmed, anger overriding caution. “There are many things I’m afraid of, Dr. Schaeffer—”
“It’s Finn.”
“What?”
“My name is Finn. I’d prefer if you called me that.”
“Fine, then, Finn,” Dana said. “My point is, there’s nothing further we need to discuss until tomorrow. So why don’t you run along and try your luck with one of the lovely trust fund babies roaming around, okay? We’ll see you tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp.”
He lifted his brows in a soft, sensual invitation. “Do you always fight this hard against your instincts?”
“Actually, my instincts are right onboard with this one, thanks,” Dana said. Now her anxiety was running in lockstep with a desire that was way too strong to be legitimate, and the pairing wasn’t a pleasant one. Yet another reason why this man was off-limits. Her heart was jackhammering against her ribs, her head hurt, and even her eyeballs ached every time she looked at him. So much beauty. So much challenge. So much disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes, her life really sucked.
She held out her hand to end their conversation civilly. “Your plaque commemorating your donation will be shipped to you within the week. It’s truly been a pleasure.”
“Yes, it has.” Finn reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, the movement so effortlessly careless that he looked like he’d been performing it for hundreds of years.
But the moment his lips touched her fingers, Dana’s world spun off its axis.
A river of soul-defying warmth flooded her body from head to toe, concentrating with a bolt of hot bliss immediately south of her right kneecap. “Oh—my God,” she gasped, her heart swelling in her chest at the sheer visceral amazement of simply not being in pain. She looked up at him, dazed, her hand gripping his so hard that her knuckles were bone white. “How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
Dana blinked, fighting to stay upright for the second time in an hour. “There’s…there’s no pain.”
Finn stiffened in surprise, and Dana, realizing that she was practically clinging to him, yanked her hand from his fingers.
And nearly shrieked as the pain came thundering back.
Dana staggered to the side before Finn shot out his hand and grabbed her once more. Instantly, the wash of healing energy flowed through her again as their hands touched, but she still felt physically ill. She sucked in a deep breath that was little more than a moan. You mean I have to be touching you to make the pain stop?
He chuckled, squeezing her fingers gently. “There are worse fates.”
God, had she said that out loud?
“Yeah?” Dana managed, her breath tight in her lungs as her body lit on fire. “I can’t think of any right now.”
“Be still, Dana. This will only take a moment.”
She blinked as Finn squeezed her hand again for one long breath, then straightened, stepping away from her and releasing her hand. Dana’s leg felt whole, even without him touching her. He’d taken the pain away from her.
“What did you d
o?” she whispered, staring at him, unable to understand—to focus—
“Consider it an energy transfer. An apparent perk of my new job,” Finn was saying, but his words barely registered. Dana’s breath was quick and uncertain in her throat, her skin crawling with energy, her heart skittering in an unnatural cadence. All she could see was Finn’s smile, soft and inviting. Wanting her. His gaze warming her to the roots of her hair. And her leg felt whole in a way that she’d never imagined would be possible again. Like it had never been torn apart. Like it was as fresh and new as the energy pounding through her, demanding release. Like she’d been reborn as a creature of light and fire and endless, soul-filled longing.
But something hammered at her, right below the surface. I shouldn’t trust this man, I can’t trust him, I won’t. “I—I really do have to go,” she heard herself saying, as if from far away. She needed to leave, immediately. That was all she could focus on, all she really knew.
“What do you know, Dana?” Finn asked. “What do you want to tell me?” His gaze drilled into her, heavy and insistent, and Dana shook her head, fear clawing up in her throat again. Fear of death, somehow. Of loss, of obliteration. No, no, no.
Finn reached out to grab her, and she yanked her hand away.
“Dr. Schaeffer! Dr. Schaeffer!”
From the center of the ballroom, a delighted Margaret Pettiman was towing every single female member of the Founders Circle board of directors toward them, matchmaking commandoes out for first blood. Dana stepped back quickly as Finn was surrounded by the halo of glittering matriarchs, his eyes remaining on her, daring her to stay, to talk to him, to tell him what he wanted to hear.
No. Dana took another step back, her brain finally catching up with her body. Something was happening here—and had been since the moment she’d first seen this man. He was playing on her senses, creating a reaction that was completely out of place, impossible to justify.
Dana spun away as the crowd converged, blindly heading for the lobby. She had to get out of here, had to breathe—to escape. She blew in and out of the coat check in less than ten seconds, but the lobby space in front of the elevator seemed crammed with people. She blinked several times, her eyes watering with the effort to see. Suddenly, everyone around her seemed surrounded with a thin film of light, their faces shimmering like double-exposed photographs and their bodies moving too slowly as she rushed by them, then wheeled into the stairwell of the fifteenth floor. Not two hours ago, the thought of running down the stairs on her still-injured leg would have turned her blood to ice.
